#his stupid lovely accent was one of the first things that made me drawn to him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

littlemisslipbalm · 3 years

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“you make me so angry sometimes”

idk if this gif makes sense, but i feel like it will if you read the story, it just gives me that vibe.

A one shot I cooked up idk, it’s about Harry and a makeup artist on DWD, it’s quite angsty, idk how that happened, it’s also very long, idk how that happened either, maybe i do a part 2, maybe i don’t idk lmk. Feedback is appreciated, not proofread. REBLOGS help writers tremendously and i love reading whatever you write in the tags its my favorite thing!! Love yall and Merry Christmas!

Word Count: 17.7k | Warnings: ENEMIES to LOVERS! swearing, angst!, some anxiety -like self-doubt, yn being mean to harry kind of a lot, i dont remember, nothing too crazy, Nick Kroll?, lots of conversation

When she pictured herself as a makeup artist in Los Angeles, she hadn’t pictured exactly what she was doing right now.

She had expected doing gorgeous makeup for gorgeous actresses or doing wildly fun stuff like in Euphoria. And because of that she had worked her ass off to get where she was today. She had practiced for hours, worked countless hours for free, and networked to the cows came fucking home.

So why the fuck was she using tattoo-strength concealer to cover up the maybe 60 tattoos some asshole musician turned actor had all over?

Don’t Worry Darling was her first major film to work on so she couldn’t complain. She was happy to simply be there. Well she had been. The first day she had showed up 15 minutes early and had worn her favorite power suit she had. It was dark navy with a white lace long sleeve turtleneck underneath. She hoped to look fun but professional.

Hollywood was all about impressions, especially first ones, even when you’re the makeup artist. She had quickly learned that she was one of six makeup artists. One of them being the friend who had helped her get the job, Angie. Angie was like her surrogate mother in Los Angeles that she had met on her first film job for something much less high profile than Olivia Wilde’s second directing project. Her braided grey hair and fabulous jeans had drawn Y/N right in and they had connected instantly.

Since Y/N was deemed the most inexperienced by the head of the makeup department, she was relegated to easier jobs: assisting the other artists on main characters sometimes, mostly dealing with minor characters touch ups (and full make-up if she was lucky), and the job nobody wanted: tattoo coverage.

Harry Styles was one of the leads for the film and besides his minimal acting, everyone knew he was a worldwide rockstar. With the rock and roll life starting off as a popstar life at the ripe age of 16, he had amassed around 60 tattoos in the past decade. Impressive by her standard normally. She usually counted herself as an appreciator of tattoos and their art, finding them similar to makeup and the self expression that came with both forms. Especially since she had a few of her own, but when she walked into Trailer #6 and saw a good amount of Harry’s tattoos, she wanted to murder every artist he’d ever been to.

She had to make an inventory the first day of all of his visible tattoos when he was just wearing boxers. He had been friendly, trying to make conversation, but as the time wore on, they both grew tired and silent. She had to write down the location and a description of every tattoo and as he took off everything but boxers she grew more and more annoyed with his random and dumb tattoos. Some of them were amazing, the eagle, the anchor, the butterfly, and the ferns were probably her favorites. But some of them, she couldn't hold back her rolling eyes and annoyed expressions. The “Big” on his right big toe, a miniscule lock, almost everything on his inner left arm (the packers logo, Pingu, etc.)

She traces at the rose and the ship and then flips his arm out to reveal his inner arm to her gaze. “That is a big fucking bee.”

He snickers, “Y’like it?”

She ignores his question. “For god’s sake, someone is needle happy,” she said as she examined his left arm, taking note of every permanent drawing.

He shrugs his right shoulder, uninhibited by her prodding. “Dunno, beginning to regret some of them.”

“I would hope,” she mutters, scribbling on her paper the various ones she had just seen on his arm. Next was his ribcage ones.

He scoffs, “Oi, it’s not like you haven’t got any.”

“How would you-” She looks at him wide eyed.

“Right…” he takes his right hand and pushes her hair past her ear to reveal three little red line butterflies following the curve of her ear, “There. At least.”

She huffs and knocks his hand away from her. Her hair falling back into its place.

“Maybe some located in a few more intimate places I’m guessing from the red rushing to your cheeks right now.”

“Can you just let me do my job,” she says, not giving in to his teasing or sparing him a glance as she feels his intense gaze on her face. She was studying his left rib cage where a few cool tattoos happened to be.

“You at least have some taste or persuasive artists because not all of these are shit,” she speaks again after just the sound of her pen on the paper filled the trailer.

“Gee, thanks,” he laughs unamused and rolls his large green eyes.

She thought he had some of the biggest eyes she’d ever seen. But she also knew to keep that to herself because he’d either take it as a compliment and think she was noticing him too much or he’d take it as a massive insult and get her fired.

His right hand taps at his thigh, tapping a rhythm she didn’t care to pay any attention too. She just wanted to finish the stupid inventory of the stupid tattoos on this stupid man.

“Take those off,” she says to Harry, looking back at her clipboard again, filling up quickly with her notes.

He stands there, staring at her stubbornly. He was entirely bored with this exercise, especially since his company was some of the worst he’s ever had. She spares him a glance when she doesn’t notice any slipping off of the colorful sweatpants he’s wearing.

She arches a brow at him, her pen tapping impatiently against the paper. “Go on. Can’t imagine you want this to go on longer than it already has.”

He rolls his eyes again, slipping his thumbs into the waistline of the pants and tugging down. Simultaneously, he toes off the dirty vans he seemed to wear everywhere. The fabric pools easily and he steps out of them and discards them on the couch behind him. He’s actually wearing black briefs. She chooses not to notice anything further than that.

“Socks...can stay on,” She tries to say as he begins to peel one off. He stops midway and nods.

She flings his shirt to him, not needing to see his naked torso for another moment, “I know you’ve got some feet and ankle tats, but I also know that you won’t be wearing anything that will expose them. Thank your lucky stars that I don’t have to makeup your feet.”

He catches the shirt easily and slips his arms inside before tugging it quickly over his head and over his expansive shoulders. The ferns disappear out of sight.

“Well then we’re almost done then. Just got the knee ones -”

“And the tiger. That’s gonna be one son of a bitch,” she sighs and examines his legs, not bothering to crouch.

“What the actual fuck dude?” Her tone is exasperate and like she would rather be anywhere else than here.

“I’m sorry?” He sputters, hands on his hips and eyes bewildered.

“Yes. No. Oui. Non. Who are you?” She rubs at her eyes and shakers her head.

“S’a little rude.”

“You’re right,” she semi-rushes out at his serious tone, ready to apologize. When a grin spreads over his face and he chuckles under his breath she really wants to smack him upside the head. He was exhausting. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thought it was funny at the time. Kind of think it’s even funnier now since it’s got you all mad.” He leans over her shoulder to look at her notes and when she glances at him unhappily he just looks smug.

“Alright,” she finishes the scribble of a description and clicks the end of her pen, “All done. You can get dressed. I’ll see you bright and early for tattoo makeup. It’s gonna take about an hour to do all this, just so you can mentally prepare for that.”

“It was nice to meet you,” he attempts at a friendly and professional farewell. “See you tomorrow…” he trails off as he watches her turn on her heel and walk out of the trailer door swiftly. The door swung shut and bounced a little bit in her wake.

Harry sighed and adjusted his clothes and hair in the mirror. After a moment he shakes his head, an even louder sigh escaping him.

“Good morning!” She greets happily, walking into the trailer without a knock. Well-rested and happy at least that she doesn’t have to just inspect a body, she looks around the trailer.

She realizes no one is there and she’s taken aback. First of all, if Harry wasn’t there then he shouldn’t have left his trailer unlocked. And second, he was fucking late, the fucking twat.

She grumbles, setting her coffee on the countertop. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “In through the nose, out through the mouth” she mutters. She knew this was a big opportunity and having a big star like Harry in her corner could make her career. She needed them to get off on a better foot today.

“Good form, I’d say relax the shoulders a little more,” the door swings open carrying the California twang-British accent that she would soon become all too accustomed to.

Harry points at her shoulders and narrows his eyes regarding her in the trailer. She offers a strained smile through the mirror and Harry sets down his personal things on the couch.

“Alright, well let’s get started shall we,” she smiles and turns to him, gesturing to the swivel chair next to her.

He nods, a twinkle in his eye as he regards her. He’s unsure of the tone and attitude she’s giving him today. She had been feisty yesterday, cordial at times, but mostly biting and witty. He had liked it. It had made the whole ordeal bearable whereas now she seemed to be laying it on a little thick.

“Just your hands and neck today,” she says, pulling out the makeup materials needed and a checklist of the tattoos she needed to make sure were invisible.

“Should only take..a little under an hour today. Just gonna remind you now though, other days we won’t be so lucky.”

Harry chuckles under his breath and rolls his head around his shoulders before sitting in the chair. “Were you tired yesterday?” He inquires.

“Why do you ask?” She throws a glance over her shoulder at Harry. He’s begun slipping off his sweatshirt and yawns as he does it.

“You seem different from yesterday and I’m just wondering which one is the real you.”

She continues working about the room and rolls her eyes to herself, “I’m always the real me. I come no other way, but this morning I woke up and thought ‘this is the job you’ve fucking wanted for ages, so stop being such a bitch so you don’t get fired, you prick’.” She pauses and turns to face Harry. “The ‘you prick’ was directed at me, that was still part of my thought,” she adds.

He throws his head back and laughs. Then he nods, still laughing lightly, “I get that. Sometimes I’m just so in my head and yesterday I was just so fuckin’ bored. Sorry if I got on your nerves.”

“Don’t mention it.” She waves her hand at him nonchalantly.

Then she moves to inspect his hands and notices the lack of rings, unlike yesterday when she had to make him take them off.

“You have amazing cuticles,” she notices and mentions without any pretences. Harry mutters his thanks, pursing his lips as he watches her work.

She stops her inspection and places the clipboard on the countertop in front of them.

“Could you take your necklaces off? I need to cover up half of the swallows and the years, for when you unbutton your shirt a bit.”

He wets his lips and nods, hands going to fiddle with the clasps behind his neck. He slips off one of the necklaces with ease, a yellow eye beaded necklace that he lays gently on the countertop next to the clipboard. Then he takes his cross and pulls it over his head, no clasp needed.

“Could I put some music on?” Harry asks after five minutes of Y/N working in silence and Harry only being able to stare either at himself, her work, or nowhere.

“I can,” she stops her work for a moment, “Can’t have you messing up the makeup before it sets. Otherwise I’d have to kill you.” Harry can’t be sure if she’s joking or not. Therefore, he was intent on not messing it up.

“Any requests?” She stands at the counter now, instead of seated on a stool working on Harry's left hand.

He shrugs, like he hasn’t got the faintest idea about good music. She refrains from rolling her eyes once again because she feels herself in a test. She wets her lips, sifting through different things in her Spotify and then lands on her playlist titled “it’s your song” named after Elton John’s song. It had some other musicians, a mix of Queen, Bowie, and more and she was sure she would pass the test.

She presses shuffle and She’s Always A Woman by Billy Joel begins to play over her laptop. Harry nods pleased and she wants to shake her head at him.

She can’t hold back the scoff though after a moment of going back to finishing his hand.

“What?” His British accent thickens with his annoyance growing.

“Nothing,” she chirps, intently putting the final touches on his wrist.

“Seriously. What?”

She stands and sets down the makeup. “Can you unbutton your shirt?” She made a note to herself that from now on she’d have to have him take his shirt off before setting to work because if his hands got messed up she’d have to start over. Thankfully he was already wearing a button up this morning.

He stares at her, offering no movement, just inquisitively waiting for her to respond to his original question.

She shuts her eyes, taking another deep breath and then bites at her lower lip. “It’s just...you’re so easy to read.” She fears adding anything else and moves towards him with the makeup hoping to encourage him to unbutton his shirt.

His right hand deftly pulls at the buttons as he regards her. His eyes are intent on her, she can see him clearly calculating her. Her green paisley button up tucked up into the back of her bra leaving a splay of her stomach. The semi-balloon sleeves cinched at the wrists leading to her slightly ringed hands. The oversized blue jeans that have no holes, just a tiny patch right next to the left pocket. The frayed ends of the pants laying over her rather pristine white old skool vans.

The Boxer fades in as she waits for him to finish the unbuttoning of the shirt. He’s still staring at her.

“Am I?” He finally inquires, voice pitched higher like he doesn’t believe her.

She gives him a serious stare and leans over him and adjusts the collar of his shirt. She adds paper towels to avoid makeup on his clothes.

“Yes!” She laughs, “And you don’t even think so, which is like...of course.”

He hums, tilting his head back as she sets to work on covering up the swallows. He wiggles his hands that now both rest on the arm chairs.

“I don’t see it.”

“Of course you don’t,” she glances at his face, their eyes meeting for a moment. “You’re Harry Styles. Everyone is in love with this image you created for yourself and it has just enough of your true self that people feel like they really know you, but you also maintain the illusion. So you think you’re this mysteriously amazing, not like the rest guy, but you are just like the rest of them. Obsessed with yourself and rich so you’re deemed eccentric rather than crazy for all the extravagant shit you do. So when you want me to play music and don’t offer any suggestions I know exactly what music I need to play for you to like me.”

“I feel like that last part says more about you than it does me,” he quirks a brow at her, straining his neck to look at her face as she continues to work.

She flushes, his response both better and worse than she expected. She had gotten a little carried away in her response and she had no idea why. She truly wasn’t one to go off on people so easily and especially not with someone she hardly knew, but something about Harry had her on edge. She was just thankful he hadn’t gotten mad at her response, instead he took it in stride. Further proving her point that he was extremely smart and did things purposefully and she saw right through it all.

She grumbles, “It says that all anyone has to do to get close to you is understand the smallest bit about you and you’ll let them in.”

“That is just so completely wrong, Y/N, I hate to break it to you.” It’s Harry rolling his eyes now, unable to move much more of his body as she continues painting on the concealer to remove his tattoos for the movie.

“Fine. Enlighten me on what I got wrong.”

Their argument had all but drowned out their music. They both did love this music and ironically if they would just shut their mouths, they’d probably like each other a lot more.

“Might as well,” he sighs. “First of all, my image is authentic and of course I don’t want to give myself all away. I enjoy my privacy and for everyone to truly know me I’d have to give that up. Which I’m not keen on. So, I regret to inform you but I am the same guy everyone is “in love with”. Second, I know I am a little self-involved, how else would I get here if I wasn’t constantly taking inventory of myself and reevaluating who I am. As a musician, I want to give as much of myself as possible or else it just feels inauthentic. And the extravagant thing, I can’t help that I like nice things and my job has allowed me to afford those things.”

He stops to take a deep breath and she’s working in stunned silence, in disbelief that Harry is even telling her any of this or that he’s spoken that much and so quickly. Wasn’t he notorious for speaking slowly with barely even a sentence worth of actual information. He sounds tired and frustrated, but also, surprisingly, sincere.

He continues, “The music thing. Maybe it was a test, but still it doesn’t mean I give everyone a mile when they say their favorite musicians match up with mine or something. I note that they either did their homework or might be an interesting person to get to know.”

“So which am I?” She widens her eyes.

“Obviously the second even if you’re also making it painfully clear that you don’t like me.”

“You’re smarter than I thought, Harry. I’ll give you that,” she smirks slyly, finishing up the bird coverage now.

He laughs. “Thanks,” he drawls out.

“And I admit that maybe you aren’t as easy to read as I made out, but I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree about the whole being your authentic self. I just don’t buy it. I can see your mind working constantly, you’re not one to just let yourself be free in public. And I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, I’m just saying, you shouldn’t pretend like that’s not what you’re doing.”

Her final thought leaves Harry silent. She pays no attention to his silence or at least she’s actively ignoring it. Instead she tunes back into the music that had gotten them back onto the wrong foot. This was going to be a long few months.

When she’s satisfied with her work, she has them sit there for thirty minutes to give it all time to set before Harry is off to hair and other makeup. They sit there listening to music. Neither of them have spoken again, except instructions from her and Harry’s hums of approval of songs.

Harry stands up after thirty minutes as she stays behind to pack up some items. Just as he’s about to step out of the door, he turns and calls her name.

“For the record, I don’t think you’re giving me a fair shot. You said yourself that you’re different every day. That every version of you, is you. So I hope you’ll give me the same allowance, every version of me is me. In this trailer, in my music videos, on tv, in interviews, in my free time. It’s all truly me.”

She bites her inner cheek as he ducks his head and exits the trailer, not allowing her any response.

“You’re late!”

“Meeting ran over with Nick and Olivia. Sorry,” Harry says as he begins to undress.

It’s the first day she has to cover all of his tattoos. It was going to take forever by all accounts. It had been two weeks since shooting had begun and she had gotten the simple hands and neck down to 45 minutes so she could only dread what his entire body would take.

“It’s fine,” she grumbles, knowing there wasn’t really anything else she could say about him coming late from a meeting with the director and producer.

Over the last two weeks, they hadn’t grown any fonder of one another. Not at all. They at least had gotten into a system though and she was grateful for that at least.

They showed up, Harry got in his chair, she set up the music, and they got to work. Harry would practice lines on some days and he’d tell her that before she turned on the music so there were no interruptions. Sometimes they talked about stuff on set or music or she’d give Harry his line when he was trying to be off script and forgot one. She wouldn’t classify it as pleasant, but they weren’t at each other throats like they were originally.

Trailer 6 had gotten a little homier as the weeks went by, too. Harry began leaving some of his stuff there and he started putting up silly drawings he would make while on set or polaroids people had taken with him while he was there. He tacked up napkins of restaurants that catered the set and wrote funny jokes and quotes on post it notes. His personal assistants sometimes brought in snacks while Y/N was still working and Harry always offered her some. They were usually healthy, but sometimes she’d eat some. Jeff, his manager, had also stopped by on occasion during his tattoo touch-ups that had become a thing after shooting days had grown longer.

