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outofsstyles · 4 years

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KILLER QUEEN (80s!AU)

A/N: Heyaa!! So here’s what happens when I watch Sing Street right after reading some of Olivia’s boyfriend!Harry prompts :) Also a huge thank you to Soph @canyon-moan for betaing this for me!! A gentle reminder that I was not, in fact, alive in the 80s so please take it easy in that aspect lol. If you like it *please reblog*, it helps a lot, also I’d love to hear your feedback!!!!

Word count: 25.3k (I have no self control!! Someone stop me!!)

Pairing: Musician!Harry + Bassist!Reader

Prompts: making it official + enemies but secretly lovers

Warnings: Our typical mentions of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll (and a lot of denim!)

Concept: You and Harry are in rival bands and you shouldn’t really get along but you can’t help it.

❁ ❁ ❁

It didn’t come as a surprise to you that, from the moment you agreed to be part of the band, your agenda would become more frantic. That’s all you read on magazines or see on the television on those late nights MTV programs that love to talk about that rockstar life. The shows and the sleepless nights. The drugs and the sex between stages. It’s always what comes to the minds of anyone that thinks about following the music path.

Of course, you’re far from being The Bangles or Duran Duran, but even when it comes to playing for uninterested drunks on small crummy bars, you still found yourself barely able to catch a breather from it.

And it also doesn’t help that on top of it all, you also try your best to balancing your studies as you go into your third year of uni. So, between being tucked behind your bass during rehearsals and going around begging for stuck up pub owners to give a spot, you still have to find time for the busy class schedule that also blends with your tutoring job on the side. Sometimes it feels like juggling those two contrasting lives is too much, and when you walk home each day too exhausted to even function, you ponder if you should just drop one of them.

You still manage to fall into a rather chaotic routine of dragging through weekdays to fall into reckless weekends. It’s not easy, but you make it work.

Today, however, seemed to be an odd one. From the moment you woke up with the sound of birds chirping and the faint conversation of your neighbors outside your window, you felt a sense of relaxation that has become a rarity to you. It’s a welcoming change from your usual rowdy roommates bantering at each other or the loud music blasting through the walls that serve as your alarm on regular days. The silence that engrosses your normally-chaotic home is calming as much as it is strange.

The whole day went by in a lulling and lazy pace, and between your several attempts of keeping yourself occupied (that being going on a walk to the library or going through your mom’s old recipe book) you actually catch yourself realizing the quietness can be louder than your roommates.

It’s a weird concept to you. Missing them when you spend so much time together in the band, but you still can’t help it. So you just blast the radio and let Rio fill in the empty walls as you wait for one of them to come home.

By the time the night falls, wind thumping on the closed windows as the first thin drops of rain start to hit the glass, Lena is back from her shift with a low huff and a roll of her eyes, mumbling how she’s never covering weekend shifts ever again -- which you both know is not true, but neither mention it. And that’s how you find yourself at the end of your unruffled day, tucked at the end of your couch under a cozy blanket. Listening to one of MTV’s nightly programs - that Lena watches almost religiously after a day of work - as background noise. You focus on the open book settled on top of your lap, enjoying her company quietly as you flip through the pages.

It could be the perfect ending for a perfectly relaxing day, the sound of the rain almost lulling you to sleep as the words in front of you begin to shuffle, finding it harder to concentrate with your mind drifting off.

But before you can let your eyes fall close and your head snuggle back into the cushions, you’re startled awake by the burst of your front door opening. The sudden noise makes you and Lena jump, a yelp leaving your lips as you look back to the source of your fright.

You barely have any time to feel panicked or even wrap your head around the possibilities of what could have caused the outburst as Abbey barges into the room. She all but jumps on each step, stumbling a bit as she makes her way around the couch to stand tall in front of you. Her red hair is full and damp, droplets of water running down her body, causing her clothes to stick to her skin.

“I got us a gig!” Her breath is short as if she just ran a long way.

“Christ, Abbey, don’t do that!” You relax back into the couch once you realize there’s no real threat invading your home, closing your eyes and letting out a breath. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

She scoffs, “Did you listen to a word I just said?” You notice her eyes are blown out, “I got us a gig, as in a </i> real gig.”

“A real gig?” Lena inquires, standing up to walk towards the front door that was left agape, closing it with a thump.

Abbey’s grin grows, her words come out slow but clear. “Next Saturday in the Blue Bird.”

“That’s in a week.” You state.

Her shoulders drop, “Yeah, and?”

“Blue Bird?” Lena comes in the room again, stopping by the head of the couch and crossing her arms under her chest. “How did you even get that I thought the only band that played there was--”

“You’re right Lena, was as in not anymore because we are playing there, and there’s more.” She interrupts, her voice raising an octave. “The owner, Ronnie, said if we’re good enough he can arrange for us to play every other weekend.”

“You’re insane.” You shake your head slightly. “That’s like a place where people actually go for the music, what makes you think we can pull that off?”

Abbey points a finger at you, “You’re being a pessimist, and that’s not appreciated in here.” She waves her hands around, trying to assert her point. “We can and we will pull that off and take over the permanent spot on the weekends.”

“Is that what this is about?” Lena smirks, eyebrows raising at her friend. “It’s been a hot minute since you raged about that Harry boy.”

“It’s not just about him, Adeline.” She barks, “It’s about us! We need to find our confidence again.”

“Again?” You speak out, making her snap her eyes back at you.

“Yes, again.” She says, “We’re doing this and it’s gonna be wicked.”

You sigh, nodding in agreement as you exchange a knowing look with Lena.

In all fairness, the prospect of playing a gig at an actual music house is as exciting as it is scary. It’s not like you think you’re not able to pull it off, but the simple thought of having people actually paying attention to your presence on stage is enough to make you want to hide under your covers and never come out. But seeing Abbey so pumped about it, there’s no way in a million years you’d ever say no.

She was the one that wanted to start a band, after all. Before she dropped out, in what seems like ages ago, she was your roommate that would drag you around every time she had those spontaneous ideas, that is going out for pancakes at three in the morning, go on weekend trips to concerts two cities away, or, well, start a band herself.

In the beginning, it was just the three of you, Abbey as the lead, you on the bass, and a girl you met on one of the said weekend trips, who had introduced herself as Lena, on the guitar. And not even a month later, you were all living together in a tiny house near the main street.

At first, the biggest issue, to your surprises, was that you couldn’t find a drummer if your lives depended on it. Even after putting out posters around campus, you only got two calls from men whose only interest was the “all-girls band” part of it. Things got better when you met Jaz, a smiley girl from your Phonetics class. She wasn’t a drummer, but her boyfriend was, they both played for their High School band (which is how they met, a proper movie-worthy story if they’d ask you). And just like that, you got yourselves a drummer and a keyboardist.

For the next few months that followed you played on dirty bars and house parties, getting paid with tipsy pats on your backs, or, if you were lucky, maybe a pack of cheap drinks for you all to share. It’s the frustrating part of trying to get into the music path, you found, most serious places were not interested on a band with hardly any live experience and no original songs whatsoever. So you just had to take whatever opportunity came your way. Once, you even played on the birthday party of Lena’s manager’s daughter, which was probably the most disastrous experience of them all, considering a crowd of eight-year-olds and their posh moms weren’t exactly fond of listening to loud covers of Blondie. You got to play three full songs before one of them asked you to leave.

The first time you actually got money was when Abbey dragged you and Lena to play on the sidewalk of the National Park, where people would come and go with their busy lives and full wallets. That was the best one, you easily got three hundred within a few hours of your open cases, which was split between the three of you at the end of the day.

Afterward, you wanted to play on the streets again, but Abbey wished more than just being a street performer, she yearned for the glow of the spotlights and a place on the stage. And it’s not like you lot didn’t think of it as well, how it would be like to have an actual gig. So, you just went back to the old routine of jumping from bar to bar. Playing for people that couldn't care less about your presence on the small stage, focusing only on their cheap beers and drunk conversations.

For a while it seemed like that was all there was to it, the music scene getting more congested by the minute, you thought there was no way you’d ever make it out there. There were moments you even thought about giving it up, if you were honest, setting your mind into getting your English degree that at least has the guarantee of a stable paycheck by the end of it. But as Abbey always says, there’s nothing you can’t do with a twist of your hair and a bat of your lashes. And somehow, she managed to be true to her word, presenting an opportunity to actually start taking this seriously.

And it would be a lie to say there isn’t an excitement growing at the pit of your stomach the more you think about it.

❁ ❁ ❁

You’ve heard about the Blue Bird before.

Of course you have, it’s near to impossible not to. Being in a small town, predominantly surrounded by uni students, and that being the only music pub in the area, you’ve heard about it quite often.

It’s become quite the hot spot for people interested in listening to good music while getting lost in the bottom of their beer glasses. With the only other competitor being a good forty-minute drive away, people go in crowds on the weekends as a getaway from their textbooks. You’re not sure why you’ve never been in it, though, only going as far as walking past it on your nightly walks during the week, listening to the faint sound of whatever band’s playing at the time.

But if there’s one thing that’s always brought up when the subject is the Blue Bird is CHASM, more specifically Harry Styles. They have the permanent spot on the weekends and have become one of the main reason people - women, mainly - come in lots to have a spot inside the packed space.

As much as his name comes up in a dreamy sigh and followed by a string of giggles when you hear it being mentioned by a classmate or overhear it somewhere in public, inside of your bubble he’s pretty much only mentioned in annoyed huffs or with a roll of eyes. If you’re honest, you know close to nothing about him, wouldn’t even be able to point him out on the street if you ever happen to cross paths. But you do know that Abbey is not fond of him in the slightest, so for that, you try to keep your distance from anything that has to do with Harry Styles.

You’re not sure how this hatred of her came to be and to be honest, you’ve never really been bothered enough to ask. Abbey doesn’t like a lot of people, her first impression of them it’s what she keeps in her heart with zero to no chance of changing it, so you just assume this Harry guy might’ve not given her a good one. It’s never really been something you really dwelled on, the circumstances in your life allowing you to ignore his existence unless he’s being spoken of. But it feels like a whole nother story now that you’ve essentially stolen his golden spot on the saturday night.

The moment you walk into The Blue Bird is when you start to come to the realization that this is really happening. Not even a full step in, your eyes already dart to the big stage standing tall across from the entrance door, bigger than any other one you’ve ever been in -- being used to small platforms that barely have enough space to fit a drumset. it’s hard not to let your lips part in awe at the size of it all, the outside is rather modest compared to it, the only really striking detail being the LED sign with the name of the pub. There’s a large bar standing in the middle of the place, serving almost as a divisor of the two areas of the pub. The first area is the one you walk into as you first enter the place, with tables surrounding the space -- that now have their chairs propped on top of them, and you reckon this is where people sit around as they wait for the musical act of afterward when they can barely keep themselves up on their feet. The second area, however, it’s just empty of any barrier, except from the stools lined in front of the bar, meant mainly for people to crowd in front of the stage.

The walls are what catches your attention, though. The one where the front door stands is covered with magazines and newspaper cutouts of celebrities, scandalous headlines written in big bold letters, and random articles about their personal lives. On top of this big collage, there are band posters, you assume the ones that played in here, most of them stuck once to the wall, except for one that you can see multiple different colored papers with the same name written on it.

You stop in front of one of them, one that’s just below your eyesight but catches your attention with the big blood-red letters that read CHASM on top of it, with a smaller font on the side saying “live every weekend of ‘87” right below it. What you focus on, however, are the five faces staring back at you, their serious expressions looking almost haunting with the black and white filter. But it’s the one in the middle that your eyes immediately dart to. Unlike his bandmates, his lips are frozen with a slight smirk, small enough that wandering eyes could easily miss it, but still prominent enough that you can make out the shadow of a dimple on his cheek. His hair is settled in a wild nest, but not in a sloppy way, you decide, they’re a rockstar kind of messy. He’s handsome, there’s no doubt in that, just by looking at the small print of his face you can understand what the fuss is about, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. But it doesn’t keep your mind from wondering the color of his eyes and what it would be like to see them up close, as you look back at the taunting grin you think what could be the tone of his lips or--

“Lost something in there?” Lena’s voice makes you jump, turning swiftly to find her grinning at you. “You should come and start getting everything ready before Abbey finds you admiring our arch-nemesis.”

Your eyes widen, coughing in surprise as you try to regain composure after being caught. “I-- I wasn’t--”

She chuckles, turning to roam back to the stage before you can finish, throwing you one last look over her shoulder. “Sure thing, buttercup.”

You spare one last look to the poster before following her lead to the other side of the room where the rest of your friends are setting up the instruments on top of the stage. Once you locate your case tucked in the far left corner you quickly open it, finding your soft pink tinted bass resting inside of it. The Sesame Street sparkling stickers stuck to it glimmer from this angle (you got them in a favor bag from when you played at the birthday party), thanks to one of the spotlights shining directly at them. You pick the instrument up, adjusting the strap over your shoulder and giving the chords a few experimental strokes before looking up at the empty place.

There’s no denial of the anticipation that takes over every part of your body at the sight of the pub from the stage. A perfect mixture of excitement and anxiousness that lights up as you imagine how it will be like to see it filled up. It makes you gnawn at you bottom lip, jumping a bit on you feet as you move to connect your bass to the amplifier.

For a while, you just finish setting up the stage, tuning in the instruments, the sounds echoing on the empty space in a bit of a disarray, as you get used to the feeling of using proper sound equipment. You had the chance to meet the owner, Ronnie, for a brief minute as he strolled around the stage, observing you all before mumbling something about paying anything you broke and announcing he’d be in his office until opening hours. It wasn’t the warmest greeting you’ll admit, but you don’t really care, enjoying the opportunity nevertheless.

Abbey arrives just a few minutes before the rehearsal is set to start, contemplating the view of everyone getting into a more of a harmonic arrangement before disappearing backstage for a moment without saying much of a word. When she comes back, she props herself in front of a big curved mirror cutting through one of the walls.

“Do you think you can do my makeup today, babe?” She calls back at you, gazing from over her shoulder with a slight pout on her ips.

“Sure.” You fiddle with the guitar pick between your fingers. “Do you want that rainbow look from last time?”

“Maybe something with less color this time.” She focuses back on her reflection, sighing loudly as fingers run through her locks. “I’m thinking of dying my hair black,” she tilts her head as if she’s envisioning her words. “I don’t know, just to try out something new.”

“That won’t make you look more like Joan Jett, you know.” A voice echoes in the empty space, bringing your attention to the entrance of the place.

And there he stands. The figure you had been staring at not long before, on the same poster stuck right behind where he is leaning, arms crossed and a smug look on his face.

Harry stands there as if he just walked right out of the big screen, is the kind of beautiful you don’t see quite often outside a magazine cover. Not that it’s something that surprises you, considering you could tell from even a poorly printed image on a poster that the sharp curve of his jaw and the cut of his cheekbones could call anyone’s attention from afar. Even with what you find to be a rather plain outfit for someone like him, a simple white turtleneck tucked in his lightwash jeans, matched with a denim jacket, he still manages to stand out somehow. It’s almost compelling, really. And you can’t help but follow him with your eyes as he pushes himself off the wall, making his way towards the bar with an attitude as if he owns the place.

Abbey scoffs from her spot, arms crossing under her chest. “Unlike you, I don’t have to try to be someone else to get attention, Styles.”

He rests an elbow on top of the counter, chuckling as he points a finger at your friend. “You’re getting better at this, I’m proud.”

“What the fuck are you even doing here?” She barks, keeping a stern look pointed at him.

“Wanted to check out who stole our Saturday night spot, princess.” He spits back at her, words dancing around the room in a teasing manner. “When Ronnie said it was a bunch of newbies had to see it with my own eyes.” Unlike her, he doesn’t seem bitter at the situation in hand, but somewhat amused at the heated girl scoffing at him. From the distance you stand, you can’t make out details, but it’s still enough to notice the grin imprinted on his face, dimples marking his cheeks as he clenches his jaw, eyes wandering around the stage as he leans back fully to rest both elbows on top of the stool. “Plus, I get free booze before the House opens.”

As the words leave his lips his eyes meet yours, and you quickly realize you must’ve been staring for quite a while. You see the smirk growing on his face before you quickly look back at the forgotten bass in your hands. There’s a warmth creeping from your neck to the tip of your ears from getting caught all but gawking at him. You move your hands to the cords, beginning to tune the instrument as an attempt to cover-up. But when you take a peek at him you still find his eyes watching you, only enhancing the blush that’s now undoubtedly taking over your cheeks.

“You lot are way more organized than I expected.” He speaks up again, motioning towards Ross sitting by the side of the stage near the drumset. “Got a roadie and everything.”

“Piss off!” Ross snarls back at him.

Harry just smiles. “Just taking a piss, mate.”

“I better not see you going around trying to get to one of my girls, Styles.” Abbey calls back from her shoulder as she jumps onto the stage, turning to face him. “Or you’re a dead man.”

“What’s that they can’t speak for themselves?” He arches his brows at her. “Where’s all that sexual freedom you love to brag about?”

“You’d love to use that as an excuse, wouldn’t you?” She toys with the mic stand. “You stay away from them.”

There’s no more banter once you begin the rehearsal. Harry grabbing a glass of a drink you can’t quite make out from the distance and moves to a spot tucked by the back of the place. Curiously, you catch yourself glimpsing in his direction every so often, but you can barely make out his silhouette due to the stage lights limiting your vision. At one point, when it dims down, you can see him scrunching over the table, focusing on a small journal sitting on top of it -- you find it odd his choice of place to do so, but don’t duel on it too much.

What keeps crawling back into your mind is Abbey’s words to Harry earlier, telling him to not try his way with any of you. She was talking about you. That much was clear, considering there’s not any other choice for him, with Jaz being very much compromised and Lena having no interest in engaging with men in any way. That leaves you as the only option that he could possibly pursue. It makes you think why she’d even consider that a possibility in the first place, but you push it to the back of your mind, concentrating on you bass lines until it’s around the opening hour and you’re getting ready backstage.

None of you are used to the concept of having a dressing room, so as undusted as it seems from a first glance, it still only helps to enhance the reality that hits you of this whole experience. The far voices from people starting to fill in the bar outside making your nerves become near overwhelming as you try to apply some eyeshadow with shaky hands.

When you’re all ready to go, just about half an hour away from walking onstage, you try to dull your anxiety with a cup handed to you by Lena of something you’re not quite sure what it is but it tastes like oranges and tequila. You settle on a spot on the certainly old red couch prompted against the wall. Avoiding a big rip cutting through the middle of it, foam poking out of the hole, you try not to think of what could’ve caused it -- or all the other stains adorning it.

There’s people coming and going around the space, the door not staying close for longer than a minute. Faster than you can process it, the room is suddenly crammed with people, none of which you recognize yet they greet you as if you’d been friends your whole life. Their loud voices mesh together, making it harder to even hear your own voice if you were to speak out loud. A strong scent of incense takes over the room, so intense you can feel the beginning of a headache. There are people stumbling on their feet trying to get to the stool across from you, where you catch a glimpse of a man with a messy mohawk snorting something out of a dirty bill.

Two strangers found their sits next to you at some point - not paying the same attention you had to the rip scarring through the cushions. Both get lost in their conversation, the man’s fluffed curls poking your face occasionally when he gets too excited with the hand gestures. You catch a word or two when they try to include you in it, you offer a simple nod, not bothering to try and understand their muddled words.

It all starts to feel a bit overwhelming, the amount of strangers surrounding you along with the nervous feeling that’s already taking over your stomach -- the drink not being of any help at all. You look around trying to find a familiar face, but you can barely spot the green ends of Lena’s hair through the crowd. Gazing down at your wrist clock, you figure there’s enough time for you to find a emptier spot so you can calm yourself down.

“I think I’m gonna get some air.” You say to no one in particular, seeing the man’s head nodding from your peripheral vision as you maneuver your way between leather-clad bodies towards the door.

You’re met with a just as packed hallway. Searching for a more vacant space, you spot a sign indicating an exit door that had been pointed at you earlier as the back alleyway. Without a second thought, you make your way around the crowded space. The nest of feet makes you trip slightly, making you crash against a girl standing next to the door. You mutter a quick apology, but you’re only met with a pitched giggle in response.

Once you reach the door you all but jolt your way out of the building. The brisk night air hitting your face, bringing a sense of relief near to instantly. You close your eyes at the feeling, breathing in as the breeze dances around your face and messes with your air.

“Well, if it’s not one of Abigail’s bunnies.” A voice cuts through the air, breaking you from your moment of relief. Your eyes flutter open, meeting Harry’s irises watching you. He’s leaning back on the wall across from you, foot prompt up and jacket thrown over his shoulders. His fingers fiddle with a closed package of cigarettes, dimples shadowing on his face in amusement.

You blink at him, taking a second to process his words. “I’m not a bunny, whatever that means.”

His lips twitch up. “I’m sure you’re not, darling.”

You observe as he thumbs the package in hand open, quickly grabbing a cigarette and resting it between his lips. “Need a light for that?”

His brows shoot up. “Didn’t take you for a smoker, angel.”

“I’m not, my friends are.” You reach for the back pocket of your jeans, pulling out a tiny pink lighter and throwing it towards him.

He catches it, holding it up between his index and middle finger. “You carry that around for your friends?” He keeps his eyes trained on you as he raises the lighter, flicking it so it paints the end of the cigarette a fiery orange. You can’t help but notice the chipped black nail polish adorning his nails, a couple of rings hugging his fingers, only adding to his rockstar persona. His cheeks hollow around it, taking a slow drag exhaling smooth puffs of smoke out of his puckered lips. He points the end of the cigarette towards you. “That’s a good girl.”

You feel your breath hitch on your throat, looking down as you feel for the second time in the day a heat taking over your cheeks. Standing awkwardly in the middle of the alleyway, your gaze waves around checking a few other lone smokers not too far from you. When you peek at him again, he’s still watching you with the same smug look he had when he first walked in. From this distance you can get a better look at his face, with it’s full colors, and you make a point to figure the forest green of his eyes flickering under the dim light.

You clear your throat, trying to fill in the silence that’s taken over the space. Keeping your eyes still trained on a random spot where the alley meets the street, you speak up, “So, how did get a gig here?”

“Trying to get to know me now, love?” There’s a smug tone to his voice, and it makes you shoot your eyes at him.

You shake your head, scoffing softly. “Was trying to be nice, forget it.”

He lets the air fall quiet for a beat, the corner of his lips tugging up as he takes another drag of the cigarette. “My uncle owns the place.”

“Ronnie is your uncle?” You crease your eyebrows.

“Yup.” He props his foot down from the wall, kicking a small rock on the floor. “He’s a right prick, but he can be nice if you get on his soft spot.” He shrugs, eyes meeting yours. “What ‘bout you, bunny?”

“What about me?”

“How did you get in the spotlight?”

You breathe out a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not in the spotlight,”

“You’re stepping on that stage in a few minutes, love, that’s hardly true.”

You chew on your lip, locking your eyes on your feet as you sway back and forth gently. “But I’m, like, on the invisible side of the stage.”

“Invisible side?”

You shrug, trying to appear unflappable. “Yeah, well, no one ever notices the bassist.”

“I do.” He says without skipping a beat, and when you search for his eyes they’re aloof as if the words just left his lips without a single implication behind them. You wonder if there is one. Or maybe you’re just reading too much into it. Nonetheless, it doesn’t stop a flock of butterflies to sweep on your stomach as he shoots you a warm smile. He motions to the door behind you with his head, “Better get going, darling, if someone spots us talking they might think we’re friends.”

❁ ❁ ❁

“Did you see how crazy they went when we did Call Me?” Abbey leans over the table, not paying any mind to the way it starts to tilt towards her side. You and Jaz quickly balance the weight, straightening surface before the filled cups can start sliding down and causing a mess. You give her a scolding look for not being careful, but she doesn’t even look at you, only picking a fry from the pile in the middle and dipping inside her vanilla milkshake, sitting back and elbowing Lena next to her playfully. “And to think you said it’s not a gig song.”

“I didn’t say that.” Lena shakes the cup in her hand, circling the straw as to mix the melting ice cream inside, completely unfazed by her friend’s tease. “Just said we should do something new if people wanted old songs they would tune on that good times radio station, or whatever it’s called.”

“People like listening to classics!” Abbey protests, raising her voice bit, she’s either forgotten she’s in public or is just simply too stoned to care. Either way, you try to shush her, muffling a giggle with the back of your hand as you see a group two tables down looking back at her. She only huffs, leaning back down on her seat, “What do you suggest we play, then? Duran Duran?”

“I like Duran Duran.” You pester, trying to repress a smile as she shoots you a pointed look.

“I actually think Duran Duran is a great idea.” Lena backs you up, the same taunting smile reflecting on her face as she says it looking at you.

“You two are completely insane if you think I’m singing new wave, might as well start to fill in for a new vocalist.” She shoves her hand full of fries, dropping to her side of the table with a shrug.

“Jaz you think that girl from your choir is available? The blonde one?” Lena bites into her straw, barely containing her laugh as Abbey narrows her eyes at her.

You watch in amusement from across the table, the contrast between Lena and Abbey looking comical as they continue to banter at each other. In one side there’s Lena who’s leaning back on the wall next to her, her neon pink jumpsuit standing out from anyone else in your group, hair hardly styled, being more of a nest in her head, the sides shaved and the back falling on her shoulders in a mullet. On the other side, Abbey’s swallowed in black, the only color being the red of her hair, that’s pushed up in a high side ponytail.

It was her idea to come to the diner after the gig, declining every offer of an after party (which is new for her) and insisting you had to have this moment to decompress together as a band. What you didn’t take account of, is that a diner on a Saturday night isn’t exactly a deserted place. So after spending an hour sitting on the parking lot, waiting for a table, you finally got yourselves a booth tucked by the back. And now as the place gets clearer and quieter by the minute, after getting your round of burgers, you share a big pile of fries, not ready to leave and sleep on this experience just yet.

“You know who also seem to enjoy the show? That Harry dude.” The mention of his name calls your attention to Lena. “Caught him in the corner a couple times watching us.”

You take a sip of his drink, trying to mask any expression that exposes the fact that you’d noticed too, maybe more than just a couple times.

To your relief, everyone focuses on Abbey as she lets out an annoyed huff. “Why’d you bring him up of all people.” She picks up her nearly empty cup a bit too harshly, her voice rising again. “He called me a Joan Jett wannabe! Fucking prick.”

“You do dress like her,” Lena raises her brows in defiance.

“It’s called an inspiration, Adeline, doesn’t mean I’m trying to be her.” She barks at her friend. “Doesn’t give that knobhead the right to be a dick about it.”

“Why don’t you like him?” The question slips out of your lips before you can stop it, and you regret it as soon as all eyes on the table set on you, Abbey’s face creasing in an incredulous look as if the answer was obvious.

“Are you serious? Did you hear how he spoke to us?”

“I don’t know,” You shrug, looking down at your lap, fiddling with the hem of your shorts. “Just seemed like he was trying to get a rise out of you.”

“He’s got a stick up his ass, babe. A full narcissist, it’s ridiculous.” She shakes her head, scrunching her nose in aversion. “He’s also a complete womanizer, it’s disgusting if you ask me.”

“I guess,” You gaze up at her.”

“Babe, he’s a charmer, I’ve seen it before, he knows how to sweet talk someone.” She explains in a sigh. “They’re all like that.”

“They?”

“Men in bands.” She picks up another fry, poking it on her forehead as she makes her point. “Have their heads bigger than the whole stage, think they can do just about anything.”

“Suppose that’s true,” You agree, not wanting to get further in this discussion.

She smiles, biting a piece of the fry before pointing it at you. “It is, which is why we are smart girls and don’t fuck with them.”

❁ ❁ ❁

You’re aware that going for a walk by yourself at night is not a very secure choice.