On first meeting, Jeff had said, “Y/N? Harry mentioned you.”

She had turned to Harry with an arched brow and he had shrugged. When she looked back at Jeff she didn’t see Harry give Jeff one of the deadliest looks he could muster. She had grimaced and said “Well we spend enough time together for him to know my name. So thank god for that at least.”

They had all laughed and she had gotten back to work on Harry’s wrist.

Today, she needed Harry in his shorts. It was the first day of shooting where his character would be only in his boxers so she had to cover up all his visible tattoos. Olivia had told the makeup department they actually had to cover up his feet tattoos as well. She wanted him sockless in the scene and Y/N had groaned immediately when she made it to the trailer and Harry wasn’t already there.

“But please, for the sake of my job, strip, dude.” She says, arms crossed over her chest and leaning against the counter as she watched Harry set his things down. Her soft green striped cardigan is open, exposing the white tank top sitting underneath. Her bright green shorts hang loose on her, cinched at the waist and folded over once. Her white high top nike’s tap impatiently on the floor, waiting for Harry to get moving.

He nodded, truly feeling sorry for his tardiness, knowing today was a long day. He was anxious and tired. Acting was a different experience to music and he just was really trying his best.

As he began to take off his shirt, he laughed. His arms pulled the shirt over his head and when it popped out from beneath it, he repeated, “Strip, dude,” attempting to mimic her American accent.

He had practiced his American accent in front of her while running lines, but it had a 50’s drawl to it. His acting coach had been drilling him for weeks before shooting and he still liked to practice. The accent he had just down was far off from that and far off from hers too.

“Do not,” she warned.

“What?” He asks innocently and flutters his eyelashes.

She knows his game by now and she knows she should just ignore him. She knows this after fourteen days. She knows this after hours with him. She knows this, but then she’s opening her mouth and playing into his teases.

“Sorry, what’s a word you would know? Mate?” She tries for a British accent with the last word, knowing she can’t win this.

Harry snickers and scratches at his nose with his index finger before starting on taking off his pants. “You’re so Californian.”

“Thank you,” she chirps, moving to sit beside him now that he had settled.

“I like your shorts,” he muses, crossing his legs, likely a little cold.

She glances down at her cotton shorts that showed more of her thighs when she sat for a moment before returning her gaze to his left arm. The longest task of the day was this damn arm.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, “Wanted to be comfortable today. Knew it was gonna be long.”

A smile bubbles onto his face, his pink lips parting to reveal his shiny white teeth behind them. “So true.”

The music is low today. She had chosen Joni Mitchel’s Blue album for the first pick of the day. She had quickly learned Harry preferred listening to albums in order. It tended to make him less jumpy when the same artist came on multiple times like an album. So when she tried to play just an album one day, she found him more cooperative and less irritable.

After thirty minutes of work, she can’t stop noticing how shivery Harry is. It was late October in LA, so it was still warm, but admittedly the mornings could be a little chilly. His shivering was concerning for many reasons. Mainly he was messing up her work and concentration, but she also didn’t want him to get sick or something.

“Do you want me to see if they have a blanket and slippers or something? You look like you’re turning blue.”

Harry turns his attention to her. He had been reading over the script for today again. “That’d be great. I can call…” He trails off trying to think of the name of one of his assistants, but apparently he’s too scatterbrained for it. She assumed it was the hypothermia traveling to his brain already.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll walkie someone.” She says as she grabs the walkie talkie, flicking to the personal assistants channel.

“Hey,” she chirps happily. Harry noted how she talked to other people. So sweet, yet sincere. With him, it was serious and sincere but more biting, callous at times. Less so lately, but she definitely was sharper with him. He didn’t know if it even bothered him anymore. She was engaging if nothing else.

“Is someone free to bring two blankets and men’s slippers over to Trailer 6? I’ve got a naked Jack and I don’t want him freezing before I’m done covering up his tattoos.” She takes her finger off the talking button and glances sideways at him, “Who knows, maybe that would improve his acting. Y’know on second-thought-”

“Alright, alright,” Harry tries to grab for the walkie talkie, but she turns from him holding a finger up signalling him to wait as she listens for a response.

Someone says a simple “On it” and she turns off the walkie talkie and gets back to work.

“I took my finger off the speaker before I said the thing about your acting. Relax, Harry.” She says when he’s still glaring at her. “Just love to see you squirm.”

He shakes out his short chestnut hair, some of it falling over his forehead. Instinctively, she reaches up without even looking and smooths it back. Like she was tucking her own hair out of her eyes, but instead it was Harry’s. She decided to say nothing and was relieved when Harry didn’t say anything either.

She finishes his forearm and moves to his outer upper arm. The rose holds her attention when the PA knocks on the door and she has to race to get it. Nothing could stop her from moving on this work. It was already an hour in and she wanted to scream.

She swings open the door and she wants to die. It was Autumn. Her least favorite PA, of course. She was insufferable and obsessed with Harry. Which was not why Y/N found Autumn insufferable. There were so many more reasons. So many. But that particular character flaw didn’t help her case either. Y/N tried to just take the blankets and slippers from Autumn, but the woman insisted that she come in.

“I’ve got it,” Y/N says.

“No, don’t want you to get makeup on anything,” Autumn’s saccharine voice grinds at her ears and she contemplates cutting them off.

Harry sat in his chair, legs crossed, nodding along to the music, his script discarded on the counter in front of him.

“Hi Harry!” Autumn practically yells, walking right up to him.

Y/N takes a deep breath at the door, letting it swing shut. She bites her lower lip as an attempt to bite her tongue as she walks back to her set-up. The set-up Autumn was conveniently blocking.

“Hello, Autumn,” Harry says kindly, making eye contact with her. “How’re you today?”

“So great! So great! Thanks for asking. How are you?” She points a finger at him like she might poke him and Harry squirms away from her a bit. She, of course, doesn’t notice this.

“Well, thanks.” His eyes flicker to Y/N, who is standing behind Autumn, hands on her hips and attempting not to tap her foot. His tone is clearly dismissive, but Autumn must ignore it. Y/N knows Autumn isn’t as helpless as she tries to come off.

Autumn asks, “Where do you want these?”, gesturing to the two blankets and slippers stacked on top.

“Just on the counter is fine, thanks,” Harry says.

Autumn does as he says and then stands there with baited breath. Y/N’s not sure what she’s expecting. For Harry to ask for her hand in marriage or something? But he just glances between the two women. His own foot begins wiggling in impatience.

“Busy day,” He attempts at dismissing her once again - with kindness.

“Oh my gosh, totally!” Autumn gushes, starting to go off on all of the tasks she has to do. She stands so close to Harry, Y/N genuinely thinks she’s going to sit in his lap. Y/N stares up to the ceiling, begging god or whoever to end her misery right there and then.

Harry sees Y/N’s expression and tries to maintain the neutral expression he’s had for the entirely too long interaction. A smile threatens at his rosey lips that had chapped from the morning air.

“Right, well,” he cuts off Autumn, “Y/N needs to get back to tattoo coverage, I think. So...have a nice day.”

Autumn’s eyes widen like she forgot that there was anyone else in the room and steps back from Harry. Y/N nods, a grimace clear on her face. Autumn gives her the same small she used to get from the popular girls in high school when she happened to be talking to their cool guy friend that they wanted to be more than friends with. Sickeningly sweet and completely fake. She could see the contempt in Autumn’s eyes that swirled just beneath the surface of her perfectly outlined green-ish eyes.

“Okay! You too, Harry!” She begins walking to the door and Y/N takes her seat again, closing her eyes and counting to ten. “And Y/N,” Autumn adds as an afterthought.

“Oh my fucking god,” Y/N sighs, her hands going to rub over her face and through her hair. “That was exhausting. Jesus Christ.”

“What? She’s nice. Maybe a little clueless,” Harry counters. “But she was so nice,” he confirms again, seemingly trying to convince himself of it as well.

She grabs the slippers and slips them on the ground so Harry can put them on easily. Then one of the blankets that she drapes over Harry’s bottom half. He smiles at the gesture, a ‘thank you’ said in a whisper.

“Please, she knows what she’s doing,” Y/N scoffs, “And she’s obsessed with you!” She grabs the concealer to get back to work, “She was all over you and never took her eyes off of your body. It was like she wanted to touch you or something. It was icky.”

“You touch me,” Harry adds cheekily, adjusting beneath the warm blanket.

She laughs, a smile gracing her lips as she gives Harry a look. He was clever.

“It’s my job to touch you, Harry.”

Harry had really tried to not laugh, but it was just so funny. They both snicker, their eyes meeting for a moment longer than usual.

“Speaking of my job,” she adds after controlling her laughter, “Does she not realize just how long it takes to cover all of your bloody tattoos with this shit to make it look like you’re a pristine skinned 50’s psycho killer?”

She finishes the rose coverup and moves to the ship. Harry nods solemnly.

“It’s true...And it doesn’t help that you’re terrible at it, so it takes a thousand years longer than it should.” He adds, laughter overtaking his serious tone at the end.

“Oh my god!” She shrieks in delight, trying not to mess up her work, “That is so rude! I messed up one time - mostly because of you, by the way. And give me a break, this is so not what I thought I’d be doing as a makeup artist for movies.”

He nods again, muttering “Fair, fair.”

They grow silent, enjoying Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, the album that she had queued after Joni’s.

“The body thing, I just learned to ignore it, I think.” Harry mutters, eventually, but it’s thoughtless, like he’s not revealing anything about himself with the statement. But it kind of shocks her. Her eyes widen and she stops her work to stare at his face.

“Harry,” she waits till his eyes meet hers, “That’s, like, not normal. Are you serious?”

“I mean, I’m very comfortable with my body, like I haven’t minded the last 45 minutes of sitting practically nude in front of you. And I have plenty of revealing photos out in the world. I just don’t notice staring anymore, it’s not, I don’t think it’s what you’re thinking,” he tries to reassure her. His eyes are intent on hers, full of seriousness that hadn’t been there a few moments ago.

“It’s one thing to be comfortable in your skin and another to be desensitized to objectification,” she insists.

He nods. “I know. Thank you. I would let you know if what she had done had bothered me, so don’t worry. I felt completely safe the whole time.”

“Good,” she nods back and concentrates again. “Good,” she repeats once more under her breath. There had been way too many distractions already today and she wasn’t even done with his arm yet.

As she continues to work up his arm, Harry sings along to some of the songs on Elton’s album. He happily taps his feet to the different beats, now safely tucked in soft fluffy slippers. She would never admit just how amazing it is to be in the same room as Harry’s singing. It was truly special to be less than a foot from him and hear him sing just under the unique voice of Elton - who was someone he actually knew, which was equally as cool.

He hit every note and knew every word. She was impressed. How could she not be when a literal rockstar sat before her? This was the first time she was truly starstruck by her charge, Mr. Harry Styles.

By two hours, they had moved onto an album by Dolly Parton and they were both singing. They strangely had no fights today, maybe some snarky comments from both of them, but no outright mean-spirited words were exchanged.

She stood in front of Harry, finishing up the swallows. She had finished both arms and the birds, all she had left was moving down his body. Up next, the butterfly.

“I love this tattoo,” she mumbles, twisting Harry’s standing body to face her and taking her seat again. This left her eye to eye with the butterfly on his stomach.

He makes a surprised face and raises his recently plucked eyebrow at his counterpart. “Oh really?”

“Don’t act so surprised. I told you day one that not all of them are rubbish and honestly they’re all pretty cool. I just was so annoyed that I had gotten tattoo coverage as my job and then I had to go and index them all.” She flicks her eyes up to his sculpted face and sees he’s watching her work. “Plus, I have some butterflies of my own, remember?” She grins.

“Yeah,” he ponders her words, “I don’t think that’d put me in a good mood either.”

He pauses again and she continues to work silently.

“So what’s your excuse for the second day then?”

“You provoked me,” she doesn’t spare him a glance, shrugging like it was the simplest answer in the world.

“Pardon?”

“Let’s not go down this road again, Harry.” She sighs, smoothing over the freshly covered butterfly tattoo. His sternum looked so naked, it was unnerving. Now the ferns.

Harry involuntarily shivered when her fingers traced over the ferns lightly, taking note of the expanse of skin she’d have to cover.

“You’re right,” he agrees, “But agree to disagree on the provocation.”

“Sure,” she says curtly, focusing on his skin and her job.

The expanse of skin that the ferns inhabited was slightly fleshy and especially soft. It bordered where his boxers began and she ignored that part of his body completely. It was of no importance to her and she really had no issue blocking it from her vision, even when it was right in front of her. She finishes one fern with Harry jumping only twice from her cold hands. He couldn’t put his robe on until the makeup had all set for half an hour so he’d have to be cold for possibly another hour still.

She traces the fern that is still visible and Harry shivers. She instinctively shushes him softly and his body quiets. As she works, her hair splays around her shoulders and Harry looks down at her working and doesn’t realize what his hand is doing until it’s too late. His right hand runs over her hair, smoothing it out of her face. It was rarely ever down, so it must have been the novelty of it.

“Sorry, I-” he chokes out when he jerks his hand back.

She sits back, slightly taken aback. Her body flushes just from their positioning and what a hair caress would mean normally in this position, but she’s a professional and she shakes it off.

“It’s fine. We’re even.” She assures him, breaking eye contact with his own wide eyes. “Seems like we’re both hair touchers.”

“It’s just so soothing,” Harry muses. “I think it’s human instinct to touch other people’s hair since it’s so enjoyable for yourself.”

“Possibly,” her voice raises, his thought was definitely plausible. Or maybe they were just two touch starved people who were very much in each other’s personal space 24/7.

At the two and a half hour marker, she gets a walkie message from Olivia’s assistant asking when they’d be done. She had just finished the tiger tattoo, which had been surprisingly easy. It took a while, but Harry didn’t shiver once and neither of them pet each other’s hair.

“Probably 40 minutes, sorry. He has a lot of tattoos and the makeup needs to set.” She says seriously and gets back to work, barely regarding the response of “Yeah it’s fine, just wanted an estimate”.

“Jesus,” Harry moans as she covers up his knee tattoos.

She groans in veiled disgust, “Did I just hit a secret erogenous zone? Is that why you have ‘oui’ there, you creep?” There’s a teasing tone behind the nickname she uses.

Harry laughs and runs his hand over his face, pulling at his jaw and lower lip. His jaw is so sharp, she watches him adjust it. “No, no. I’m just so goddamn tired of this.”

“And it’s not your fault,” he adds, feeling bad immediately after he said it. “It’s actually been nice today, but I’m feeling antsy, like I need to move. I don’t like to sit still.”

“I know,” she says under her breath. She simply nods in agreement.

Finally, the tattoos are all covered up and set. They had talked about George Michael when she got to his ankle tattoos that she hadn’t seen before and they laugh about the tattoos and chat a bit more. She helps him slip on his robe that he keeps in his closet in the trailer and then follows him out of it. They had decided they were hungry and he had been pushed back an hour since he had taken so long, so he had a free half-hour.

As they walked to craft services, they talked about actual things besides work. She was pleasantly surprised by what Harry talked about. It was more than music or the movie. It was the tv show he was currently obsessed with and how he hated LA’s traffic the most out of all of his dislikes for the city. She couldn’t help but grin at his Los Angeles slander. She loved this side of him.

Breakfast together after finishing his tattoo coverage became their regular thing. He would come into the trailer, racing from his morning meeting accompanied with tea for two, they’d get his tattoos covered as quickly as possible, and then they’d eat together.

They’d save their “in-depth” chats for breakfast. In early November, he joked about No Nut November and insisted he really wouldn’t have a problem with it - which had made her laugh. They worried together over the U.S. presidential election and meditated together in his trailer to Fleetwood Mac.

Around late November, Harry had requested that Y/N just do his face makeup as well, just to simplify his life a little more and the department had agreed easily. She had to spend extra time on set getting lectured on how to properly do Harry’s makeup, but after two days she stopped getting notes about it. She was so extremely proud and thankful to Harry for doing that.

All he said was: “I mean, you’re extremely talented so I’m not scared of you fucking up my face. Plus, it does make my life easier. Two birds with one stone.”

In late November, he told her about his favorite holiday drinks at Starbucks and what he was getting his mother for Christmas.

When the Vogue cover came out, he laughed over that woman who responded to his cover saying the world needed to bring back manly men. He joked that he was going to really push that from now on, that he was a manly man, and he would sputter with laughter every time he tried to say it with a straight face.

He hand delivered her a special ‘Treat People With Kindness’ sweatshirt that he only had for the cast and crew of the film. Most everyone got them from a PA, but Harry decided since you saw him first in the morning, why not.

He told her about him winning Hitmaker of the Year from Variety when he had left the award sitting in Trailer 6 and about how weird it was to film acceptance speeches in an empty room. His smile had lit up the entire set that day and the day he did his interview on set. He was so smiley she had to bump him with her elbow because he wouldn’t stop smiling at her and it was unnerving.

“Stop that,” She muttered.

“Stop what?” He smiles wider.

“That!” She squeaked, her head shaking as she ducked it to regard his anchor tattoo. “You’re smiling too much.”

“Oh no,” he says sarcastically, “God forbid I be happy.”

“It’s not that,” she bumps his thigh with her elbow, trying to keep her own smile off her face, “Your face is just so intense when you smile. Feels like you’re gonna burn a hole through me.”

He laughs, completely unconvinced, “You just don’t want me to be happy is what I’m hearing.”

She rolls her eyes, “Whatever, dude.”