Even living in what you feel like could be the most monotone town in the area (where the biggest report on the local news was when two boys got stuck on a tree thanks to a dare with their friends). But it still doesn’t stop you from being careful, only going around the busier streets, watching the movement of people - mostly students - chatting the night away on the filled pub table, enjoying the short break between studies before going back at it once the weekend’s over.

You stroll around with not much of a purpose, really, only needing a bit of time to yourself every so often when you feel the turmoil in your home becomes to much (on those weekends when both your roommates decide to stay home). So you just go on your usual path, breathing in the night air and enjoying some alone time.

The ending of your course is marked by none other than the Blue Bird, standing in a corner of the main street.

A small group of people is gathered in front of it, smoking their cigarettes. You stare at them for a minute as you get closer to the led lights indicating the entrance of the pub, the girls with their bright-colored outfits, hair styled and puffed up as they laugh along to whatever one of the boys has said. One of them has a leather jacket thrown over her shoulder that almost swallows her figure, and you can only assume that it belongs to the man talking to her, leaning back on a payphone, the quiff in his hair so high it makes him look like a knock-off John Travolta. The thought makes you breathe out a laugh to yourself.

Once you reach the entrance you look at it mindlessly, not being able to see much from outside except the string curtain hanged on top of the open door. You turn on your heels, ready to start making your way back, but as you pay attention to the muffled sounds coming from inside the pub you stop on your tracks. A familiar tune catching your attention, making you turn in the direction of the entry. Somebody to Love.

It peaks your curiosity. If you’re honest, you feel like covering a Queen song is probably one of the most bound for disaster decisions someone can make. But as you feel yourself approaching the entrance, the voice of whoever’s singing it all but lures you inside. It’s not the same as the original, of course, but the lower tone to it fits it just as beautifully and once you fully walk in you can almost feel your heart skip a beat to find Harry standing on stage. His eyes closed in concentration.

It’s saturday. His saturday night. You forgot about that.

You don’t dare to try to mend amongst the crowd of people packed in front of the stage, making your way to the bar. You thankfully find an empty stool without much of a fight, allowing you a perfect vision of the stage.

Harry is playing the guitar, his voice blending perfectly with the vocals of the girls in the background, eyes closed as he feels every lyric coming out of his throat. His stage look is much different than the one he wore back when you first saw him, it’s something you reckon not many people could rock out as good as he does. A mismatched suit, light green blazer with a pink blouse underneath, along with bright blue trousers -- it’s as if he picked one piece from different colored suits (which you assume he probably did). The locks of his hair are no longer running wild on his head, instead, it’s gelled back, a single rebel strand falling charmingly against his forehead. You wonder if it’s on purpose.

It’s quite a sight to see him like this, you’re not gonna lie. All suited up with no tie, the blouse only partially buttoned so you notice a tease of some tattoos on his chest. You’d noticed his good looks before, it’s impossible not to, but there’s something about the stage glow that makes it impossible to look away from him. It’s mesmerizing.

To your surprise, the rest of his set mainly consists of originals, and unlike you’d expect for any amateur band that dares to sweep away from covers, he manages to hold the crowd’s attention as if he’s singing any other hit song you hear on the radio. Even not knowing the lyrics, people cheer along to the songs, moving to the beat as best as they can in the crowded space. And that’s a direct result of the charisma he holds while standing on stage.

It’s entrancing, really, how he holds himself as if he was born to be doing this. And you think maybe he was.

There’s a mischievous glow to him, when he rocks out to his own songs, grinding slightly against the mic stand. A gesture that makes you flustered even from your seat a couple of meters away. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of him even if you tried. And you’re sure as hell not trying.

At one point you feel a poke in your arm, turning around to be met with the barman who recognizes you from the week prior. He greets you with a shout over the noise, offering you a drink on his account. Your first instinct is to refuse, considering you weren’t even supposed to stay for long, but after a bit of insisting on his part you accept with a shy smile.

By the time he’s ending the last song, you’re at the edge of your seat, catching yourself wishing you could see more of him. The lights in the audience turn on as he wraps up the set, and just before he bows down with the rest of his band his eyes wander in your direction. It’s so quickly that you think you could’ve just imagined it, considering his eyes don’t meet yours again, only rushing his way backstage.

You blink at the empty spot where he once stood for a moment, almost feeling frozen in place as you try to take in what happened. Turning on your stool to face the bar, you gaze down at your forgotten drink. You hold it to your lips, deciding to finish it so you can ease your way out before anyone else spots you. Your attempt is frustrated, however, when you hear a voice coming from behind you.

“Reckon Abbey Road would throw a fit if she knew you’re wandering around watching my concert.” You turn to face Harry, finding him looking down at you, signature smirk making his dimples poke onto his cheeks. His hands are hidden inside the pockets of his dress pants and he’s taken off his blazer, causing the pink of his blouse to stand out even more.

You chew the inside of your lip. “I can make my own decisions, you know.”

“That’s good to hear, bunny.” His smile grows, hand leaving the pocket to motion at the empty spot next to you. “Mind if I sit here?”

“Be my guest.”

He sits on the empty stool, turning to the bartender that’s handing a drink to a man standing behind you. “Can you give the lady another one of what she was drinking? On my tab.”

“Oh you don’t have to, I was about to--” You begin, but the man behind the counter doesn’t care to listen, only picking up your empty glass and moving away to fill it up. “leave.”

“Already?” Harry arches his eyebrows, resting his arm on top of the counter and leaning towards you. His voice comes out a bit softer, dropping the playful tone, “let me buy you a drink, angel.”

You ignore the way the hairs on your neck rise at the petname. “You really don’t have to--”

“I want to.”

“Okay.” You breathe out, not being able to hold back your smile once his own grows on his face.

As if on cue, the bartender comes back with two glasses, setting them in front of the two of you. You don’t fail to note the fact that he gives Harry his drink without being asked to.

He picks up his glass, holding it up, to which you do the same, clinking your glasses slightly before taking a sip. “So, what brings you here tonight? Measuring the competition?”

“I was just walking around, heard a lousy cover of Somebody To Love, and decided to come in.”

He throws his head back a bit in laughter, nose scrunching adorably. You have to look away as to not find yourself staring. “A Queen fan, then?”

“You could say so.”

“A pretty girl with a good taste in music, gonna steal m’heart if you keep going, bunny.” And just like that, it’s like he takes all the words out of your mind. You only let out a small chuckle, taking a sip of your drink as you look away to cove the blush that paints your cheeks. His eyes are still trained on you, though. “Was it any good?”

“Huh?” You blink back at him.

“The cover.” He grins. “Or was it really that lousy?”

“Oh, it was amazing.” You say truthfully, clearing your throat. “You have a beautiful voice.”

“Thank you.” He bows his head slightly, smiling at you. And unlike before, it’s not smug, but rather warm, you smile back at him. “Enjoyed the show, then?”

“I did.” You nod.

“I’m glad.” He runs his finger around the brim of his glass, tapping against it once with a click of his ring against the glass. “What would you change about it?”

The question takes you back. “What would I change?”

“Yeah.” He clasps his hands over his lap, moving his feet on the floor so his stool swivels from one side to the other.

“Uhm…” You crease your brows, trying to hack your brain for an answer. Your eyes land on his blouse, still halfway unbuttoned. “Your shirt.”

“M’shirt?” He questions, brows shooting towards his hairline, clearly not expecting the answer. He gazes down at the piece on his body, fingers pitching the material as he looks back at you. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Not a big fan of pink.” You shrug.

“Now, we just can’t have that, bunny.” He clicks his tongue. “Pink is the new color of rock n roll!”

You chuckle. “Says who?”

“Says me.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Oh, I’m sorry then, mister rockstar.”

His face lights up in a giggle, lips parting to say something but before he can let the words out a hand rests on his shoulder calling both your attentions to the man standing next to him. You recognize him from standing next to Harry on stage as the guitar player.

“We’re hopping over to Eamon’s.” He doesn’t acknowledge you until Harry’s eyes hover over in your direction.

“That’s fine, think I’ll stay behind this time.” Harry looks back at his friend, but you see him glimpsing at you from the corner of his eyes.

You watch as his friend raises his brows, gazing between the two of you in a curious manner. You clear your throat, shifting in your seat as you look at them. “ It’s fine, I should get going anyway.”

“You don’t have to,” he says in a blink, a smirk twitching on his lips almost as if to cover up how quickly he said it. He turns back to his friend, who’s still watching the interaction with raised eyebrows. “You can go without me, I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

“Harry, you didn’t have to.” You subconsciously reach for his arm, retracting your touch just as fast when he glances at it. Clearing your throat, you play with “I really should get going, I was supposed to be on a walk after all.”

“Let me walk you back then,” he gets up from his stool, giving his friend a brief hug before turning back to you and extending his hand for you to take. Your lips part to protest, feeling as if you’re holding him back even though it was his decision to stay behind, but before the words can even come out of your mouth he beats you to it, “there’s no way I’m letting you go home by yourself this late, love.”

You sigh, shoulder dropping in defeat as you hold back a smile. Taking his hand, you stand up, “okay.”

The main street hasn’t exactly quieted down since you first walked by it, in fact, it only seems like it’s gotten rowdier. Time only increasing the buzz wandering in the air around the people filling the bars, voices louder, filled glasses clinking more frequently. As you stroll through it side by side there’s a comment or to that floats in the air, but you have to all but shout it, fighting with the turmoil of noise.

As soon as you turn into the first street away from the crowds it’s as if someone had turned off the sound completely, the nest of voices getting far-off in the distance and the loudest sound being of the night breeze kissing the tree branches above you. You can feel Harry glancing up at you from the corner of your eye and it doesn’t take long until his voice echoes in the air in an attempt to make small talk.

It’s surprising to you, how easy it is to be drawn in a conversation with him. Harry’s essentially not the same offstage as he is under the spotlight, most people aren’t. There’s no need for him to bloat his charisma when talking to you, he’s quieter. Shy, almost. And it takes you back a bit, to see such contrast in a short amount of time.

The magnetic force to him, however, still lingers even when he’s like this. You feel drawn to it, wanting to hear him speak about everything that comes to mind, just to savor the way he articulates his words, voice so calm and low it sends an electric chill down your spine. As he tells you about his music inspirations, going on the story about the time he traveled alone to crash a Fleetwood Mac concert, hands brushing against yours when he walks, you catch yourself wondering what it would feel like to link them together.

Once you reach your street, just a block away from the entrance gate of your home, you notice the front lights are yet to be turned off, indicating your roommates are still up and around -- most likely arguing about MTV’s top ten of the week. The realization makes you come to an abrupt stop, catching Harry off guard as he takes a few steps before realizing you stayed behind.

“Wait.” You say once he turns around, brows furrowed in a silent question as to why you stopped. “Uhm… You can drop me off here… It’s fine.”

“What do you mean? Is it too far? I don’t mind walking-”

“No!” You interrupt. “It’s not that, my house is right there, see?” You point to the bricked building no too far from where you stand.

“Why do y’want me to drop you off here, then?” The crease on his face deepens.

“I-- it’s just--” you begin, not knowing how to say it. “It’s just the girls are still awake, and..”

“Ah,” he clicks his tongue, an amused grin expanding on his cheeks. “Don’t wanna get scolded for hanging out with the enemy.”

“Don’t say like that.” You chuckle at yourself, looking down in embarrassment. “They just will never let me hear the end of it.”

“I get it, bunny.” He takes easy steps towards you, closing the space as he stands tall in front of you. You hold your breath as you look up at him, meeting his irises glimmering in enjoyment, dimples shadowing on his cheek. His hand reaches up, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear and you swear if he gets any closer he’ll be able to hear your heart thumping in anticipation. “Had a lovely time with you.”

“Me, uhm--” you clear your throat as your voice cracks, blood flooding your cheeks. “Me too.”

The streetlight above gives his face a golden glow that almost takes your breath away, his hair glistening in the light due to the gel pushing it back, and now even more rebel strands curl against his forehead. You half expect him to lean down, you don’t know why he would, but for a moment it seems like he will. To your dismay, however, he steps back, giving you one last smile before moving out of your way on the sidewalk. “I’ll see you around, then.”

❁ ❁ ❁

“I have some exciting news for you.”

Abbey’s voice startles you, not realizing she’d entered the dressing room while you focused on the book on your lap. Since you’ve gotten a spot at every other weekend on the pub, your routine just seemed to get even more busy, with rehearsals almost every day. So, because of that you barely find time to do your assignments. And with a book report due just around the corner, you’d thought maybe you could sneak in some reading time after the gig when everyone’s down at the bar and not prancing and screaming around the dressing room.

Your assumptions shows itself to be wrong, however, when your perky friend bounces her way to where you sit. She kneels next to the couch, crossing her arms on top of your legs and resting her chin on them, looking up at you expectantly, lips lifted in a side grin.

“What is it?”

“Got us an after-party, babe.” you notice a few colored lollies in her hand when she removes the plastic protecting a red one, shoving it between your lips before you can even protest. “And you’re coming with us.”

“I’d love to but I have class tom—“ Your voice is muffled around the sweet.

She rolls her eyes, standing to sit next to you on the arm of the couch. “You should stop wasting your life with an outdated system”

“You mean getting a degree?”

“Do you watch the news? We’re about to be the last generation to live fully, the world is about to break into nuclear wars all around.” She says as a matter-of-fact, turning to rest her legs on top of your lap. “Cosmo said we probably won’t even make it to the 2000s”

“Who’s Cosmo?”

She sighs, reaching to move a strand of your hair behind your ear. Her voice comes out soft, but calculated, “what matters is that we should enjoy our time while we have it.”

“You’re giving a whole speech about nuclear war to convince me to go to a party with you.” You arch your brows at her.

“Yes.”

You sigh, shoulders falling in defeat as you let yourself be convinced. “Okay. But I’ll—”

“Great!!” She squeals, moving her legs from your lap and leaning down to grab your face, pressing a quick kiss on top of your hair before jumping from the couch, and out of the room.

Once you arrive at the location of the after-party, Abbey leads you and Lena to a tall gate by the side of the house, explaining that you’re walking in from the back garden, considering the front door is locked. You find it odd, and if wasn’t for the muted sound of instruments echoing inside the bricked walls of the place, you’d doubt there was even a party happening here at all. The front of it was as regular as the other surrounding suburbian homes, grass neatly trimmed and the front lights turned off, as if nobody was even home.

Which is why you’re visibly taken back when you walk by the gate into the back area, finding an old vintage bus that could be around ten or even twenty years old, sitting in the middle of the grass. The wheels of it have been taken off, and every inch of the exterior is covered by graffiti, so much you couldn’t even make out the original color of it if you tried. Some of them are unreadable scribbles tangling on top of each other. Some are colorful drawings painted over them -- two sunflowers catch your attention, marked just above where the wheel would be, growing tall along the side and above the window.

“I know, right?” Abbey nods at your astounded expression. “Legend says John Lennon signed it somewhere.”

“Really?” You look at her, not able to hold back the way your voice pitches in amazement.

“Dunno, never looked for it.” She shrugs. “C’mon I’ll show you.”

She grabs your hand, dragging you to the side of the vehicle pointing at some random drawings and explaining the rumors behind their meanings. You try to concentrate on her excited babbles, but as you see Lena walking away from the corner of your eye you look up to watch her meet with a girl you’ve never seen. Before you can focus back on your friend, something else catches your attention, sitting on a wooden bench under a large tree, no too far from where you stand.

Harry’s in a small group sat in a circle. You recognize two men from his band sitting on the grass with guitars propped on their laps, one being the same that interrupted you the night at the bar. The rest are women who seem to have come right out of Fleetwood Mac’s tour bus, their long hairs pushed back with hairbands and earthtoned flare pants. But you barely even care about the ones sitting on the grass, humming along to the strings of the guitars. What grabs your attention is the one next to harry on the bench, her arm draped over his shoulder as she dabbles flower petals playfully on his hair.

You hardly take in his appearance, half-mindedly noticing the tattoos decorating his arms that pokes out of his tank top and the twirls on his hair as the girl winds her fingers on it. it’s hard not to remember Abbey’s words when she said he knows how to sweet talk his way around, and the thought of having fallen down on his trap only makes your heart pang on your chest.

“-- That’s basically why they won’t let anyone paint over it anymore.” You turn back to Abbey as she points to the sunflowers you’d spotted earlier, nodding along as if you’d heard everything she said. She looks at you, “but I like this way better, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” You agree, not exactly knowing what to.

She wraps her arm around yours, and you grasp the minty scent of her perfume as she pulls you close. “Let’s go inside.”

There’s an urge inside of you to peek back over your shoulder to catch a last glimpse of Harry, but you push it to the back of your mind, allowing Abbey to guide you around the bus where the entrance door is hanging open.

A small group of people greet you inside the bus, amongst them is the said ‘Cosmo’. He seems like the exact kind of person you’d imagine Abbey hanging around on her weekends’ escapades. Dressed in a baby blue velvet suit with nothing underneath his blazer except a few of - what you assume - hand-painted tattoos, matching with a rainbow stripe drawn on the side of his face, starting at the bridge of his nose and going all the way to the curve of his jaw. His hair hits just around his shoulders, the sides shaved so it’s like a puffed version of a mullet, edges dyed in a bright shade of red. He toys with a lit joint between his purple lips, picking it up and offering to you with a raise of his brows.

Normally you’d decline the offer, especially coming from someone you’d just met, but there’s an annoying feeling settling itself at the pit of your stomach. One you want to ignore but can only do so much to dull it, so you accept the joint, reaching for it and placing it in your mouth.

You’re not a regular smoker by any means, and when you inhale you can feel the smoke burning your throat as it moves down to curl inside your lungs. It makes you want to cough it out but you hold it in, trying to take in everything before huffing it out in a choked breath.

“Do you want a drink?” One of the girls asks you, already pouring you a purple drink inside a labeless plastic bottle.

“What’s in this?” You accept the cup, giving her an skeptic look.

“Pure fuel, babe.” Abbey leans on your shoulder from behind.

You hang out in the bus for a while, and, to your surprise, you don’t feel left out as they keep notice to include you in their conversations. The drink ends up being not that bad, and, even having no idea what’s in it except for the very artificial citric taste mixed with some very strong cheap alcohol, you still refill your cup after you finish it.

It’s a nice feeling, to get a bit looser in a party and allowing yourself to have some adventurous fun. And as time goes by and your mind gets cloudier, the group starts to disperse. Two of them find a spot in the back with as much privacy as they could get in a party to swallow each others faces. Another one passes out in one of the seats behind you, hugging the empty plastic bottle as if it’d run away from them. It leaves just Abbey and Cosmo with you, discussing with each other about something that you’ve stopped paying attention a long while ago.

You just watch them silently, resting your head back on the seat and feeling the late hours weightening on your eyelids. You feel like you could doze off at any moment, but what stops you from it is a loud screeching sound of an amplifier from inside the house. It startles you, making you jump slightly on your seat as you hear a voice speaking almost like a groan, and you’re not sure if it’s your drunken mind or the inaudible words but you can’t make out a single thing that’s being said. A crease deepens between your eyebrows and you turn to question your friend about it but, before you can do so what seems like the most obnoxious cover of We Built This City starts playing.

Abbey gasps as the chords of the song somehow get even louder, grasping her hand on the man’s arm. “Oh my god!” She squeals, exchanging a look with Cosmo as they both all but jump from their seats. She glances down at you, “We’re going in, are you coming?”

You raise your brows at her, trying to hide the scrunch on your face. “I’m good.”

She nods, making her way out of the bus, her feet stumbling on each other as she holds onto her friend’s shoulder to keep her balance. And just like that, you’re left alone on the leather seat.

You peek at the couple in the back, eyes bulging slightly as you see the girl has lost her shirt, the boy’s hands caress her chest as they keep their lips locked harshly. Deciding to give them a bit more privacy, you make your way out of the bus as well, the contrast from the compact air inside the vehicle to the crisp wind of the outdoors sending chills down your body.

Looking around, you realize most people hanging around are gone, probably gone inside the house. You can’t help but let your eyes wander to the spot you’d seen Harry earlier, and you don’t hold back the shock in your face when you find him still sitting on the bench, but this time with no one else around him. He fiddles with a lighter on his hand, flickering every so often to watch the weak flame before letting it die again.

Your feet start to move before you can really grasp that you’re walking towards him, your head still a bit cloudy from the substances in your bloodstream. He looks up once you get close to him, signature smirk growing on his lips as he glances up at you.

“Look what we have here.” He leans back, “a lost bunny.”

“Hi, Harry.” You say simply.

His smile turns a bit softer. “Where are your bandmates?”

“Celebrating.” You shrug.

“Shouldn’t you be as well?”

“I am.” You hold up the mostly empty red cup.

He chuckles. “I see, having fun by yourself then?”

You focus on a spot beyond his head, suddenly feeling timid under his gaze. “Seems like it.”

“Want to join my private party here?” He shifts to his side, patting the spot next to him. “S’very exclusive, as you can see.”

“Well, I’m honored to be invited, then.” You sit down on the space he made for you.

For a moment, there’s a silence between the two of you, the only sound being the jarring cover of Everybody Wants to Rule The World. The notes of it are so off that you can’t help but huff a relieved breath when it comes to an end, enjoying the few seconds of silence before they begin another song.

A small groan leaves your lips when the noise starts again, catching Harry’s attention as you feel his eyes land on the side of your face. “It should be illegal to ruin great songs like this.” You shake your head to yourself, speaking your thoughts out loud in a rush of confidence. “They should get arrested for it.”

He chuckles. “You’re not wrong.”

Your eyes dart at him, meeting his. It’s hard to miss the way his irises glimmer under the moonlight. When he glances down at the lighter still in his hands you take the opportunity to really have a look at him. The proximity makes you aware of a small constellation of freckles kissing his nose, and the stubble starting to poke out the skin along his jawline. You want to blame the haziness in your mind for the thoughts of how it would feel like to have it scratching against your skin. Or how it would feel under your lips as you nibble your way all the way to his rosy lips. You want to push these away, belittle them as nothing but drunken thoughts. But you know very well it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve let yourself be entertained by them.

A pitched scream takes you out of your head. You realize there’s been a beat of silence since he’s spoken, so you clear your throat, a warmth creeping up on your neck as if he’d been able to hear your thoughts. “Do you know them?”

He shakes his head slightly. “Not really, no. They played in the pub once, Ronnie hated them.” He glances at you, corner of his lips itching upwards. “Call themselves Crystal Illusion, so there’s that.”

“Christ.” You can’t help but roll your eyes. “And here I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”

The sound of his giggle makes you look back at him, catching the sight of his dimples carving deep on his cheeks. “You’re really something, aren’t you, bunny?”

“Why do you call me that?” The question rolls of your tongue before you can even think about it. His brows raise at your question, and you decide to enjoy the rush of confidence and pick on it further. “Dunno if I’m supposed to feel offended or charmed.”

“Don’t mean it as a tease, can tell that much.” He smiles, shrugging slightly. “You just remind me of a bunny.”

The words pique your curiosity. “How so?”

He looks back down to his lap, and if it wasn’t for the poor lighting you would be sure of the blush taking over his cheeks. “Just all cute -- could tell you were a bit reserved, and like, curious. Had your eyes wandering all around when I first saw you.” He moves his head around lightly as if to explain his point and you have to bite back a smile. “And when you were focused you’d scrunch your nose a bit. Like a bunny.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say I have big ears.” You try to humor, searching for his eyes.

He laughs, looking up at you. “I mean, now that you’ve mentioned it…”

Your gasp shifts into a giggle as you push him away playfully. “Well, if I’m a bunny...” You pause, racking your mind to think of an analogy for him, but your mind is still a bit slowed down, your thoughts taking a beat too long to catch up to your words. When you glance down to the arm that’s brushing against yours, you notice the tattoo peaking on his skin. You reach for it without thinking about it, fingers tracing the ink as you take in the drawing, his eyes follow your touch curiously. “Then you’re an eagle.” You cringe to yourself as soon as the words come out of your mouth, attempting to mask it as you breathe out a laugh.

He arches his brows, lips fluttering, trying to hold back a smile. “You think I’ll kill you?”

“Oh shit, you’re right.” You cover your face with your hand, shaking your head at yourself. “Didn’t think that one through.” Your laughs meld together for a moment, slowly dying off and giving space a comfortable silence. The only sounds being the nightly hum of cicadas and the whisper of the breeze against the branches of the trees, that and, well, the faint screams of instruments from inside the house. Looking up at him, a breath hitches when you realize the proximity of his eyes to yours. You try to tease him but when you speak your voice comes out lower than you expected, almost in a whisper, “so you think I’m cute?”

“Course I do.” He says in a blink. “Don’t think that’s much of a secret, love.”

You chew on your bottom lip, not missing the way his eyes dart down on your face. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Yeah?” He smirks, wiggling his eyebrow teasingly. “Think I’m pretty?”

“I won’t inflate your ego if that’s what you want.”

“I tried.” He breathes out a laugh, eyes moving back down on your face but this time he doesn’t rush them back to yours, not hiding the intent of his gaze. For the first time, you’re glad for the background noise, afraid that if it wasn’t for it he’d be able to hear the thumping of your heart.“Can I kiss you?”

“Huh?” You blink at him, not because you didn’t hear him, but because you’re a bit taken back at the forwardness of the question.

He moves his arm to rest on the back of the bench, turning his hand to play with the tips of your hair. “Can I kiss you, bunny?” He repeats.

You nod before you can find it in you to voice your answer, clearing your throat, “yes.”

The hand that’s not in your hair moves to caress your cheek, he takes a moment to look at you, thumb rubbing your cheek gently before he leans in. Your eyes flutter close instinctively, holding your breath in anticipation as you feel his lips on the corner of your mouth. He keeps them there for a beat before pulling back, tilting your face a little just to finally close the space between your mouths.

The kiss starts slow. Uncertain, even. His lips are soft against yours, warm breath hitting your cupid bow as he sucks in your bottom lip gently. You feel his hand cupping your jaw, sneaking behind your neck as he pulls you closer and you all but melt under his touch. Being this close you can smell the scent of his cologne mixed with the smoke of cigarettes, and something about it is so sensual you can’t help but grip on his shirt as to have something to hold on to.

You can feel yourself getting lost on his touch, shamelessly scooping to the side as you enlace your thighs for the sake of being closer to him. His hand falls on your knee, rubbing it as your tongue line on his bottom lip.

It’s the sound of the door that leads to the house sliding open that falls like a bucket of ice water on your head, reminding you of your surroundings, and that you’re not, in fact, alone with him in the garden, which means any of your friends could easily spot you if they were to walk outside.

It’s almost like he reads your mind when you pull away from him, loosening your grasp on the material of his shirt. His lips don’t let you get far, trailing their way along your jaw until he can bite on your lobe. “Relax, petal” He whispers, pulling back to look at you as your noses brush together. “They won’t see us, even if they do they’re probably too stoned to even care.”

You let out a weak chuckle, gazing at the door where a group of people stumble their way towards the bus, voices loud as they slur incoherent words. It’s hard to see inside the house as most of the lights inside seem to be turned off, but you can tell how packed it is, bodies pressed so close together it makes you wince slightly just with the thought of being amongst them. Looking back at him, you ponder for a second before nodding. “You’re right.”

A grin paints on his face before he leans in, closing the space between you once again.

❁ ❁ ❁

“Still with us?” A call of your name on the mic snaps you out of your thoughts.

Looking up, you’re met with your bandmates curious eyes staring right at you and you realize you’ve probably been too lost in your own head to pay attention to the conversation in hand. Your lips part for a split second, trying to think of an answer that doesn’t give away your lack of focus but a single look at Abbey’s arched brows and you know you’ve been caught.

You clear your throat, lips tugging on a guilty smile. “Sorry, I am now.”

It’s hard not to let your eyes glimpse to the back of the room, where the sole reason for your distraction sits quietly on his regular spot, tucked behind his journal and doing his own thing. But you hold back the stare, knowing your moves were being watched by your friend who’s back to talking about the setlist changes for the night, and who would not be happy in the slightest to notice your wandering eyes falling on the one person she despises the most. You wonder how she’d react if she got her hands on the piece of paper burning through the back pocket of your denim shorts.

The message was short and simple, but the connotation behind it carried a much stronger meaning to it.

Meet me in the back before the gig, want to see you. -H

You found it tucked inside your case, lying innocently on top of your bass, apparent enough so anyone who’d opened the case could’ve found it before you. Surely, no one else did, otherwise, you wouldn’t hear the end of it from the minute you’d stepped into the place. Which makes you wonder how he managed to slip in the note sneakily enough without anyone noticing it, but the curiosity is well dulled in your mind by the pounding of your heart.

To your dismay, however, you barely got a look at him throughout the rehearsal. You got to The Blue Bird later than you’d intended to, the tutoring session you had on the day ended up running later than you’d expected. So by the time you stepped through the string curtains of the pub Harry was already tucked on the shadowy corner and everyone else was hanging by the stage waiting for you, barely giving you a second to set your bag in the dressing room.

So it’s hard for you not to stare when he gets up from his seat, walking into the lighter space of the bar with his signature smirk painted on his face. You’d just gone through the last song of your set for the second time -- an amplified version of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (Lena insisting on repeating it after messing up on the first try). He’s holding a maroon leather jacket on his arm, along with his journal, leaving his arms bare under his Bowie tank top -- which, as he approaches the stage you notice the uneven hem on the sleeves, suggesting he might’ve cut them off himself. His hair is running wild as usual, the fringe curling against his forehead and you chew on your lip at the thought of running your hands through it as you did not even a week ago.

He reaches to the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a pack of cigarettes as he reaches the end of the stage. “That was a great one, everybody, maybe if you keep it going we can get you a spot on that wacky show they’re premiering.” He sets the stuff he’s carrying on the stage floor, crossing his arms on top of it. “What’s it called again? ‘S like ‘gag me with a spoon’ or something like that.”

“We wouldn’t want to steal your spot again.” The words leave your lips before you can process them, for a moment forgetting you’re not alone with him so your playful tease can be easily interpreted as mocking.

He rests the things he’s carrying on his arm on the stage floor, hoisting himself up almost effortlessly before picking them up again, walking the few steps it takes for him to stand in front of you. His lips are tugged on a shit-eating grin. “Got another feisty one in here, huh?” He crosses his arms under his chest, and you can’t help but note the way his muscles flex at the gesture, his tattoos dancing slightly on his skin. “What makes you so smug about stealing my spot? Reckon Ronnie only said he needed more chicks hanging around.”

“If that’s the case then there’s no need for you to be intimidated by a band of chicks, then.” You keep your eyes trained on his, but you can notice Abbey’s getting wider from over his shoulder.

His lips twitch up, and you can tell he’s holding back a genuine smile as not to crack your act. “Am I intimidated now, bunny?”

“It’s what it looks like.” You shrug, now holding back your own smile.

“Maybe you need to take a better look at things then, angel.” He starts walking backwards in the direction of the backstage. “Wouldn’t want any more misunderstandings, would we?”

“Don’t think we would.”

And with that, he turns around, walking the rest of the way out and disappearing as he rounds the corner to where you know it’s the door leading to the back alleyway. You just stand there quietly for a moment, following his steps as you try to recollect what just happened. For the two of you, it was clear that the tension was the product of an unspoken want circling around, but you question for a second if that’s the impression that your friends had. And as you look at their expressions, raised brows and mouths agape, it’s hard to tell.

“Holy shit, babe.” Abbey is the first to speak out. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

You hold back a relieved exhale, shrugging slightly as you remove the strap of the bass from your shoulder. “He was just getting on my nerves.” You face away from her, placing the instrument on the stand.

The anticipation of meeting Harry grows impatiently on your stomach as you try to find a gap where no one’s attention is on you to sneak out of the dressing room. It seems as if every time you think you can do it, someone pulls you in, either to try to push you another pill of something you’re not sure what it is or to ask you to help with their makeup. But as the room gets filled and people get higher, their focus become more diffuse, and finally, after finishing assisting Jaz with her eyeliner (her hands were too shaky to get it right) you manage to slip out the room into the corridor.

There’s a sense of recognition that takes over your body when you feel the wind messing with your hair as you step out the building to be met with Harry’s figure leaning back on the wall, not too far from the spot you found him the last time you’d been in this same position. His eyes shoot in your direction as soon as you step through the door as if he’d been waiting for this just as eagerly as you were. He quickly throws the butt of the cigarette on the floor, stepping on it before standing tall as you slowly approach him.

“Hi.” You say simply, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shorts -- not knowing with to do with your hands.

“Hi.” His grin grows. “Came back here to intimidate me?” He teases, biting on his bottom lip.

“Actually,” you scrunch your lips, deciding to play his game as you reach on your back pocket, retrieving the small piece of paper and holding it up. “Got this very desperate note from a secret admirer but I don’t see any hotties here.” You click your tongue, looking around as you let out a loud sigh. “Guess it might be just a misunderstanding.”

He laughs, hands reaching for your waist to draw you closer. “That’s too bad, guess you’re stuck with me”

“Yeah?” You wrap your arms around his shoulders, stepping closer so that your chests meet and his forehead falls against yours.

He nods in response, your noses brushing gently before he leans to meet your mouth with his own.

❁ ❁ ❁

There’s a thrilling feeling that settles deep within you when it comes to holding a secret.

It’s that spark of excitement that brings a kaleidoscope of butterflies to come alive on your stomach. The kind of feeling that makes every cell of your body feel not just simply alive but as if it’s burning with joy. Which is why you guess falling into a routine of sneaking around with Harry on secret little rendezvous was so easy, to begin with.

Of course, your friends’ opinions are important to you, but you know that you’re an adult very much capable of making your own decisions. That means sleeping with anyone you’d like despite their ill opinions about the person, without having to sneak around as if you’re teenagers hiding from your parents. You know that, and you try to remind yourself of that every time you catch yourself lying to them about your whereabouts at every coming day.

In the beginning, you weren’t even sure that there was anything to it except for a couple of innocent kisses, maybe some not-so-innocent touches here and there, but nothing really worth even telling anyone. You’d only really see Harry on the weekends. When he would steal moments with you before your gigs when you “had to take a breather”. Or when mysteriously disappeared from your friends’ sides during after parties after they already had their minds buzzed and noses backed up. Or even when your night walks would tart becoming gradually longer due to your curiosity getting the best of you once you found yourself in front of the familiar Pub on Harry’s nights.

The weekends’ escapades took a different turn when they graduated to weekdays. Things took a quick turn then. It started with him offering you a ride to the houses for your tutoring or to the library (stealing kisses every now and then, of course). And before you knew, you were making up classes or books to rent for your oblivious roommates, only to spend hours on Harry’s car. Coming back with puffy lips and messy hair.

Part of you felt bad for going behind their backs, every now and then feeling an urge to pull Lena aside and gush about him for as long as your heart desired.

But it’s the thrill of it, of having something that’s just yours to have, that no one else knows except the two of you. The adrenaline that comes with the possibility of getting caught at any moment, but being able to get away with it. It’s almost addicting to you, so you prefer to have these moments just to yourself.

As the days went by, and those days turned into weeks, and those weeks turned into months, it just made it harder for you to tell them you’d been hiding a whole relationship for this amount of time. Well, not exactly a relationship, but as close as you ever got to one anyway.

And it’s not like you’d never had anyone before. Being in the music scene, you’ve had your quite a few amounts of flings — even though not as many as it’s expected. But no one has ever left you as enamored as him, especially not as quickly as he has. He’s intriguing, carrying around that mysterious aura around him that leaves everyone wondering the secrets he holds in his heart.

Although when it’s just the two of you it’s like this cocky persona of him completely dissolves. It’s a complete contrast from the image he carries around the restless mouths of prying people. He’s not that enigmatic heartbreaker who hops around strangers beds as if to live that classic Rock ‘n Roll lifestyle you see on TV. Rather, he’s shown himself to be the most caring man you’ve ever been with.

And that’s how you found yourself in this position, your body awkwardly positioned on your side in the rear seat of his car. A hand tangled on his hair while the other pulls at his Bowie shirt, you know your lips are probably starting to get swollen and his are taking a raspberry tone from the way they’d been sucking at one another. So with that in mind, you part from his mouth, trailing kisses along his cheek, and a final one at his nose before sitting back on the seat.

Just as you predicted his rose-colored lips are plump as he grins back at you, his locks are wild on top of his head. His hair has grown around his jawline now, curls poking out in all directions and you can’t help but reach your hand to pull his fringe back from his forehead. His smile growing fondly and eyes fluttering shut as you run your hand through his strands.

When you pull away you catch a glimpse of your wrist clock, cringing slightly at yourself as you realize you should start thinking of heading home.

“I have to go soon.” You let your hand fall to your lap with a sigh.

“Already?” He pouts. “Barely had any time together.”

“We’ve been here for two hours, silly.” You giggle at his dramatics, leaning to press your lips on his chin.

He throws an arm over your shoulder, keeping you close. “Exactly, barely any time.”

He turns his head to connect your mouths once more before pulling you against him so your head rests on his shoulder. You look beyond the glass of the windshield to the nearly empty street -- saving from a few people walking back from what you assume is a day of work

He’s parked on the usual spot two blocks away from your house, and from this angle, you can see the front gate that leads to the entrance. The front seat of the coupe still folded forward as there was no reason to set it back to place considering the circumstance in which you were on the backseat. You had called home from the payphone in front of the library, letting Lena know you’d be home late to catch up with some studies -- another lie to your pile.

There’s a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you -- apart from the low voice of the radio Dj interrupting A-ha’s Take On Me in the background. If you move your head just right you can hear his speeding heartbeat, and if wasn’t for the faltering on his breathing you’d assume he was just as relaxed as you are. You move away from him, his arm falling around your waist, looking at his profile as he pokes at his jeans, a crease between his eyebrows.

You rest your cheek against the leather seat, grasping his chin with your fingers and gently moving his head so his gaze meets yours. “What’s on your mind, handsome?”

He breathes out a laugh, shrugging lightly as he brings his hand to scratch at the tip of his nose. “Nothing much.”

“But there’s something.” You insist, being able to tell he’s pondering over something.

“It’s just-- I just thought--” he pauses with a sigh. You play with the rings on his fingers, waiting patiently for him to express his thoughts, you can tell he’s a bit nervous which is an adorable change from his regular charming demeanor. “I wanted to maybe-- like, we could have a date.”

You straighten your posture, lips parting as you take in his words. “A date?”

“Yeah… A proper one, you know?” He shrugs, eyes darting back on yours. “If you want to, that is! Don’t wanna pressure you or anything.”

“I do, H.” You nod, chewing on your lip as you try to recollect your thoughts. It’s not as if you don’t want to go on a date with him, that couldn’t be further from the truth. But turning it into a formality just changes completely the scheme of things and, as much as you felt like this is an inevitable step to take at some point, you still feel protective to an extent of this secret you have between the two of you. So you can help but let your voice come a little apologetic, “it’s just--”

“I know.” His shoulders drop and you can’t help but feel a tug at your heart.

“Hey.” You caress his cheek. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

“Okay.” His lips perk up in a small smile, and you lean forward to give him a peck.

He’s still looking at you with puppy-like eyes and it does nothing to help the heaviness in your heart from turning him down. You lean again this time to spread kisses around his cheek as an attempt to pull a giggle out of him, but you only earn a light chuckle so you seat back tilting your head to look at him with a pluck of your lips. “C’mon where’s my smug rockstar gone?”

“He’s right here.” The shadow of his dimples appears on his cheeks. His voice comes out low and gentle, as if he’s still pondering over what you said earlier, “just toned him down a bit.”

You sigh, trying to rack your brain to another subject that can distract him from it. You catch sight of the slightly smudged end of his eyeliner, and your face lights up as you remember a request you’ve always wanted to bring it up. “Do you want to know something?” Biting back a cheeky grin, you cross your arms under your chin as he looks at you with raised eyebrows. “Should let me do your makeup, so you can be a proper rockstar.”

He lets out a laugh. “Do I need that, now?”

“Mhm, said it yourself, it’s part of the look.”

“Did I say that?” You nod, teeth still biting on your lip. He lets out a breath, contemplating the idea for a second before looking back at you. “Okay then.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Course, could never say no to you even if I tried.” He lets his hand fall on your thigh, rubbing it gently. “On one condition, though.” You arch your brows in question. “Come to my gig tomorrow.”

You face scrunches in confusion. “I always go to your gigs.”

“Yeah but I mean go earlier, like so we can hang out before and stuff.” His finger starts to draw circles on your knee. “So you can do my makeup, too, can go on stage looking all pretty.”

“As if you could ever look anything less than pretty.” You say before sitting back, thinking of his proposal. “You’re asking me to be there early…”

“What? D’you have plans already? Got a boyfriend I don’t know about?” And there it is, the teasing Harry you know.

You shake your head, poking his side playfully. “Oh yeah, maybe I should’ve mentioned him sooner.”

“Shut up.” He rolls his eyes before looking at you, his voice coming down to a pleading tone. “Come, please.”

Before the yes can roll off your tongue you remember that you wouldn’t be alone with him. “What about your band?”

He furrows his brows. “What about them?”

“Well, do they know?”

“They couldn’t care less about us, baby.” He sighs, head falling back on the seat as he moves his hand so it rests on your inner thigh, rubbing a spot in there. “Have no meaning hiding you.”

You can’t hold back the smile that grows on your lips, leaning to press a kiss to his mouth before letting professing in just above a whisper, “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

❁ ❁ ❁

“‘S poking my eye.”

“Shh, quiet.”

“You’re rubbing it too harsh.” Harry grabs your wrist, eyes fluttering open to stare up at you.

“I’m being gentle, you’re just not used to the feeling of the brush.” You argue, keeping a finger under his chin so his head is tilted upwards as you shuffle on his lap. “Now close your eyes, I’m almost done.”

He lets out a huff, trying to feign annoyance, but the slight twitch of his lips and the subtle appearance of his dimples break his facade. You know as much as he won’t admit to it, he’s quite enjoying having you propped on his lap, fingers stroking gently his eyelids while you hum along to The Cure’s record that’s mixing with the murmurs of the other people in the room.

To your surprise, you’ve come to realize that the dressing room is significantly less chaotic when it comes to Harry’s band. The place is not nearly as packed as it can get during your nights, in fact, apart from the band itself, there’s only a handful of people hanging around. And as much as you notice their bloated pupils and stumbled walks, they mostly keep it to themselves, sharing around a bottle of vodka to wash down their pills.

Like Harry had assured you, his bandmates couldn’t be less bothered by your presence amongst them. And as much as you recognize all from the numerous gig you’ve been in before, and that according to them your name has been frequently mentioned by Harry himself (which did make his cheeks turn into an adorable shade of red), it’s nice to be formally introduced to them. In fact, they were so quick to treat you as one of their own that you could feel a slightly guilty feeling expanding on your chest from the number of times you’d heard your friends bad mouthing them in attempts to joke around.

You swallowed the feeling back, though, accepting a plastic cup they poured with champagne (which you learned is a tradition before gigs) and making a conversation.

“Are you done yet?” You feel the vibration of his voice on that back of your fingers that touch against his throat.

“Yes,” you say with a final stroke of your brush on his eyes, sitting back to admire your work with your teeth carved on your bottom lip. “You can open your eyes, baby.”

He blinks his eyes open and you can’t help the smile that breaks through your lips as you examine the contrast of the burning red eyeshadow with his jade irises as he looks back at you. “How do I look?”

You grab his cheeks, leaning down to press a quick peck on his lips. “Like a proper rockstar.”

“Yeah?” He grins once you let your hands caress on the smooth skin of his chest poking through his unbuttoned blue blouse. “Think I can finally get some groupies now?”

Scoffing, you swing your hand to shove him back playfully with a roll of your eyes. You try to move away but he grabs hold of your wrists, pulling you in again. “You’re insufferable.”

“Just how you like it.” His hands fall to your waist, bringing it closer as you let your arms wrap around his shoulders.

His lips meet your on a slow kiss, allowing you to taste the strawberry flavor of the lipstick you’d applied earlier, the thought of messing it completely lost in your mind as you tilt your head to deepen it even more. His fingers now grip on your hips over your denim skirt that has ridden up considerably since you first propped yourself on his lap. For a moment you just stay like this, tangled on each other’s arms, every so often you scratch on his neck, pulling his hair just a bit so you can swallow the most delicious mewls.

He parts from you as slowly as the kiss started, pecking on your lips a couple of times before letting his head fall back, hands moving to rub at your thighs over your pink tights. His eyes are hooded as he looks up at you with a smirk, voice coming low as if he’s sharing a secret just between the two of you, “can we go to the back?”

“Sure.” You unstranddle him, adjusting your skirt as you stand up and offering your hands to help him to his feet. He takes them, almost bringing you back down on the couch as he pulls a little bit too hard.

Once he’s up he takes a look at himself on the mirror in the wall opposite to the couch, a pleased smile on his face letting you know he likes the result of your work. He reaches for your hand then, guiding you into the hallway and out the back door you’ve become so familiar with.

Walking into the alleyway, he walks to his usual spot, leaning back on the wall and pulling you with him. His hands easily find their place on your waist once again, fingers tapping against the fabric of your skirt anxiously. Looking down at you, there’s anticipation on his eyes, as if he’s trying to tell you something but is waiting for you to bring it up.

“So,” he begins, eyes darting around as he parts his legs a bit, enough to fit you between them as he pulls you closer.

“So…” You say, drifting off as a way to encourage him to keep going.

“I’ve thought about the date thing.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, playing with the ends of his har. “Wasn’t I the one that was supposed to be doing that?”

He shrugs slightly, looking down to where his fingers fiddle with a loose strand of your vest. There’s something very endearing about seeing him so nervous, a complete opposite to how he carries himself in public, as this cocky and confident guy. You’re grateful that he allows you to see this side of him, though, bringing your hand to caress his jawline as you wait him to speak his thoughts. “Yeah, but I had like, an idea, or whatever.”

“Do tell.”

“I thought we could do--” he shakes his head a bit. “We could go to a place that’s still more reserved, and stuff.”

“Like?”

“I dunno, I--” he chews on his lip, a habit he’s starting to get from you. “Thought we could go to my flat and like hang out, we could go to that diner that has a drive tru and get something to eat and go back to my place.”

“Are you trying to take me home, Styles?” You tease, not being able to hold back a smile.

“It’s not like that, I just--” he huffs, cheeks getting a bit flushed as he tries to explain himself. “Just if you’re comfortable with it, of course, we can still go around on my car if you prefer, I don’t mind.”

“Harry?” You hold his cheek, moving it so his eyes can meet yours. Rubbing your thumb against his smooth skin, you try to soothe him, shooting him a fond smile. “I think that’s a really nice idea.”

“Yeah?” You don’t miss the way his eyes light up. “Is that a yes, then?”

“Of course.”

“Cool, I can, like, call you before I leave home so you can go to our spot and I can pick you up, yeah?” It’s the fastest he’s speaking since the moment you walked out of the building, voice a pitch higher. “How about Friday?

“Great.” You giggle, tangling your fingers on his hair to pull him down so his forehead rests against yours. Lips brushing, you blink up at him, jade eyes flickering around your face, “I can’t wait.”

He smiles. “Me too.”

❁ ❁ ❁

An annoyed puff leaves your lips as you notice another typo in one of the words inked in the paper poking out of the typewriter. You grab it maybe a bit too forcefully, this being the fourth time in a matter of minutes you had to do this. Taking it out of the platen, you reach for the whiteout conveniently prompted next to you, carefully correcting the error before putting the paper back on the machine.

With the end of the term peeking around the corner, you’ve been finding yourself in this position more often than not. Either rushing with your essays or grading assignments from your students. No matter what the arrangement is, however, there’s always a guarantee to have a half-empty mug of coffee and a pile of textbooks spattered on your desk.

This time around is no different, as you lean back on your chair, closing your eyes and rubbing your hands over your face, you try to focus on Cyndi Lauper singing in the background as a way to relieve your stress. You can feel the inkling of a headache deep inside your forehead, indicating maybe it’s time to give yourself a break, So, you try your best to relax the tension out of your muscles, breathing in the soft chamomile scent of the burning candle on your nightstand -- it’s one Lena gave to you to help with the stress a few days ago. What disturbs you from your moment of meditation with Time After Time, making you snap out of your breathing exercise, is the ringing tone of the telephone echoing through the house. The sound comes into your room a bit muffled thanks to your closed door, but it’s still enough to irritate you.

You hear closely to the sounds outside your door, waiting for Lena, who you know is propped on the couch downstairs watching TV, to pick up the call and cease the annoying tune interrupting your moment. And as you predict, in just a few minutes the ringing noise stops as quickly as it started, making you relax back on your chair. Closing your eyes again, you let yourself go back to the moment before the interruption, untensing your shoulders. You can hear the pound of heavy footsteps coming up the wooden staircase, but don’t process them getting closer until your door swings open.

Lena is standing in your doorway with an expression that’s hard to read at first, her brows set on a slight frown her hairline and mouth agape. Before you can tell her off for her sudden entrance she’s already speaking, “can you tell me why the fuck Harry Styles is calling our house looking for you?”

You can feel your heartbeat falter at her words, eyes widening as you glance at your bunny-shaped clock and realizing you had gotten so lost in your studies you forgot about the date. “Shit,” you get up so fast from your chair it falls back on the rug. You turn to Lena, who’s watching the scene with the most amused smirk on her face, “is he still one the line?”

As soon as she nods you’re stumbling down the stairs, almost falling down on the last steps but catching yourself up on the railing. You reach for the wired phone lying upwards on the hallway stand, picking it up and walking into the closest door - which happens to be the coat closet - closing it behind you.

“Hello?” You sound out of breath, heartbeat roaring in your ear.

“Did I fuck it up?” His voice is hesitant, nearly remorseful, it makes your heart drop.

“I-- no, you didn’t.” You reassure, leaning back on the wall of the tiny space, instantly regretting your decision of not choosing the restroom in your panic state. “I just got caught up with an essay and didn’t see the time passing.”

“Do you want to reschedule?” He drags out the words as if he doesn’t want to say them. “We can do this another day, I don’t mind.”

“No!” You protest quickly, reaching back to roughly adjust a hanger that’s poking on your neck, causing a raincoat to fall on your feet. “Of course not, I really need a break, anyway. I want to see you.”

“Want to see you, too.” You can hear the smile on his voice. “What about your friend?”

You sigh, rubbing your temple slightly. “I’ll talk to her, don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” He says. “I’ll be at yours in around fifteen, is that good?”

“That’s perfect, yes.”

“I’ll see you in a bit then…” He drifts off, as if he wants to say something else, but stops himself.

“See you.”

The familiar sound of the deadline takes place and you sigh, letting your head fall back on the wall with a thump and staying like that for a moment. When you step out of the closet, the first thing you see is Lena leaning against the railing of the stairs, shaking her head at you in disbelief. “You bitch.”

Your shoulders drop, not wanting to have this conversation right now, as you put the phone back on the base. “Can we not do this--”

“You’ve been fucking him all this time and you didn’t tell me?” She crosses her arms under her breasts. “Abbey is gonna throw a fit when she knows this.”

“You’re not gonna tell her.”

“I’m not.” She agrees with you. “But she already knows you’re sneaking out with someone.”

“She does?” Your voice gets higher, eyes widening slightly.

“She might be high as a kite most of the time, yes, but she’s not stupid.” She chuckles. “And you’re not the best at hiding either, or you thought we wouldn’t notice you’re barely at home anymore?”

You frown your mouth, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. “Does she suspect that it’s him?”

“Not really no, thought it was one of your students.”

You can’t help the horrified look that takes over your face. “I tutor children!”

“Ooh,” she breathes out a laugh. “Well, to be fair, he’s probably the last person she would suspect.”

“She’s gonna kill me.”

“Probably.” She shrugs. “But she’ll just have to get over it.”

“I guess.”

Lena looks at you, dropping her arms as she walks to you. Holding into your shoulders, her expression softens. “Don’t worry about this right now, okay? Go get ready for your date.”

“You’re right.” You sigh, nodding. It takes you a second, but as you process her words, you frown, squinting your eyes at her. “How do you know we have a date right now?”

Her hands drop, mouth scrunching as she waves her hands around. “I just guessed.”

“Were you listening on the line?’

“Of course not!” She steps away.

“Adeline!”

She backs away, reaching the bottom of the stairs with the guiltiest look you’ve ever seen splattered on her face. “It was just a bit of it! I was curious!”

You shake your head in disbelief. “I’m gonna cut the cord of that phone in your room.”

“No, you’re not.”

Raising your eyebrows in challenge, you take a careful step in her direction, causing her to go up another step. There’s a beat of silence where you two just stare at each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. When you finally give in, racing towards the staircase, she stumbles up the rest of the steps, the sound of your giggles mixing together taking over the space.

❁ ❁ ❁

There’s an instant sense of comfort when you see Harry’s lime green Ford parked on your usual spot, one that gives an extra pep to your walk, pushing all the stress you’ve been dwelling with to the back of your mind. And as you relax into the leather seat, windows down and radio up, you let yourself enjoy the anticipation of spending the rest of your day with him that settles deep in your stomach.

You’d always wondered what Harry’s apartment would look like, imagining his LP’s splattered across the place, along with loose papers filled with guitar riffs and song lyrics. Maybe a couple of plants here and there, from what he told you he had tried to take care of one or two before, but always ended up forgetting to water them on schedule. And there’s also a notion inside of you that two young men living together in an apartment are bound to live in somewhat of a nest, so you brace yourself for the piles of beer cans and video game wires tangling on the floor.

When he opens the front door for you, letting you walk in before him, it does surprise you to find a tidier place than you’d expected his living room to be, but you realize you’d not been much far off with your assumption. It’s clear this is a house of musicians from the second you step in, the first sight being two guitars leaning on the wall next to the mud green couch, surrounded by - you guessed it - loose papers, which you assume are filled with scribbled ideas. A wall piano also stands out across the room, a single ashtray standing on top of it next to two candles, where you assume comes the faint scent of vanilla comes from.

“Sorry about the mess,” Harry speaks out from behind you, shrugging out of his usual denim jacket and throwing it over the couch arm, looking back at you with his hands on his hips.

“It’s alright.” Your teeth sink on your bottom lip as you take in the sight of him. Without his jacket, he’s left with just a wine-colored half-buttoned blouse, sleeves rolled up to his elbows so some of his tattoos are exposed. Part of the hem is tucked inside his low waist jeans that hug his thighs so perfectly it makes you want to grip your nails on it. Shaking your head, lightly, you let your eyes wander around the room once more, so he doesn’t notice you gawking at him. “Was expecting worse, to be honest.”

“Do you think that little of me?” He feigns offense.

You giggle, taking a lazy step towards him, shrugging. “I just don’t expect two young men to know the basic of cleaning, that’s all.”

“That’s fair,” he chuckles, taking a moment to just look at you. When a silence settles between the two of you, you raise your brows at him, waiting for him to make the first move. He clears his throat, running his hand through his hair. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Sure!” You nod. “Do you have, like, beer or…”

“Yes, yes I--” he stops, face lighting up in realization. “No wait, I have something better.” He strides towards a door to where you assume the kitchen is, calling over his shoulder, “make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back!”

You laugh to yourself, shaking your head as you pull your purse off your shoulder, letting it rest beside Harry’s jacket on the couch. Glancing over your shoulder, there are no signs of him coming back, so you take the opportunity to snoop around the area.