She saw he was serious about the ‘manly men’ references when the Variety photos came out and everyone and their mom posted the pictures with some variation of that comment as their caption.

She still found that she rolled her eyes at some of the things Harry did, but she genuinely counted him as a friend by the time December had rolled around.

Over three hours, almost always completely alone, doing work for a job you both care deeply about can really make or break a relationship. And that first full-body coverage day had made them stronger together. After that, Harry and her would banter with one another, but there was never anything intentionally cruel. Just friends giving each other shit sometimes. Harry had been right, he had changed her mind about him. And she had realized that that was who Harry was. He was a deliverer. If you didn’t like him at first, he would try and try again until you did, but he did it in a way that wasn’t weasley or anything. It was terribly genuine and she saw it in every relationship he had on set.

On several occasions she had witnessed his friendship with Nick Kroll. A man she had regarded with dislike before the film. She had quickly realized that dislike was misplaced, but she maintained that it was just because she hated adult cartoons - citing that she literally refused to be friends with any person who willingly watched the Simpsons, Family Guy, and/or American Dad and all of those similar shows.

Nick was far nicer and less weird than she had realized. So she quickly shot her friend from high school an apology text for all the Nick Kroll slander she had spouted back in the day. Her friend had rejoiced but also said how jealous she was that Y/N got to see him regularly on set.

Nick and Harry got along great. Harry generally got along better with older people, she noticed when she was introduced to his friends on the somewhat frequent occasion. Trailer 6 was where Y/N saw most of these reactions take place. She would be introduced in the first minute and then she would smile politely and get back to the work of covering up Harry’s numerous tattoos.

Harry would say something simple and Nick, the literal famous comedian, would laugh. In the beginning she’d raise a brow, confused because it truly wasn’t that funny, but as Harry’s friend now, she kept her mouth shut.

Nick would come and sit on the couch while she’d work and eventually all three of them would chat. Sometimes she would get up to go to the bathroom during those morning chats and she would look in the mirror and think to herself “How are you casually talking to these two men right now” and then she’d think “Because you are a boss ass bitch, you got this” and go back out there with a smile on her face.

“Y/N, what are you doing tonight?” Nick asked on the first Friday morning of December.

She looks up from Harry’s cross tattoo that was half covered. Harry was reading, a book casually propped in his right hand and glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He glanced at the other two in the room. Nick had been getting some work done before he had spoken.

“No plans,” she states simply before getting back to work. It wasn’t full body today, but it was arms and torso, so kind of a lot still.

“You should come over for dinner at my place with Harry,” Nick smiles kindly. His scruff was really coming in today. “To celebrate us almost wrapping the first half of the movie.”

Harry had thankfully freshly shaved before he sat down. It was her least favorite part of her new job. Whenever he came in for touch ups and she had to shave his afternoon shadow. She was terrified she’d cut him and never live it down from her department or Harry. She had no idea which would be worse.

“My wife will be there too, of course,” he adds, hoping to entice her to say yes.

Harry glances between Y/N and Nick again before focusing on his book again.

She purses her lips, finishing Harry’s hand and moving onto the anchor tattoo. “Yeah, I mean, I don’t know why I’d say no. As long as I’m not intruding on the throuple,” she grins up at Harry.

He stares at her with his big green eyes, slightly obscured behind his prescription glasses. He raises his brows and wiggles them a little bit, teasingly.

Nick laughs and slyly winks at Harry through the mirror. Y/N none the wiser as she removes all traces of Harry’s tattoos.

“Great!” He claps his hands and stands up. “We’ll talk or I’ll make sure Harry gets you the info or something. I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out. My wife’s been wanting to meet you,” he smiles again and walks out of the trailer.

She tilts her head at the last part. He talked about her to his wife. Did he really count her as that close of a friend? She was just a makeup artist and he was a producer… She glances at Harry and he gives away nothing. His jaw looks extra prominent and she knows it’s because he’s clenching it. He did that when he was focused or angry, remembering it bulging on the first day they met and how clenched it had been then.

“Unclench your jaw,” she mutters, “It’s not good for you.”

Harry hums and unclenches it.

He stretches his neck by rolling his head around his shoulders and she glances at the movement. His skin is still beautifully sun-kissed and his pores look so soft, only his moles change the texture of his skin. She loves his moles though, they make him especially unique in her eyes. Not that he needed anything else to set him apart from the crowd. Still, she loved them. His collarbone is prominent as he sits there shirtless and she wishes she could reach out and brush at it. But she gets back to work, knowing the only time she’s gonna be brushing near that part of him is when she’s covering dates in those dips behind his collarbones.

“Y’know, I could just drive you to Nick’s tonight,” Harry says, putting his book down and taking off his glasses. He rubs at his eye with his free hand.

“You’re blind and British, how do I know you can even drive yourself?” She asks sillily, pointing to his glasses.

He shakes his head, “I’m serious, Y/N. Aren’t you staying in the same area as me?”

He asks because they had relocated to Palm Springs a little while ago and everyone had gotten rentals and it was hard to remember where everyone was holed up when they weren’t on set.

“Yeah, think so. But you don’t need to pick me up. I have a car.”

“Nonsense. I’ve been to his place before, don’t want you to have to deal with directions, that’s just silly.”

“I guess...” she resigns relatively easily. She had never hung out with Harry off the set or Nick for that matter. It felt surreal, but she knew the right answer was usually just say yes in these situations. So that’s what she says. “Yes, that’d be great, thank you,” she confirms and watches as Harry’s eyes glimmer softly before turning back to his book. A triumphant soft smirk rests on his face.

The words die out between the two of them as she works on. He hums along to the music and continues reading his book. When she’s done with his tattoo coverage and his face makeup, she sends him off to hair and the rest of his day. He gives a flirty wink as he walks out the door and she rolls her eyes in response. She tidies up her kit and then goes to do some other makeup work.

When she wasn’t working with Harry, she was assigned to some of the minor characters and doing their makeup. They were always her second concern, especially now that she did Harry’s makeup as well as his tattoos. As she works on them, she can feel her mind drifting to Harry. Harry and how they were friends now. She was pretty sure, right? They were friends. He had never really said a mean thing to her if she really thought about it. It was her… She had been rude and mean-spirited and he had just taken it. He rarely had even thrown it back at her. He was so good to her and patient and she realized that he had proven to her that he was good. He was better than good, he was kind and loving. Considerate. Wonderful. All of those positive superlatives, Harry filled them. And she had the audacity to be mean to him.

She paused the brush that was adding blush to an actresses cheek.

Lisa, the actress, looks at Y/N confusedly, “What’s wrong?”

Y/N twitches her head, refocusing on her task at hand. The realization of her pausing her work becomes clear as she looks between her hand and the cheek that has not enough blush on it. “Oh,” she breathes. “...I just realized that I was terrible to someone who doesn’t have a mean bone in their body.”

Lisa nods, “Apologize.”

“Yeah, I mean...We’ve kind of moved past the phase where we don’t get along. Like now we’re friends, but the realization just really hit me.” She sighs, picking up where she left off on Lisa’s makeup. “I’ll make sure to apologize next time I see them.”

Lisa smiles.

At the end of the day, Y/N realizes she left her tattoo coverage kit in Harry’s room after their touch-up session halfway through the day. She had run off to help with a makeup emergency for a tiny cut on a minor character’s face and forgotten to go back and grab her things. Another roll of her eyes and a huff of breath and then she’s walking back to Trailer 6, a place that seemed like a home away from home now. She knocks, patiently waiting at the bottom of the steps.

Harry swings open the door and props it with his hip. He’s got a toothbrush held in his mouth, slowly scrubbing back and forth with his left hand. His costume is somewhat taken off, he’s still got the pants on with suspenders hanging down, his chest was completely bare and he looked funny with some of his tattoos only being half covered based on what parts of his skin had been showing today. Her work. His skin looked half silky smooth and half tattooed like usual.

His naked skin seemingly left her breathless because as her eyes returned to Harry’s face, she breathed a soft, “Hi.”

“Hey,” a smirk twists onto his face. “Forget something?”

“Yes,” she nods, coming back to her senses and entering the trailer at Harry’s gesture.

She begins to pack up the kit that had been left haphazardly strewn around on his counter. “I’m sorry I left a mess like this, I got called over to something else and forgot.”

“Don’t worry darling,” Harry grins at his joke.

She looks up from her work and sees Harry in the reflection of the mirror. He’s wiping off the makeup from his chest and his beautiful tattoos reemerge as entire images.

She laughs humorlessly, “It gets less funny each time you use that.”

“That’s not true,” he looks at her through the mirror now, his green eyes trained on her face, “Everyone else still thinks it’s hilarious.”

“They’re humoring you and your fragile ego,” she winks and watches as Harry’s smirk twitches from his perfect face.

“You’ve got a very mean disposition, you know that?” He asks.

He finishes his chest and moves to remove the makeup from his left arm, glancing at the mirror every so often to check himself and to flicker his eyes over Y/N’s face.

She genuinely laughs at that, but scolds herself internally for being mean when she had planned to apologize the next time she saw Harry. This was the next time so why was she doing this instead?

“Rewrite sweet disposition for me?” Her voice honeyed. Clearly stubborn and terrible at saying sorry...maybe her and Harry were a better match than she realized.

Harry twists his lips as he slips on his t-shirt he was wearing today.

“Pick you up at 6:30?” He says as his head pops out from beneath the rainbow striped sweatshirt he slipped on top of the shirt. His chestnut hair had been toweled out and was flopping over his forehead slightly.

She sighs and zips close the kit, standing from the seat she had taken at his counter and turning to face him now.

“6:30 is perfect. Thanks again for doing this. I just can’t believe Nick Kroll is inviting me over for dinner!” She smiles, shifting to lean against the counter as she waits for Harry to finish up. She didn’t have to but for some reason she felt like she was in no rush.

“Are you serious?” He’s moved on to changing his pants now and he’s slipping on black sweatpants.

“Yeah…” She blinks and her eyes widen as Harry appraises her expression.

He straightens up after fixing a cuff on the pants and he can’t tell if she’s being genuine or sarcastic. It was always so hard to tell with her.

“I mean, Nick Kroll is like a huge celebrity and I know in the entertainment business you’re not supposed to get starstruck but when I was in college my sister thought he was weirdly hot and my friends and I would shit talk him. I don’t know, it’s just kind of surreal to be having dinner at his place. Like I’ve watched him on tv and now I’ll be eating with him...so weird.”

He shakes his head, beginning on his dirty vans now. A small laugh escapes his mouth and he glances between her and his shoe, scratching his head quickly. “I still can’t tell… It feels like you’re fucking with me right now.”

“I’m not!” She insists, her hands coming out in front of her in a confused fashion. “I used to watch that guy’s tv show then he’s my boss now he’s inviting me over for food? It’s a lot to process.”

“How come it’s not surreal to be having dinner with me then?” He asks semi-joking, a hint of offense tinged within it. It’s visible only in his knitted brow and twisted lip.

“Careful there, sailor. Venturing into some dangerously self-absorbed waters.” Her eyes light up, a quick raise of her brows accompany the shine, and she decides now is her time to head out. Especially as she thinks about getting ready for this soiree tonight. She needed to shower and pick out an outfit with less than two hours to prepare.

Harry sputters at her response and fumbles with his pink shoelace. “That’s not...that is - You’re being unfair. My question is valid.”

She shrugs her shoulders and skirts Harry’s attempt at grabbing at her arm to stop her from leaving. “Okay, Mr. Big Man On Campus. I promise you you’re the most popular boy in school.”

She blows him a kiss and walks out the door as he attempts to get her to come back by calling her name a few times and slightly shouting “C’mon! I wasn’t being insecure. That was a reasonable ask…”

He sighs and shakes his head again. Every interaction would end with one of them either rolling their eyes or shaking their head and usually a sigh on both of their lips. It was exhausting, but exhilarating too.

20 minutes later, Harry receives a text from Y/N: “You’re still picking me up right :))) ?”

He’s in his car, getting ready to finally leave after getting held up with last minute schedule changes that he had to be informed about by some PA that he had forgotten the name of. His lip quirks to the right and he closes his eyes for a second enjoying seeing her name on his phone screen for a moment.

He types back: “Of courseeee”.

“Fab.” She sends back, immediately followed by: “Fanks BMOC ;)”

A full smile rolls onto Harry’s face after he swipes his tongue over his lower lip. “Yeah, yeah, save it for the next guy” he types out quickly before throwing his phone gently beside him and driving back to his apartment. She made him feel young, not that he wasn’t young, but generally his friends didn’t text like she did.

At 6:28, she receives a text from Harry Styles - his name in her phone. A name she had never expected to see in her phone unless her Spotify was on shuffle. Yet, instead, his name popped up under messages and it read “Here!” followed by a quick “I think” and then a phone call coming through from the apparently anxious man himself.

“Hello Harry.” Her tone even. She throws little items into her purse, making sure everything she needs is there.

“Could you peek out your window? I’m not quite sure I’m at the right place and people are staring…” nerves laced in his rushed tone.

She ambles to the window and opens up the shade she had closed to change. Below her, she sees a sleek black Range Rover with a slightly disarrayed hairdo and big dark glasses peeking below the windshield. She ignored the instinct to retch at the sight of the Range Rover and peered at the lamp lit sight below her. It was definitely Harry, but she searched for the prying eyes he was worried about and saw none. Well, maybe a few, but it wasn’t a lot.

“I see you, I’ll be right out, dude. Just deep breaths, it’s mostly crew staying here right now so they’re just seeing that it’s you, another guy they work with. They won’t come up for pictures...I would hope.”

She hangs up with no farewell, snatches her purse from its place on the bed and races out the door. Harry smiles anxiously at her when she stands next to the passenger’s door and he unlocks it. She bites her lip and raises her brows, waiting to hear if anything terrible happened in the minute and a half it took her to come downstairs and out to the car.

“Hi,” he exhales.

A smirk crawls onto her features and her eyes sparkle with a bit of a childish glee that normally she didn’t exhibit as she glances at him. “Hi.” She says quietly. “Alright big boy?”

“‘M fine.” He huffs but balks at her smile that she maintains while she stares at him. “What?”

“Just happy to see you, I guess,” her smile returns after speaking and Harry glances between her face and the windshield in front of him.

He can’t tell if she’s being serious or not once again. But he fears that conversation of her either ridiculing him for thinking she is serious or being offended that he still can’t tell. Instead, he will keep his mouth shut. For the most part.

“Happy to see you, too,” his lips create a closed mouth smile quickly before turning out of the parking lot.

She watches him. Their first time together outside of work. And they were friends. She needed to get used to simply thinking that. He picked her up to take her to dinner with her other friend and his wife. This was normal life, just with big names behind those terms of relation. Jesus, she always said it didn’t bother her to be around celebrities so why did she think about it so damn much?

She twitches her head and refocuses on Harry and his driving. His jaw is clenched again and she wants to reach out and sooth it herself. Instead she starts to open her mouth to correct him, but stops herself from that as well. They weren’t at work and it didn’t feel like something just a friend would say right now. She refocuses on the view of his eyes that are barely visible while he regards the road. His large eyes that she had grown acquainted to are surveying what he’s doing, every so often drifting to the right side of the road to check out the lane beside him. But then, always back to right in front of him, leaving a crescent of green visible to her.

“Can feel you staring at me…” His voice sounds like it’s rolled around in gravel after the long work day. It makes her wonder if he’s supposed to have a vocal rest when he’s not at work, but then again it’s the weekend now so maybe it was fine. Maybe she should ask him. Or maybe she should stop worrying so much about him.

“Have I got something on my face?” His low register bumps her from her racing thoughts. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but she can see he’s widened his eyes in wonder.

“No! Of course not, I just was...making sure you weren’t going to crash us or something.” She grasps at straws, desperate to not be caught by Harry.

A low chuckle bubbles from his chest and he spares a small glance over at her bundled up in his passenger seat. She matches his gaze with something of distrust hidden behind her eyes. She hopes to convey that she’s being silly and when Harry turns back to look at the road unassumingly, she feels like she has won. The harmonies of the beginning of a Queen song take over the silence, Harry’s spindly fingers thrumming against the wheel.

They arrive at the Kroll’s Palm Springs residence at 6:50. 10 minutes early and the two twiddle their thumbs for a few minutes, trying to pass the time and not intrude earlier than they were supposed to. She appreciated that Harry liked to be timely but not early, similar to how she was.

“So what is the fascination with Range Rovers?” She queries, leaning against the door’s armrest. The back of her head touches against the semi-tinted window.

Harry shifts in his seat, seat belt no longer constricting him and no road requiring his attention as they sit in the driveway. He rushes a hand through his hair and lets a single strand of hair fall over his prominent forehead.

“Dunno,” he shrugs his shoulders and allows a hand to fall onto the steering wheel absentmindedly. “I don’t really prefer them anymore, but when I’m in LA and doing work, it makes things easier. My other cars are a little flashier...have more privacy in this.”

“Yet the effect is similar,” she muses.

Her head tilts to take in Harry’s appearance, sharp black silky button-up and dark green plaid slacks, and she rubs a hand over her jaw. His eyes flicker to the movement and attempt to really take it in, even in the dim glow of the lamp light outside barely peeking into the dark interior of the car.

“Effect?”

“Y’know…” She arches her brow at him. He feigns innocence or possibly the expression is genuine. She’s begun to realize Harry was as genuine as they came, but she just didn’t think he was that unaware. An assumption that was likely correct, but even Harry liked to pretend he was a completely unassuming individual.

“Forget it,” she finishes when he gives no indication that he knows what she is hinting at. She doesn’t want to get into it with him again. Especially when he plays at this game where he has no idea what she’s talking about. It made her feel like she was crazy for thinking he made these calculated decisions to get his desired outcomes.

They move on, neither of them quite sure what the other was getting at in that conversation. The two of them walk into the house a minute before their expected arrival time side by side and are greeted happily with Nick and his wife. They’re ushered in and Y/N is happily received by the happy couple.

“So, Y/N, how’s it been for you working with these two? I know they can be more than a handful - especially together,” Nick’s wife, Lily, asks after a sip of wine.

The group of four had been eating for a while with Nick and Harry bantering for quite a bit at the beginning about whether or not Harry would be willing to hand feed Nick. The answer was settled at “another time”.

Harry seems to have a very specific habit of watching whoever is speaking - no matter what. So after Lily has finished speaking, his gaze flickers to Y/N, the person his brain expects to speak next. He watches her attentively as she wipes her mouth on her napkin before speaking.

Her hair was styled differently tonight than it usually was on set, she had it down rather than up in a ponytail or braids. He hadn’t had time to really look at her when they had been in the car, his mind occupied with stress and exhaustion that he refocused into driving and deep breathing. Now, in the comfort of a trusted friend’s home, he was far more relaxed and able to truly take in her appearance, which he couldn’t help but think was beautiful. He’d have to tell her that at some point. That he thought she was beautiful. Not that he didn’t see her on set and think she was beautiful...he just hadn’t really thought about it before. She was his wily makeup artist who was critical of him most times, but occasionally sweet, who had an amazing taste in music and good aesthetic style. The beauty part of it all, he guessed wasn’t something integral to their relationship before.

But now he was sitting beside her at the Kroll’s nice dining table and she had her hair splayed in front and behind her shoulders with one side tucked behind her ear and her outfit fit her impeccably. The top she had on had capped sleeves that cinched with buttons at her delicate wrists and a severe drop to create a small sweetheart neckline just above the curve of her breasts. It was silky and shiny, a blush pink that complemented the high waisted dark grey slacks that flared over shiny black boots that he wasn’t sure where they ended beneath the pants.

“Well,” she starts, chuckling under her breath when she meets Harry’s stare, “Harry and I spend a lot of time together, covering up all his tattoos, and he yaps a lot. So, it’s actually pretty refreshing when Nick comes in, because Harry’s then talking half the normal amount.”

He huffs a scoff, while Lily and Nick laugh happily. Nick interjects an “ouch” for the bite she just took out of Harry, but she thought it was fine, he can take it.

Harry thought to himself that if she can serve it, then she can definitely take it. His eyes remain on her as he opens his mouth to speak, but then look at Lily when words actually come out. “Well, Y/N, she thinks she can read people really well, but it’s actually quite the opposite. She had me completely wrong when we first met, so I talk now in hopes that she’ll really understand me.”

His head tilts to her when he mentions her name, but otherwise doesn’t glance her way away again. He scrunches his nose at the end of his comment, implying he converses with her out of pity.

It’s her turn to scoff and stare at him unamused. Nick and Lily share a look, unsure of what was going on, they had concocted this dinner date idea in hopes to set the two up but the way this conversation was going, they seemed to be pushing each other further and further away from one another.

“That’s simply not true,” she says curtly and takes a sip of her quickly emptying wine glass.

“Which part?”

“Almost all of it, I’d say,” her eyes glaring back at him, fiery with a disdain he hadn’t seen in awhile. “You’re proving my original perception of you with every passing second,” she adds.

“Care to elaborate exactly what the original perception of me was for the class,” his eyes are wide and wild, any extra adoration he had started to feel towards her slipping away just as quickly as it had come, like a wave along the beach.

“You know, so why don’t you?”

“I want to hear you say it,” he grits out the command.

She shifts in her seat, glancing at Nick and Lily who are watching on and she has a feeling she won’t be getting an invitation again anytime soon. Lily gives her a semi-reassuring smile like she was sorry to have asked the question at all, but Y/N knows this is kind of her fault, not that she would ever admit that. Her comment could have been taken innocuously, but Harry’s pride wouldn’t let it slide. Like she said, she should have known better, the weeks of friendship were flying out the window and she was helping them along.

“And what if I don’t?”

“Have fun calling an uber at this time of night,” he shrugs, malice dripping in his tone.

She truly was taken aback at this. A slight sound of shock leaving her mouth. Harry was many things, impatient and anxious usually, but downright cruel with her, she had yet to see it. Arrogant and pompous, definitely, but this wickedness that was starting to creep from the shadows worried her. But the little fiery demon within her wasn’t going anywhere either - yet she might back down to save herself some money and hassle.

“Fine,” she raises her brows in a challenge to him and restates her original take on him - possibly adding a bit extra malice in her phrasing, “You are a shell of a man, held up by the people around you, creating the illusion of a completely genuine and down to earth rocker who dabbles in acting, philanthropy and all around goodness. No one’s ever had a bad experience because no one’s ever truly met you. Not the real you.” She takes a deep breath as she shakes her head in disbelief now, a sarcastic laugh leaving her mouth, “And I thought, I really thought, that I had been wrong. Because these past months you really fooled me with your sweet smile and deep eyes. But when it comes down to it, you tricked me just like everyone else.”

Harry stares at her blankly and she shakes her head once more, feeling foolish. For thinking Harry was someone he wasn’t. For thinking the past few months had been real. For thinking that tonight would go off without a hitch. And the shit part of it was that she had really hoped that all of it was true. She wanted this to be her life, but her instincts had been right. Beware of the picture perfect because it always is just a mirage of deceit and lies.

“All I’ve got to say is you’re a damn good actor Harry, so at least you’ve got that going for you.” Then she pushes back from the table and stands, turning to Nick and Lily. “I really am so sorry, I understand that you probably want me to leave, so I’ll just be going,” her voice faltering at the end, she wasn’t as strong as she liked to pretend and she was pretty sure she just ruined her chances of working again in Hollywood. You’d have to be an idiot to be an enemy of Harry Styles and she feels like she just became his first.

“No!” Nick says quickly, standing too, “I think things just escalated really quickly and some things were said that both of you didn’t mean. Um...just, let’s take a few minutes to cool off. Harry could you and Lily deal with the dishes and I’m going to talk with Y/N alone.”

Everyone nods and Y/N follows Nick down a hallway, a little confused but following after he beckons her with his hand. They go out a side door and end up on a porch in the backyard. He stoops down and opens a little sitting mailbox she didn’t see and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He places one between his teeth and then offers one to her. She accepts, not usually a regular smoker, but right now seemed like a fair time to indulge in the bad habit. She needed to calm her rapidly beating heart.

He lights the cigarette for her when he sees her shaking hands and then in turn lights his own. They stand on the porch beside each other and stare out into the dark night sky.

“Well, this wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go,” Nick starts, after a few exhales of smoke.

“No,” she laughs nervously, her foot toeing at the wooden slate on the porch. “I shouldn’t have tried to make a joke.”

“No one’s to blame,” Nick says quickly, glancing at her, “You and Harry...you both have really strong personalities and I don’t think either of you are used to being challenged.”

She nods along, she definitely had to agree after the argument they had both willingly gotten into in front of other people.

“I think that can be a really good thing, challenging each other, because then you two can both grow. But what happened in there was more of a battle to the death rather than a friendly spar.”

“Yeah,” she exhales, flicking at the burning cigarette between her fingers, “I don’t know why he gets under my skin sometimes in a way I’ve never dealt with and it’s kind of uncomfortable so I lash out, I guess.”

Nick stays quiet, taking a drag of his cigarette.

“Ugh,” she groans, “I wish I hadn’t done that. We were doing so well, it’s like I don’t even really know what I’m saying, it’s like I can’t handle a friendly spar, I always end up going in for the kill - as you put it.”

She rubs at her face with her free hand and then takes a drag herself. Nick bites at his lower lip, trying to think of a solution.

“Y’know? Lily and I had concocted this plan to try and set you and Harry up tonight,” he says slowly, revealing the plan that had clearly been taken off the table as they just needed to attempt to salvage cordiality.

“Really?!” She’s in complete disbelief and slight dismay that the plan was seemingly ruined.

“Well,” he sputters, “When the two of you aren’t throwing verbal fireballs at each other, you’re actually quite sweet to one another. Those fond little glances you hope no one sees, well he does that too, and you both fail miserably because I see it all the time. I’m sure plenty of people do too.”

“Oh,” she states, visibly deflating. She looks to the ashtray conveniently on a table behind her and presses out the rest of the cigarette. “Should probably talk to him, huh?”

Nick nods, stamping out his nub of a cigarette as well. They go back inside and into the kitchen where Lily and Harry have plated dessert. Harry looks a little sheepish, likely having a similar conversation with Lily and she wouldn’t be surprised if her expression looks similar, if not a bit more flushed from the outdoor chill.

Lily murmurs that she and Nick are going to eat their dessert in the living room, a fair bit away from the kitchen and the two now deflated counterparts nod and then stare at each other, knowing what they need to do.

“Can we talk?” Harry rasps out, his voice even lower as he speaks softly, a mere foot away from her in the kitchen.

She nods, but moves further from him to lean against the counter and tuck her hands behind her. She’s lost her appetite and doesn’t want Harry to see her shaking digits.

He’s ducked his head and a stray curl falls over his forehead, laying there softly. He doesn’t move to fix it, just stares at his feet until she begins to talk. He can’t not look at her face when she speaks.

“So…” She slowly starts, not enjoying the tension in the room. Her eyes can’t meet his though, his stare dark and unnerving like usual, but almost painfully so now. “I can start.” She kicks at the tiling on the floor like she had done outside as well, trying to not think about the eyes trained on her right now. “I’m sorry I lashed out on you, Harry. I didn’t mean what I said, it was just a heat of the moment response.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Harry says immediately once she finishes speaking, “I shouldn’t have gotten upset over a silly joke and brought up a sensitive subject. Then it escalated…”

“Yeah, I really liked the friendship we’ve garnered these past few months and I just can’t believe I almost ruined everything - including my career…” she squeaks at the end and tears start to roll from her eyes. “Oh god,” she is hit with the gravity of all that she almost ruined as Harry stares at her again. “I’m so sorry, Harry, I really am. Do you forgive me? I don’t think I could stand it if you didn’t.”

She stands there and feels sobs wrack through her and her hands go to cover her face out of embarrassment. She had caused a scene and now she was making another one. In front of Harry.

In an instant his arms are wrapped around her frame and he’s hushing her cries. They had never hugged before, but now seemed like as good a time as ever. His arms were strong around her and she pressed her face into his chest, not caring at all about how she looked or whether this was worse than getting in a fight and running off.

“Of course I forgive you,” he says and then begins repeating her name over and over, trying to soothe her. He definitely had been hurt by her words, but it seemed like she was more upset about the whole situation than he was and he didn’t think bringing up what specifically had hurt him would help her frame of mind.

She settles after some time, her whimpers and tears subsiding after being rocked into a more peaceful mindset with the help of Harry’s calming voice and reassuring embrace.

“I really am sorry,” she whispers again.

Harry pulls his neck back and his head off the top of her head to look at her face. It was tear stained and her eyes were glassy, lips slightly puffy. He gave her a soft tight-lipped smile. “No more apologies,” he states sternly and then softens again at the slight quiver in her lip. He pulls from her a little more, leaving her at arm's length, with his hands still attached to her hips, fingers slipping over the plaid fabric. “I meant to tell you this earlier, before things…” he stares at her face again and she holds it this time, “You look beautiful tonight.”

She scoffs and her eyes immediately drop to her feet, “Definitely not anymore.” She doesn’t believe Harry.

“‘M serious,” he insists. His right index finger goes to rest beneath her chin and brings her face up to look back at him.

“Sure,” she says, still not convinced but not sure how else to respond. She feels herself warming at all the positive attention he’s pouring into her.

His gaze won’t falter from her face, he’s intent upon making her understand him. He whispers her name, “Accept the compliment.”

“You’re stubborn,” she notes.

“So are you,” he counters quickly.

“Fine, thank you,” she sighs when he won’t stop giving her that look of his. That look that makes her want to melt into the ground because it feels like she’s the only person in the world. “Though you looked especially good tonight, too,” she adds, her hands rubbing over his shoulders softly.

“Thank you,” Harry states lowly, the words only traveling to her ears. His hands fiddle with the sides of her top, thinking about the night and where they were now. Her eyes were red from crying and overall she looked tired beyond her years. “Do you want me to take you home?”

“That’d be nice.”

They make a quiet farewell to Nick and Lily, as well as apologies from both her and Harry. They don’t speak in the car and the music plays loud enough for it to not seem unreasonable for them to be silent. Harry’s hands don’t tap against the steering wheel, they sit in their spots stoically doing their job and nothing more. She watches the window, legs crossed and hands clasped in her lap. She’s thankful for the music because she knows that even though they had talked, it wasn’t enough. What she had said was hurtful and one apology wasn’t enough for how she had behaved. She didn’t think her and Harry would be the same after tonight, but the silence made it possible for her to pretend none of it had happened.

Just as Harry’s car is pulling up the apartment complex that is far darker now, the harsh splatter of rain begins to fall on the pavement and the sleek black car the two are still sat in.

“Oh,” she comments offhandedly, just responding to what she had noticed.

The rain grows louder when Harry parks and then turns off the car. He glances at her for the first time since they got into the car. She registers the look out of the corner of her eye, her face still looking out at the rain. She loved the rain, but there wasn’t always a lot in Southern California, especially not in Palm Springs. It seemed that tonight was different.

“Well,” Harry breaks his silence, she thinks that’s her cue to leave and unbuckles her seatbelt, but he continues. “This certainly wasn’t how I expected this night to go.”

She stops moving, her hand hovering over the handle of the door. She sits back and settles into the seat, feeling her teeth bite into the plush of her bottom lip.

“That’s what people keep saying,” her eyes remain on the rain hitting the front of the car, the splatters of seemingly black liquid that form when the clear rain touches the onyx hood of the car.

“Huh?” Harry grows perplexed at the rather wistful tone of her and how she won’t look at him again. He was still hurt, but he had hoped them talking in the kitchen had straightened some things out. During the car ride he hadn’t wanted to talk, but it didn’t mean he was still angry with her. Just confused, and growing further confused by the second.

“Oh,” she repeats, “Didn’t Lily say? Her and Nick concocted that dinner in hopes to set us up.”

Harry hums, knowing that because Nick had left out a little part of that plan. That he had been a part of it. He had been talking with Nick about getting to know her better outside of work and how Nick had thought it’d be a good idea to have dinner so he had told Lily and they set it up like a casual dinner party. Harry didn’t know how to respond because her knowing that he was in on the plan might just make matters worse. He really didn’t think things could get much worse, but it seemed that they always managed to make it happen so in the end he decided to keep his mouth shut.

“I don’t know if we’d ever be able to work out differences out for that,” she decides to continue, when Harry stays quiet. She scans the interior of the car and watches Harry for the briefest moment before going back to looking out the window. “Nick said that we challenge each other to grow, but all I see us do is hurt each other.”

Her voice is just above the rain pattering outside the car and Harry thinks it sounds almost melodic if it weren’t for the sadness laced in every word.

“I disagree,” he states before wetting his lips.

“Of course you do,” she laughs in spite of herself.

“Even after all these months together and you still don’t get it. I like you.”

“You don’t like me, I don’t know how you could ever like me,” she shakes her head. “We just...we get under each other’s skin. You can make me so angry sometimes and I know I make you angry too. And when we’re not angry, we’re focussed on something that doesn’t have to do with ourselves.”

“I don’t think what you feel for me is anger,” Harry insists, “Just because something feels burning and fiery, frustrating even, doesn’t mean it’s anger.”

His body shifts closer to the center divide and she turns to face him finally. His eyes are extra dark in this lighting, which is barely there from a streetlamp a ways off. She longs for the comfort of his light green eyes, the soft pale glow of the moss that seems to have been trapped within his iris. Maybe for that reason she unknowingly leans closer to him.

“Then what is it?” She whispers, eyes blinking slowly as her breathing grows strained.

“Passion.”

Immediately, her head is tilting to meet his lips. Her mind knows one thing, she needs to be kissing Harry right now. And then she is. His left hand goes to cup her cheek as his lips attach themselves to hers. His soft lips press to hers in a long searing kiss. They stay there for a moment, pressing all of that passion and frustration into the kiss.

She presses impatiently forward, her lips starting to move more, wanting to kiss him deeper. Harry obliges, parting his lips and kissing her more vigorously. He licks into her open mouth and smiles at the sound she makes in appreciation for his actions.

She’s shifted to have herself kneeling on the leather seat and she’s leaning over the console. One of her hands finds purchase on Harry’s thigh and grasps tightly, her other at the back of his neck, pressing him closer if it were possible.

His chest is pressing against hers as he pulls her closer. He kisses her and his fingertips rub softly at the apple of her cheek. Eventually they run behind the shell of her ear and trail down her neck.

Eventually, she pulls away and stares at Harry. She watches as his eyes flutter open gently. His soft eyelashes dust his cheeks before moving away, allowing his eyes to peer at her in the dark.

Her breathing feels a little irregular after the kissing and she’s sure she is heaving her chest slightly, likely mirroring Harry’s chest as well.

“So, where to now?” She inquires, lips quirked up at her suggestion.

Harry giggles and scratches his nose against his index finger.

Harry doesn’t stay the night, he walks her up to her apartment door though. He kisses her chastley in front of her door and wraps an arm around her waist as he does so. He bids her a goodnight and a promise of seeing her soon.

They don’t see each other for a month. Both of them had been so blissful after the endorphins of kissing their person that they had forgotten that filming had wrapped. They weren’t set to work for a month. Harry texted her the next morning informing her that he’d be in England until filming resumed. She was still going to be in California, filming was moving back to Los Angeles, so she’d be back in her place there. Her family knew she was working, so they had sent her presents ahead to her place instead. Angie, her only true friend in the area, was spending her time with her actual family and Y/N didn’t want to intrude.