There’s a small center table in front of the couch, probably the messiest part of the room so far, a few movie magazines splattered around with another ashtray lying on top of it, a few butts of cigarettes long forgotten along with their ashes. Next to it, is a VHS cover of </i> Ghostbusters, a rental receipt paper scrambled on top of it. What calls your attention is a couple of cassette tapes, some with titles you recognize from being Harry’s songs scribbled on top of them but others don’t have a label, which leads you to assume they must be blank.

You walk around the table, gazing to the tv stand, where a poster of Freud is stuck on the wall behind it -- and breathing out a laugh as you notice someone had drawn glasses and colored his beard with a red sharpie. A bookshelf stands next to it, completely filled with records (apart from a single succulent that has a piece of paper with the name “Ziggy” glued to it). Your curiosity gets the best of you, picking up some LPs on random and what does surprise you, is the lack of a common theme between them. Finding a bit of everything, from some very recognizable names you’ve seen Harry rock to, like Billy Joel and The Clash, to some you’d never even heard him speak of like Culture Club and even a brand new Madonna record.

You have just picked up the cover of Ladies of the Canyon when his voice startles you from behind. “Mitchell, huh?”

Turning back with the record still in hands, you look down at it. “I love her.” You glance up, taking notice of the glasses in his hand, filled with a liquid of a yellow so bright it reminds you of a highlighter. “What’s this?”

“This,” he hands you a glass. “Is a drink we made.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “You made this?”

“I’m a man of many talents, bunny.”

“It looks like poison.” You bring the glass up to your nostrils, taking in the strong scent of alcohol. “Am I going to be poisoned? Is this a big plan to get rid of your rival’s bassist?”

“Stop being silly.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s mainly pineapple and vodka, takes weeks to be done, proper fancy stuff, you know?”

“Oh yeah super fancy.” You tease, chewing on your bottom lip to hold back a smile.“Pineapple and vodka.”

“Shut up and drink it.” He says, watching you carefully as you slowly bring the brim of the glass to your lips, taking a small sip of it. An instant sweet taste of pineapple invading your tastebuds, but the vodka is so present it makes you scrunch your nose. Harry gives you a small smile, eyes trained on you as he waits for your verdict, “so…”

“It’s strong.” Your face is still a bit rumpled from the alcohol, but you relax it eventually taking another sip of it, this time quite more prepared for it. “But it’s good, tastes like pineapple and vodka, who would say?”

“Shut up.” He chuckles, taking a step back and propping himself down on the couch.

With the record still in hands, you turn to put it back where you found it, admiring the full bookshelf once more. “Got a nice collection here, Styles, I gotta admit.”

He sips on his drink. “Found something you fancy in there?”

“A couple.”

“Put on something you like.” He motions to the record player standing next to the shelf. You look through the vast collection again, picking some at random and putting it back once you realize it’s not what you’re looking for. After going through a few, you finally stumble upon Elton John’ Madman Across The Water, holding it up to show it to Harry. “Oh, so we’re in one of those moods?”

You pull the vinyl from the sleeve, carefully placing it on the player and adjusting the needle over it. As the beginning note of Tiny Dancer float through the room, you look back at him. “What mood?”

“Like, a happy-sad kind of mood.”

You nod, setting yourself on the couch next to him. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

As the first few songs swim in the air around there’s a light chatter that settles between the two of you. Nothing out of your ordinary conversations, mainly consisting of you gushing over John Taylor as Harry rolls his eyes and sips on his drink to mask the drop of jealousy that grows on his chest -- “He’s not that good looking, you lot should have better standards” he said with a huff, making you giggle at his antics and pinch his cheeks. But it doesn’t take long, barely going halfway through the record, until the two of you begin to feel more lightheaded, eyes glossy and tongues getting looser. You should’ve expected that from the very first sip of the drink in your hand, knowing it wouldn’t take much more than a glass of it to get you right boozed up. And it doesn’t help that which each sip of it the sweetness of the pineapple takes over the strong taste of the alcohol, and in a matter of a few songs, you already feel your mind soaring away.

Harry is not much different, you realize, becoming quite a bit of a giggly drunk as he looks at you through half-lidded eyes and slurred words coming out of his mouth (which only makes him laugh more at himself). From what he told you, it hasn’t been the first time he and Mitch attempted on making the drink themselves. They tried it at a cramped bar right outside a Tears For Fears concert and it had gotten them so knackered so quickly they went back the next day to ask the barman (who also happened to be the owner) what was it in. Turns out it was just watermelon and vodka, but the man also explained that the technique he used that took about two weeks for the drink to be ready. From the man’s explanation, it seemed simple enough so they decided to try it for themselves, except they replaced the watermelon with pineapple.

“Just to add a bit of fun to it.” He shimmies his body.

“Is it like the original, though?”

“‘S close, but not quite his.” He hiccups. “I’m convinced he left out some of the details, the bastard, didn’t want to go around giving out the secret formula of it.”

You giggle, biting into the brim of your glass. “I’m curious to try it with watermelon, now that you’ve mentioned.”

“You have to, bunny!” His head falls back on the couch, dimples so deep you want to bite into them, his hand strokes lazily on your thigh, every now and then moving up to rub at the hem of your playsuit. “I’ll take you there sometime, we can get baked and crash into a concert at the music house that’s right in front of it.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

When the blue of the sky outside begins to fade into a golden glow, ribbons of pink and orange cutting through it, you’re already completely far gone. The record player is now only letting out a faint buzz from the lack of sound now that the LP is over. Your head is filled with clouds and you don’t register when Harry reaches back for the guitar, only really registering it once he’s stringing out a familiar melody. He stumbles with the lyrics but as soon as you recognize the beginning line of </i> Big Yellow Taxi you’re joining him, your voices tangling in a high pitch as you more of scream the lines than really bother to sing it. Harry gets completely lost in it, and you let him take over every so often just to watch him, mimicking Joni Mitchell's voice and even enacting her laugh, which makes you laugh until your belly hurts and your cheeks get flushed.

It’s one of those moments you want to get locked in, to live in it forever. Watching him stumbling the lyrics of different songs, the words tumbling out of his mouth between giggles, fingers stroking the cord of the guitar maybe a bit too harshly as you join him without a care in the world to who may be bothered by it. You feel so free with him, it’s a feeling that takes over your whole body, a warmth of knowing you don’t have to filter yourself or fit any type of expectation. And as he ends another cover with violent strokes on the guitar you laugh along with him for a moment before letting the room quiet down. Crossing your arms over the back of the couch and resting your cheek against it, you just look at him.

His bloodshot green meets yours, his chest rising as he catches his breath from the frantic songs, teeth sinking on his bottom lip as he smiles at you. “Gonna slow down a bit fo’ you.”

You raise your brows at him, smiling in anticipation as he begins to smooth his fingers through the cords much more gently than he had been previously. His head moves along to the beat as he gazes down at the instrument, a slight crease forming between his eyebrows in concentration. It’s a complete contrast from the playful demeanor that had taken over the room just minutes ago.

“Love of my life, you’ve hurt me.” He begins, and your ears instantly perk up as you identify the same song you’d heard him play months ago at the pub, the one that made you enter it to watch him for the first time. “You’ve broken my heart and now you leave me.”

It’s much different now, however, not just from the fact that he’s singing it on his own without the band backing him up. But it’s the meaning behind it, the rawness of his voice, low and slightly raspy, the words still come out a bit mumbled but you couldn’t care less about it, only focusing on the emotion he puts to them.

“Love of my life, can’t you see?” His eyes are still set on the guitar and you search for them almost desperately, shifting closer to him and cupping his cheek, guiding him to meet your gaze. “Bring it back, bring it back, don’t take it away from me.”

The swell in your heart is overwhelming to an extent, his glossy eyes looking into your with such sincerity it makes you want to jump on him, but you hold back as he keeps going, feeling nearly hypnotized by his voice.

“Because you don’t know, what it means to me.” He leans into your touch, turning to press a quick kiss on your palm as he keeps stroking the chords in a quiet melody. “Love of my life, don’t leave me.”

You can’t help but shake your head slightly as he sings the lyric almost like a plea. “You’ve stolen my love, and now desert me.” He looks back down at the guitar, letting your hand fall to his shoulder. “Love of my life, can’t you see?”

“Bring it back, bring it back, don’t take it away from me.” Peeking under his lashes, he grins up at you, and you can only imagine how you must look to him. Mouth slightly agape, barely blinking as you’re scared if you do this will all turn out to be nothing but a dream. His voice comes out next a bit lower, stretching out the words, “Because you don’t knoow.”

He strokes the chords a bit mindlessly now, playing with the sound of the melody, and he does it so effortlessly you almost hold your breath as not to miss it. “What it means to me.”

When he stops, you don’t really think before latching yourself on him, throwing one leg on each side of his thighs, and cupping his face before meeting his mouth with yours. He immediately wraps an arm around your back, his other hand taking the guitar off his lap and blindly placing it against the wall next to the couch. Once the instrument is no longer a barrier, he places his hands on your hips, pulling you closer. You can taste the memory of a pineapple still lingering on his tongue as you lick into his mouth. The kiss is hungry, maybe a bit sloppy thanks to the substance still very much present in your bloodstreams, but you don’t mind, only moving a hand to tangle on his hair, scratching at his scalp before pulling at his roots.

A whimper escapes from his mouth, getting lost inside your throat, his grip on your thighs tightens, nails digging in it and you know will leave crescent shapes on your skin. It only makes you do it again, this time his head tilting backward with a small groan, disconnecting your lips, but you’re soon to connect it again, splattering kisses along his jawline until it meets his neck. When you suck on his pulse point, running your tongue over it, his skin vibrates on your lips as he lets out a whine. His hands are now running all over your thighs before resting on top of your ass, bringing your hips to grind against his.

Even with your hazed mind, it’s still hard to miss the very prominent bulge under his jeans. It makes you pull back, looking down to see it straining against his zipper. There’s a flip of a switch inside of you when you realize how much he’s yearning for it, it’s the desire you’ve been pushing back for months now, crashing into you like a wave and you can barely contain a small mewl at the sight.

“Bunny.” He breathes out. When you look back to him, you notice his eyes have darkened considerably. “We don’t have to--”

“Please.” You let your forehead fall against his, rolling your hips again, stealing another whimper from him. “If you want to, I want to.”

“I do -- fuck, I do.” He nods as you keep grinding on him, his hand disappearing on your back pocket, trying to get as closer to you as possible.

When you meet his lips again, the kiss is somehow eager than before. The longing is evident as you grab onto each other. Your hands travel down his chest, nails digging softly on his exposed skin, and once you feel the fabric of his shirt, you’re quickly to undo the rest of the buttons, not disconnecting from him as you do so. Smoothing your hands back up to his shoulders, you help him shrug off the material, letting it fall to the couch without paying mind to it.

“Wait,” he sneaks between kisses, hands coming up to your waist you push you off gently.

You watch with your brows narrowed as he gets up from the couch, walking to his shelf and standing in front of it, looking for something. Leaning to your side, you let yourself admire the muscles of his back as his fingers run through the edges of the records. It’s impressive how even though his collection takes over the whole furniture, he still seems to know exactly where to look for it, focusing on a small section right at the top. He quickly finds what he’s looking for, pulling it with a ‘Aha!’ before turning back to you.

He holds up a very familiar black cover, the imprint of Queen’s Greatest Hits instantly calling your attention. Doing the same as you’d done earlier, he takes out the disk, placing it on the player before adjusting the needle over it. You watch it with a smile teasing on your lips, finding oddly endearing how he made you pull away from him with the sole purpose of putting on a soundtrack -- making notice to put on something you’d like, as well. He cranks up the volume as the first words of Bohemian Rhapsody start to swallow your thoughts, turning back to you and offering his hand with a cheeky grin painted on his face.

Taking his hold, you let him pull you up from the couch and, before you can really register it, he’s guiding you through the hallway. You stumble on your footing as he rushes a bit to fast for you to really wrap your head around it, the walls of the corridor passing by almost in a blur as it takes your mind a beat too long to catch up with your eyes. Still, your giggles dance along with his all the way to his door at the end of it, making you feel like a couple of teens sneaking out for the first time.

He doesn’t give you a single minute to take notice of his room -- not that you would at this moment, your arousal pooling at your underwear only enhancing the haziness of your mind. In just a speck of a second, he’s already pushing the door closed, your body being pressed against it not long after. His arms find their place on each side of your head, his lips searching hungrily for yours as your fingers find their home between the strands of his hair once more.

“Shit, need you so bad, baby.” he presses his hips against yours, mouth hot as he sucks in the skin of your jaw, all the way down your neck, finding a spot that makes you whine under his touch. “That’s it, darling, let me hear you again.”

“Harry,” you mewl as his teeth sink on your skin gently, his tongue swiping quickly over the spot before he trails back to your cheek. You melt under his touch when his hands find their way back on your body, one of them caressing the side of your breast softly, thumb poking out to rub the spot where you nipple pebbles under your layers of clothing. This brings out a desperate whimper from your throat, your head falling back on the door as you close your eyes, trying to savor every slight touch of his. “Please.”

“Look so fucking pretty in this piece, bunny.” The sound of his voice is right below your ear, his warm breath hitting your skin making the hairs on your neck rise. “Look gorgeous in anythin”” he turns his head to bite at your earlobe. “But I really need it gone right now.”

Your eyes snapback open when you feel him pull back from you, his hands finding the front buttons of your playsuit, fiddling them open so easily you barely register it. His lips are back on yours, this time slower, letting his desire be known at every brush of his tongue. Smoothing his hands on your shoulders, he helps you out of the sleeves of the top. As soon as your back is disconnected from the wooden door, you start moving forward before you can really think about it, pushing him back gently until the back of his knees hit the mattress and he’s sitting back on the bed.

There’s hardly a speck of green left on his darkened irises when he looks up at you, watching your every move as you shift the material down your body, letting it pool on your feet before you kick it to the side. Taking a slow step towards him, his hands holding onto your hips almost unconsciously, you reach back to find the hook of your bra, but he stops you before you can even quite grasp it. “Wait,” he pulls you closer, making you fall a bit awkwardly on his lap, your hands moving to grip on his shoulder for support. “Let me.”

You adjust your position on top of him, your knees resting next to his thighs, as he handily unhooks your bra, removing it quickly from your arms and tossing it to the side. A gasp escapes your mouth as he wastes no time before attaching his mouth to your breast, tongue circling on your nipple before sucking in. His hand tries to give the same attention to the other one, grasping onto it as his thumb caresses the pebbled nub.

The crescendo of the song comes muffled in the background and it’s as if it’s echoing inside your head while you mindlessly roll your hips against his. The motion makes the lining of his zipper rub deliciously against your clit under the thin fabric of your underwear, and it reminds you of his hardening length pressing on his jeans. It seems to remind him as well, as his mouth parts from your chest in a groan, his lips licking at the space between your breast, kissing all the way back to your neck, where he hides his face with a strangled moan when you grind down a bit harder.

“Can’t take the tease, baby.” He pants. “Need you right fucking now.”

You pull back from him, gazing down at the tent on his pants and bringing your hands to fiddle with his belt. It takes you a bit longer to manage to pull it out, as his eager lips attack your neck once again. At this point, you can only imagine the marks he’s made on your skin, knowing the reddened spots will soon come to a purple shade, but it’s the least of your worries as you pop the button of his jeans, opening up the zipper.

“Stand up just for a sec, darling.” He taps on your hip and you do as he asks, stepping back to plant your feet on the floor.

He shifts out of his pants, bringing his briefs along with it and you watch the way his cock all but jumps out of its restrains, slapping back on his stomach. The tip is a reddened shade darker, a trace of precum already oozing out of it, dripping down his length and making you rub your thighs for some sort of relief as you feel your mouth watering. You want to reach for it, grasp it as you feel it throb on your palm. You want to trace the prominent veins adorning it with your tongue and discover all the sounds he makes when he’s all but begging for you to wrap you mouth around it already. But more than anything, and what speaks louder to you at the moment, is how you want to feel it deep in your belly, rubbing against your walls until your legs shake.

“My eyes are up here, love.” You look up at him, a smug grin on his face as he draws you in by your hips.

“Can’t help it.” You watch his fingers play with the waistband of your cherry colored underwear, meeting his eyes as you let yourself mess with him a bit. “Just have such a beautiful cock.”

“Christ.” He groans, yanking your panties down your leg, making your arousal drip down your thighs. His lips immediately trace on your pubic bone, hands travelling to grip on your ass as his teeth sink into your skin slowly. “Didn’t know you were this filthy, bunny.”

You enlace your fingers on his strands, pushing his fringe away from his forehead as you mount him again. “Only for you.”

“All for me? What did I do to deserve you?” He smiles, pecking your lips and pulling your closer so you can feel his cock poking at your stomach. “Why don’t you lie down for me?”

You shake your head, pushing his shoulders back gently until his back hits the mattress. “You lie down.”

“Shit, baby, gonna sit on my cock?” He shifts back just slightly, watching you sit back on his thigh as you grab his length, giving it an experimental pump that makes his breath audibly hitch. “Fuck-- such a good girl, aren’t ya?”

You chew on your bottom lip, flickering your palm over the tip and collecting a bit of the precum before rubbing it once more. He lets out a strangled moan, head tilting back on the mattress, his curls splattered around him like a halo. Which is an ironical contrast to what you’re doing to him.

His voice comes out in a breathy, chest moving frantically as he peeks down at you when you give him another slow pump. “Please, darling, don’t torture me right now, need you so bad.”

If it were another occasion you wouldn’t listen to him, simply continuing your teasing as if he hadn’t said anything at all. But right now you can feel your wetness pooling where you sit on his thigh as you all but throb for him at the sight of his angry cock in your hand. It’s just as much torture to you as it is to him to keep this going any longer, so you just shift up, gabbing his base and rubbing it along your folds one, two, three times, before finally aligning it with your entrance.

His nails dig on your thighs in anticipation, his eyes watching with barely a blink as you slowly sink down. Your mouth hangs open but nothing except a choked gasp comes out of it. There’s a delicious burn that comes with him slowly spreading you open for him, and when you fully sit down your eyes are teary and can’t help but clench around him, earning a full moan in response.

“So fucking tight.” He pants, chest moving up as he takes a sharp inhale when you clench again. “So wet too, baby, drenching me.”

“Fuck, Harry.” You lean forward, hands lying on each side of his torso as you pull up the tiniest bit just to sink down again.

You want to start slow, gradually fastening your pace but you can’t seem to hold yourself back. As his hands grasp on your hips you start to bounce on him at a hard pace, your moans meshing together as well as the faint vocals blasting outside the closed door. Rolling your hips on his, he hits spot that makes you sit on your heels again as you throw your head back, crying out his name.

It’s hard to keep focus as you mind is blurry from the pleasure that takes over every cell of your body as well as the alcohol still running freely on your bloodstream. All you can focus on right now is Harry. It’s his hands gripping on your skin, helping you fasten your pace. It’s the sound of his voice pitching on a needy whimper, telling you how good you feel around him. It’s the sight of his face creased in pleasure when you look down at him, the veins staining his neck and his locks sticking to his damp forehead, cheeks rosy and lips plump. He’s the only thing in your mind as you chant his name under your breath like a quiet prayer.

“Is my cock that good, bunny?” He meets your thrusts with his hips, making you sob out a moan. His lips tug on a smirk, “Look at you helping you helping yourself out on my cock -- fuck, look like a proper dream.”

There’s a familiar tightness in your stomach, one that makes your toes curl and your rhythm falters. “I’m almost there, shit.”

“Won’t last much longer too, baby, feel too good.” He groans holding your hips in place when you stumble on your pace again, deciding to thrust upwards, your pelvis meeting in loud smacks. “Gonna cum for me? Gonna let me see you looking all pretty when you cum all over my cock?”

“Harry, please.” You’re not even sure what you’re asking for, your eyes closing as you roll back your head. A trifling cramp is starting to set on the back of your thighs but you barely pay any mind to it as the bliss takes over your whole body. You’re so close to your high you can almost reach it, just needing a small push.

“C’mon, baby.” Harry urges you, hand reaching where you’re connected to rub at your clit harshly.

And that’s all you needed, opening your eyes as a couple tears fall down your face when you feel your orgasm taking over you body, the white ceiling feeling far away like an imagine you watch on the television. You’re not exactly sure when Killer Queen started playing, but as the waves of euphoria hit your body, you can hear the guitar solo ringing in your ears, the crescendo of the song only enhancing the thrill of your high as you ride your orgasm along with it.

You practically collapse down on his chest, his hot skin sticking to your body. He’s still panting under you, warm breath hitting your neck as he holds onto your ass, his thrusts coming sloppier as he comes right after you. The sensitivity of your center makes you whine along with his strangled moans when he holds his hips to yours,burying himself in you as he paints your walls white.

For a moment you just stay like this, cheek resting on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat slowing down by the minute blending with the music coming from outside the closed door. His fingertips trace patterns on your bare arm that’s hugging his torso and keeping him close. You can feel your mind getting clearer, not just from the alcohol but from the high of your orgasm. And as the sound of the soft wind knocks against the window glass, you’re almost lulled to sleep just like this.

Harry shifts slightly, you feel his lips pressing on your head before he carefully moves to sit up, letting you fall back on the bed gently. “Mind if I have a smoke, bunny?”

You give him a lazy smile, shaking your head as you look up at him, reaching for his locks that poke wildly on his head. Leaning down, he gives you a quick peck before getting up. Turning to your side, you watch as he looks around the room, finding his briefs thrown by the end of the bed and quickly putting them back on. He grabs the pack of cigarettes along with his lighter and heads towards the window.

Opening up the window, allowing the evening breeze to slip through the crack and dance around the room, he pulls a chair leaning on the wall to sit directly by it. The chair is stacked with colored cushions on top of it - one yellow, one red, and one blue - he throws two of them thoughtlessly on the floor next to it, adjusting the remaining one on his back as he leans down to sit on it. The stool is low enough so he can relax his feet on it comfortably, fingers fiddling with the lighter for a second before rising it to meet the end of the cigarette resting between his lips. Freddie Mercury still sings loudly in the living room, the sound coming a bit muffled thanks to the closed door, but making it as background noise as you come quiet to admire his figure against the last creeks of sunlight hitting the side of his profile.

You chew on your lip at the scene, wishing you could record it somehow and play it every night before falling asleep. There’s something inherently erotic about having him smoke a cigar just on his underwear, humming along to the tune of the song, right after having you scream his name into his pillow.

The light streak of wind coming from the window breaks you out of your thoughts, making goosebumps rise on your skin as you come to the realization that you’re still sitting naked in his bed. It doesn’t take long for you to find your panties hanging from the edge of the mattress, picking them up to quickly slide them up your legs before you get up to search for your other articles of clothing. You can see the colorful pattern of your playsuit lying next to the closed door, but as you crouch to pick it up something else catches your attention in the pile of clothes thrown around mindlessly on top of a wooden chest

It’s the pink shirt. The same one he wore on the day you first saw him play.

A grin takes over your face as you pick it up, throwing it over your shoulders and sliding your hand on the sleeves. It has the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the lingering smell of cigarettes, something you’ve come to associate with him. You don’t bother to button up the material, letting it hug your body as you take a quick look at yourself in the full-body mirror leaning on the wall in front of you. You turn to him, his eyes still focused on the view outside, a thin coat of smoke leaving his lips and getting lost in the breeze, so you clear your throat as to get his attention.

He looks at you, eyes shamelessly scanning down your body and you’re afraid the cig will fall from his lips as they grow on a smug smirk.

“Look at you,” he lets his feet fall from the stool, fixing them on the floor as he motions for you to get close. You approach him without a second thought, climbing on his lap as his hands hold onto your hips. He takes another look at you, grasping the cigarette with his fingers and taking out of his lips. Reaching for your face, his thumb caresses the side of your eyelid gently. “Looking like a proper rockstar now, even got the smudged makeup.”

You giggle. “That’s more your fault than mine.”

“I guess it is.” He taps the butt of the cig on an ashtray prompted on the stool of the window, eyes still trained on you. “Should do it more often then, s’fucking hot.”

You smile at the connotation, picking at the hem of the shirt and gazing at him from under your lashes. “Guess I might be starting to like pink, that’s also your fault.”

“Look way too good in pink not to like it, bunny.”

“Stop that.” You hide your face on the crook of his shoulder.

“Telling the truth.” His free hand grips on your waist, pulling you closer as he tilts his head to kiss at your neck. “Looks good in everything.”

“Could tell you the same thing.” You pull back to look at him, teeth sinking on your bottom lip as you smooth your hands down his bare chest. “But I do prefer this fit on you, really brings out your eyes.”

“Naughty.”

You lean to connect your lips, hugging him close with your arms wrapped around his neck and enjoying the tender moment as you distribute kisses around his face just to hear him giggle. And when you bring your mouth to his again, you barely feel the softness of his lips before he all but jumps on his skin. You pull back, furrowing your brows, ready to question it but he beats you. “Forgot I got something for you.”

“For me?” You blink. “What is it?”

“Go sit on the bed while I fetch, will be just a minute.” He gives you a quick peck before you’re pulling away.

You do as he asks, sitting back on the bed, right next to the wrinkled spot where you lied just minutes ago. He walks across the room, opening the door where you came from and disappearing in the hallway. The record is still blasting through the apartment walls, sound coming louder now that there’s no barrier between you.

While he’s gone, you take a moment to look around his room, something you didn’t get a chance to do when you first came in tangled on his arms. It’s not much messier than the living room, really, only the small piles of clothes you’ve spotted earlier that give the illusion of an untidy room. There’s a light wooden dresser that sits next to the chest, and from where you sit you can see two candles standing alone on top of it, similar to the ones on the piano.

You swing your feet on the edge of the bed, letting them brush along a blue fluffy mat that hugs the floor underneath it. And as you run your hands on along his mattress, you notice the soft superficie, making you look down at a knitted blanket spreaded across the bed. It’s made of different colored squared stuck together in an oddly comforting pattern. You want to lie down on it, and let yourself be swallowed by the cozyness of the material against your skin, but before you can do so, Harry appears back in the room, closing the door behind him as he makes his way to you.

“This blanket is so nice.” You run your hands through it, smiling at him.

“Thanks, I knitted it.” The information makes your eyes bulge out, you open your mouth to inquire further but he’s already talking again. “This is-- uhm, I dunno, just something I thought you’d like it.”

The small box in his hand catches your attention as he hands it to you, his eyes looking down at it and even with just the moonlight illuminating the room you can see the blush on his cheeks. He props himself down on the spot next to you, watching your fingers turn the rectangular box around. It’s a cassette tape case, you quickly realize.

When you gaze at the back of it, there’s names of songs scribbled behind it. Not many, but a good collection of them, from Fleetwood Mac to The Bangles, and even Billy Joel. And it doesn’t take you long to find a pattern with the song chosen for the tape. Their all love songs. It makes your heart swell even more, if that’s even possible at this point.

“These are so cheesy,” you bite your lip, barely able to contain your smile.

He rolls his eyes. “They’re romantic, bunny.”

You keep examining the titles written neatly in his handwriting, raising your brows when you land on a specific one. “Every breath you take?” You tease, “That’s an interesting take on romance.”

“Shut up.” He giggles, eyes watching you carefully. “Do you like it?” His voice is adorably hesitant, it makes your heart stumble on a beat.

“I love it.” You say in just above a whisper, feeling the butterflies in your stomach get a little more vivid once your eyes land on the last song scribbled in the back of the tape. Somebody to Love. Brushing your thumb over the words softly, careful not to smudge the paint, you look up at him to find his green irises glistening at you. You shake your head almost in disbelief at the tenderness behind the gift. “Did you record this just for me?”