So the holidays were going to be spent alone. Those four weeks alone passed surprisingly quickly. She practiced techniques on herself, bought a tiny Christmas tree like the one in A Charlie Brown Christmas, watched A Charlie Brown Christmas and just about every other holiday movie possible. She fell in love with young Hugh Grant and Colin Firth for the thousandth time. She sang carols to herself and decorated her place with decorations from Target. She jammed out to the new Miley Cyrus album and held dance parties for herself in the house. She baked cookies and even attempted a trifle after watching a Great British Bake Off episode. She did and she did all in hopes that her mind wouldn’t wander to the guy who hadn’t called.

Harry texted occasionally, but it was infrequent at best. He was a busy person, she knew that. She knew who he was. And she didn’t want her mind to have enough time to feel sorry for herself. For her to think that she was just somebody to pass the time with while at work, because if she stopped doing things that’s where her mind would wander. Why did her mind spiral like it did? She had no idea, she’d always been like that.

His absence, their separation, made her question if her own feelings were even true. She wondered if when she saw him he would act as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t said their relationship was passionate and she had kissed him until she couldn’t breath.

Too much time alone, she needed some fresh air. On January 2nd, after an uneventful night at home and a lackluster countdown washed down with cheap champagne, she decided to go and walk around near her place. There was a coffee shop that wasn’t extremely expensive that she also liked that she figured she would get coffee from. After a brisk walk, she walked through the store's doors and ordered an iced green tea. As she waited, she watched the other customers around her, wishing to see a friendly face, someone she knew. And seconds later, she was met with half of that wish. Someone she knew, not necessarily a friendly face.

“Autumn.” She states with a grimace when someone taps her on the shoulder and she spins around.

“Y/N? It is you!” Autumn, one of the PA’s from Don’t Worry Darling who was especially in Harry’s business, exclaims overly happy as per usual.

Y/N bites the inside of her cheek and gives a tight lipped smile, trying her best to be cordial.

“How’s your holiday been!” Autumn asks.

“Great. You?”

“So great!” She’s quick to lean closer and say in a hushed tone, “But I miss working on set, especially getting to see that Harry everyday. He’s just so gorgeous.”

A breath gets stuck in Y/N’s chest at the mention of Harry’s name. Her brows can’t help but raise a bit at Autumn’s comment. Even lowering her voice didn’t make it feel alright to talk about Harry like this. He was her friend after all.

“Sure.” Y/N nods abruptly, realizing Autumn wants some recognition of what she’s just said. Y/N’s eyes glance around the room, hoping for an out like her drink is ready or something - no such luck.

“I mean,” Autumn keeps talking, of course, “You’re so lucky. You get to see him shirtless, like what? Everyday practically? Don’t tell me you don’t miss that just a little bit!”

“I miss working,” Y/N says, avoiding what Autumn is trying to get her to say. “And Harry’s my friend, could you maybe not talk about him like that with me?”

Autumn’s eyes widened in shock, her lips parted dumbfounded by her co-worker's response. Y/N’s name is called for her drink and she’s thankful for the serendipitous nature of that sound getting her out of the awkward situation she had just been in.

When she gets back to her apartment, she surprisingly has a text from Harry himself. She’s always telling everyone; speak of the devil and he will appear, in one way or another. It’s a Happy New Year well wish followed by a separate text asking how she was.

It was sent a minute ago so she decides to try and give him a call. She preferred talking on the phone over texting.

It rings a few times and then, again surprisingly, he picks up.

“‘Lo?” His voice is nice and deep and sounding extra British after his weeks surrounded by family and such.

“Harry,” she sighs contentedly.

“Happy to hear your voice,” he says her name and she can tell he’s smiling just like she is, from ear to ear.

She bites at her lip, hearing him say her name.

“I’m well, thanks,” she says after a moment of happy silence.

“What?” Harry laughs, confused.

“You texted asking me how I was and I called to respond.”

“Got it,” Harry chuckles, and she hears him shuffling around, likely sitting down on something.

“How are you?” She continues.

“Good, starting to wind down for the day,” he lists off the things he’s been doing over the past few days. Some of it work related, some of it family activities. All of it fun, he insists. “What did you do today?” He finishes, knowing she was an avid activity doer based off of the snaps she had sent him over the past few weeks.

“Tidied my place, went to the coffee shop and got iced tea…” she tries to think and then she gasps, “Oh! And I saw Autumn, one of the Don’t Worry Darling PA’s -”

“The one who’s obsessed with me?”

“Exactly!” She laughs, “And I may have kind of told her off… accidentally.”

“Accidentally told her off?” Harry repeats, incredulous. “How’d you do that?”

“Well,” she doesn’t want to tell him the rest, but there’s also a tiny part of her that really does, “She was gushing about you, which, ew. And then she asked if I missed seeing you shirtless everyday.”

“Well do you miss seeing me shirtless?” Harry smirks.

“Oh shut up!” She’s quick to reply.

“So you do?”

“If I really wanted to see you shirtless, all I’d have to do is type in “Harry Styles sh” and it would come up,” she rolls her eyes even though she knows he can’t see them. “Wouldn’t even need the whole word. Guaranteed.”

“Uh-huh?” Harry questions still, “If you want me to send you shirtless pictures that the rest of the world hasn’t seen, Y/N, all you have to do is ask.”

“I do not want you to send me shirtless pictures of yourself!” She exclaims. She feels like jumping out of a window right now. This conversation had escalated so quickly and she felt herself flushing, maybe even perspiring a little bit. And she also knew that she also would probably like it if he sent her shirtless pictures, which made this whole thing worse.

“Offer stands,” he says, smug as he normally was, happy he got to banter with her again. It had been dull without her, if he was honest with himself. “If you ever find yourself in need, just send a cheeky text and I’ll whip one out for you, no matter where I am or what I’m doing.”

“See this sounds like you’re saying something sincere, but really you’re just telling me you’ll send me nudes at any time.”

“No one said anything about nudes!”

“Shirtless, nude, sounds like you’re getting too caught up in the details, hon.”

“No!” He protests, “You’re the one who’s supposed to be flustered right now, not me!”

“Aww, you’re flustered,” She coos.

Harry groans. “Whatever. I’ll be back on the 8th, be ready to go out on the 9th. I’m taking you on a proper date.”

“How do you know I’m going to say yes?” She bite her lip again, she’s really sweating now. She couldn’t believe he had just asked her out on a date out of nowhere. Out of them just joking about nudes. Maybe she didn’t know Harry as well as she thought.

“Because you called me,” he says confidently.

“I call everyone.”

“But I don’t offer shirtless pictures to everyone.”

“That has nothing to do with me saying yes to this date.”

“Or does it?”

She laughs at his words, at how his voice still manages to convey every facial expression and quirk of his lips. She knows there’s a smile on his lips as he stares in the distance, imagining her face just as she is his.

“Yes.” She smiles.

“Yes!” He repeats happily.

She hears him stand up and spin around possibly and she chuckles slightly, amused at the silly man across the world who had seemed to have stolen her heart.

“See you soon, Harry.”

“Not soon enough.”

On the Saturday of their date, Harry insists on picking her up. He meets her at her door and winks at her after pulling away from their short hug. He laces his hand in hers and she follows behind him as he all but drags her to his car that is downstairs. He seems giddy. His hair has grown out in the month he’s been gone and she knows they’ll cut it when filming resumes. He’s wearing Gucci flared blue jeans - she knows from the big logo on the bottom left pant leg - a ‘Waiting for Sunset’ graphic tee beneath a black cardigan with little animals and items knitted in it. And of course, his dirty ass vans. She had hoped that maybe Christmas would bring him a fresh pair from someone, but it seemed there was no such luck.

Either way, he looked good and upon scanning his outfit, she was pleased that she had dressed correctly for the occasion, knowing one of the sins of Los Angeles was being improperly dressed wherever you might go. Harry had said casual, but casual can always mean so many different things. She got it right with light wash high-waisted levi’s, a brown cream rib-knit long sleeve that buttoned like it could be a cardigan, and some fun chunky boots that added some height to her normal stature. She had contemplated between this and possibly twenty other tops and a few other bottoms. Landing on this felt right, plus it didn’t clash with Harry, the color of her shoes actually matched the color of the snake on the cardigan.

They both compliment each other on the way out to his car and she giggles when he stops and twirls her around. He says he didn’t get a “proper look” before for him to compliment her adequately. After the twirl, he nods and starts them off again, complimenting the specific pieces of her clothes and says she looks beautiful again. His giddiness was contagious.

“No Range tonight,” she muses when Harry stops them in front of a Mercedes-Benz cream convertible, top up.

“Not working,” he replies, unlocking the car with the key into the passenger’s side door handle.

She smiles and slides into the car and watches him jog around to his side and unlock it as well.

“Tonight is going to be fantastic,” he says, leaning over the console and kissing her cheek, just beside her lips.

And when he pulls away with that smug smile of his, she knows he kissed her there on purpose. But the little tease only makes her smile more. He was good at this. And he was right.

The night was fantastic. As was every night after. And she learned that Harry was so much more than anything she ever thought. She counted herself lucky to be loved by a man like him.

#harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles one shot #harry styles oneshot #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #enemies to lovers #dwd!harry #idk I always feel like theres more I need to put in here but idk #pls leave feedback and reblog

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i-dreamed-i-had-a-son · 2 years

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Guys, I just watched the first episode of Moon Knight and holy heck. Holy heck this really does have potential to reach close to Daredevil levels of quality

It's well shot, with some truly interesting camera work and framing decisions and consistent lighting

The *acting* oh my GOSH Oscar Isaac go off king! A very solid British accent (and it's not just "basic" British either) to top off an engaging, sympathetic, and compelling performance that immediately got me attached

Darn solid writing. I am very invested in this character's story after one episode because the writing feels natural and is great at developing suspense. The treatment of set-up/payoffs even in just the first episode is extremely satisfying: everything introduced is introduced intentionally, so the things that do receive a payoff this episode (e.g. Marc's reveal) carry real weight, and those that do not (the dead bird skull demon-god-thing) don't feel like cheap baits but rather important parts of a larger, developing story.

On a related note, the writers aren't afraid of mystery, of making the audience wait--or even better, think--and that immediately makes me so much more engaged. I'm drawn in and actively trying to piece together along with Steven what's going on in his life, in doing so creating further empathy between me and his character

The pacing is ~lovely~, not once did I feel bored or confused or like we were spending time somewhere we really shouldn't have been. I stayed engaged with the episode the entire time

Love the music choices! Very different from what I'd expected but they do a good job of making the music fit

Great editing, the transitions they used really help distinctly create the disorienting effects from the switching personalities

They actually made it creepy. Like. I was actually unnerved! They leaned into the horror! And they showed actual blood!! Can you believe it???

The tone was consistent. There (thank GOD) wasn't any bathos; I could take this character and his world seriously, which is extremely important for a character like this because we are being asked to question his reality, and if it is poorly established or not cohesive, then it won't hold up to scrutiny. But Steven's struggles are never truly played for laughs, so his elaborate safety mechanisms in his bedroom, for example, don't seem excessive or paint him as stupid and paranoid. We have sympathy for him, and the only reason we doubt his perspective is because we're seriously shown we should. They could have handled this much more poorly and I'm honestly so impressed at how committed they were to holding one distinct tone and presentation. That's incredibly rare in modern Marvel!

In short, rather than leaving me feeling like the writers are more interested in writing a decent character and establishing his ties to the MCU, this show immediately demonstrates that it is committed to establishing a strong character and story that can stand on their own and truly earn the audience's investment. This is the kind of effort I've been looking for!!

I could go on and on but in summary I'll just say: if the rest of the show continues at this level of consistency and quality, I will have easily a new second favorite show, second only to Daredevil. Moon Knight thus far is exactly what I'd hoped it would be, which is blowing me out of the water because most of me didn't believe Marvel would actually do it. I pessimistically anticipated decent and somewhat intriguing--but now I am extremely interested and impressed. And I'm so excited to see what happens next!!

#marvel #moon knight #quality meta seal of approval #not to hype my own post up i just put that on all meta posts so that i can find them #my meta posts #meta #kay can i just catch my breath for a second #oscaar isaac #oh man. ohhhhh man i am hype #moon knight spoilers #in the strict sense #i didn't really include anything super specific but just in case haha

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hansoulo · 3 years

Text

whisper scarcely breathing

part four of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NC-17, NSFW, explicit language, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff, hurt/comfort but without the hurt, bathing and/or being bathed, choking, female-receiving oral, loss of virginity, unprotected M/F intercourse

Word Count: 6.1k

Image Credit: (x) by @/365filmsbyauroranocte, not meant to be a representation of the reader

A/N: this one is for the boys with the boomin’ system 😩💦

༓ series masterlist ༓

The datapad that you’d left in the garden was thrust back into your possession one morning by the hurried hands of a maid. Truthfully, you had forgotten all about it. The mind, when faced with matters as pressing as the press of a mouth, tends to forget about inconsequential objects.

You’d never met the girl standing in front of you before, and she avoided your eyes while passing over the small screen. She seemed eager to be rid of it. You couldn’t say you blamed her. “‘S yours, miss. The bounty hunter said you’d lost it.”

Did he, now?

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely, careful not to let the datapad drop to the floor as you tucked it back into the deep brocade of your gown pockets. You didn’t have the wherewithal at first to ask her when he’d found it or found the time to return it. But you also didn’t have the common sense to keep your mouth shut. “Could I ask when he gave it to you?”

The servant ducked her head. “This morning, your Highness. I- I was in the loading bay when they left, think he was tryin’ to get a hold of you but didn’t have the time, told me- told me to keep quiet ‘bout it.” A bob of her throat signalled a nervous swallow. “Princess.”

Poor girl, you thought to yourself absentmindedly. Boba probably scared her half out of her wits.

“Really, I can’t thank you enough.” You touched a soft hand to the servant’s shoulder in an misguided attempt to soothe. She returned the action with a nervous smile, eyes still downcast and trying not to shy away.

You never realized how afraid they all were. Of you.

The realization made your tongue tangle in your throat, tripping over some lie about a fever and champagne-induced amnesia as explanation for your exchanges with a man so ill-acquainted.

Hopefully, the maid didn’t make a habit of gossip.

Hopefully, you stopped making a habit of Boba Fett.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

A chaincode, a datapad tracking number, and the rest of your life flashed in backlit neon. You silently cursed yourself for not putting an opening passcode on anything, including the datapad that you now held with slightly tremoring hands.

In your defense, it’s not like it held anything of interest. Mostly just holonovels and some pictures of things you found intriguing enough to want to paint or draw.

But now there was a thing of veritable interest stuffed into a new folder titled “Your Highness” and glowing in galactic basic.

BF-18378-3263827

You stared at the numbers until they morphed into a strong, stern-featured face, muddy in your imagination against the ink night invading your bedroom. Boba left his tracking number there for you. If you wanted to, you could use them to message him or comm him or leave a holoprojection message. Whenever you wanted. Right now, even.

When did he even find your datapad? Why he found it (and why he returned it with the aforementioned numerical contraband) was probably a more apt question.

There was quite a lot to think about. Best to take stock of the present moment, lest you lose your head and go completely mad. As if you hadn’t already.

The facts repeated themselves in a half-conscious mantra, screen slipping out of your hands and onto the pillow beside your head. Facts. Facts were good. What were the facts, again?

Boba Fett was arguably the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy.

Boba Fett was not much of a talker.

Boba Fett was a piss-poor dancer.

And Boba Fett was an unfairly good kisser.

The beginning three points held little negative sway, with the first adding much more appeal than it should, the second a welcome relief, and the third being… sort of endearing.

It was on the last point that your mind lingered the longest.

You didn’t even realize you’d copied numbers into the screen’s communications system until its microphone crackled to life.

One breath, two breaths, stuck in your sleep-thick throat. No words from either side yet. Did you get the tracking code wrong? Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe you were dreaming already, imagining the wind outside to be the quiet, husky inhale that sounded from the other end of the receiver.

“Not falling asleep are we, princess?”

Your eyes shot open. “No. No, I’m…” the words croaked themselves out as you fought down a yawn, “I’m awake.” His low chuckle. “I called you didn’t I?”

“That you did,” Boba assented. Quiet amusement colored his accent. “And you called because…”

“I wanted to,” you said simply, without room for teasing. You were too sleepy to be ashamed of admitting you sought out his company, as foolish as doing so was. No use in hiding what both parties knew to be true.

He let out a noise of soft approval and it rumbled a pleasant sunburst between your ears. “You seem to want a lot of things, don’t you?”

Makes me want… want…

Want what, Princess?

Want you.

You can have me.

The memory snaked a fever flush down your neck, over the still-tender skin and lightly mottled marks. Boba was remembering it just as well as you were. You knew he was.

It gave you a rush, a weird sort of power trip. Because as stupid as you felt doing this, wanting this, he wanted it too. Enough to let your hands thread through his hair and around his arms, then to the scar above his left brow and across his mouth. Enough to let you do it again at the risk of being caught. Enough to leave you his tracking number, like you were two teenagers trading love letters and not legal adults with judgement better enough to do otherwise.

You stayed on the comm for two hours, and only went to sleep because Boba threatened to cut your link off if you didn’t.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

It had been almost five standard months since the first time you’d spoken. Typed words continued to be exchanged under your covers, day after day, night after night. Sometimes you’d fall asleep talking, peppering him with questions about his ship and his job until your throat ached with the effort of keeping yourself awake. Sometimes you did more than talk.

He never fell asleep. Never seemed to sleep, period.

What a strange man. Strange, dangerous, interesting man.

You often missed each other by a hair’s breadth. Courtly flurry and galactic bounty hunting didn’t make much space for private conversation. Boba was still taciturn. You were still naive.

And yet…

You liked him. He listened when you talked about botany and painting, neither of which you imagined interested him. He was arrogant and cocky and insufferable sometimes, but he listened. He told you about his job and regaled your sheltered curiosity with lurid, gory details. He told you about his father.

And one day he somehow, miraculously, had a set of Nabooan watercolors left for you in the garden.

Biting down a juvenile grin with every new message, you watched the quiet ping! of the datapad.

Hello

are you busy?

In a way

how so

Had a brush with Hutt’s rancor

poor thing

Don’t get soft on me now

wasn’t talking about you

Very funny

I’m very, very sorry

Should be. The bastard nearly tore up my flight suit

… show me?

⫸———————————————— ⫷

BF-18378-3263827 HAS ATTACHED 3 FILES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

HOLOCALL DURATION: 02:45:35 HOURS

SAVE CALL RECORDING? PRESS YES/NO TO CONFIRM

Your damp hands tremored.

YES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

Six months, four days, and 20 hours. That’s how long it took for you to see Boba Fett again.

You’d started to think the entire ordeal was a mirage, an illusionary experience your brain conjured up for you as a one-time brush with what your life could have been. Who it could’ve been with.

But you did see him again. Foolhardy, reckless, and unplanned.

You didn’t listen to his explanation about having to leave in the morning, taking some third-rate bounty as an excuse to come back to Quas Killam for the first time in what seemed like ages—practically eons since his mouth had last been at your neck. He appeared on your bedroom balcony near midnight like an apparition, mounted by a still-burning jetpack that shut off with an arc of smoke.

You’d been sleeping, albeit fitfully, and woke the minute his knuckles rapped against the glass. You didn’t remember ever telling him where your bedchambers were, but given… everything… you couldn’t say you were surprised he knew. When he crouched down to shed the helmet, it made a soft thump on the plush carpet.

And then you kissed. And kissed. And kissed.

Boba’s fingertips dragged fire across your prickled skin with every pass. Whose breathing was whose didn’t matter. It was hard, heaving, and shared. Eyes closed, lips raw, every part of you dizzy. Dizzy.

The sneeze that left you was loud enough to knock his forehead against yours. Hard.

Feet stumbling until your legs hit the bedspread, you let your weakened knees carry you down into a sitting position atop the covers and tried to catch your breath. Boba only chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by the mild injury.

Of course your body had picked today to come down with a cold. And of course you’d forgotten to tell him.

In your defense (you seemed to do a lot of self-defending these days) you didn’t know Boba would be coming tonight. When you asked him a week ago—the last time you’d spoken—he’d said “soon.” Whatever “soon” meant, you hadn’t anticipated it being now. Your rumpled nightgown and deteriorating personal hygiene was evidence enough of that.

The day had passed in fitful naps, with you waving away all attempts at help until the servants who usually tittered about decided to give you a wide berth until tomorrow. They’d left the door locked and your curtains drawn, thank the gods.

“A hello would’ve been nice,” you mumbled. The lingering taste of him in your mouth mixed with the bitter medicine that you’d forced down a few hours ago.

Boba didn’t answer at first, only stalking forward with his silhouette glowing in light of the full moon. You brought your knees up to your chest to make room for him to stand in front of you. Every movement was bathed in slowness, in the reverence of caution and night-time silence.

His gloved hand brushed against your chin and tilted it upwards, thumb rubbing a small circle into your jawbone as he moved your face in one large grip. Left, inspecting a swollen mouth and puffy eyes, then right. Up to see the column of your exposed neck. Down to meet his bare, dark face.

He kissed you again, more gentle this time. “Hello.”

A soft whimper left your throat.

Oh, you hated it. Hated the way you sounded when he touched you, small and pathetic. Needy.

The balustrade doors were still open, and this fact was made known by a particularly biting gust of silver wind.

“You’re cold,” the man standing close to you noted with a deep downquirk of his mouth. Boba never had to conceal anything; his helmet did that for him. But when it was off, every thought flickered past his face in evening technicolor.

Your hands paused in their run up your arms to hold petulantly at your elbows, covered only by the thin fabric of your shift. Goosebumps rose against your neck with a new breeze and you fought down the urge to shiver. “M’not.”

“And stubborn.”

You glared at him, but it held no real venom.

“I appreciate the concern,” you sniffled again and your body trembled slightly. “But I’m the picture of health. I really have never been—” here you sneezed rather violently, crumbling any remaining sense of composure and making the final words thick with congestion, “—any better.” Boba hooked two strong arms underneath your knees and around your shoulders. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“C’mon,” Boba grunted and lifted you to his chest in one swift, easy motion. “Up.”

“I’m already up,” you grumbled, a headache you’d thought was all but gone now throbbing from the quick movement. Armor pressed to your cheek and you let yourself go pliant, curling up into Boba’s broad chest. He smelled nice. Like the outdoors. The real outdoors—not manufactured gardens or stone courtyards. No, dangerous things. Like deserts and leather and guns.

You queried him as he walked in long strides across the room. “Where are you taking me? Should have you—” another sneeze burned your airways, “—have you arrested for treason. A high crime or misdemeanor of some sort, kidnapping royalty...”

He only scoffed, shifting your slack body into his one-armed grip when he arrived at the entrance of your adjunct refresher. The door opened with a soft click. “You talk too much.”

Your head rolled back to face him, pressed so close already that the attempt made you cross-eyed. “And you,” a polished finger jabbed lightly at his chest plate, “are up to no good.”

You were only joking, but Boba didn’t deny it.

Green was your favorite color, even before you met him. It was the color of gardens. Of mint leaves. Of insects and jewels. Of him.

Gods, he was beautiful. Did he know that? Would he ever believe you if you told him? He was achingly, painfully, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The man set you down to your immediate protests. Funny how quick you seemed to change your mind. “Don’t whine,” he chided when you did just that, pushing you forward by the small of your back.

You walked into the refresher confused, that same confusion compounding when Boba strode over to the marble bathtub in room’s center with a surety that belayed the fact he’d never once stepped foot inside here. Were all bounty hunters this self-assured? Or was he just so full of bathroom bravado that your sprawling floor-plan didn’t faze him?

Whatever the case was, said bounty hunter was now crouched down on the tile floor and twisting the tub faucets until they sprayed out a gush of hot water, quickly filling the room with heady steam.

“Hot water helps.” A still-gloved hand dipped an inch into the filling tub and deemed it acceptable. “The steam’ll clear up those sneezes of yours. And the headache.”

“How did you know I-” your mouth opened and closed before you realized you didn’t do a great job of hiding your symptoms. Maker knows you looked a sight, all mussed and tired and sticky with cold sweat. He should make a run for it now, you half-joked to yourself. He’s only ever seen me stuffed into a corset and done up half to death.

He got up with a grunt and turned back towards you. Beskar and durasteel and tactical fabric suddenly made you feel, for the first time in your life, underdressed. “‘S not hard to tell, princess.”

“Oh,” was your only response as you pushed off the sink counter, fisting the fabric of your nightgown in an unconscious display of hesitancy.

Boba’s heavy boots made for the door.

It was probably just to leave you some semblance of privacy, but you panicked, not wanting to be left alone now that he was finally here. “Wait!” you burst out, reaching a palm onto his shoulder before he could exit. “Wait. Can— can you stay?” Of course he won’t stay, you dolt. He probably came to sleep with you, not babysit you. “Please?”

Both of his hands curled into themselves when he turned back to you, their leather squeaking in the tight flex. Then, they released limp by his sides. Each word was carefully measured, slow-simmering like a pot about to boil over. Like a trigger finger twitchy on a blaster. “If you want me to.”

You answered with a bobbing nod and a swallow. “I do.”

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba Fett had long since forgotten he was a man. Instead, he was armor. He was a code, a set of strict (albeit grey) morals, the steadfast honor he’d been imbibed with from the years with his father and then the years of tearing emptiness after.

Bounty hunters had no time for attachments. They couldn’t afford to humor every batting eyelash with more than a self-serving flirtation, and he’d had his fill of those already. He’d overflowed his cup ten times over with shallow pleasantries and quick release.

But those days were long-gone. Had been for years now. Now he was practically puritanical.

Had been, anyway.

He didn’t like thinking of himself as impulsive, wanting to leave the trait behind in his younger years but not being old enough to shake it off completely. But he wasn’t impulsive anymore. He wasn’t.

You were going to destroy him.

Low-ranking royalty on some Imperial-occupied factory planet; sheltered and pretty. You had the brightest eyes he had ever seen and a temperament that took no prisoners, and you were going to destroy him.

Boba thought you’d make him leave, but you didn’t. You wanted him to stay and told him so.

So he stayed. His armor was peeled off in your presence for the first time— carefully placed on a chair in your bedroom—and he walked back into the refresher to see you untying your flimsy nightdress like it’d done you a personal wrong.

When it dropped beside your feet, it took every ounce of self-control Boba possessed to stop himself from eating you whole.

He heard you kick it to the floor (his eyes had since been very determinedly fixed on a fascinating piece of groutwork near his left foot) before you stepped into the bath, sighing in a way that made breathing a work harder than it should’ve been.

His looking away wasn’t a request on your part, you didn’t seem to mind either way, but he didn’t trust himself to do otherwise. Not until the sounds of splashing had subsided somewhat, signalling your stilled motion. “Boba?”

Now there was permission to walk. Look down. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, the clawfoot of the bathtub. He had reached his destination.

A wet hand tugged at his belt loops and he finally allowed himself to look, meeting the sight of you sitting bare in the clear-blue water with legs pulled up to your chest. The arm not touching him was roped around your calves. Your chin rested on the wide, curved lip of the tub.

If Boba had any self-respect, it had been snuffed out the first moment you opened your mouth, six months ago in that cavernous palace hallway with your failed attempt at bravado. It was haughty, short-lived, and adorable.

Maker, you were beautiful. Did you know that? Would you ever believe him if you told you? You were blindingly, effervescently, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The position of your chin forced your lips into a slight pout. As if you needed another weapon in your arsenal of ways to make him question his judgement. “Could you bring me the tray on the counter?”

Of course he could. He could bring you anything you liked. He would bring you a rancor, a dozen rancors, a fucking sarlaac if it meant you would smile all soft-like the way you just did when he answered yes.

Boba Fett, mercenary feared farther than he would ever live to travel and hunter too expensive for the Imperial payroll, was now a bath attendant. It was torturous in its sensual irony.

The tray was brought over in short order, cluttered with tiny vials of Maker-knows-what and bars of who-knows-how. Individually they probably all smelled nice, but crowded together the heavy scents only made his head spin. He set the tray down on the floor with a rattle and held up each mystery soap for your inspection. No. No. No. No, not that one. Gods, you were picky. No. No. Yes, please.

You were Miss Manners tonight apparently.

“It’s floating archidia,” you told him, mind running through an endless backlog of plant indexes as he handed over the soap. You sounded clearer now, less congested and more alert. Needed to drink water, though. “The flower that this is made with, I mean. Native to the planet Nubia, rumored to have euphoric properties.” You snorted and ran a thumbnail along the bar’s waxy edge, bringing up a curled pink piece. “Whatever that means.”

“Do you think it does?”

“Have euphoric properties?” you hummed, considering it for a moment. “Maybe. But maybe it’s just wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” Boba parroted.

The meaning of words can change when they’re repeated. Neither of your minds were on flowers.

His jaw tensed when you reached your other hand to his forearm, baring the rest of your body to the dim orange of the refresher lights’ night settings. The water rippled, warm now instead of steaming, and your fingers curled around the scarred skin of his wrist. “Take off the gloves,” you echoed, your voice suddenly desperate and distant as you traced over pale leather seams. “Please.”

He had refused the first time simply to toy with you. You weren’t used to being told no, and it showed. But he let you take off his helmet in a moment of thoughtless self-indulgence, scratching the part of his subconscious that itched to be touched, stroked, held. Shedding the helmet in front of someone else didn’t really mean anything in an honorable sense—at least not to Boba. Nothing tied him to the habit except a desire to keep himself and his motivations unknown. It was easier that way. Less messy.

He acquiesced. "Since you asked so nicely."

Wrinkling your nose, you guided newly-bare palms to knead gently at your shoulder blades. The skin there was soft and warm, pliant under his sandpaper touch. "Keep mentioning it and I'll go back to being difficult."

The soap made foamy bubbles across your back, over your arms and the velvet slope of your hips. Fingertips ghosted through the space between your jaw and ear, where he remembered sucking in a soft bruise.

He liked being known by you.

⫸————————————————⫷

You clambered out the tub with all the grace of a baby krugga deer and about as much shame. Which is to say, none at all. The subsiding cold had left you tired, bones like jelly and mind sloshing its thoughts around with no real order. Boba was here. Had stayed. Was standing in front of you now, watching tiny water droplets trail down your feet and letting you balance on his arm to keep you from stumbling.

A towel was wrapped around your shoulders. The press of his hot mouth against your forehead followed close behind. “Go sit on the bed.”

For some reason, you didn’t mind listening to him this time. Chalk it up to moldable exhaustion, you thought. Definitely not the fact that his voice sounded especially nice tonight, or any number of other questionable reasons.

He was going to ruin you. Or you would ruin yourself. Any way it was construed, Boba would play a part.

Still only in a towel, you drank the stale tea that sat on your bedside table and watched in mild interest as the mercenary’s shadow emptied out tepid bathwater with the thick glugluglug of the drain. It washed down soap and all your shared secrets.

Was it wrong that you still wanted him? More, now that he’d done this for you? Now that it wasn’t just cruel kisses and groping hands? What sort of a person did that make you?

Your mind whispered it when Boba walked back towards you. Someone lonely.

He helped you slide a new chemise on when you asked him to, quick and steady over the thin linen ties. I bet you do that with all the girls, you’d teased. No, he answered simply. Just you.

He was going to ruin you.

“Do you have to go yet?” you asked quietly and climbed under the covers. They were green today. Life enjoyed coincidences like that.

Boba crouched down on the floor beside your lying figure and shook his head. A wide fingertip smoothed away the crease between your brows. He was doing lots of touching. You were not complaining. “Not ‘til morning.”

“You might as well then,” you mumbled and lifted up the embroidered blankets with a sleep-slack hand. “No one’ll bother us, I promise.” you answered the empty air, too heartsick to comprehend any possible insinuations and too tired to realize the fingers tracing your brow bone had paused. “I told them all not to come back until tomorrow.”

His shirt and pants were shed in an unceremonious pile. You were already half-asleep when he climbed into the other side of the bed, slotting his legs against yours like puzzle pieces. Two question marks curled into each other, his chest to your back and his lips brushing your head.

“Goodnight, princess.”

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dreaming about him.

He was the burning sun that every single one of your thoughts had orbited around for the last six months and now he was invading your subconscious, dream-talons taking the form of dark hands rubbing soft circles against you and then invading your open mouth.

In your dream, Boba touched you softly and not at all, a tease even in your self-serving imagination.

Then you woke up, and it wasn’t a dream anymore.

Two thick arms encircled your waist with a grip unyielding in their strength. They’d pulled you impossibly close, pressed up against his sleeping body until every ridge of his muscled stomach could be felt against your back. Something else was against your back.

Your head reeled in its effort to sludge through the fog of sleep and reach the reality of masculine hips. They shifted in an unintentional grind against your legs until you couldn’t bite back the gasp that bubbled out from your voicebox, the sound quiet, keening, and lost in the shuffled sounds of fabric. It was still dark out. The water-clock in the corner of your room read 01:25:02.

You hadn’t put on anything underneath the new chemise. Why bother, when he’d already seen everything? Your body had grown to be a thing for display, a clothes-hanger and object to be prodded by strangers, and you’d long since rid yourself of any precocious modesty.

But this was different.

When Boba touched you, it wasn’t to sew flowers in your hair or drape a sash over your chest. It was simply to touch. The thought made you light-headed with newfound embarrassment, wiggling in his grip until you turned to face his sleeping form.

All the heavy things he carried on his shoulders during the day were gone now. His bottom lip pillowed out when he slept and he looked younger, the perpetual downturn of his lips now settled below the black hair at his temples. You felt a sticky sort of fondness settle in your chest.

“Boba,” you whispered, two hands placing themselves on his tanned cheeks. They traced the divots of scars and premature lines with all the reverence of worshipfulness.

“Mmm,” his voice rumbled with eyes still closed. A warm mouth kissed the side of your palm.

“Boba,” you repeated, more desperate this time but not knowing what you were desperate for. The space between your legs already knew what it wanted, hot and pulsing with a familiar dampness. Traitor.

“What do you need?” The question wasn’t accusatory, nor annoyed at your waking him. It was known that he would give you whatever you liked. Eventually.

You. Just you.

“I don’t,” you huffed, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to your now overheated body as you squirmed, “I don’t know.” Lie.

“Think about it and tell me,” he whispered, eyes opening in their dark, heavy-lidded expectation. The moon and stars suspended outside offered light enough to see the smirk on his face. His skin was the color of burnt earth and of gods. Somewhere, far away in the canopy of carefully pruned trees, a single lark let out its warbled cry.

There was an old adage about being like a lamb to the slaughter. You’d never touched a lamb. Never seen a slaughter. But somehow, you knew it was true.

This lamb, dumb and tender-hearted, was willingly sacrificied.

"I...'' the word left you in the arc of your exhale, one whoosh of air that rattled your chest already wracked with fevered tremors. "I- want you to-"

"You want me to what, pretty thing?" His voice was low, dangerous. It made every part of you want him more. "Say it."

You weren't used to cursing. It was never tolerated and you barely ever heard it, but you'd learned enough to know what he wanted you to say. Which word he wanted to hear, and what it'd mean he would do.