“Uhm yeah some of them I did but—” He looks down, focusing on his fingers as they pick a loose string from the blanket under his leg. “Some of them I just... Sang”

“You sang?” It takes you by surprise, how you thought there was no way he could make you feel warmer.

“Yeah… All of them, actually.” His dimples dig deep on his cheeks as he quickly peeks his eyes at you. “It’s just… The quality is shit when you record it from the radio and the dj keeps interrupting and stuff.” He shrugs, “Thought if I sang it could be more, personal? I guess.”

“I love it.” You repeat.

“You do?”

“I do.” You chew on your lip, watching his eyes glimmering on the dim light of the room. “Is there a reason for this sudden present?”

“Kind of I--” He clears his throat, fully glancing at you. There’s an expectation behind his eyes, you can tell from the way he takes a sharp inhale that he’s nervous. “Thought I make you-- ask you, actually, if you’d be mine?”

You can’t help but giggle at how adorable he looks, your eyes getting a bit glossy as you nod without a blink of a thought. “Of course I’m yours, Harry.”

“Yeah?” His smile grows. “As like, m’girlfriend?”

Throwing your arms around him, you press your lips against his cheek, careful not to drop the tape in your hand still. You pull back, tilting your head as giving him a fond smile. “As in your girlfriend, yes.”

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles smut #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x reader #80s!harry #harry styles writing

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kazenoshun · 3 years

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The 8 O’Clock Song: A Coco fanfic

Summary: Coco AU - It's been 10 years since Imelda Rivera was abandoned by her no-good husband and she banished music from her life. She's content to keep away from music for the rest of her life, but a chance encounter during a trip to Mexico City may turn that resolution on its head.

A/N: I have made an attempt to include some Spanish (mostly names) in this fic to mimic the style of the film, but I make no claim to being fluent in the language, so if you spot any problems, please let me know and I'll do my best to fix them.

Also, I'd like to thank @faceheightknifefight and another friend (who does not have a Tumblr account) for their help in editing this fic. They're awesome!

FF.net, AO3, DA

The streets of Mexico City were full of noise, smoke, and far too many people, and Imelda Rivera could hardly wait to get home to her family in small, quiet Santa Cecilia. She’d never been fond of the big city. If she’d had her way, she would already be on the train back home, arriving in time to wish her daughter, Coco, goodnight before bed, and no doubt scold her twin brothers, Oscar and Felipe for some mishap or other. Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten her way all day.

She’d gotten up before dawn to catch a train to the city, in order to view a new shipment of leather, place her order, and discuss the possibility of buying a new machine for the shop. She was against the idea herself, but her brothers were convinced it would improve the quality, and quantity, of Rivera shoes so she’d agreed to at least gather some information. The salesman she’d met had yammered on long enough to make Imelda seriously consider not purchasing the new machine out of sheer spite. His poorly disguised distaste for women in the shoemaking profession had merely been the final nail in the coffin. Having thoroughly wasted her morning and the better part of her afternoon, she finally arrived at the tanner’s only to learn that the shipment of leather had been delayed and wouldn’t be available until the following morning. Had such a day occurred when Imelda was just beginning her career in shoemaking, she might have broken down crying. Which wasn’t to say that she didn’t want to cry now, but she hadn’t allowed herself the luxury of weeping over her problems since she started, and she wasn’t about to begin now.

If she could survive Coco’s childhood as a single parent, she could survive one day of setbacks.

Still, she did allow herself a small huff and a frown as she entered La Caléndula, the sleepy little restaurant the innkeeper had recommended for dinner. Not terribly charming of her, she knew, but she didn’t particularly care to be charming right now - especially knowing many men tended to view charm as an invitation. All she wanted was to order her dinner, eat, and return to the inn to close out her terrible day.

The man behind the bar was an older gentleman with more gray than black in his hair, in the few places it still grew, and a moustache that seemed to cover the entire lower half of his face. He took her order with quiet efficiency, and, after hearing he’d been recommended by the innkeeper, directed her to a small table in the corner where she would be able to eat in peace.

Imelda let out a sigh as she sank into her chair and off her feet. Between the salesman who couldn’t be bothered to offer a chair during his presentation, and walking what seemed to be half-way across the city to the tanner, her feet ached. She wore good shoes, of course. She’d made them herself. But even the best shoes couldn’t alway prevent the sort of ache that accompanied a day on one’s feet. As the ache in her feet faded, she found herself thinking of home and family. They would be sitting down to dinner themselves by now, possibly cooked by one of the twins, but more likely by Coco. The girl would be 14 soon, only a year away from her quinceañera, and was growing more self-sufficient by the day.

Needing something to take her mind off her long day, Imelda turned her thoughts to potential birthday gifts for Coco, a far more palatable idea than lost orders or snobby salesmen. A new pair of shoes was a given, of course, but perhaps it was time Coco had a new dress as well. She’d nearly outgrown her last Sunday dress. Should the new dress be pink, though? Or perhaps blue? Imelda could turn the unintended stay in the city into a chance to look for fabric and findings. Yes, that would be most productive, and save her a second trip. She would start looking in the morning.

Her concentration was broken by the sound of someone tuning a guitar.

Imelda’s eyes snapped open, though she wasn’t sure when she’d closed them, and she glared at the table with enough ferocity she almost felt it should crack under the pressure. Of course someone would be playing music here. It was a perfectly terrible ending to her perfectly terrible day. She ground her teeth and clenched her hands into fists to override the childish urge to stick her fingers in her ears. She had some dignity, after all.

It had been nearly 10 years. Nearly 10 years she’d gone since banning music from her life. 10 years of being laughed at, of enduring the mariachi following her around the market betting on who would get her to break, of scolding Coco again and again each time she caught her daughter singing or dancing. 10 long years of hating him, her no-good bum of a husband who’d left her alone with a child to raise and never come back. He’d chosen music over them, over her, so she would let him have it all.

Her eyes sought out the source of the sound unbidden, whether from morbid curiosity or to know who to avoid when she left, she wasn’t sure. When the server arrived with her food, she would pay and leave. She hated wasting money, but she couldn’t stand to listen to the guitar even one minute longer than she had to. There was a small stage along the wall opposite the bar, but it was empty. The night’s performer must have been preparing off-stage. The other restaurant patrons were unfazed by the guitar as they enjoyed their food and drinks, several of them conversing quietly together. All of them ignorant of the burning fury inside Imelda. The guitar tuning morphed into a proper song, a very familiar song, but the stage remained empty.

Imelda nearly sprang from her seat and marched out the door; good manners and fact she hadn’t paid yet aside, she didn’t want to stay and hear the song butchered like it always was. Like the mariachi back home always did, even though they knew the way it was supposed to be played, the way it had been played before he allowed it to be butchered after walking out of their lives. She redoubled her efforts to spot the musician, determined to stay as far away as possible when she left, only to freeze when she finally spotted him.

Him, her no-good husband, Héctor, sitting on a stool in the corner across hers holding a banged-up guitar in his arms, playing Poco Loco with a blank look on his face.

The plate of food being set down in front of her startled her badly enough that she jumped.

“Perdón, señora,” the server -not the bartender, but maybe his son? She didn’t have the focus to puzzle it out- said. He followed where she had been staring and grinned. “I see you’ve spotted José.”

“José?” She could only parrot the name, too shocked to turn and look again. Perhaps she’d been mistaken and the man only looked similar to Héctor from a distance. It had been a very long time since she last saw him, after all.

The server nodded. “That’s what we all call him around here, since no one knows his proper name, not even him.”

Imelda couldn’t even parrot this time as she relented and looked again. It was definitely Héctor over there, although she couldn’t recall ever seeing his face so empty. He wasn’t even smiling.

“He comes in here and plays from time to time,” the server continued, oblivious. “Doesn’t bother anyone, and the music’s good, so Tío lets him do it and even pays him a little if sales are up.”

Imelda finally found her voice. “How… Why doesn’t he know his own name?” The Héctor she’d known, or at least thought she’d known, had a ridiculously good memory and was always using it to his advantage.

The server sighed and leaned against the empty chair on the other side of the table. “I couldn’t tell you exactly what caused it, but José doesn’t remember anything from his past, or where he’s from. Whatever happened couldn’t have been pretty, though. A couple of drunks found him, back before I started working for Tío, somewhere around 10 years ago. Someone had tried to bury him in a shallow grave just outside of town. The drunks took him to the hospital, but I guess it took a while before he woke up. And when he did, he couldn’t remember a thing. Not his name, not his age, not even where he grew up.”

Imelda opened her mouth and closed it again. None of what the server was saying made sense.

“Tío says he thinks there must’ve been a fight. He says one of the doctors at the hospital thinks José was poisoned. And José didn’t have any travel papers or identification on him when the drunks found him, but he still had money in his pocket. I heard the police found a suitcase dumped in a ditch, but all the stuff inside was trashed and there was no name on the case.” The server sighed and shook his head. “I just want to know who would get into a fight with José. The man’s harmless.” He sniggered. “Well, unless you mention the song.”

Imelda turned back to the server and made a face. “The song?” This really was all too much to take in at once, and she was almost convinced she’d fallen asleep into a dream except for her aching feet still anchoring her firmly to reality.

The server nodded. “Sí. You know that fellow, Ernesto de la Cruz, who’s been making waves in music?”

Far better than I want to, Imelda thought. It had been Ernesto who had set out on the stupid tour with Héctor, and then returned nearly a year later to tell her she’d been abandoned. She tried to recall when Ernesto said they’d split, and found she couldn’t help but wonder if Ernesto had told her the complete truth. He’d been against her marriage to Héctor from the beginning, after all.

“Well,” the server continued, once again oblivious to Imelda’s inner turmoil. “If you so much as mention de la Cruz’s biggest hit--” he dropped his voice to a whisper “--Remember Me, in José’s hearing, he goes absolutely mad. Old señor Víctor had to hold him back from mauling a musician who dared suggest playing it. Didn’t play it, mind you, just suggested playing, and José went nuts. Señor Víctor’s practically a bear, and he was struggling to hold onto José that night. But, if you don’t mention the song, José’s the gentlest soul you’ll ever meet.”

That, at least, was more in line with the Héctor Imelda remembered.

The sound of Poco Loco continued to drift about the restaurant, and Imelda couldn’t decide if she wanted to scream or cry. “Nearly 10 years and he hasn’t been able to remember anything?” she finally asked. She did her best to keep her voice even.

The server shrugged, looking at her uneasily. “Nothing specific,” he said carefully. “Occasionally he’ll say or do something to make you think he almost had a memory, but then it’ll be gone before he can latch onto it. There’s definitely something there, but it’s almost like-- like he’d stuck on the other side of the door. A few vague ideas get through, his issue with the song, for one. He’ll drink anything you put in front of him, unless it’s tequíla. Put tequíla in front of him and he starts getting all antsy and saying he needs to go home. I asked where home was once, thought he might’ve remembered something. I swear he looked like he was about to cry, then he just kept saying he didn’t know, over and over, until he left for the night.”

Imelda felt some small part of her heart that she’d been ignoring for years clench in her chest. “That sounds terrible,” she managed. She tried to imagine what it would be like, if she somehow forgot home, forgot Coco, except for the faintest ideas. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

The server nodded. “Tio and I didn’t see him again for three days. He came back covered in dirt. Apparently, he went out to the place the drunks found him and partially buried himself to try and bring back memories. It didn’t work. Tio let him clean up in the guest room upstairs, and made him stay here a few days to recover. I got yelled at for getting him into that state to begin with.”

“Ay! Diego! Stop pestering the lady,” the bartender, who’d come out from behind the bar, called.

Diego grinned and stood up straight, nodding to Imelda. “Perdón again, señora, for chatting your ear off. It’s been a while since we’ve had a new-comer so sympathetic to José’s plight.” He pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her.

Imelda looked at him, confused.

“You’re weeping, señora,” Diego told her gently. He placed the kerchief on the table and walked away.

Imelda sat, unmoving, for a long minute, until the last notes of Poco Loco faded away and a new song started. Slowly, she raised a hand to her face and wiped half-heartedly at the tears that were indeed flowing down her cheeks. It’s shock, she thought, feeling oddly detached from her body. Shock was the only explanation she could think of for why she was still in her seat and not half-way back to the inn. Shock, and the fact she hadn’t paid yet. She’d been too distracted to pay before Diego walked away. Shaking herself, she grabbed her glass of water and took a gulp, trying to shift her brain back into motion but only succeeding in sending herself into a coughing fit when the last of it went down wrong. She fished her own kerchief out of her pocket and pressed it to her mouth to muffle the coughs and try to curb the tears now streaming down her face as she fought to breathe.

When she could breathe again, and had wiped her face clean, she stared down at her plate. She felt… empty. She’d always assumed her rage would be explosive if she ever saw Héctor again. And she’d certainly been furious when she first spotted him, ready to march out of the restaurant without even acknowledging his presence. But now…

It was as though listening to Diego’s tale had drained the rage right out of her. She couldn’t say she was happy, per se, or even sad. More than anything, she was confused. And hungry, her growling stomach reminded her. The food she’d ordered smelled delicious, and she wasn’t in the habit of letting good food go to waste. Besides, leaving without eating would gain her exactly the attention she would rather avoid. With that thought in mind, Imelda made herself begin to eat.

The food was undoubtedly good, but she barely tasted it. It felt like such a strange thing, that she’d banned music for so long and yet it quickly faded to the back of her awareness. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend she was at a bar back home a decade prior, waiting for Héctor to finish for the evening so they could return to their little house together.

Perhaps it was because, for the first time in a very long time, the songs were being played as she’d known them - no gaudy embellishments or implied wink and nudge from the musician. Just a simple, sincere guitar. Although Héctor wasn’t singing along, which was a bit odd, but she could only puzzle out one thing at a time.

Héctor’s letters had stopped five months or so after he left. At first she’d thought he’d absentmindedly forgotten to send the next letter, which happened on occasion. Then she’d guessed it had been lost in the mail, it wouldn’t have been the first time. But when one, and then two months passed with no word, she started to worry that something had happened. If she’d been on her own, she would have gone searching for him. But Coco had been not-quite four, and needed food and a roof over her head, so Imelda had stayed put and started to learn how to make shoes.

It had been another five months before she ran into Ernesto in the plaza and demanded to know where her husband was.

Ernesto had handed her a letter and Héctor’s wedding ring, said they’d been left behind when he and Héctor split several months prior, and left her standing there gaping in the middle of the plaza. All he’d told her about Héctor’s whereabouts was that he’d headed north to try and make a name for himself. He’d vanished into the crowd before she could ask anything else and hadn’t reappeared in Santa Cecilia since.

In the present, Imelda allowed herself another glance in Héctor’s direction.

His hair was even more unkempt than usual, and peppered with gray. Prematurely, she mused, as he was a year younger than her and only 31. He looked darker than she remembered, as though he’d somehow managed to find a way to stay out under the sun even more than he had in their youth. A multitude of lines and creases stretched across his face, and his eyes… Imelda had to close her own eyes and look away.

His eyes were the same warm brown they’d always been, but they seemed unnaturally empty of life. As though Héctor were no more than an oversized puppet.

His clothes -from what she had seen, she couldn’t look at those eyes again just yet- were starting to fray. He wasn’t wearing the suit she’d made him. Rather, a plain shirt and trousers that were too short for him, with a jacket that was starting to come apart at the shoulders. And he’d worn a hole through the side of his left shoe. He certainly didn’t look like a man who’d set out to find his fortune.

She couldn’t help but wonder at the timeline she was presented with. Between what Ernesto had told her years ago, and Diego’s account just now, it couldn’t have been more than a couple months from Héctor and Ernesto splitting to Héctor being found in a grave. But why he’d been back in the city so soon, when Ernesto had been so insistent that he’d traveled north, was something she couldn’t puzzle out.

And then there was Diego’s account of Héctor’s reaction to Remember Me. Ironically, perhaps, it was the only song of his she hadn’t heard before he left. She’d only ever caught snatches of the song from Coco’s room after her daughter was in bed. Ernesto had claimed that Héctor sold him his guitar and songs before heading north. If Coco knew Remember Me, then it was undoubtedly written by Héctor, not Ernesto, but why would that matter if the song had been sold?

On the other side of the restaurant, Héctor hit a sour note, and stopped in the middle of his song to glare at the offending string.

Imelda snorted as she watched. The guitar she’d given him was rarely out of tune. He likely wouldn’t have any issues now if he hadn’t sold it.

She froze with her fork half-way to her mouth, suddenly wishing she could slap herself for not thinking of that sooner.

If Héctor had gone north to seek fame, why had he sold Ernesto the guitar and all of his songs? Surely he would have needed songs to play, and something to play them on? Even if he decided the memories associated with the guitar were too much, he would have to be a fool to sell it without getting a replacement, doubly so to sell all his songs when he was just starting out. She could understand, on a practical level, selling the songs connected to her, to Coco, if he truly wanted to leave them behind. But that still left at least half his repertoire, full of songs she knew would have easily caught on with the right crowd- had caught on with Ernesto playing them.

The dinner she’d just eaten settled like a stone in her gut. Héctor’s letters had grown shorter the longer he was on the road, true, but the cutoff had been abrupt. There’d been mentions of fights with Ernesto, though he never went into detail. The early letters were often accompanied by songs and poems, but the last several had lacked those. Imelda swallowed uncomfortably and glanced at Héctor yet again- now back to playing, having fixed the issue with his strings. Something didn’t add up right, but the only one present who could tell her more didn’t remember enough to explain.

“Oh dear.” Diego was back, gesturing nervously at her plate. “Is something wrong with your dinner, señora?”

Imelda forced a smile on her face. “No. I’m afraid I just recalled something I really would rather have not remembered. The food was delicious.” Even so, she couldn’t make herself eat another bite.

Diego grinned, apparently reassured. “I see. I shall hope that you forget again very soon.” he glanced toward Héctor and his grin grew. “You’re in for a treat, señora. He hasn’t wandered off yet, and it’s nearly eight o’clock.”

Imelda felt as though she’d somehow missed part of the conversation. Then again, that seemed to be happening a lot this evening. “What happens at eight?”

Diego winked at her. “You’ll have to wait and see.” he wandered off again.

Imelda slumped in her seat, leaning her head in her hands and rubbing her temples. She really didn’t need more puzzles right now. The restaurant, she noticed, was growing quieter. The clink of dishes and bottles fading as other patrons turned toward Héctor’s corner. In the distance, she heard a bell begin to toll the hour.

Héctor stopped in the middle of his song, his eyes somehow more lively and more distant than before.

Imelda found herself leaning forward as the audience seemed to hold their collective breath.

Héctor closed his eyes and began to play. The opening notes were soft and gentle, not unlike the beginning of the song he’d written to propose to Imelda, although not that exact song either. Then he began to sing. “Remember me, though I have to say goodbye. Remember me, don’t let it make you cry…”

It was the same song Diego had said drove Héctor to fury, but not played the way Ernesto played it. The simple notes and gentle words reminded Imelda more of- of Coco, and the song she still sang to herself each night before bed.

“My song!” Coco had cried as a little girl, when Imelda tried to make her stop singing each night. “Papá said it’s my song!”

Hearing music, any music, tore at Imelda’s heart by then, but the anger and fear on her daughter’s face when told she had to stop was even worse. Imelda hadn’t slept that night, merely cried in her room until dawn and cursed Héctor for leaving. She hadn’t told Coco to stop again. Instead, she’d pretended not to hear the little voice each night. Coco, for her part, had confined her singing to that one song, sung quietly, alone in her room from then on. She almost always sang it at the same time.

Across the room, Héctor had opened his eyes to stare at a spot on the floor that looked no different from the rest. Except that, if Imelda thought back, it was roughly the same place Coco’s bed would have been were he back home singing her to sleep. She surely would have sung alone.

“...Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be.” Héctor’s voice caught on the words. “Until you’re in my arms again, remember me.” His eyes closed once more as the final notes faded into a silence that hung in the air. A moment later, he blinked, shook himself, and returned to his earlier playing. The restaurant patrons similarly returned to their conversations.

Imelda sat at her table, feeling a bit underwhelmed by the lack of response for Héctor’s performance. It felt like such a momentous thing -that he would sing a duet with his daughter, despite the distance between them and the fact that he supposedly had no memory of her- that surely deserved a round of applause at the very least. And yet, looking around the restaurant, it was as if the performance had never happened at all. Feeling more than a little light-headed, Imelda gathered up her glass and mostly cleaned plate, and made her way to the bar to pay.

“Was everything to your satisfaction?” the bartender asked.

Imelda nodded. “It was very good, thank you.” She handed over a fistfull of bills and coins, and waited for him to count out her change. While she waited, she glanced at Héctor. He still hadn’t noticed her. “Does he play here often?” she asked, nodding in Héctor’s direction.

The bartender sighed. “Often enough.” He handed over her change. “I used to figure he’d disappear one day. Thought it would mean he finally remembered where his home was, or someone came and found him. But after this many years, I’m not sure anymore that’ll happen. He’s a nice fellow, mild-mannered and all. Brings in extra business when he’s here.”

“Does-” Imelda paused, not quite certain she should ask “-does he play that song most nights?”

The bartender fixed her with a hard look. “Sí, he does. Try not to get any ideas, though.”

Imelda blinked at him, confused. Between him and Diego, confusing her was turning into a family trait.

He must have realized she didn’t know what he was talking about, because he continued. “We’ve had mariachi come through before who took his playing as an invitation to join in. Or they question him about it after the fact. He always ends up angry or confused. I know Diego thinks it’s sweet that he sings the same song every night, I can barely stand to hear it myself.” He sighed again, fixing his gaze on Héctor. “That man’s trapped in his own mind, and nothing any of us have done has helped. That song, that’s the closest he gets to breaking out. Hearing it each night is like hearing a cry for help you can’t answer.” Another patron at the bar waved for his attention. “Perdón, señora. Enjoy your evening.” Then he was gone, leaving Imelda with her thoughts.

She looked at Héctor one last time, still playing his guitar, and left the restaurant. She needed time to think, to try and sort out the truth from the lies, and the fresh air would help clear her mind. Or so she hoped.

Héctor’s music followed her back to the inn, continuing uninvited in her head long after she was out of hearing range. She doubted she’d get much rest. But then, she hadn’t slept much after he disappeared, either. Perhaps it was fitting that she stay up half the night after seeing him again. She dressed for sleep, put out the light, and lay in the bed staring at the ceiling. And she thought, and thought, and thought some more.

And when the dawn finally broke, she realized she had neither slept, nor puzzled out the answers to her questions.

Her husband had left on his trip 10 years ago, writing almost daily. His letters had grown shorter and less energetic as time went by, before cutting off abruptly several months into the tour. Some months later, nearly a year after leaving, his friend and partner, Ernesto, had returned to tell her she’d been abandoned. And somewhere in there, a group of drunks had found Héctor buried in a shallow grave on the brink of death.

Try as she might, Imelda couldn’t make all the pieces line up and fit together properly, there were simply too many gaps.

Ernesto might be able to fill in those gaps, were she to track him down and convince him to answer her questions. But that would take longer than she wanted, and she doubted he would answer her willingly, or truthfully. She’d known he was a liar when they were young, twisting or exaggerating tales so that they worked in his favor. Looking back, that was something she should have remembered that day in the plaza. And besides his lying nature, the gaps in the story were forming too easily into a theory she didn’t dare acknowledge just yet, but which she knew could take the man from hateful to dangerous.

No, Ernesto would not do for a source of answers, so she would have to look to Héctor. The bartender had said that attempts had been made to bring Héctor’s memories back, but nothing had worked. Then again, none of them had known Héctor before the memory loss; Imelda had grown up with him. She’d married him, lived with him, had a child with him. If she couldn’t spark his memories; well, that wasn’t worth dwelling on, she told herself as she dressed for the day. She would deal with that problem if it arose.

The city streets weren’t empty when she left her room in the inn, although they were far less crowded than they had been the day before.

Imelda kept her head high and her steps sure as she made her way back toward La Caléndula. The bartender would likely have questions for her before he would be willing to tell her where she might find Héctor. But she would swallow her pride and answer them truthfully, otherwise she didn’t know where she should even begin. When the bar came into view, however, she realized she wouldn’t need to ask.

Héctor sat on the step leading onto the porch of the restaurant, head tipped forward, and wearing a ratty straw hat that covered his face such that she couldn’t tell if he was awake or asleep. His battered guitar was on the ground next to him, the neck tipped against his knees and held loosely in one hand. He looked like he had been sitting there all night. The restaurant door opened, and Imelda found herself ducking into a deep doorway. She wasn’t sure she wanted a witness to her potential failure.

Diego stepped out onto the porch, covering a yawn and holding a bucket and rag with one hand. He gently nudged Héctor, then walked to the windows and began wiping them down.

Imelda watched as Héctor stirred, reaching his arms above his head and stretching in a way she knew made his spine pop. He’d startled her doing that the first morning after their wedding, but it had become endearingly familiar over time. She waited a few more minutes, watching Diego try to strike up a conversation and Héctor murmuring half-replies while she debated whether or not to come back later. She could always stop in at the tanner’s first, to see if that shipment of leather had arrived yet, and come back once Diego was gone and Héctor was alone once more. Except she couldn’t be sure Héctor wouldn’t leave before she returned.

Taking a deep breath, she paused -to see that her braids were still properly in place and not because she was scared- and stepped from the doorway.

“Buenos días, señora,” Diego called when she drew near.

Imelda didn’t answer him, her eyes locked on Héctor. He looked up, and she felt her heart race in her chest. Her breath seemed caught in her throat, and her stomach was doing all sorts of interesting acrobatics. She felt, rather absurdly, like she had when she told him she was pregnant with Coco- as though her world had tipped on its axis and she hadn’t quite righted herself yet.

She hadn’t actually planned this far ahead. She’d been so preoccupied with looking for him that she hadn’t realized until now that she had no idea what to say. She swallowed, but her mouth remained dry.

Héctor hadn’t looked away.

Imelda took a breath. “Héctor-” her voice came out like a squeak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Héctor-” that was better, and she had his attention now “-do you know who I am?”

His face remained blank, and for a long, terrifying moment, she was afraid it wouldn’t work, that his memories were too far gone to ever recall. Then, almost painfully slowly, his expression changed. He scrunched his brows together and pursed his mouth the same way he had so many times before when trying to pull a song into being. And his eyes never left her face.

Imelda stayed standing before him with her hands clasped at her waist, vaguely aware of Diego calling for his tío. Her palms were sweaty, and she was gripping her hands so tightly she knew without looking her knuckles had gone white. But she didn’t dare move, she almost didn’t dare blink.

Héctor shifted on the step, knocking his hat off when he tangled his fingers in his hair and pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. The look on his face was quickly giving way from confusion to a combination of distress and pain; and Imelda was suddenly afraid she might have sent him into a state of panic if his memories failed to return.

“Hush,” she tried to comfort him, cautiously kneeling down and reaching to cover his hands with her own. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

The backs of his hands were dry against her sweaty palms, and quite warm. And his hair felt more brittle than she remembered.

He squeezed his eyes shut, and swayed back and forth, the world around them forgotten as his inner battle played across his face. Imelda rubbed gentle circles against his wrists, racking her brain for some way to calm him down. She’d grown quite skilled at handling crises in the past decade, raising her daughter as a single parent. But this wasn’t the sort of crisis she’d ever had to face before. Slowly, she became aware of Héctor humming to himself, a nervous, breathy sound that she soon recognized. The song he’d written to propose to her. It was quieter, more serious that Poco Loco, and undeniably hers. She didn’t recall him playing it the night before. Her voice was rusty as she joined him, humming instead of singing because the hurt she’d felt since he left was still there. She’d sworn off music when Ernesto told her she was abandoned, leaving it all for Héctor if he loved it so much more than her. But if it was the way to bring him back, then she could make an exception.