"F-fuck. Me." you choked out, biting your lip to muffle the embarrassment of having to speak it out loud. The word was filthy and raw between your teeth. "Please?"

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dying. Possibly had already died. Were ascending up or barrelling down, you didn’t care as long as his wet mouth stayed between your legs and never, ever stopped.

Wide hands cupped at your skin and kneaded wherever they could reach, simultaneously rough and supplicating. Every pass of his tongue was enough to make you feel possessed. He was killing you.

“Good. Good girl.” he said against your swollen skin when your hips arced off the bed, your spine and toes stiffening for what seemed like an eternity during the damp lightning finish. It sounded like a growl, animalistic and vibrating. A burning, sweet hurt.

Some people call it “little death,” a lady’s maid once whispered underneath her hand in a giggle. “Little death?” you repeated incredulously. That seems a bit dramatic, don’t you think?

You understood now.

Boba didn’t let up, never once letting his touch waver even as you buckled and swayed, all sense lost and all sensation compacting. “Another,” he ordered. Your body listened, bending to his touch without complaint with eyes rolled back into your head.

You were dying.

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba let you lay against him in the downturn, rubbing mindless shapes into the bone of your wrists as you struggled to breathe. Your neck was cradled in one of his broad, bronze palms. It gave one tiny, imperceptible squeeze. An accident. A test.

You pawed at the hand resting heavy on your nape until it moved to leave completely, but was caught instead by your fingers and guided—slow and curious—to cup at your bared throat.

“Dirty,” the man noted in a dark rasp and rolled over to face you. There was a slight smirk in his voice, but that could’ve just been your imagination.

“I don’t see you...” your voice trailed off into a wheeze as Boba’s thick fingers pressed into the sides of your neck, “—see you complaining.”

He kissed you. And kissed you. And kissed you. An eternity was spent opening the seam of your mouth while he choked you softly, baring your pulsating soul with only your bedroom walls as witness to the present depravity. The air was filled with begging and grunting—simple noises that stuttered and left your sheets ruined.

You wanted more. You couldn’t help it.

His chuckle morphed into a groan when you reached down to touch him with widening eyes, squeezing him curiously after pulling down his boxers. “You’re a brave little thing,” Boba noted with a hint of greedy pride. “Never done this before, have you?”

Your own hands served as poor substitutes all these years. You shook your head no.

“D’you want to?”

Of course you did. This was the only thing you wanted. The only thing you would ever want, over and over until your body turned to dust under him. A million grains of fizzy, burning blaster powder. A million comets passing by a supernova.

You nodded and tucked your face into the space between Boba’s shoulder and neck, rolling onto your side and hooking a leg over his hip. Your chests met, damp with sweat as cool air flowed over bare skin. The covers had long since been pushed aside. “Safe,” you said in a heady moan over the shell of his ear. “Implant.”

Thank goodness for modern medicine.

⫸————————————————⫷

It hurt a little at first, but most of the discomfort melted away as he whispered to you, sweet and cloying praises alongside filthy things that you’d be hard-pressed to repeat in public. They wove together in an endless stream of baritone vowels, lapping over each other like ocean waves until everything was a gyrating, syrupy playback.

He let you move against him, mouth open and sloppy against your temple when you whined at the stretch. The hands at your back didn’t push. Only placated. “I know, I know,” Boba assured you with fingers rubbing sympathetic desire into your flesh. It would bruise, but you’d come to like the marks. Your hips bucked at their own accord when he pressed up against something tight, the friction burning a bright, numb spark. “Slow down,” he mumbled into your hair, “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Never in your life did you think this was how it would be. Your first kiss, more of a battle than it was a kiss, served as fuel for the expectations of your first time. Never in your life did you think he would be the one telling you to go slow.

It was for your sake, you knew that. But it was still surprising.

You huffed and bit the shell of his ear in childish revenge, blowing a puff of air where you knew it would tickle. Boba only growled and tightened his arms around your waist, rocking into you slow and deep. “Don’t tease,” he warned.

The new movements robbed you of the ability to speak until all you could do in response was lift your head from where it had rested on his shoulder, meeting impossibly dark eyes in lust-addled vision as a building pressure colored the entire world in shades of black, red, and green.

In a moment of complete and utter lack of propriety, you leaned forward, smiling like a woman deranged, and pressed a kiss to his nose.

Boba came undone the same minute you did. It was a rush of wet, rocking pleasure, spreading like thick webs of lighted fire from inside your blood and out to fill the room with quiet devotion. Panting, bursting, close, messy. You’d never felt so whole.

Your foreheads met and you went cross-eyed trying to look at him again. That’s all you wanted to do. Look at him. Uttered underneath his jaw, where the skin was smooth, was your finishing admission. “I love you.”

You didn’t say it to hear it repeated. It was just to give it a shape. Make it concrete. Said more to yourself than him, really.

But Boba did repeat it. Over and over and over. In the tangle of your arms. I love you. In the kiss to your breasts. I love you. In the towel brought between your legs. I love you. In the settled silence of new sleep. I love you, I love you, I love you.

⫸————————————————⫷

The watery light of dawn melted through heavy curtains and you awoke, body weighed down with lead and gold. Sweet soreness had made its home in your muscles and you were loath to get up, but the man you’d been using as a pillow had very rudely left his post.

“I have to go,” he said, already awake and standing sentry by your bed. You raised your head up from the pillows in groggy protest to meet his blurry figure. If you squinted, there were three of him standing there at once.

A shake of your head rid your vision of the doubles, leaving the lone man. He kissed you—quick and dirty, with tongue—and squeezed your exposed breast, prompting a low moan to tumble from your mouth before he slipped his blaster into the holster at his hip. It wasn’t even 6 in the morning and you were thoroughly debauched. What a scandal, you thought (not for the first time) with passing amusement. A bounty hunter and a princess.

Watching in a dim haze as Boba finished strapping on his amor, you tracked the reflection of the sun in the metal’s lazy movement.

He leaned over you. “I’ll be back soon.” Soon. What did soon mean? Another kiss, slow and careful on the bow of your mouth. One more on the slope of your forehead. For luck, you supposed. Whether it was for you or him didn’t matter much. “Promise.”

Slowly, as he climbed out onto your balcony and was gone with a flash of jetpack light, you wondered if it was a mirage; a dream, maybe. The entire night a hallucinatory haze, a figment of your overactive imagination and reckless romanticism.

But the towel left discarded on the floor and the pulsing ache between your legs was very, very real.

#boba fett x reader #boba fett/reader #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett x you #boba fett fic #boba fett oneshot #boba fett imagine

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jotunn-loki · 3 years

Text

no penance due to innocence

FANDOM: tom hiddleston rpf, mcu rpf PAIRING: tom hiddleston/reader RATING: explicit, NS// FW!! WC: 4,544 WARNINGS/K¡NKS: female!reader, professor/student, daddy k¡nk, praise k¡nk, schoolgirl fantasy, age difference/age k¡nk, voice k¡nk, degradation, spanking, dom!hiddles, sub!reader, pain k¡nk, not a warning but hiddles in suit/glasses/beard

SUMMARY: Despite your best interests, you can't help but fantasize about your classics professor, Tom Hiddleston. But as it may seem, your thoughts may not be so fruitless after all...

NOTE: the title is a line from John Donne's poem "to his mistress going to bed" which is partially quoted in this fic--you'll see! imagine Hiddles reciting it hehe. also, i typically don't use "y/n" in my fics, but this fic does use "Miss Y/LN" (your last name) thrice! not in the heat of the smut but near the beginning and end:) enjoy!

It was nearly seven p.m.

Tom Hiddleston, your classics professor, stood at the front of the lecture hall, one hand wrapped elegantly around a remote clicker and the other adjusting his glasses as he spoke.

You loved his voice; everyone in the class did—the smooth richness of it, the authentic Britishness that was so short in supply at your American university, the elegance and intent he put into each and every syllable. He obviously was quite passionate about his subject, which made not only for a fascinating class, but an attentive group of students. You were sure that there was no one in the section who ever dared to not pay attention to his lectures, much less skip it completely. Why would anyone want to miss the crisp tightness of Professor Hiddleston’s custom-tailored suits or the soft unintentional growl in his voice when he read aloud a section from your readings? He was a talented actor in that regard, but you were glad he had never gone into such an industry...otherwise you wouldn’t be able to watch him in class now, listen to him, soaking in every bit of his perfection.

And that, truly, was the reason that you loved this class most of all. While you were ashamed to admit it, after the seventy-five minutes you spent in the Intro to British Literature lecture, your underwear was always slightly damp as you rose from your seat and tried to ignore your mortification as you passed by the man you couldn’t stop thinking about on the way out of the door, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you, Professor.”

It was the same now, and you could barely focus on the class’s content while Professor Hiddleston turned from one completely filled up white board to the next, giving you a splendid view of his glorious tight ass. You shifted in your seat in what you hoped was an inconspicuous way and turned away. This was getting out of hand. You almost were wondering if you needed to drop the class altogether, purely for your own sanity.

But then again—if every student in the class did that, there would be no one left in the section.

Now Professor Hiddleston was running a hand over his beautiful dirty blonde beard, thinking for a moment before he wrote the next name upon the board. John Donne, it read, and you suddenly remembered the poem you had been assigned to read the night prior. It was short, less than one hundred lines, which had lent for easy reading, even for the turn of the sixteenth century. But that wasn’t, of course, what had drawn your attention. The poem was unashamedly erotic, a scene about undressing, a mistress and her lover, vulnerability between them both.

And now, to your absolute undoing, Professor Hiddleston had decided that it was a good idea to read it aloud. You could barely breathe as he spoke, as he again, acted, the poetry, each line sending you further into a frenzy. Around you, the class held its collective breath as well, creating an unnatural silence. Not even a paper moved, nor did a pen drop.

“...shew / thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence / there is no penance due to innocence / to teach thee, I am naked first; why then / what needst thou have more covering than a man,” Hiddleston finished with a flourish, a slight smirk on those perfect lips. His eyes roved around the room thoughtfully, that smirk dissolving into an unabashed grin. “Quite the charmer, Donne thought himself to be,” he added with a laugh. “We can thank him for that.”

Suddenly, his eyes locked with yours, and you could have sworn that he swallowed as he looked at you. Or perhaps that was just a stupid hope. You twisted your lips and looked away abruptly, missing the narrowing of his eyes and the way his hand ran down his tie and fiddled with its tip.

Soon enough, class was over, the hour just passed, and you gathered your things, stuffing the poems you had printed out into your bag and rising from your seat with a grimace. Your body had found itself aroused. Again. Thankfully, now that your day was finished, you’d be able to make it back to the dorms with minimal consequence, and you knew it would be a few hours before your roommate to return, so you’d have a solid amount of time to...get your professor off of your mind.

But as you turned the corner from the descending steps between the rows of chairs towards the door, a voice cleared itself behind you. Heart pumping, you pivoted to find Professor Hiddleston standing there, one hand rolling up the sleeves of his crisp shirt up to his elbows, revealing lean but corded muscle there under smooth pale skin.

“Y-yes, Professor?” you asked him, trying not to let your voice shake. It was almost as if he could read your thoughts, sense that you were clearly horny and in need of leaving the fucking lecture hall.

“I need to speak with you privately,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help but clench tightly and swallow.

“About what, sir?” you asked.

Hiddleston smiled. “Just grades. Your recent performance.” Seeing your confounded face, he added, “Nothing serious, of course.”

Slowly, you nodded. “When should I come?”

You didn’t miss the slip there, the unintentional double-meaning, but as it would seem, neither did he, as Hiddleston’s pleasant smile slid into a heavily lidded smirk, one eyebrow raising.

No. It couldn’t be. Professor fucking Hiddleston—into you? Just another one of his sophomore students who was most likely taking the course solely for a humanities credit? Granted, you were not one of those—you loved classic English prose and poetry, but it was such a large class that most of them were not that into the subject.

“Right now,” Professor Hiddleston said then, gesturing for you to follow him. Eyes widening, your hand tightened around the strap of your bag and you waited for him to gather his teaching materials before you both left the lecture hall promptly.

His office was not far, only a few floors up. Luckily, you did not have far to go, as it was in the same building, and so you did not have to dwell in the anxious interim stage for long.

The office itself was spacious and graciously private, with a large modern window that looked out onto the urban campus of your university, and a shade that was currently rolled up to the top. There was a large mahogany desk as well, old-fashioned as you had expected, and a luxurious chair that sat behind it. A plush violet-colored rug laid on the floor as well, completing the look.

You had been purposefully avoiding office hours for this class all semester, unable to trust yourself in such close proximity to your professor. It seems that your goal had now been foiled by the man himself. Oh, well. Hopefully this would be quick, and you wouldn’t have to endure this torture for long.

Sighing, Hiddleston sat himself down behind his desk and rolled the chair away from it, hands steepled with his elbows on his thighs. His thighs... which were currently separated far apart in the most attractive manspread you’d ever seen, no matter what an oxymoron that may have been in any other situation. But not in this one. Not here, with Professor Hiddleston, alone.

This man who you could guess was around forty years old. This man who was probably over twenty years your senior. Unwittingly, the thought sent another stroke of heat down to your pussy. Oh, god. Biting your lip, you waited for him to speak.

He seemed to enjoy holding you in suspense for a moment, that infuriating grin still plastered across that handsome face. “You must have wondered why I called you here.”

“Yes, sir.”

At that, his grin disappeared, and something else crossed his face instead, something much darker, much hungrier. “I do love it when you call me that.”

You gulped. “What’s that, Professor?”

“Either of those,” he replied, that familiar growl filling his voice. “And you must know by now that I don’t give a damn about your grades. That is your own business...besides, you are doing excellently in my class.”

You couldn’t think of anything to say, so you just smiled and crossed your hands behind your back.

“No...you’re here because you are far too distracting. It’s causing me problems during lectures. That is an issue,” Hiddleston said, spreading his legs even wider.

“I...hadn’t noticed that, sir.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he replied simply, that prim accent making it all the better. “I wouldn’t be a good lecturer if I allowed myself to be easily affected by a student...even if you are as stunning as you are.” His eyes flashed. “I wonder...are you doing this on purpose, darling?”

Mouth parting, you shook your head.

“Mm,” Hiddleston murmured, scratching the side of his beard slowly. “I don’t know about that. Are you sure?”

“Why would I be so willing to entice you, Professor?” you asked him, willing yourself not to collapse where you stood.

Hiddleston dropped his hand and ran it instead along the inside of his thigh. Your eyes widened and you had to avert your gaze. “Because you want me as much as I have lusted after you,” he said huskily in reply.

When you didn’t respond, throat too tight to speak, he stood, edging around the side of his desk. “Admit it, Miss Y/LN,” he said sternly.

He was so close to you now, just an inch away. You could barely intake breath—no, scratch that, you couldn’t breathe at all.

After a painful moment, you nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered.

“Yes,” you squeaked, eyes flitting to his, a bright, intense blue.

“Yes, what?”

Steeling yourself, you brought your hand to his chest. “Yes, Professor Hiddleston.”

“Good girl.”

You clenched again, barely withholding an audible moan. Still, Hiddleston had spotted your near slip, and he grinned, bringing one of his large hands to cover yours where it was placed on his chest and entwine both of your fingers. “Say yes to me, then. And I will give you what you so crave.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. “Yes, Professor Hiddleston. Please.”

“That’s my good girl,” he said again. “Now. Undress.”

You gawked at him. “Excuse me?”

Hiddleston snatched both of your wrists then, pulling you right to his chest so that your bodies were pressed together. “You do want me to fuck you, Miss Y/LN, don’t you?”

Quickly, you nodded.

“Then do as I say,” he hissed.

You complied easily, removing first your bag from your shoulders and then your light jacket. You hesitated only a moment before sliding your fingers under the hem of your shirt and lifting it from your head, exposing your skin to the slight chill of the room. Still, everything inside you was fire, and it only burned hotter as Hiddleston inhaled deeply, taking in the sight of your breasts, hidden only by the bra that cupped them gently. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “Just like I imagined.”

Your breath quickened at that. It was terribly gratifying to know that he had fantasized about you, his student, just as you had fantasized about him, your professor. So you smiled at him through your lashes, putting on a facade of demureness.

“Now, don’t give me that,” Hiddleston automatically smirked, grabbing your jaw and holding it tightly. He leaned in close to your ear and whispered, “I know how dirty your thoughts have been, my dear, and it would be a lie for you to pretend otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

Unable to help yourself, you whimpered. Beside your ear, Professor Hiddleston laughed. “Whore.”

You held your breath as he then unbuckled your bra, the garment in his hands looking like it belonged there—and leaving your breasts bare. “Professor,” you murmured as he leaned forward, cupping both of them in his large hands and placing a kiss to each nipple. “Professor—fuck—”

CRACK.

There was a sharp stinging feeling on your ass, and you realized that Hiddleston had just spanked you—actually spanked you—and was now leaning onto his desk casually again, this time with a stormy expression on his face. His chin tilted upwards in disgust as he said, “Such foul language. When have I ever tolerated that, little one?”

When you didn’t answer, he raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t rhetorical.”

“You didn’t, sir,” you said meekly, grimacing from the pain. You could only imagine what it would have felt like without clothing to cover the sensitive skin of your ass.

“Hence why I needed to punish you,” Professor Hiddleston said matter-of-factly, which somehow only turned you on even further. His confident nonchalance made you want to kneel before him and unbuckle those perfectly-pressed trousers, but you managed to hold yourself together.

It wasn’t long before you were standing before him naked, trying fruitlessly to hold in a tremble as Professor Hiddleston circled your body, eyeing every part of you. “So,” he said when he’d finally turned to face you eye-to-eye again. “You not only are extremely intelligent, but you are a goddess among humans. You look so innocent, but I know you aren’t. Not with those eyes.”