They reached the end of the song and started over from the beginning, Héctor’s voice growing stronger, and Imelda more sure of the notes. She leaned her forehead against his and closed her eyes, focusing only on the sound of their voices blending together, sometimes the same, sometimes harmonizing.

“Imelda.”

His voice was so soft she almost didn’t realize he’d spoken. She drew back and opened her eyes.

Héctor was looking at her again with a fragile sort of hope in his eyes. “Imelda?” he said, his voice louder but shaking.

“Shh, I’m here,” she whispered, brushing away a tear that had begun to form in the corner of his eye. “I’m here.”

“Imelda,” he said again, this time sounding more sure of himself. He broke into a grin murmuring her name over and over. “Imelda, you’re Imelda. I remember. Imelda, I remember-” The words died in his throat, his happy grin sinking into a wide-eyed horror. “I forgot, Imelda,” he gasped. “I forgot you! How- I forgot Coco!” His voice broke on their daughter’s name. “No- How- I forgot!”

He’d begun to tremble, and all Imelda could think to do was pull him towards her. He came easily, practically collapsing into her arms as he continued to babble. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry! I promised to be home in six months and I forgot! I-I was planning to come home. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Imelda was caught in an awkward half-crouch while he clung to her, but she pushed the discomfort aside and brought one hand up to cradle his head, and gently ran the other up and down his spine. His face was buried against her shoulder, her dress growing wet with tears. He was still shaking, too, and he felt much too thin now that she was holding him. “Shh,” she murmured again, stroking his hair. “Shh. I’m here. It’s going to be alright.”

It was, perhaps, a foolish promise. There were still so many questions to be asked. Diego and the bartender were both standing a short distance away with matching expressions of concern, and she was sure they would want to know why it had taken so long for her to find Héctor, and why she hadn’t gone to him the night before. There would be letters to write to Coco and the twins. Letters saying who she had found, and explaining that she would be delayed coming home. She had no intention to leave Mexico City until she understood what had happened to Héctor to lock his memories away for so long.

But her most burning question had been answered. He’d wanted to come home. He’d planned to come home, and been prevented. Coco was right; he’d never abandoned them. It was enough, for now, to build on. She couldn’t say exactly what would happen in the long run. If they’d ever be able to return to even a semblance of what had been, or if their relationship would be forever broken. But they could worry about that later.

“I’m sorry,” Héctor whispered again. “I’m sorry for forgetting.”

Imelda hugged him tighter. “You’ve remembered now,” she countered.

“Sí,” Héctor agreed after a long silence. “I remember.”

#Coco #pixar coco #imelda rivera #héctor rivera #imector #AU #my fanfics

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neonponders · 3 years

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I started writing this very niche au ages ago that @booksfoxesandcoffee and @demogirlfriend tinkered with lol it’s not quite what I wanted, but at least it’s done ~

Based on my post for This Steve with This Billy:

vampire/musician!Steve and mobster!Billy.

TW for briefly mentioned drugs and all manner of vampire things.

💋 💋 💋 💋 💋 💋 💋

If Billy were being honest with himself, it wasn’t the man’s looks that hooked him. The way a superior dancer stands out in the ensemble, it was the musician’s energy that made Billy’s eyes keep finding him.

Every business that opened his his territory went through Billy’s strict legislature. And the whole city was his to play king.

He didn’t consider himself a strict businessman, but he did attend the new club with regularity to make sure they had what they needed to succeed. If they couldn’t succeed, then they’d have to rebuild elsewhere.

They did succeed. Because they had Steve Harrington.

On paper, he was lead guitarist. An instrumentalist. Vocalist if necessary. Billy Hargrove knew he shined in neon stage lighting and his special trick was swinging the instrument around his body so the guitar switched sides halfway through a song or riff, proving ambidextrous dexterity.

Billy knew Harrington was hard to get ahold of. So far, he’d hosted every member of the band and every guest musician at his VIP table. Harrington always had reasons for leaving directly after a show, which surprised Billy. The man’s band mates clearly revolved around him, looked to him for timing cues, and Billy even had the unique experience of seeing the man smack a drink out of the bassist’s hand because the guy could barely stand.

There was a personality there, and Billy wanted to see it up close. Taste it.

Somehow, Harrington had even avoided being invited to Billy’s table during the mid-show break. Always conveniently disappearing until the second he needed to be on stage.

Until now.

Billy’s guards stood up when Harrington approached with someone held firmly by the scruff of his shirt and jacket. Billy waved them aside, and the musician dumped the guy into Billy’s booth. Some heads turned in their direction, curious for drama but not for long. Anyone who hung around Billy, hungering for his attention, knew to be careful about annoying him.

“Is this one of yours?” Harrington prompted.

“Why would he be?” Billy inquired with a lethargic blink.

“I thought your sort had more class than distributing roofies.”

Billy’s pleased, large feline demeanor sloughed off as he turned his head to the man in his booth. Billy didn’t bother negating Harrington’s accusations. Anybody with sense knew who he was. The only thing that bothered Billy at the moment was the use of some nobody to get the musician’s attention.

“You’re right. He isn’t.”

Just like that, the guards lifted the sorry soul out of his booth and began ushering him out of the club. He made a weak attempt at promising an ability to make Billy money, but the latter wasn’t interested in a business centered around dangerous sex. Billy considered himself a purveyor of the opposite; of passion, and real passion only came when all parties were conscious for it.

“Steve.”

The musician paused to look back at him, already on his way back to the greenroom or wherever he hid in between performances.

“Sit with me.”

Steve’s gaze flicked down to the now available seat next to Billy. “No, thanks.”

As if he could -

He did.

Steve walked away from the table. Billy saw the more discretely dressed guards loitering in the crowd turn and begin to approach Harrington...before distinctly letting him pass.

It was not a regular day that Billy Hargrove’s employees feared someone else more than him.

He pressed his back into the booth, and one of the women sitting along the back of the booth leaned down to hear him. “I want his file.”

“Yes, sir,” she purred. It took no time at all for her to return to his table with Harrington’s business papers. Typical tax form, resume, no cover letter but instead a CD with his music samples.

“What about his background?”

Her nails raked through her long, black hair. She played the part of groupie very well. “We don’t have anything yet.”

Billy found that hard to believe. “He’s worked here for weeks.”

She shrugged a bare, shimmering shoulder. “He hides very well. We’ll have something soon.”

Not soon enough.

Billy took to wandering his club instead of sitting. Why they didn’t just haul the musician into Billy’s office for questioning…no sensible person detonates a bomb without knowing the area is clear. They didn’t know enough about Steve. Whether he belonged to a family scouting the borough before encroaching on Billy’s property.

Would it be their fault for sending in a mole without honoring the proper channels? Yes.

Would it be Billy’s fault for starting an underground war for harming Steve first? Also yes.

So he watched. So he waited. And he began to enjoy this game he and Steve had developed. Because Steve wasn’t as oblivious. He looked pretty—the kind of pretty that some mistake as dumb—but Steve had proven in many, subtle ways just how observant he could be.

The way he managed his band members’ alcohol or obvious drug addictions.

The second time he hauled some petty dealer over to Billy’s booth.

When he flipped Billy off as he walked away after Billy tested, “I noticed you like brunettes.”

“No, you haven’t.”

Steve watched Billy. And Billy watched Steve. At least, Billy suspected. Billy hoped.

The confirmation arrived in the humid alleyway behind his club. He was already itching for a fight. For the last two weeks, a new asshole had been loitering around and inside his business. No one had yet been able to catch him doing anything—until Billy followed him out of the wrong exit. Nobody could use service doors at the back of the building; it was both a safety hazard for civilians to be in the way of delivery trucks, and any squeals about people coming and going from there would have the police riding Billy’s tail.

Then the bastard had the audacity to take two girls who were definitely sporting fake id’s outside.

He slammed the service door against the brick exterior to get their attention. All three of them were huddled and necking between two garbage bins. A real class act.

“Jail bait bimbos, get inside. This asshole can lock himself in a concrete box without your…help.”

The distinct memory of Steve delivering roofy dealers to him flashed in his brain at the sight of the blissed out girls using the alley walls to stay upright. The memory flew out into the main street at the glistening darkness on both of their necks, dripping into their low cut shirts.

In the window of Billy’s surprise, the guy attacked. Slammed Billy right against the other side of the alley, knocking the air out of him—

Billy’s brain couldn’t keep up. But his eyes could.

A large hand gripped the gelled hair and wrenched the guy’s head so far back that Billy heard a threatening pop.

Billy had never stood next to Steve before. He stood just a little taller than Billy—both smaller than the impressive figure he’d watched so many times on stage, but also bigger because he’d never been this close…

Billy was officially having trouble breathing as he watched the man’s wide eyes darting around his sockets despite his broken neck and the disgusting angle of his windpipe.

“This spot’s taken. Tell your hovel to skip town. You won’t get a fourth chance.”

Fourth?

Billy’s eyes stuck on the bloody, long teeth in the man’s gullet before Steve shoved him down the alley. The man landed several yards away—no ordinary shove—but he hauled ass to his feet, head lolling on his shoulders with more sickening crackles.

Billy remained stationary as Steve fixed the shirts and jackets falling on the girls’ shoulders went to hail a cab. One of them recovered faster than the other, and hauled her friend into the vehicle. By this time, Billy managed to say, “What will they do with those stained shirts?”

Steve looked at him, suddenly looking remarkably…normal. Even startled, like he’d forgotten Billy was there. He didn’t hold Billy’s gaze, instead looking a bit downward—

“What will you do about yours?”

Billy frowned, blinking twice before he looked down at himself. It took him a moment to see the difference in his dark blue button-up. But he glistened like the girls did. Slowly, his mind caught up and realized how warm the side of his neck felt, and how gross. Wet. Dry. Sticky. Crusting.

“How did I not even notice?”

Like a dream clinging onto his waking consciousness, the blurry numbness subsided, and Billy realized his throat really fucking hurt.

Steve’s gaze dropped even further, tilting away from Billy as he pointed at the doors. “Go and clean yourself up. Go home.”

Leave it to Billy Hargrove’s pride to stack his spine back together. He stepped off the alley wall and into Steve’s space.

“Don’t—” he turned his face further to the side.

“Explain,” Billy ordered, even as Steve’s hand lifted to cover his mouth.

Steve shook his head a little. “I don’t have to,” he muffled and lifted weary eyes. “Clean yourself up.”

The answers were right there. Yet it seemed…stupid to say any of it out loud. How many movies? Book? Shows?

Instead he said, “Show me.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “You don’t play with bears like this.”

Billy laughed. He laughed Steve all the way out of the alleyway. Billy only regretted this when the next evening, the secretaries of the business ran through the week’s itinerary. Steve wasn’t scheduled.

A long week progressed of Billy thinking over that night. How the hell a guardian angel with teeth and no wings lived his nights in Billy’s cage and Billy had just…taunted him into slipping right out of the bars.

When another week presented itself with still no sight of his musician, Billy knew he would have more than one inconvenience on his plate. His customers liked Steve. Statistically, the club was fit to bursting since a third more clientele showed up for the band’s gigs. Steve made the barkeeps laugh in between numbers. Billy had always thought he used the alcohol in the greenroom instead of taking up the bars’ time.

Instead he dropped rats right into the king’s lap. Creatures Billy never would have seen unless Steve made them visible.

“Schedule Steve’s group on Sunday.”

His secretary frowned at him. “Am I missing something? We’re off on Sundays.”

“He knows that. Just use whatever number he gave you.”

Billy waited behind the club. Perhaps he should have arranged a specific meeting time instead of just the vague Sunday, but…Steve was punctual to his usual call time. Billy heard his footsteps the same moment the lighter in his hands crackled softly under his cigarette.

Steve approached with his hands in his jean pockets. Then he entered the harsh lighting of the motion-detected beams above the doors. “You don’t look good.”

Because he didn’t. Steve made tired look good but he had met the line between tired and haggard. His lips were chapped and the lights above him put his eye sockets into harsh contrast. Billy missed the lush face he watched bathed in neon stage lights.

Steve only met Billy’s gaze briefly before looking back down the alley. “Haven’t been to the grocery store lately.”

“By ‘groceries,’ do you mean my place?”

“And if I do, then what?”

Billy smirked as easily as blinking. “I don’t recall firing you. You didn’t have to run—”

“Yes, I did. Dipshit.”

Billy moved his tongue over his teeth while he grinned. “Why didn’t you finish what he started? Three easy meals right there.”

“And swell up like a mosquito? Gross.”

Smoke sputtered out of his mouth. “You’re not what I expected. In any regard. It’s a wonder my employees haven’t been inspired by your recklessness. Or my letting you get away with it.”

“There’s no letting anything happen. We’re not all teeth. There’s nothing you could do if we don’t want it to happen. It’s the same on your side for humans.”

Billy’s next exhalation seeped out of his mouth. Slow. “Are you taking your time? Circling a stronger prey?” He tapped the ash off his cigarette, and watched Steve’s irises flick to the movement. “Most people come to me for my looks, money, or power. Is it the same for you?”

“No.”

That might’ve caught Billy off guard, if he didn’t feel gently nailed in place by Steve’s eyes lifting to his own. It was Billy’s turn to look down—down at the fingers grazing Billy’s hand as Steve reached for the cigarette. Took it.

“You’re easy prey because you’re already dying. You smoke a pack of these a day. The rest of the criminal cityscape would celebrate your funeral. A wolf’s goal is to eat. Not bragging rights—well. For the smart ones. We go for what’s easy.”

Glass-blue eyes wandered Steve’s face as he took a long inhalation. “I’ve never been called ‘easy’ in my entire life.”

Steve shrugged and—politely—aimed his lips to the side. Billy wondered how much he’d mind if Steve’s smoke graced his skin. “What can I say? We hunt the same way lions, tigers, and bears to. We go for what’s attainable with minimum effort.”

“You’re lazy.”

That overarching fringe bobbed over his head. Of course Steve had taken the time to style his hair. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Billy took his cigarette back with a huff. “I’ll decide later how insulted I should be. Until then, you’re the one looking like easy pickings.”

“You haven’t thrown anyone out of your place lately.”

That took an extra minute for Billy to process. “You…huh.”

Steve’s head moved with his eyes rolling onto him. “You don’t really think people in this city leave any bar without a fight, do you? I’ve had plenty of dinners on your tab.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Steve’s mouth lifted slightly in a skeptical grimace. “What’s the catch?”

Billy took his time with the last drag and stepped on the filter on his way to minimize the distance between them. “Explain to me why some pervert bites me and I’m fighting a hard on for two weeks?”

A rigid second passed, and then Steve crumbled into laughter. He laughed like a kid. A really cute little shit.

As Steve recovered, he heaved, “I’ve never heard anyone complain about the bite boners.”

Billy followed him as he reclined against the alley wall. “How about, instead of avoiding what’s really at play here, you admit to wanting to bite me. You’re usually on top of the rats that enter my business. But not that night.”

Steve stood on his own feet, making Billy feel the one inch he had on him. “And what if I did? What if it wasn’t your smell that made me crave, but jealousy?”

His musician’s bravado flickered when Billy’s tongue traced the edge of his bottom lip. “How do I smell?”

“Like smoked peaches.”

Steve was proving an annoying skill at making Billy dumbfounded. “What?”

He giggled anew. “Are you the type to fuck without kissing?”

Billy absorbed that and returned, “You like to kiss after blowjobs, don’t you?”

Steve wagged his head, so his words drifted back and forth over Billy’s mouth. “Yeah? So what?”

Billy inhaled deeply to make a show of sighing like humoring Steve’s romantic ethics was tiring him out—

Steve’s hands cradled his head with care, the soft sound of Billy’s hair scrunching underneath his fingers filling his ears as Steve licked inside Billy’s mouth. The latter’s jaw went slack, letting Steve in and meeting his tongue to taste him right back. Apart from the smoke, Steve tasted mutely sweet. The way a clean mouth does; the way a man should taste. Billy had always thought the way a person tasted was a uniquely intimate thing. Like a special piece of DNA could only be read with the tongue.

Steve’s tongue retreated so he could fully kiss Billy’s lips. When the lazy, soft pecks seemed to be Steve’s only intent, Billy gripped his shirtfront, the only warning he got before Billy licked the seam of his lips, wanting more. Wanting what they started.

“Mhm…is everything…a power trip with you?” Steve mumbled, but his breath shuddered when Billy pressed his hard groin against Steve’s pelvis.

“Bite me and fuck me—”

The lights went out, because they were tucked far enough behind a garbage bin for the motion detectors to not see them. Steve’s attention moved between these details and he uttered, “Next to the trash?”

Billy growled, “Ughh,” and hauled Steve off the brick and into his off-day business. “I should’ve guessed you were high maintenance.”

But right inside the doors, Billy tapped in the access code to a private elevator. “Where are we going?”

“Top floor penthouse.”

Steve snorted. “You’re like my cockatoo bragging about the highest swing.”

“You have a bird?”

“Yes, I have a bird! A little asshole named, Orchid. He whistles to all of my songs.”

“You’re the strangest excuse for a vampire I’ve ever seen.”

“And you are easy. Thanks for showing me the key to your house.”

Billy looked at him and met a toothy smirk. “Pisces, huh?”

The elevator dinged and Billy was too deep to back out now. He couldn’t tell which of them was the hunter, but he was ready to share a hell of a meal.

#billy's password is his birthday lol #harringrove #vampire!steve #this got away from me #it was supposed to be dark and hot #but here i am #inserting fluff where it doesn't need to be #neonponders #pondermoniums #mobster!billy

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ineffable-snowman · 3 years

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(apologies in advance to the people who followed me for Good Omens. I’m diving headfirst into a new fandom, so I’m afraid there’s going to be a lot of Sambucky in the next three weeks at least...)

I wrote a fic inspired by episode 3 of FATWS. Read it here or on AO3.

Trouble Man

“It is a masterpiece, James. Complete, comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience.”

What kind of passive-aggressive bullshit was that? It was annoying enough that Zemo insisted on calling him ‘James’ in that patronising way of his but now he tried to lecture him or rather tried to make him look stupid, uncultured and ignorant. Bucky wanted to laugh at Zemo’s comment that sounded more like he was quoting a Wikipedia article to appear sophisticated, but then Sam spoke up.

“He is out of line – but he is right.”

Fuck Zemo. Seriously, Bucky had enough reason to hate Zemo but this was on another level. This was personal. He made Bucky look stupid, uncultured and ignorant in front of Sam. And the thing was, he was mostly ignorant about Marvin Gaye. He had listened to some of the tracks from Trouble Man just because they were on Steve’s list, and had quickly decided that it was not his kind of music. Now he wished he had at least listened to the whole album so he could contribute more than a weak “I like Marvin Gaye”, which fooled absolutely no one. He had no idea how a simple conversation about music had escalated like this. It had seemed like perfectly normal banter, Sam making fun of him for being old-fashioned, and then Zemo had interfered with that comment and it was downhill from there.

For some reason Sam was very passionate about Marvin Gaye and Bucky was intent on finding out why. Also, he needed to find out how music could be “complete, comprehensive” and “capture the African-American experience.” In his experience, music was used for dancing and for fun and that’s all there was to it. He stared at the notebook. There was some really good advice in it, like Thai food or Star Wars. So far, Bucky had not seen the appeal of Marvin Gaye. But apparently Steve had. If Steve had adored the music so much, why had he just simply crossed it out in a neat line and not, for example, put an exclamation mark behind it? Bucky added two exclamation marks.

Right, how to do this? Not for the first time he regretted just getting a simple flip phone instead of one of those fancy smartphones. When the shop assistant had told him that he needed a phone for taking photos and listening to music, Bucky had almost laughed at him. Talking about stupid… He could really use Youtube or Google now.

“Do you have a computer with internet?” he asked Sharon.

She looked at him like he was stupid (it was becoming a theme) but showed him to a computer and even gave him earphones. Then he started to listen to Trouble Man and this time did not skip any tracks but listened to the whole songs. He also googled the lyrics but that did not leave him any the wiser. Doctor Raynor would probably tell him to use his goddamn mouth and just ask someone, for heaven’s sake. He would rather get frozen again than ask Zemo. But it also felt extremely wrong that Zemo, who was supposed to be one of the bad guys, seemed to know and understand Sam better than Bucky, who was supposed to be Sam’s…whatever. Were they friends? Bucky certainly considered Sam a friend (although he never would say it out oud), probably the only friend he had left. Someone who texted you and asked you how you were and invited you to lunch was a friend, right? Someone who even saved your ass and (repeatedly) broke the law for you was a very good friend. But did Sam consider someone his friend who did not text back, who repeatedly got him into trouble, kept things from him and had even tried to kill him? Bucky stared at the screen. It was a miracle Sam had not tried to kill him yet. It was even more of a miracle that he was still being nice (sometimes). He googled “Trouble Man” and “African-American experience”. To his disappointment, it was not a quote from a Wikipedia article. So Zemo knew what was going on and Bucky did not. He turned up the volume and tried to make sense of the lyrics (“Got me singin' – yeah, yeah – Hoo“).

“Finally doing some catching up on the good stuff?”

Bucky turned around so quickly that the earphones were ripped out of his ears. Sam had put up his hands in defence and was babbling something about attacking or not attacking or whatever.

“Jesus.” Bucky consciously unclenched his left fist. “Couldn’t you just knock?”

“I did. You didn’t answer.” Sam pointed at the screen where the Youtube video of Trouble Man was still running. “I knew it,” he said gleefully. “You have no idea who Marvin Gaye is.”

“I do!” Bucky protested but then trailed off because he may have heard some of Gaye’s songs but he still did not know who Marvin Gaye was.

“So.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you think? Honestly.”

Bucky looked from Sam to the screen to the dangling earphones. I like it was not an appropriate answer. Not an honest one. “I don’t get it,” he finally said.

“No appreciation for good music.” Sam sighed dramatically. “Hopeless. Stuck in the 40s forever.”

Bucky could have left it at that. They were on common ground again, bickering but not hurting each other, it felt familiar, safe. “No,” he said nevertheless. “I – how? How is this music – how does it…capture the African-American experience? Most of the songs don’t even have lyrics.”

“You don’t need lyrics for music to be meaningful.”

“How? Is it because people listen to it in certain situations or…?”

“Alright. Ready for a lesson on 20th century music? You better take notes.”

Bucky opened the notebook and took a pen. Then he noticed Sam’s grin. Right, he hadn’t meant it literally. But now Bucky had already opened the notebook and he was determined to go through with it. So he wrote down all the names Sam dropped, the musical genres and important songs. It was a lot and, as a lot of things, it confused Bucky but he just rolled with it. So some bands destroyed instruments on stage and certain music apparently had a soul? Great. Speaking of souls, this was probably the right time for some soul-gazing to show Sam that he was actively listening. (Doctor Raynor would be so proud of him.) Sam kept bringing up the soul thing several more times until finally Bucky could not keep quiet any longer.

“What’s with this soul music? Is it, like…music for funerals?”

Sam stared at him. Bucky stared back.

“Okay, scoot over.” Sam squeezed on the chair next to Bucky so Bucky almost fell over on the other side. Then he reached over Bucky to grab the mouse, opened another tab and chose a Youtube video for Bucky to listen to. “This is soul music.”

It was highly uncomfortable because the chair was not made for two people and they both weren’t exactly small but Bucky was resolved to stay on the chair, at least with one thigh. Sam chose video after video, pointed out characteristic musical features, quoted parts of the lyrics and talked about the history or the significance the songs. It was still a lot and Bucky still did not get everything but he dutifully took notes to look up some things in detail later. When he had filled the sixth page in his notebook, Sam stopped the music lesson.

“So, 40s music. Any recommendations?”

Bucky turned to face him. They were awfully close. Sam’s eyes were somehow very soft, there was the hint of a smile on his lips and he looked very huggable in that thin turtleneck – and he looked genuinely interested in Bucky’s answer. Bucky felt hot shame flooding him. Sam could be aggravating and an outright asshole but he was too kind for this world. Too kind to Bucky.

“Nah,” he mumbled. “Music in the 40s was just for dancing, for fun. Not…not important like your music.”

“Oh, you can dance just fine to my music,” Sam said in mock outrage. “Come on.” He elbowed Bucky out of the chair and chose another Youtube video, then stood up, too.

“Soul music?” Bucky guessed when the first chords of an electric guitar could be heard.

“Funk. Close enough.”

Sam started to move to the music. It should be ridiculous, the weird moves he was doing, because that certainly wasn’t proper dancing, not the dancing Bucky knew anyway – no rehearsed dancing steps, more like a spontaneous swaying to the music and some of the moves were definitely ridiculous but Sam made them look, well, smooth.

“See, that’s dance music, too,” Sam said and came to stand in front of Bucky.

Bucky had no idea why it was even called dancing but he wasn’t going to say that because he did not want to offend Sam again.

But of course Sam had to nag him. “Spit it out.”

“What?”

“I can see the cyborg gears turning. What’s wrong with dancing?”

“Nothing. Just not what I’m used to.”

“You can choose the next song. For now – get those hips moving.” He nudged Bucky, and how could Bucky say no? After Sam had spent all that time educating him and only mildly making fun of him for his ignorance, he owed it to him.

“This is ridiculous, I feel ridiculous,” Bucky complained when he tried to copy some of Sam’s moves.

“You’re doing great,” Sam said but he was grinning, clearly enjoying how Bucky was making a fool of himself. “Maybe tone down the staring a bit.”

Well, if it made Sam happy… Bucky decided to give it his all and moved wildly to the rhythm, not caring if it could be called “dancing” or not. Nonetheless, he was a little relieved when the song was over.

“Your turn.” Sam indicated the computer.

Bucky had no idea which song to pick. He tentatively typed “Billie Holiday” into the search bar.

“Seriously?” Sam came up behind him. “You know Billie Holiday and say you don’t understand how music can capture the African-American experience?”

It was like a punch in the face. A well-deserved punch probably. “I mostly saw her as the singer of love songs, for slow dancing,” he admitted. “Never really…thought much about it.”

“So what, you’re going to slow dance with me, Barnes?” It wasn’t the usual good-natured banter but sounded more like an accusation.

“Look, Sam, I…” Bucky rubbed his temples. “Let’s head downstairs to that party to…” hopefully not dance. Whatever. Get out of this situation where, he feared, he was breaking rule #2 again.

“No, let’s do this.” Sam clicked on the first link and a swing tune started to play, Me, Myself and I. “Let’s slow dance if that’s what you do.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

It was certainly the most aggressive ask for a dance he had ever received. And he had never been this stiff during a dance before. He used to be a good dancer back in the days but now he felt clumsy when he placed his hand on Sam’s back while trying to keep as much distance between them as possible.

They had not even made eight uncoordinated steps when Sam started to speak. “Would it hurt you to use that brain of yours once in a while? It’s supposed to be working properly again, isn’t it? That’s what I heard at least.”

Doctor Raynor’s words came back to him, that he was free. To do what? Certainly to do better than hurt the man who had always had his back without Bucky ever having done anything to deserve that kind of loyalty.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unconsciously tightening his grip on Sam’s back.

“What for?”

Everything. “For being…kind of… thoughtless, I guess.”

Being so close, he could actually feel Sam exhale. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

“For being a huge dick,” Bucky offered.

“Better,” Sam grumbled. “Now, was that so hard?”

Bucky took a step back to gauge Sam’s reaction. He was relieved to find no traces of hurt or betrayal in Sam’s eyes, just the usual exasperation he put on when looking at Bucky. “Yes. Physically painful,” he tentatively tested the water. It was like a dance, back and forth, seeing how far you could get.

Sam rolled his eyes. “I hate you. And please stop staring.”

Bucky shrugged and pulled Sam close again, in fact, so close that he did not have to look into Sam’s eyes anymore but was now staring at his left shoulder. Sam was visibly relaxing in Bucky’s arms and wasn’t that a miracle, that he was still in Bucky’s arms, still allowed Bucky to hold him?

“Thank you,” Bucky mumbled into Sam’s shoulder.

“What for?”

Everything. Bucky tightened his hold on Sam (and silently thanked the autoplay function that started the next song because he was in no way ready to let go of Sam yet). “I’m a mess and you don’t deserve all that shit I throw at you.”

“Mm. You’re welcome.” Sam squeezed his shoulder, like a reassurance that he would continue to put up with all of Bucky’s bullshit. Too damn kind for this world. Good thing he had Bucky on his side who was going to beat up everyone who so much as tried to exploit Sam’s kindness. (Yes, he knew he was being hypocritical and should technically start with beating up himself.)

“Sharon was wrong,” Bucky said. “I’m not obsessed with the whole stars and stripes stuff. I didn’t follow Steve because he had that shield. And I’m – well, you might’ve noticed I’m here and not following that – that asshole. Sam, I think you should take the shield but, with or without the shield, I’ll follow you. Just so you know.”

Sam was silent for quite some time, they were just swaying gently to the music, until Bucky heard close to his ear, “That a threat, Buck?” He could almost sense the smile against his cheek.

“Just a fact. And I hate you too, by the way.”

#non good omens #sambucky #my writing #fanfic

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bangteamhyuk · 3 years

Text

Got It

Synopsis: (Secret Agent! AU) You sat on barstool inside a strip club. You have your eyes on Kim Taehyung, another mercenary agent like you. You planned it for months. You were hired to intercept Kim Taehyung before he can transport an information that could ruin several market industry. Your goal is to steal his watch. However, you were faced with slight difficulty. You were enjoying his company way too much. Can you resist his charms? You have to try harder.

Warning: Mature Content, mentions of weapon, sexually suggestive conversation, lap dancing, dry humping.

Word count: 3,395

Mood song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wjbY0Tyfr4

“One Bourbon, please” you ordered as you raised your hand to signal the bartender and slowly sat on the barstool. You swiveled from your seat and leaned with your arm on the high table while you wait for your drink.

From your seat you could see men riveted to the girls on the stage, dancing, flying and grinding down to a pole. But your eyes were fixated on somewhere else. You’ve been waiting for this for so long, meticulously planned and watch it fall in to proper places before you could make this move.

You were wearing a tight-fitting midnight violet dress, chest slightly exposed, and the hem ending right above your thigh. When your drink arrived, you shifted from your seat, legs crossed, and your elbow resting from the table as you took a sip from the rock glass. You tucked your hair from your ear when it fell, and you could swear someone was gazing at your direction. It was hard for men not to look at you, they’d be damned if they didn’t.

Well, naturally you’d be attracting a lot of men from your seat, since you are one of the few women inside in a male-catered strip club. You weren’t there for a show, or some woman engulfed with jealousy to see your cheating husband having fun. No, tonight you are an exception. You are there for a purpose and right now he is finally staring at you. Just one seat apart.

“Your first time?” He asked, taking a shot from his glass. He raised his empty glass to indicate the bar tender to refill his drink with a 21-year-old Royal Salute. You raised one eye brow and looked at his direction. “No” you smiled.

“What brings you here then?” he pursed his lips and folded his arms. His eyes now surveying you. “Observing…” your body leaning a bit forward to his direction, not showing one bit of intimidation. “Observing?” he continued, in return he also leaned towards you, not backing out as if taking up to your challenge. “Hmm..” you chuckled, sitting back from your position and being the first one to concede to whatever it is you two have stirred. You sipped from your glass, eyes now looking at the women dancing.

“You like women?” he tilts his head

“I like men more” you replied, as your finger traced the outlines from your glass and you stared back. You faintly saw his spine shake, as if you have roused something from him, piqued his interest.

“What brings you here?” You asked coyly. He just bats his eyes and smiled. Damn, he looked cute.

“Just like any other men, up to no good.” He confessed and grinned. “So, you are here to observe and learn from those women up on the stage? For what? For your boyfriend?” he looked back to the stage and sip from his glass.

“You could say that… but no, I am doing it for someone else, someone I want to attract for the night…” you spoke bluntly, while looking at him even if he was looking at somewhere else.

He turned around and smirked “Must be one lucky guy”.

“Who knows, it might just be you.” you shrugged as you looked away, smirking. You finished whatever that is left from your glass.

“Kim Taehyung” he extended his hand to yours. You looked back and smiled.

“Y/N” you replied.

“Nice to meet you Kim Taehyung” you shook his hand.

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

You already knew who he was. Kim Taehyung.

Your current client, a man named Mr. Ong who holds a seat on an international trade bureau, introduced Taehyung’s file to your office one night. During your study, you found out several similarities you shared him. Both of you are mercenaries, independent agents to whoever have any interest to shell out millions of dollars for a single task.

Both of you had a promising future, but dropped out from school just because. Both of you started early on this underground business knowing that the pay is more than good, in fact it blasphemously outrivaled any other job. Fuck. You roll your eyes. You are pretty sure he gets the same elation after every successful mission. You two must be insane, and that further ignited your pursuit. Nothing is more attractive to you than a man who shares the same ambition, no matter how morally wrong it appears to achieve.

You were tasked to steal an information from him, encrypted to a memory card hidden somewhere beneath his watch, as you were told. Your client insist that it is of great importance, that the market industry of several countries will be in jeopardy if that information is not intercepted immediately. Honestly, you could not care less.

Now that the secret transporter is right in front you, his boxy smile is definitely testing your confounded endeavor and your damn loyalty to the money. You furtively shake your head hoping to keep your mind refocused on the present task. You can’t let your months of probing, studying profiles and building a fake character around the people involved just to get this close to him go to waste tonight.

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“Oh so you knew my friend Jimin huh?” he chuckles. Finishing his 5th shot of whiskey. He raised his again to gesture the bartender for a 6th refill. “I’m appalled you haven’t gotten under his influence. Typically, women just…” he laughed midway. You didn’t know why, but you did the same. You weren’t drunk just yet, but you somehow already feel intoxicated around him.

“…just are drawn to him. Even when he just breathe, they are instantly swept off their feet by Park freaking Jimin. It’s not just women, even men!” He raised both his brows, clearly surprised.

“Maybe, but I’m drawn more to men who is crazy as me.” You flipped your hair, exposing your neck. “…and he doesn’t quite make the cut” you continued.

You smirked as the sight of him gulped. He took a quick glance from your bare display of your decolletage. Did that surprise him? But you were just getting started.

“What do you mean by that?” he slowly returns his gaze from your skin towards your eyes.

“Well…” you tilt your head bashfully as you stood up and move to a sit right next to him, finally closing the gap.

“I like to make. Bold. Moves. That’s for starters” you bit on your lips trying not flash another smile, as you took his glass from him and downed all its contents empty. He froze. You left him dumbfounded.

You looked at the sight quite proudly, taking control of the mis en scene, leaving him bewildered and vulnerable. It is only a matter of time and patience to have him finally wrapped around your fingers, and you are willing take it slow. Shit. Are you enjoying this way too much?

“Bold moves? I hope you are not revealing yourself way too much. It’s pretty dangerous” he looks away as he asked for another refill you stole from him.

You chuckled as you were holding on to your empty glass, staring blankly at it “Aren’t I? I kind of like that sound” Suddenly you felt his warm palms against yours. You stopped smiling as you turn your gaze towards him, clearly off-guard. “Your glass please?” he demanded as he smirked.

Did he just took over and shift the control of the present situation to him? You jolted at the thought.

“Sure…” you handed your empty glass over to him. He held it for the bartender to have it filled with the same drink he had earlier. “I hope you don’t steal anything from me for now on. I don’t like it.” He said sternly.

“Sorry” you apologized, looking down. You suddenly stiffened from your seat. Wait, did you just apologized to the person who you are supposed to deceive and exploit by the end of the night?

“It’s fine” he snickered. “Women showing regret when they’re wrong, that’s genuinely attractive” he gleamed at his own glass as he took a swig.

You were lost in thought. Confused. What just happened? You never liked the idea nor the feeling of being subordinate. You love being in authority. Men, influential men, you always find them on their knees begging before you and asking for your help. It is the view you glorified, perpetually.

Just how many women can make men desperate without taking off their clothes or pointing out a gun? What you two have is far greater than a human figure or artillery, it was knowledge. Vast one that can possibly create a war if one of you ever fancy. It is the reason why you kept this job.

However, you are confronted by a man who might just be far superior than you are. Have you misjudged him?

“Do you… perhaps find me attractive?” you tried revert the situation with your question.

“I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be.” he replied. He raised his eyebrow

“Sorry for earlier. Maybe I can make it up to you if I show you how remorseful I can be?” you instigated.

“Oh, was it not enough?” he licked his lips.

You shook your head. “I can do better.”

You pursed your lips pointing out to the dancer. “Want me to show you? All free. Well, that is, if you agree..”

“Right now?” he enquired as you nodded.

Quickly, he downed the last of his whiskey. You waited for his reply. “Where can I see this show you were saying?”

“Follow me” you held his hand and left the strip club.

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

As you opened your hotel room, you directed Taehyung to enter first. He was hesitant at first, but your smile softened any trace of doubt from him and finally entered the room.

“Nice room. Quite cozy…” he looked around the ceiling even if there wasn’t anything to see. You closed the door behind you.

“Sit” you pointed at the wooden chair to Taehyung. He obliged, yet his feet were shaking.

“Relax, I’m not going to do an interrogation” You stood behind him, reaching out an arm as you gently pressed your hand on to his lap, assuring his safety. He suddenly quivered from his sit. “We haven’t even started yet.” You chuckled.

He moved his head, as if tickled at the dry sensation of your voice which sits right next to his ears. You pulled out your phone from your purse and filtered through the contents of your playlist. Finally you found it and played the song you’d love Taehyung to hear.

As the first verse fiddled, you surprised Taehyung by dropping down your heel in between his legs from behind while he remained seated. The sight left him paralyzed. Finally, you were back in control.

You brushed your hand on your bare legs from your thigh down to your heel, entrapping him further to you, with your delusive enticement. You needed to put his attention on you, and kept it as long as you could.

You shift your position, and danced in front of him now. Swaying your hips, spreading your legs and dropping down on your heels, shamelessly. You let him watch and do nothing from his sit.

When the song was almost over, you artfully sat on his lap, moving your hips against him as if simulating the act of copulating. It was dastardly obscene, but you are not one bit regretful. In fact, if this isn’t a part of your job you would gladly taken your clothes off for him by now.

Suddenly you felt his growing bulge. You were startled and left flustered, but you got to keep on going. You looked away from him, unsure what to do next, yet he swiftly took your chin to face him.

Earlier, you found this man adorable and full of charm, but now you found yourself intimidated at his gazed and the abrupt change from his face. His expression unyielding. His posture dignified.

His free hand secured your back, while you move not letting you leave a single gap away from him. He bit his tongue and watch you danced. Everything about him suddenly felt fatal and intense.

You didn’t want that. His hands are not supposed to be there. It will ruin your plan. So you pulled out both of his hand placed it above his head. You held on to his wrists. You secured it with your left hand as you unbuttoned his shirt slowly, using your right.

You weren’t choking him, yet you found his eyes shut and his mouth gasping for air. Then it hit you. It’s the perfect chance for you to end this whole ordeal. You brushed your nose on his shoulder slowly moving up to his ears. Lips almost touching his ear lobe.

He let a soft moan.

You whispered sweet nothings against his ears, telling him how good he is just by merely sitting down. You made sure he was so distorted from reality, unaware of the fact that you are beginning to take his watch from his wrist.

“Aren’t good boys the best?” you whispered as you pressed down the pressure point that sends him unconscious. You sighed.

“That was easy huh?” You stood up and fixed yourself from the table mirror. You looked at the watch and smiled. Delighted to find yourself victorious.

You took your purse and tucked his watch inside. “Oh, I almost forgot!” you picked up your phone which you tossed on the floor earlier. Before you left the room, you took one last look at the man.

Has it not been for work, you would’ve asked him out for coffee instead of a private show and a lap dance. It could have led something and somewhere better for the both of you. “Maybe in another dimension, we could have been drinking hot coffee right now, talking how shitty our jobs are…” you shrugged. What were you expecting? You just knocked him unconscious and you were waiting for a reply?

You turn off the lights of the room and left.

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

Upon arriving at your apartment, you began to inspect his watch, looking for the memory card your client desperately covets. You carefully unscrew his watch, removing its contents gently. You finally found the memory card hidden at the back of the plate.

You took your memory card reader device and connected it to your laptop. You opened the folder and found that there was only a single file in it. You checked. It’s a recorded video.

“Hi Y/N. Surprised?” he chuckled. Damn it. You knew you are screwed.

“Well to be honest, I wouldn’t expect you to get this far, but hey, congratulations! Well done! But don’t you think I’m a far better player?” He scrunched his nose while staring at the camera. You snickered. You nodded, showing you’ve conceded. You were well played.

“You see, I always knew one day I might be able to face a tough contender. But…” he looks at his watch on his wrist and then throws an identical one above his face and catch it with the same hand. Dangled it on the front of the camera as if to annoy you further at your defeat. “You always can’t be too sure, can you? Wait…” he fixed his camera and placed it on the floor.

He rolled his pants, and wrapped the original watch around his thin ankle and hid it with his socks and pants. “It’s going to be uncomfortable from now on, but at least I’d be able to sleep soundly tonight” you were baffled at the scene. You were right. You have definitely underestimated him.

“Oh, you were wondering how I knew you before getting this? Well, let me enlighten you. The moment I received this specific job to transport this information from my client to another. I made a point of doing some research, finding who my client might be having bad terms with. Unfortunately, I trickled it down to your client, Mr. Ong. I have him followed by the people I trust. Later on, I found out that he had hired you, so I asked someone to follow you too. Actually, you may have heard of him.” You gasped. No, you shook your head, hoping you were wrong.

He nodded, as if he saw right through you from the screen. “Jimin. Yes, Park Jimin. You see, never underestimate a seemingly naïve man. You never know what’s underneath them.” He looked down to where his original watch was hidden, as if adding more fuel to your growing frustration. It’s funny how you couldn’t bring yourself to hate him. You actually admired him. His dedication to his job and the extent he is willing to do to get it done, that’s definitely appealing.

“We made it a point that he acts friendly towards you, make it conspicuous that he knows me. I needed you to look for me, follow me, and then trapped you down to where I want you to be.”

Your mouth was left agape. You remembered everything completely. From the moment Jimin introduced himself to you in a coffee shop, and down to taking you out for the evening. One night he insists on taking you home, when you two are walking the streets he suddenly pointed out the strip club, and then shared stories of him and his friend Taehyung who loves to spending time inside it.

How have you been so stupid and gullible, not having any slight idea that getting that information from Jimin was too fast and easy. Things are starting to make sense now.

“I made sure we meet at the strip club. Something tells me you have a knack for dancing…” he winked at the screen. “I always knew you have thing for good men. Good but naughty ones, right?” He nods to himself “Yeah, I also did my research well.” He folds his arms and sat comfortably from his chair. “I hope I convinced you enough to make you interested and keep you from being attracted to me.” He showed his boxy grin. “Aren’t I irresistible? Anyway, I’d also like to thank you. If you haven’t realized yet. I took something quite important from you too.” You froze. What was it that he took away from you?

“Your anonymity, that you hold so dearly.” He was right. Like any other mercenary agents, you desired working in the shadows. Having your true identity known will hold you back, that why you never kept a single person close to you. It’s going to disturb you from work. “Don’t you agree knowledge is very powerful and beguiling?” He looks at the watch from his wrist and pointed something on the side. “If you have been keener, you will absolutely realize that in between the strap of the watch you stole from me have a little device called locator.” Shit! You quickly packed your essential things in your knapsack. You knew what’s coming next.

“I told you, I like women who show remorse if they misbehave. Girls like you should be punished don’t you think so? But, thankfully, I’m quite a forgiving man. I am giving another minute after this video ends, so you can escape. Sorry Y/N, I am also doing my job. I needed more time before you can intercept me again. Maybe, if the time is right. We can have coffee?” you chuckled at the absurdity of the situation. The video ended with that. Asking you out for coffee when the time is right.

“Yeah, I’d love that” you chuckled. You can hear the police from downstairs looking for you. If only you have been more careful and overvalued him you wouldn’t be caught in this situation. You scoffed at screen. Looking at it one last second before you closed your laptop.

The smile of the person who just outsmarted you.

You quickly left from your window to run on the roof above your apartment. Suddenly your phone buzzed. A message from an unregistered number. While running you opened it and saw his message. “I had fun. Thanks for the private show ;) Don’t forget to throw your phone. I’d love to see you next time.” You chuckled as you threw your phone aimlessly away. Damn. He was good.

“Kim Taehyung, you got it” you smirked.

Author’s note: Thank you for giving time. I really appreciate it!

#bts fanfic #kim taehyung fanfic #kim taehyung fan fiction #Kim Taehyung x you #Kim Taehyung one shot #bts secret agent au #bts fanfiction #taehyung x reader #Kim Taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #taehyung x you

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moody-blues-requiem · 4 years

Text

Dullahan of the Opera (afab reader x Dullahan!Prosciutto)

SPOOKTACULAR FICS GO!

First up is the winner of the poll in a 3:1 victory, Dullahan Prosciutto!

Fic is n/s/f/w, mild warning for semi-public sex.

Enjoy!

Deep in the heart of Venizia and dressed to the nines on a temperate October evening, Prosciutto clasped your delicately gloved hand to his side as he guided you carefully along a narrow sidewalk. You were blindfolded, eyes hidden behind black silk, matching the simple, open-backed gown and elbow-length gloves you wore. Walking blindfolded in heels was a feat in itself, but one you managed with grace. You hoped Prosciutto wouldn’t be too distracted with guiding you to notice your impressive performance. Before he had put the blindfold on you, you’d gotten to see him in a different suit than his usual patterned one; rich black with gilded details, and of course, his usual pendant dangling from his neck.

When asked why a blindfold, you were told to trust him. When asked where you were going, you were told to trust him. You trusted Prosciutto with your past, present, and future, but that didn’t stop you from playfully pouting at your lover. “Can I get a hint, at least?”

“Alright,” he said. “You’re wearing the blindfold because I want to surprise you with where we’re going.”

Even without your sight, you could feel the smug aura practically radiating from him.

The sounds of the city around you changed as you approached your destination. You hear more voices, softly murmuring and mingling together, indicating a crowd of people. The light shifted just a touch warmer, you were approaching somewhere bright. Soft music played from some unseen source. Where…

Prosciutto placed his hands on your hips, stopping you from going any further. Sturdy fingers removed the blindfold over your head, carefully brushing your hair back into place after. The sudden light took a moment to adjust to, but once you could see you immediately recognized the building before. Tall and grey, with beautiful stone pillars, statues, and decorated with colorful flags. A sculpture of a bird adorned the entryway sign, but you didn’t need to read it to know where you were. One of the most famous opera houses in all of Italy, Il Teatro La Fenice. Prosciutto flashed two tickets in your direction, with a sly smile. “Private opera box,” he said. “Just for us.”

It was rare for Prosciutto to splurge like this, but when he did, he went all out. Waiting for you in your private seating was a chilled wine that you knew had to cost at least half a job for him. Was it wrong to enjoy such finery at the cost of blood money? Maybe. Were you going to indulge yourself anyways? Absolutely.

The show opened with a beautiful duet piece sung by a couple, a young woman and a slightly older gentleman. Something about restrained love-- even as a fluent Italian speaker, the way they sang could make the words difficult to understand, but you enjoyed it nonetheless. The passion in their voice spoke (or rather, sang) for them. The wine was delicious, the music beautiful, and your lover had his hand protectively on your thigh the whole time. Even alone in the opera box, he liked asserting a subtle dominance over you.

It was a bit less subtle when, out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw Prosciutto begin to nod off, but when you looked, his head was off his shoulders completely.

You knew he was a dullahan. He’d taken his head off in front of you countless times. You’d never adjust perfectly to the sight of his stump neck, glistening red with blood that didn’t flow like the blood in your body. He’d explained that it was perfectly natural for his species of fae to be able to remove and reattach their head at will, and no, it didn’t hurt. He could still talk, and even eat with a detached head and the food would still make it to his stomach. “Fae magic, I don’t know”, he said, as if that were a perfectly good explanation. “Why is that harder to believe than a detachable head?”

The blonde passed his head from one hand to the other, delicately placing it in your lap. You tore your eyes away from the singer on stage to look down, met with the sight of a smirking Prosciutto. “You *did* get my text about what to wear, didn’t you? Or more specifically, what not to wear?”

You… had an idea of where this was going. Prosciutto had asked you to forgo your panties for the evening, though you assumed that would be for when you got home, or maybe the car ride… and a while back, months ago, he’d asked your thoughts on sex in public.

“Not just out in the open, no,” you’d said. “Maybe something more private, where we could get caught but probably won’t… I think I could do that.”

And then he just… never acted on it. So you forgot. Until now, of course, as he looked up at you with a fire in his eyes. “Pull up your dress, love. Let me see.”

You kept Prosciutto balanced expertly in your lap while you maneuvered the dress up over your knees, the slit over the left leg making it easier to pull the material back and expose yourself. The thought of anyone other than Prosciutto seeing you like this made your cheeks flush a deep pink, which only darkened as Prosciutto spoke again. “Show me, [y/n]. I’m afraid you’ll have to hold me, my hands are a bit occupied.”

Careful not to mess up Prosciutto’s hair, you held his head back and spread your legs, giving him a nice view of you. You’d shaved everything, just as he liked. Already the thought of being so impure with your boyfriend, here of all places, had you glistening wet with excitement. You turned your head just a bit to glance over at Prosciutto’s body, and nearly dropped the man’s head when you saw his cock out, flushed a deep red and leaking precum, hard and desperate for attention.

“Careful!” Prosciutto hissed. “But I could see just how you responded to that…. You got even wetter, didn’t you, naughty little girl? Give me a taste, before I let you play.”

You brought his head in close, enveloping him between warm thighs and the scent of your desperation, earning an aroused growl from Prosciutto’s clenched teeth before he dove in with his tongue. For as prim and proper as he was in other respects, there was absolutely no decorum when it came to eating you out; he went at you like a man starved. Lapping at you with feverish strokes, fucking you with his tongue, letting the end of his nose rub over your clit just to heighten your sensations farther. Your hips bucked and rolled against his severed head, but he was kept firmly in place by your clenching thighs.

When you felt your thighs growing shaky, Prosciutto growled. “Enough,” he said, between gasps for air. “Set me on the table, where I can see my body. I want you to fuck yourself with my cock, darling. Don’t stop until you cum on me, but if you dirty that suit one bit the dry-cleaning bill is on you.”

Prosciutto’s eyes were practically glued to your body as you, pulling up your dress a bit to give him an even better view, slid yourself down onto his waiting cock. Prosciutto groaned, the combination of your wet walls surrounding him with the sight of his cock disappearing into your tight hole was incredible. You groaned as his length slid perfectly inside of you, as if you were made to take him. Prosciutto regularly reminded you that you were.

“Move,” he commanded, barely audible over the voice of the opera lead beginning an emotional solo piece. “Fuck yourself on me, amore, go…”

You wasted no time, swirling your hips over his lap before setting a slow pace up and down, bouncing, feeling his length push just a bit further with every thrust. His hands grasped your hip bones like handles, commanding you to go deeper and faster. You tilted your head down to nip at his collarbones, both to tease your boyfriend and to help silence your desperate little sounds. The opera singer’s voice dominated the large auditorium, but you didn’t want your own little solo to accompany hers.

You found your hips moving in pace with the song, a ballad fiery with passion and… maybe anger, you weren’t exactly paying attention, but the tempo and feeling of the song compelled you to move faster and faster, moan a little louder, clench a little harder around Prosciutto’s cock… The man’s head was biting his lower lip, blue eyes blown wide with lust. “Fuck, amore, I’m close,” he whispered. “Keep going. I want to feel you cum, I want-- I *need* to fill you up.”

“Prosciutto, please!” you gasped. You could feel your end approaching as the song reached its’ fervent peak. “Please please please--”

Prosciutto growled, wilder and more unrestrained than you’d seen him before. His manicured nails were digging into the skin of your hips. “Cum for me, amore, now!”

You fell apart at his command. Stars danced in your vision, the song faded in and out of your ears, masked by the waves of pleasure overtaking your whole body. Distantly you could feel something thick and warm filling you up, Prosciutto’s cock pumping into you, his hands pulling you in close. You were sweaty, disheveled, but you didn’t care. Let those fancy opera-goers see who gave you pleasure unmatched. Let them see the inevitable stain on Prosciutto’s suit (oops). The body beneath you leaned over, grabbing Prosciutto’s head and returning it to his shoulders before the man leaned in for a kiss, ruling his fingers through your now-messy hair.

“That was incredible, Pros,” you whispered against his lips. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure was all mine, dear. And besides,” he looked over your shoulder, just in time to see the woman on stage bow at the crowd’s thunderous applause. “We still have two acts left.”

#prosciutto #jjba prosciutto #vento aureo #golden wind #la squadra di esecuzione #dullahan prosciutto #dullahan!prosciutto #my writing #n/s/f/w #va

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headcanonsandcupcakes · 4 years

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hola muh dude: so I hear your a maiko shipper? Possibly? Do you have any random Headcanons for them two?

Hey my friend!!! I am so sorry I am getting back to you late on this! I had so many thoughts going around my head regarding these two, that I had to take time to write what I really wanted on this :) Yes, I am a Maiko, Zutara, and Jinko shipper :) But Maiko will always be #1! Are you ready for a lengthy headcanon? Warning: It is also a little depressing :(

- The childhood crush between Zuko and Mai wasn’t one-sided. Zuko also took an affection to Mai, however, it wasn’t as intense of a crush like Mai had for Zuko.

- As they got older, the playing field became level. They had their first kiss together and also hung out with each other outside of Azula (although it was limited because she was threatening). Mai was also the reason why Zuko got into knives and swords. He saw her playing with a small one, and decided he wanted to like knives too, because she liked them. Eventually the interest progressed into swords :)

- Zuko was actually going to ask Mai to be his girlfriend the day after the Agni Kai. However, that never happened.

- Mai attended the Agni Kai to support Zuko, as she knew he could beat the general. Once she saw that it was Ozai that would be dueling Zuko, she realized it was game over for Zuko. Even as the years passed, she never liked to think about that day.

- Zuko was banished the day after the Agni Kai, and she never got to properly say goodbye. They kept in touch as best as they could via messenger hawk, but Mai noticed that Zuko drastically changed. It hurt her so much to know that he was going to a TON of pain and turmoil, and she couldn’t do anything about it. Being “friends” with Azula didn’t help matters either, as Mai had to hear horrible commentary about Zuko from Azula. It disgusted her that Azula didn’t even care about her own brother.

- Despite everything that was going on with Zuko, Mai was his shining light. Besides searching for the Avatar, Zuko would look forward to her letters, as that was his only happiness. This explains why he couldn’t get close to Song or Jin, and why it seemed like their relationship came out of nowhere, because they were regularly in contact (until Zuko and Iroh went on the run). Zuko felt a sense of loyalty to Mai, and didn’t want to hurt her by dating other girls.

- Although Mai had a lack of passion for everything else, she was quite passionate in the bedroom. She is the one who was insistent on cheering up Zuko in “Nightmares and Daydreams”, by having sex, which Zuko graciously accepted. That time was not their first time, however, but rather their first time was during their Ember Island vacation (after ruining Chen’s house). To say the least, Zuko is very awkward, and Mai took charge of most of the activities that night (despite it both being their first time).

- Mai and Zuko dated for two years after the war ended, but took a break because Zuko was struggling with Fire Lord duties and felt that he couldn’t be a proper boyfriend to Mai. Mai rebounded fast, and started dating a councilman’s assistant. Zuko was jealous, but knew that he couldn’t give her what she needed and wanted.

- Mai ended up dating this man for three years, and many of the nobles thought they were going to get engaged. During this time, Zuko didn’t date anyone and still was madly in love with Mai (this didn’t impress his advisors, who were in insistent on setting him up with someone for an heir). Additionally, although Mai was dating this other man, she still kept in touch with Zuko, and would even visit the palace to check up on him.

- However, a day came where Mai broke up with the other man. She told Zuko it was because she didn’t see a future with him. Nothing happened between Zuko and Mai for 8 months, as they enjoyed just being friends and being in each others’ company. But, that didn’t last too much longer, as Zuko couldn’t stand to let her get away again. So, he asked her if she would like to try again with their relationship, in which Mai responded, “took you long enough, you’re the one that I want in my future.”

- Their second time dating was a huge success. They realized that the time apart, as well as maturing a little bit, really helped solidify their relationship. They still had their fights, sure, but it wasn’t as unstable as it was when they were teenagers.

- They dated for a year, until Zuko proposed to Mai. He proposed by getting down on one knee, and presented her a knife that he welded himself. This was the first time he ever saw Mai cry, as she exclaimed, “Yes!”

- Their wedding was absolutely beautiful, and they enjoyed a nice honeymoon on a remote island near the Western Air Temple. They enjoyed married life for several years, and cringed at Uncle Iroh and Mai’s mother’s asks about children. Zuko made a decision a long time ago that he NEVER wanted children because of his childhood, and Mai supported his decision.

- When Mai finds out that she’s pregnant, she’s nervous on Zuko’s reaction (at this point, he was willing to give Tom Tom or Kiyki the throne). She hid it for a few weeks, until Zuko asked her why she was getting sick, eating weird things, and being much moodier than usual, that she confessed. His mind went blank for a moment, but tears automatically streamed on his face. He was already in love with their baby, and realized how stupid he looked for not wanting children.

- When he first felt the baby move in Mai’s belly, he started bawling his eyes out. He loved Mai being pregnant, and enjoyed catering to her every need. One of Mai’s favorite things that Zuko did for her when she was pregnant was that he would heat his hands and place them on her lower back. He also gave into every craving she had, including fire flakes with pickles and ice cream (this was a favorite request of hers). He also was a helicopter husband, as he wanted to ensure that her and the baby were always safe.

- When Mai was in labor, he broke the Fire Lord tradition of not being in the room. He wanted to be there for his wife and see the birth of his daughter. When their daughter was born, they gave her the name Izumi, meaning fountain, where it all started. He was afraid to hold Izumi, as he thought that his daughter would be afraid of his face. After some reassurance from Mai, he held her in his arms, where she looked at him with big golden eyes. He thanked Agni for this blissful moment, and the life he had. It was at this moment that he swore to Izumi that he would always love her, and would NEVER hurt her.

- Zuko and Mai took to parenting rather well. They wanted to both be hands-on parents, and didn’t want nannies or wet nurses involved at all. Even though Mai always showed a blank canvas, Izumi and Zuko were the only ones that could make her smile and cry of happiness.

- A year and a half after Izumi was born, Mai started to get really bad headaches, to the point that she would have to be bedridden for the day when she would get them. Zuko got really worried, and insisted on Katara coming to the palace to see what the problem was, but Mai told him to back off. She was convinced that it was due to lack of sleep or stress. He did eventually write to Katara, much to Mai’s dismay, and Katara said she would come to visit as soon as she was able (she just had Bumi five months prior to Izumi’s birth, but he was a handful).

- One day, when Izumi was two years old, Mai fainted and had a seizure out in the gardens. Izumi was too young to understand what was going on, and cried for 20 mins until one of the guards found them. Zuko was informed of what happened to Mai during a budget meeting, where he left to the infirmary without saying a word.

- The Fire Sages confirmed that Mai had a death in her brain (cancer wasn’t really studied during their time, but essentially Mai had stage 3 brain cancer). Mai only lived for 6 more months after that. Zuko took time off from his Fire Lord duties (Uncle Iroh stepped in) to take care of Mai at her bedside. Aang, Katara, and Bumi moved into the palace full time to take care of Mai as well.

- Every night, once he put Izumi to bed, Zuko would fire bend in a feral manner. He was incredibly angry that life was dealing him this card, and was also very stressed, because of the pain his wife was going through and also trying to stay strong for their daughter (he had surpassed his Book One anger, that’s for sure). Uncle Iroh, Ursa, and Aang were the only ones keeping him from not going on a rampage, although they understood why he was feeling this way.

- During the last three weeks of Mai’s life, the Gaang came in to check on Zuko, as well as help with the care of Izumi. Zuko was distracted because he knew Mai’s time was coming soon, and wanted to be with her for every moment. However, they had a two year old daughter, and that two year old had needs. So, the Gaang stepped in to feed and put Izumi to bed when she couldn’t stand being at her mother’s bedside any longer (she’s a toddler, it happens).

- Katara tried her best to heal Mai, however, she was too far gone. On the last day of her life, she looked up at Zuko and Izumi with glassy eyes and rasped, “I love you”. Mai died a few hours after that.

- Izumi was too young to understand what had happened to her mother, however, it didn’t make it easier for Zuko to tell his own daughter that her mother, his wife, the light that kept him going during his banishment, the one that always had faith in him, was no longer on this earth. Although he wanted to be sad and completely disengage from the world, he couldn’t because he needed to stay strong for his daughter.

- However, Zuko was still numb after Mai passed. He didn’t eat or sleep for two weeks, and went through the motions of the day as if he wasn’t in his own body at all. Even with taking care of Izumi, he wasn’t really “there”. Katara took notice of this, and told Zuko that he needed to grieve. So, he grieved the only way he knew how: being incredibly destructive. He burned an entire wing of the palace that was abandoned for decades. He sat in the middle of the flames and cried for many hours.

- Mai was buried near the fountain where it all started. Mai always said that she loved that fountain, so Zuko made the decision to bury her right there. For many years after her death, Zuko made it a point to visit her grave every day. Even if he was incredibly busy with Fire Lord duties, he would commit to seeing her and talking to her. The silence when he didn’t hear anything back was always so hard to hear.

- Izumi doesn’t remember her mother at all, however, Zuko will always talk about Mai to ensure that her legacy is prominent. There are many times in Izumi’s life where he wished she was around to see how amazing of a person Izumi had become. Even when it has been 15 years since Mai’s death, Zuko still aches for her. Before he goes to sleep every night, he kisses the painting that they took together when they were teenagers and says, “goodnight my love”.

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 4 years

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Hello! First off I love your writing! Keep up the wonderful work! Second, I was wondering if you could do band headcanons for MC/Yuu and the rest of the first years. Like what instruments would they play as a band and how well their singing is.

Hello, hello~

Thank you for the praise; I recognize your username as a regular around here, fufu. I hope you continue to enjoy my writing.

Curiouser and Curiouser...

Epel first suggests that they form a rock band for a Night Raven College talent show. Why rock? Because he wants to stick it to Vil.

Yuu can be the band’s manager! After all, they’re the one that keeps the group from falling apart on a regular basis anyway.

Ace and Deuce fight over who should play guitar. Their singing resembles parrots squawking, so it’s probably best that they stick to an instrument and not vocals.

In the end, Yuu has to cut in and have both of them play the same thing--but they manage to arrange their songs such that they have equal amounts of time playing the harmony and the melody.

Jack volunteers to take up the bass; he’s more stoic and keen on staying in a supporting role. Someone else can take center stage!

His singing notes tend to fall flat. Either that, or it just sounds like he’s shouting and growling at you. There is no inbetween.

Epel really, really wants to be the vocalist--again, to rebel against Vil, who wants him to be prim and proper--but his voice is too soft and gives out easily.

He’s okay with taking up the drums though! That means he can smash things and be a wild child!

That leaves Sebek for the vocals. He can nail it really well too, since his voice is naturally loud and boisterous.

Sebek needs some coaching! At first, his voice, much like Jack’s, sounds like shouting at the audience.

Yuu teaches him some basic scales, and they end up practicing together for several afternoons.

The group discovers that Yuu and Sebek make a good duet, so they team up with Sebek as the main vocaloist and Yuu as a supporting one.

The band name is debated on for the longest time.

”Ace and his Seven Minions!” (”Um, Ace. There are only six of us. Minus you, that’s five, not seven...” Deuce points out.)

“What about calling ourselves the Odd Squad?”

“...I don’t really care what we call ourselves.”

“Something cooler! Way cooler! Like...like the Mirror Smashers! Or the Night Riders! Or the [HEAVILY CENSORED]!!” (Jack stares at Epel. “...Where did you even learn such a phrase?”)

“We should name our group to honor Malleus-sama!”

Yuu defaults to the generic name of “First Years” because the boys will NOT stop arguing. Simple is the best, right?

The night of the talent show approaches.

It’s show time.

#Epel Felmier #MC #Yuu #Ace Trappola #Deuce Spade #Jack Howl #Sebek Zigvolt #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland requests #twisted wonderland scenarios #curiouser and curiouser

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svnflowervol666 · 4 years

Text

Before You Go (Harry Styles x fem!Reader)

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: angst

Author’s Note: This was based on a request to write a bit about Harry based on the song Before You Go by Lewis Capaldi! I switched up the context a bit to give it a happy ending like the anon requested, but I hope you all still enjoy regardless. This was a ton of fun for me to write, so thank you anon for sending it my way! Let me know what you all would like to see next from me! Take care and tpwk.

The night before Harry left for tour was meant to be a peaceful night in with his girl. They were supposed to enjoy a home-cooked meal that they prepared together and spend the rest of the evening loving on each other before Harry left for his three-month-long tour. Somewhere along the line, an argument had broken out and it escalated to the point where they were both shouting some of the nastiest and most heartbreaking things to each other that they’d regretted as soon as the words left their mouth. They said things that would take a long time to forgive each other for, and it did. Both Harry and Y/N went to bed without saying “I love you,” something that they swore a thousand times to never do.

In the morning, she didn’t even bother telling him goodbye. Harry was made to see himself out on his own while she refused to even acknowledge his presence at their bedroom door when he was telling her he had to leave for the airport. His heart never truly stopped hurting. He texted her every once in a while just to let her know he had made it to whichever city he was headed to. She always opened them immediately, so he knew she was at least eager to hear of his safe travels. Each night, at exactly 10pm London time where their shared home was, she’d receive a call from Harry. He wanted to talk to her, but she never answered. Harry figured out after the fourth or fifth call that he’d inevitably end up talking to a voicemail machine instead of his lover (if that’s what she even considered herself to be anymore), but he did it anyway. Every nightly voicemail consisted of Harry telling Y/N about his day and about how he was sorry for the things that he said that night and how he wished she’d at least pick up the phone so he could hear her voice. She never did. And that broke Harry even more.

From her end, she’d spent the first few weeks without Harry wallowing in her own sorrows. No one saw her aside from her closest friend who had to force her out of bed and make her take a shower and eat a real meal that wasn’t popcorn and an entire bottle of wine. It felt like a breakup, but she knew it wasn’t. At least she hoped it wasn’t. It was clear from Harry’s nightly voicemails that he still cared about her and wanted to sort through all that was said the night before he left, but she just couldn’t find it in herself to pick up the phone.

She was embarrassed. The things that happened that night were things she wished she could bury and never think about for the rest of her life, but they haunted her every time she saw his name a contact photo illuminate her phone screen. Harry didn’t deserve someone who shouted at him the things that she shouted, and he certainly didn’t deserve someone that couldn’t even pick up the phone when he called to apologize and say goodnight.

More time passed. Y/N had slowly started to communicate more with Harry. Sure, it was only once every few days to let him know that she was at least doing alright, but this something was better than nothing. He still called every night and she still hadn’t found the courage to answer. It wasn’t until one particularly rough night that Harry was finally able to hear his girl’s voice after all of this time that he’d been touring the world without her.

She had had a little spa day for herself at home, treating herself to one of the expensive face masks that Harry had bought her for Valentine’s Day whilst soaking in a tub filled with her favorite bath fizzy. After letting her skin turn wrinkly and the water go lukewarm, she hopped out and reached for her favorite body butter. She worked it into her sore muscles, giving herself her own massage of some sort. When she reached the aching heel of her foot, she paused. There, faded but still visible, was the smiley face tattoo that Harry had given her when they had gotten tipsy one night during a vacation in Mexico. Harry had a matching one on the bottom of his big toe (she had drunkenly insisted that they both give each other tattoos so they looked like a proper couple). The happy memory resonated deep in her belly and made her feel sick. How could she have let their relationship come to this? How could she have just let him quite literally walk out on her without talking through their fight?

Harry’s call came like clockwork, and as expected, Y/N didn’t answer. But what Harry didn’t know was that while she normally waited until morning to listen to what he had to say to her that night, she picked up her phone immediately after getting the notification that she had a voicemail this time. His voice sounded tired and exhausted, meaning it must have been extremely late wherever he was (she cursed herself internally for forgetting where he told her he was in his last voicemail). The first half of his message was typical, letting her know how the show went and that he was sticking by his promise to drink more water while he was on the road. It was the last half of his message that stuck out to her, that made her heart shatter even more than it had when she’d seen the tattoo on the bottom of her foot.

“I know I hurt ye’ bad, but... I just....... Is there somethin’ I could have said before I left tha’ would’ve made all of this go away? Fuck, Y/N. I should have made you talk t’ me. I shouldn’t have just walked out. I’m sorry, baby. Anyways, I’m off t’ soundcheck now. I’m guessin’ you’re probably in bed too or you just don’t wanna talk t’ me still which is fine too. Good night.... I love you.”

Before she could even comprehend what she was doing, her fingers had pressed the redial button and she heard Harry’s voice in real time. She felt adrenaline course through her veins when he spoke her name through the tiny speaker of her cell phone.

“Y/N?”

“Harry,” her voice broke up through the salty, wet tears that streamed down her cheeks.

“Y/N,” Harry repeated more seriously this time, “’s everything alright? Talk t’ me.”

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” her tears flowed freely now as sobs wracked through her body and made her soul ache.

“Baby, ye’ gotta breathe. Come back t’ me, yeah? Just focus on your breathing.”

Even from halfway across the globe and in a completely different time zone, Harry was able to calm her down. Quite frankly, Harry would have done anything to hear his lover’s voice again, but this certainly wasn’t how he’d pictured she’d sound after all this time. He knew his crew was waiting on him back in the arena where he was doing a practice run of the show, but he couldn’t care less.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked once he heard her sobs subside into soft whimpers.

“I...,” she paused as if what she was about to tell Harry would hurt her physically.

“I need to see you. I’m ready to talk.”

She shifted uncomfortably in the airplane seat as it landed smoothly on the landing strip. Out of all of her years on this earth, she didn’t think she had ever been this nervous. The conversation she was about to have with Harry was one that was months in the making, and she had no idea how she was going to react once she finally saw him with her own two eyes instead of through posts on instagram and twitter. She had no idea how she was going to react when she was finally able to touch him again, or if he didn’t want to touch her again. The thought had crossed her mind that he might end things with her while she was out here, but she knew deep down that it was just her anxiety getting the best of her. Harry told her he loved her every night and put so much effort into letting her know that he still wanted to make things work with her, so she tried her best to hold her bearings and remain in one piece.

As the plane rolled to a halt, she realized Harry was waiting for her smack dab in the middle of the tarmac. He was bundled up in a hoodie and sweatpants and she could make out his oversized pearl necklace despite being several yards away from him. She didn’t need to be closer to him to see that he looked tired and unlike the way he did when he smiled and pranced about on stage each night. Maybe he had been taking this fight just as harshly as she was.

Y/N felt her heart beat in her ears as the steps automatically lowered themselves onto the ground to allow her to exit the plane. The cool air hit her in the face as she made her way down with her small suitcase filled with enough clothes for a few days in tow. Harry was looking directly at her as she descended the plane, but she couldn’t do the same. It wasn’t until she standing right in front of him that she lifted her head up from where she had been staring at her feet that she finally made eye contact with the green-eyed creature that she’d called her lover for years now.

Nothing was said, only a bone-crushing hug was shared between them as they reuinited. It was too windy to hear the sobs that escaped from both of their lips, but they each knew the other was crying due to the way the other’s chest heaved with each breath. They were as close as they possibly could have been. She had her head tucked into his neck while he burried his face in her hair, and they stood idle in the center of a busy airport in a foreign country. It didn’t matter to them, though. All of these weeks spent wondering how the other felt whilst being too scared to confront the other about it had whithered away into nothing. They were back with each other, and they knew they’d be alright.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff

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abraxos-the-phantom · 3 years

Text

Scum Disciple: Alpha Stage

Alpha, described by google as "...an exploratory phase. Beta means the features have been locked down and are under development (no other features will be added). More commonly: Alpha: Usually the first normally interact-able thing out (private or public use is irrelevant)."

And here are some of the highlights that I liked from the first few versions lol.

Fun Times in Gusu

Lan Xichen walked to quite a strange sight.

While normally he would have greeted the younger Nie with a smile, the image of the famous Wei Wuxian pouting as YunmengJiang’s young master and QingheNie’s second master grinned was a little too ridiculous for him to process without chuckling.

“We both know you aren’t actually going to tell Ming-shixiong,” Nie Huaisang chuckled at the shifted to pat the other.

“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian sighed. “I’m worried though.”

Jiang Wanyin had raised his eyebrow, making quite the image as he looked over his crossed arms, “You’re worried about your brother? QingheNie Sect’s Monster Head disciple? The Youngest Rogue Cultivator in the Generations? The Peerless Prodigy? I think you’re a little delusioned Wei Wuxian.”

Wei Wuxian’s nose crumbled at that, “They really call Gēge that? Such lame names.”

“I think brother called him the Crane Dragon once,” Nie Huaisang added. “When you and Ming-shixiong went on a Night Hunt.”

Wei Wuxian shook his head, “Forget it, that’s not what I’m worried about- it’s just. Gēge has never let me on my own like this before. He gets antsy.”

Nie Huaisang pursed his lips, “I can understand but- A-Xian, you’re one of his best students.”

“He just- he gets this look sometimes,” Wei Wuxian sighed. “He doesn’t talk about it but sometimes he looks at me and I’m pretty sure he’s seeing something else. I never asked because he always looks sad after.”

“Didn’t you grow up together?” Nie Huaisang frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ming-shixiong with anyone else besides the three of us but the other disciples.”

“He’s never talked to anyone except father, mother, myself, sister, and some of the disciples at our sect,” Jiang Wanyin said in agreement. “You guys didn’t meet anyone when your Brother was still Rogue?”

Wei Wuxian shook his head in Jiang Wanyin’s direction, expression slightly pinched still, “I wouldn't remember, and I know we’re close- but there’s some stuff I know he hasn’t told me. You guys realize that my brother is nineteen?”

Jiang Wanyin blinked, as well as several other disciples who were not so covertly listening into the conversation about the mysterious prodigal Cultivator of the QingheNie Sect. “He seems much older, I didn’t think anyone knew his actual age.”

Because that was the curiosity wasn’t it, for all that he was well-known, there was never truly anyone who knew Wei Ming, because he would never actually say anything about his past save for vague hints. One could ask Wei Wuxian of course, but the latter had the same result because of the mere fact that Wei Wuxian didn’t know much about his older brother either beyond his personality, likes and dislikes. Any years before Wei Ming had lived with his brother was knowledge he couldn’t even forget because he never knew in the first place. Nie Mingjue never asked, and neither did Nie Huaisang. It took Wei Ying meeting other children to realize that nine-year-olds never talked the way Wei Ming did. They didn’t know facts about monsters, and they certainly never talked about demons. Yet Wei Ming had extensive knowledge since who knows how long, and no one ever questioned it.

Whether that was because Wei Ming knew how to subvert the conversation or because they simply never asked, that was a question no one could really answer. Not even Wei Wuxian, for all that he loved his Gēge, knew where to start.

Sensing the sudden dip in Wei Wuxian’s mood, Nie Huaisang brightened as much as he could, “Well it doesn’t even matter does it? He’s your brother, he’s my teacher- and he scares my brother to boot.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, if a little weakly, “He told me he actually enjoys it a little.”

Jiang Wanyin winced, “Isn’t your brother known to your Sect as the Punisher?”

With an enthusiastic nod from both Nie Sect members, they proceeded to scare everyone else by saying, “300 copies of Consequence, 200 paces across the hills and back in three days and patrolls in three of the Qinghe protected lands by the end of two weeks!”

They silently cackled as the other Sect disciples paled at the prospect.

After gently teasing Wangji of his interaction with Wei Wuxian, Lan Xichen bid his brother a good night as he suddenly remembered what he had sought the older Wei out for. The technique he used was quite unique and not among any technique he had some knowledge of, though granted it could purely be because he himself was not well learned in any but the Lan Sect style. Regardless, he was hoping to have a discussion about it and to possibly inquire if the older Wei would use his expertise to critique his own swordsmanship.

He was just about to do just that before he heard an audible thunk and grunt of pain from within the room Wei Ming had been assigned for his stay here.

Lan Xichen abruptly opened the door out of instinct, blinking in surprise to find Wei Ming wielding a brush in his hand and a paper in the other, dark eyes roving the entire wooden table with apprehension.

“Mn?” Wei Ming looked up with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, Zewu-jun. I was under the impression you had retired for the night.”

“I had initially been hoping to discuss swordsmanship with you before,” Lan Xichen looked at the papers, elegant calligraphy lining each and every one save for the large stack of paper at the corner of the table. “I admit, however, that this seems to take my interest far more at the moment.”

“Ah, well.” Wei Ming gestured to the papers. “These are lesson plans, notes if you will- but plans all the same.”

“...Lesson plans?”

Wei Ming nodded seriously, “It’s important for a teacher to understand what they are teaching every day, so as not to leave anything important out.”

“Ah…apologies, considering the subject you are teaching I thought-”

“To be fair, the material I’m teaching does require less theory than practical. Had I been teaching something akin to a bestiary subject or perhaps even medicinal practices, I wouldn’t be as extensive as this,” Wei Ming once again gestured to the large stacks. “This is not the case however, as I am teaching fighting techniques. I also have to come up with tests and exams, sort the students into pairs for sparing purposes, note everyone’s strengths and weaknesses, formulate proper lectures concerning the techniques I am teaching- that sort of thing. Besides the fact that I’m considering adding other techniques so that my students are well informed.”

Though granted the stuff he was doing was easier than when he had been Qing Jing Peak’s head disciple, the paperwork for that Sect was monstrous because of the additional lessons for music and the tactitionary course. Both were a requirement as a disciple of Qing Jing, as they were the main jack of trades within Cang Qiong as their roles were both in support and primary fighters when it came to battles. This was especially true during the pseudo war between Lou Binghe’s forces and during the battle with Tianlang-jun. Shizun would normally do most of the work but with the absence of Lou Binghe, a lot of it arrived to Ming Fan and he didn’t have the heart to inquire about it.

After Binghe’s return Ming Fan just never thought to question it anymore, Shizun was happy and he got used to the workload. It wasn’t as if he never had help either, he took charge of the male disciples while Ning Yingying took charge of the females. After Lou Binghe soon took up some work every now and then; it’s just the way things were after...After.

Wei Ming blinked after returning from his thoughts, “Hundreds of apologies, may Zewu-jun repeat himself?”

Lan Xichen smiled, “Of course, I only wished to ask if you would be open to giving me advice on my swordsmanship? Nie Mingjue mentioned before that your advice had helped him improve his saber technique and I would very much like to also improve myself now that the opportunity is open to me.”

“Or perhaps Xichen-ge would not like to be left behind by his dîdi?” Wei Ming said with an amused smile.

At this Lan Xichen’s ears colored slightly even as he smiled neutrally, “That is also a motivation, but I believe no brother would want their younger brother to leave them behind.”

“Very well, when Zewu-jun is free; we shall spar.” Wei Ming’s lips quirked. “I would also like to know if my observations are correct.”

“Let us have this spar soon Teacher Wei, thank you for your time.” Lan Xichen stood and dipped his head slightly before exiting with a final ‘good night’.

“Gege what are you doing?”

Wei Ming was currently in the Lan Sect library, pouring over old books that amused him and greatly reminded him of some of the brighter moments in his past life. Namely: The Resentment of Chunshan. The book itself was poor in terms of accuracy, but amusing nonetheless. He and the other disciples found themselves horrified and amused by the story described within. Even more so when the Song of BingQiu became popular among the locals.

He was also starring an old map of the land, clearly looked into by someone considering the small hand-written notes in black ink. The penmanship was oddly familiar but Wei Ming couldn’t exactly remember where.

There was also an area circled, the name Cang Qiong Sect written in careful script.

“What do you think?” He asked absentmindedly, fingers brushing over the circled area. It was far from the other Sects, inaccessible due to the mountain ranges that circled it. If one tried, they’d have to do so by climb rather than sword. The air would be thinner; challenging even for a Cultivator.

He vaguely wondered if the land had changed so much as to the sudden growth of mountains around the Cang Qiong Sect area.

“Looks like someone was trying to look for the mythical Cang Qiong Sect,” Wei Ying peered over his brother’s shoulder. Tilting his head at the map. “Weird.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Eh,” Wei Ying shrugged as he sat next to him. “Cause it’s just a legend, no one actually knows if the Cang Qiong Sect is still around. If it ever was around. I mean- demons, the War- it’s described in pretty poetry and details, but other than that- most people write it off as a fantasy since no one’s ever seen it.”

Wei Ming considered the next question carefully, “What do you believe?”

“I think there’s some truth to it,” To himself, Wei Ying vaguely wondered why the sudden inquiry. His brother had no interest in the stories that were normally told to children, he had been busy at the time and Wei Ying only knew of it because the Nie Brothers held a rather large collection of the stories of the illustrious Cang Qiong Sect and one of their most famous Lords: Shen Qingqiu. Nie Huaisang had admitted that most of these were his brother’s, and he himself was promptly amused. Now he was starting to wonder. The stories of the Cang Qiong Sect were often used for the children of Cultivators as lessons, Lan Sect used it too if what was in the library was any indication- it was an impressive collection.

Though it did have nothing on Sect Leader Nie’s secret collection of nearly all the tales of the General from Qing Jing Peak: Huázháo-jun.

“Hm, perhaps,” Wei Ming noted non-committedly, shaking his head. “Let’s talk about what to do for tomorrow.”

“Mn! You should teach-“

[Fun fact about this one up here! In this version of the story, MF brings WWX's body up through the mountains to Cang Qiong Sect in the hopes that he could get help in reviving his brother, thereby re-meeting with his fellow disciples of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect]

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inevitably-johnlocked · 4 years

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Hello lovely!! I’m a sucker for Sherlock comforting John after nightmares or just ptsd episodes, and was curious if you know of any? And/or any fics where johns old shoulder injury is bothering him and Sherlock helps :) I just need all the caring fluff ☺️

Hey Nonny!

Ahhhh!! Yes, I have quite a few Nightmares/PTSD fics, and I’m going to use this opportunity to update my past lists since I have a nice collection of more! As for the shoulder injury, I believe Maintenance and Repair by patternofdefiance has Sherlock doing that, but I can’t recall. I’ll start a separate list offline for Shoulder Injuries perhaps. Hmm. Actually, you might find some good Caring Sherlock fics on these lists:

John Whump / Sherlock Takes Care of John

John Whump / Sherlock Takes Care of John Pt. 2

John Whump / Sherlock Takes Care of John Pt. 3

Scars

Scars Pt. 2

Now, for the main event!! Hope you enjoy, and as always, Loves, add your own!

NIGHTMARES, PTSD, PANIC ATTACKS & MENTAL/EMOTIONAL TURMOIL Pt. 3