It was true. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from looking at him the way you had been doing all semester.

“Intelligent, sir?”

Hiddleston smiled gently and stepped toward you, finally encircling you in his arms. His hands, placed firmly on your upper back, slowly slid down to cup your ass, pulling you against his form. You could feel the strain of his crotch there, and your heart pounded at the thought. You still couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“Yes, intelligent,” Hiddleston murmured, brushing a light kiss on your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “Your textual analysis of Much Ado About Nothing a few months ago was one of the best interpretations I’d ever seen.”

Had it been? You’d only been commenting about the way that it had impacted modern fictional tropes and set up socially acceptable gender roles in romance, but you supposed that it had been written in such a way that had greatly pleased Professor Hiddleston.

“Do not be so hard on yourself,” he said then, as if he could sense your thoughts. “Truly...you are a pleasure to have in class.”

You felt your body tense at the way he said ‘pleasure,’ for he certainly knew what he was doing. “Even if I am distracting to you?” you asked.

“Especially when you are distracting to me.”

With that, he pinched your ass firmly between two large fingers and you yelped, flinching into his arms. You felt the outline of his hard cock in his trousers again and squirmed against it, desperately needing friction. “P-Professor—”

He tsked quietly. “Such a cockslut you are, my little schoolgirl begging for me,” Hiddleston tutted. You felt your arousal even stronger as your mind filled with the fantasy he had planted there, imaging yourself in high stockings and a short skirt, a pure virgin teenager with no experience.

Luckily, that was not the case, but he was your professor, and if anyone found out that he’d fucked you, you’d both be in serious trouble. It only made the whole thing more exciting.

“Please, fuck me,” you whimpered. “Professor, I need you—”

“What did I say about foul language, little girl?” Hiddleston said sharply. “Or do you think yourself above such formalities and rules now that you are standing naked like a filthy whore in my office?”

You moaned, and without warning, Professor Hiddleston threw you against the dark mahogany desk so that you were facing away from him, clapping a hand across your ass again. Your eyes watered from the sudden pain, but you only bit your lip, loving every bit of it.

Hiddleston leaned over you so that you could feel his hardness against your body again and tilted your tear-stained face towards him. You watched him remove his glasses silently and place them beside you on his desk, smirking all the while. “You are going to count for me now, alright, my dear?”

You nodded, tensing your body in preparation.

And then it came without warning, his hand on your backside with a sharp cracking sound, leaving the feeling of fire against your skin. You cried out in pain, and Professor Hiddleston cleared his throat.

Oh. “One,” you whispered quietly. “But, Professor Hiddleston, won’t anyone hear?”

He let out a soft laugh at that. “I’ve been tenured here long enough that no one else of importance is in the vicinity, little one. But who knows…”

With a self-satisfied laugh, he spanked you again.

“T-Two,” you said.

Crack. “Three.”

Crack. “Four.”

Crack. “Five.”

With each spank, your voice grew stronger, more sturdy, and you relished in the sting of your ass stuck out behind you and caressed by your professor’s hands. He was rubbing it now, a gentle reprieve before he hit you again, this one harder than the rest.

You shrieked and gripped the edge of the desk, feeling the wetness of your cunt moistening your legs. “Oh, Professor Hiddleston,” you moaned. “Hit me harder, please, Daddy—”

The word slipped out of your mouth without expectation from either you or him, and you immediately stilled, feeling embarrassment cloud your senses.

“You are a kinky bitch,” Hiddleston murmured softly, and he ran a hand along the top of your head, even as you lay panting over the edge of his desk. It made you feel lesser, somehow, and you wanted that. You needed it.

“Be a good girl then, and take what Daddy gives you.”

The spank following was the hardest of them all, making you buck into the desk in all its force. “T-Tom!” you cried. You needed release, now, and him building you up was starting to irritate you.

“One more,” he said through gritted teeth, and you tensed as a final slap hit your backside, causing your eyes to water in pain as you heaved against the desk, nearly bringing you over the edge in and of itself.

“I can’t wait to see that bruise up nicely,” said Professor Hiddleston smugly, flipping you over as you let out a pained hiss. “And now that you’ve been adequately punished, I will give you what you’ve been longing for.”

You let out a long sound, something that was a mix between a contented sigh and a broken moan, and watched as he tore off his belt buckle and pulled out his cock, hard and weeping and flushed a very eager red. “Ready, darling?”

You nodded quickly before your nerves could get the better of you.

He raised his eyebrows at you expectantly.

“Yes, Daddy,” you murmured, still feeling the familiar tendrils of embarrassment creeping across your neck.

Professor Hiddleston—Tom—smirked and spread your legs with each of those gorgeous large hands, gripping the flesh of your thighs. Between them, you were on fire, evidenced further by the wetness dripping from your core.

“Oh, my dear,” Tom whispered with an air of disappointment, though it was impossible not to see how pleased he was. “You’re so wet.”

“Mm—” was all you could say. With him standing over you, eyes boring into your pussy and flitting back to your face every few moments it was all you could do not to scream.

Suddenly his fingers were upon you—within you, and you let out a long moan as he pumped them deftly, the other hand gripping his own cock. As you panted, completely at his whims, Tom grunted, his eyes fluttering closed.

But then, just as you felt yourself reach your peak, body begging to throw itself off into the abyss, he stopped. “Daddy,” you whined, pouting at him. “Why did you stop?”

“I had to, little one,” he murmured gently, running his hand along the inside of your thigh and sending shivers across your skin. But though you bucked your hips forward into his touch, Tom didn’t continue, only let out a smug chuckle. “I want this to take a long time, my dear. I want every part of your body to remember that I was here. I want it to know—I want you to know—that it belongs to me. Understand?”

You swallowed. “Yes, Professor Hiddleston.”

“Good.” The word was sharp, succinct, radiating with pure dominance. You clenched at the sound of it.

And unfortunately for you, your professor had witnessed that with his very own eyes. Immediately, you felt a sharp sting against the same spot on your thigh where he’d just been caressing, and you squealed. “Professor!”

“Whore,” he spat, pushing your upper body flat onto the desk. “I told you that you needed to be patient, didn’t I? Didn’t I?”

“Y-Yes, Daddy…”

“And you disobeyed me,” he replied calmly. “So you deserved that, little one.”

You let out a small sound of assent and he kissed your lips softly. “Now, let’s continue. You’re doing so well, my darling.”

He slid those fingers along the inside of your thigh and caressed the sensitive skin where your legs met your cunt, tickling your skin. You tried to hold in a laugh and failed, a small hiccup escaping your lips. Tom glanced up at you and smirked. “My poor little girl,” he teased.

You smiled at him and bit your lip. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

You couldn’t help the whine that slipped into your voice. Honestly, it awed you. Less than an hour ago you were afraid to even make eye contact with Professor Hiddleston for fear of your own sexual desires; now you were sitting on his expensive desk bare naked with your legs spread for him and pussy dripping with unquenched arousal. Still, he refused to bring you release.

“Will you please fuck me?” you asked him softly, sweetly. “I need your cock, Professor.”

You could see the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he tried to hide the way your words affected him, So you pushed out your bottom lip and bared your breasts forward to him for good measure. “ Please.”

Where he had been gentle and sensitive a moment ago, Tom was no longer holding back. “What happened to ‘you need to be patient?’” you hissed as he flipped you over, bending you over the desk as he’d done before.

“Hush, my little whore,” Tom grunted as he shifted behind you, and you could feel the head of his cock nudging at your entrance impatiently. Hypocrisy at its finest, but you couldn’t care less. “You’re going to take all of me, and I will be merciless,” Tom whispered as he took your hands and pinned them beneath his own on the desk. “Do you understand?”

You nodded, difficult as the action was in your current position.

“No,” Tom said softly. “I don’t think you do.” He sighed dramatically as he pinched the spare skin on your hip, making you squeak in pleasure. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, gravellier...that same cadence he had when he’d read some of those poems. “You’re going to take every inch of my cock, and it’s going to be painful for you, my dear. But I’m not going to go slow, not going to rest and wait for you to adjust. And only when you’re begging for me, crying for me like the whore you are will I finally let you come.”

“Oh, Tom,” you moaned and he chucked. “Yes, that’s right, baby. Moan my name. I haven’t even entered you yet.”

You couldn’t even feel the embarrassment hit your mind; you were too fazed over with the anticipation of him fucking you. “Please—”

Then he was pushing into you, and you groaned in pain. He had been right—this was unlike any other man you’d previously fucked. He was large, but just perfectly so; you felt as if the pain inside your cunt should live there forever. His hips snapped as he thrusted into you again, and you pushed your ass into the air to get more friction. “Oh, Professor Hiddleston—”

“Yes, fuck yes,” he panted as his thrusts sped up, and he moved one hand off of yours to finger at your clit. Sensation flooded you, and you cried out again. You could feel the warmth and power of his body behind you, even through the now-sweaty formal shirt he wore. And you could feel the coolness of the desk against your skin, and the rising pleasure throughout your body. “Tom, fuck—”

“Remember what I said?” he growled. “Beg.”

You couldn’t resist. “Please, Daddy, let me come! I want to come so bad around your cock, Professor. Fill me up—please—”

He grunted in pleasure at your words, and you ground into his fingers where they worked at your clit as he continued to pound into you. Each thrust sent you higher, hitting your g-spot just perfectly. “That’s my good girl,” Tom cooed gently, such a contrast to the violet strokes of his body. “You’re doing so well for Daddy. See how well you take my cock? That’s right, little one. Keep grinding into me. Such a good whore—”

At that, you moaned, grimacing in pleasure. “Can I come yet, Daddy?”

“Not yet, my darling,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I need you to be louder for me. I need everyone to know that you belong to me. That you’re my little cockslut who’s only taking this class so you can fuck your professor like a filthy whore.”

“Please let me come, sir!” you cried, bucking into him. You let out a loud cry as he nipped at your shoulder, teeth digging into your skin. “Yes, my good girl. Scream for me.”

“Tom!” you shouted. A shudder coursed through you at the possibility of someone hearing you, but in your haze of pleasure, you could barely notice. “Professor, please—”

Finally, he chuckled, and his thumb pressed tightly into your clit. “Come,” he commanded in a low voice, and you did, gasping as you rolled against his touch and felt his cock find release within your walls and he cried out your name.

“ Tom ,” you moaned, eyes rolling backwards. “Oh, Tom… ”

“Such a good girl,” he whispered, caressing your neck with his free hand. “My sweet darling.”

You were both breathing hard, covered in sweat, and an utter mess against the rich wood of Professor Hiddleston’s desk. “I’m—I’m sorry,” you stuttered, coming back to your senses. “I...didn’t realize. This all happened so fast…”

But to your surprise, Tom only chuckled, helping you to stand and wrapping his arms around you. “No, my dear. This isn’t over yet.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he repeated. “I wouldn’t let you go so easily.”

You swallowed, feeling a pleasant flush spread across your body as you met his gaze. “So…”

Tom smiled. “I will see you on Tuesday, Miss Y/LN.”

As disheveled as you were, and most likely smelling of sex as you left his office, you couldn’t help the giddy feeling that had risen within you. You would see him again, and soon.

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

A/N: thanks for reading! comments, reblogs, likes - all appreciated! this fic is also posted on ao3 under the same name (via my username MavenMorozova). give it some love there if you’d like!

TAGS: let me know if you want me to make a taglist!

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston x ofc #hiddles #tom hiddleston fanfiction #hiddles fanfic #tom hiddleston fanfic #hiddles x reader #tom hiddleston smut #professor hiddleston #fanfic by maven #mine #mcu rpf #tom hiddleston x yn

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sopxhiea · 3 years

Text

Lush

Alfie Solomons X Reader

Summary: Alfie finds himself in a party thrown in a finishing school that teaches ladies how to be proper in all senses of the world but a rare jewel of a wild young woman catches his eye.

“Sorry, is that supposed to impress me?”

Gold and silk.

It’s on the walls, coated in layers of sparkly paint as light reflects to the silk curtains. It’s on the tables, dozens of champagne bottles resting on top of the finest silk material while the sweet classical music fills the marble walls. The place reeks of the posh and their extravagant perfumes.

Alfie’s forcefully brought to the occasion.

Miriam, the old woman who’s appreciative of Alfie’s donations to the community, had decided that it was time for the man to make more public appearances. She’d forced the grumpy man into the crowd and the fancy outing as a way of branching out to the rest of the community for the Jews.

The night is organised by a bunch of English community elders for the new women’s school opened up right around the corner. It’s easy to recognise their pupils, all of them dressed properly as they greet as many guests as they can. Young ladies are all over the room, their lavish dresses flowing around their legs as they flash their kindest smiles to the people around.

Except you.

Accident, fate or bad luck. It was one of the three that had caused you to end up in the said school. Apparently, you weren’t a proper lady and also happened to lack the ability to act your age, or so you had been told after climbing a tree with your friend to get your hands on the fruit it so graciously had blessed you with.

It didn’t bother you in the slightest but there you were now, standing in a room full of bourgeoisie in a slim dress tailored by one of the maids who worked for the house you stayed in. Unlike all your other classmates, your face is absent of any smiles and the only thing that leaves your lips are snarky remarks.

Annabelle, who also happens to be your etiquette teacher, pinches your arms every now and then to either get you to act properly or to shut you up but it doesn’t work. You know her harsh movements are bound to create bruises on your arms but you don’t care, you hate every moment of the forced event.

You’re the odd one out, naturally.

Although you’re dressed properly with fine jewels and silk gloves, your fake laugh does not fill the air. You’re sulking, almost, as you listen to one of the elderly man talk about his business to your friends and you while you stand around.

The crowd is made up of women with rich men on their arms, just what your uncle wanted you to be when he had put you in the school two months ago. They’re wearing their finest dresses, most of their hairs are kept in a short form as they plaster smiles on their paint covered faces, nails painted with vibrant colours while they laugh at a stupid joke the rich makes.

And there’s him.

He doesn’t stand out per se, just when you manage to observe him for a while. He’s wearing a suit much like everyone else in the room but there’s something rough about him, something rugged as you stare at the broad man. He has an elderly woman on his arm, she’s talking his ear off while his eyes roam around the spacious room.

You don’t look away when his blue orbs meet yours.

He’s watched you all night and although you’d been sulking for most of the time, he still thought that you were the most beautiful woman he’d seen in a long while. He’d seen you make smart remarks towards some of the gentlemen, putting them in their place before you would walk to the bar to get some relief.

But this time, there’s a gentle smile on your lips.

He feels his breath get caught on his throat but he’s quick to recover while your gaze returns to the boring old man in front of you. Your dress is similar to the ones the girls are wearing but it hugs your body a little tighter, a fine pearl necklace graces your neck. Your hair is not short, opposed to most of the women around, but kept in wavy shape as it creates a frame around your soft features.

You seem like the youngest of them all.

But you also happen to be the wildest. In the last two months of you being there, all you’d caused was trouble. You’d not sleep and climb out of windows to disappear for a day or two. Your uncle would bring you back with a frown on his old face but you’d find a way to make trouble and piss the ladies off again. It was the only fun thing to do around the house you were kept in.

“It was very lovely to talk to you about your boring business.” you speak to the elderly man who’d been talking for the past hour with you and your friends, a smile rests on your painted lips. The man frowns at your words and is about to speak up when you wave at him and disappear towards the bar once again.

Alfie watches you as you move.

Your painted lips that had just been faking a smile now greet the transparent material of the crystal that holds the liquor you so badly need. You take a couple sips, a sheepish smirk on your lips as you feel someone approaching you from behind. You can tell who it is, his steps aren’t the most subtle or rhythmic.

Your small figure turns around swiftly turns around to face the pleasant stranger, a contagious smile on your lips as you look at him from head to toe. He sees the glint of wickedness swimming around in your orbs and he’s sure you’re the girl every cockney has been trying to get their hands on.

Alfie’s heard of a young woman who just won’t behave. As far as he’s concerned, most people think she should be married off to some boring bloke but the uncle won’t let them do it and he’s the only family she’s got. He’s heard of the wild dancing, the kind of moves that are nothing but filth and also the countless times of the escapes she’s made.

And there you are, the infamous wild lady, standing right in front of him.

“Hello, Mister.” you say, amused as you giggle at him. He copies your expression, a low smile on his lips while you feel his smell take over you, vanilla and rum.

“’ello to yourself, Miss.” he speaks, accent dripping from each word as you watch him, he’s even more handsome up close.

Your eyes drift along his tall form, he’s still tall even though you have your heels on. Your gaze lingers on his white shirt, it’s not as smooth as it was when he came in, or so you figure. He’s dressed sharp, his facial hair kept in a nice shape as the golden wires glisten underneath the many candles and chandeliers around. You don’t bother and be subtle as your eyes drink him but he’s doing the same to you.

You chuckle lowly as he takes a sip of the drink you’re holding, it’s much too strong but you’re only getting started.

“You, yeah, are makin’ quite the noise today.” he speaks, not a swear word within the sentence since he’s being proper for the occasion.

“As per usual.” you say, a sweet smile on your lips while you lean on the wall and he hovers tall above you, his face inching a little closer each time he speaks. “Interested?” you speak, wanting him to say yes because he seems to be the only one worth spending time with around here.

“I ain’t answering to that, love.” he says, head shaking at his own words and you watch him under the pleasant light as they create shadows around his face, he’s far too good looking for a bloke with his reputation.

Your eyes drop to his hand, decorated with lines and bands of rings and a crown tattoo, the rough skin makes you smile as your soft fingers trace his. His eyes flutter, the slow song filling the night and flowing out of the spacious house you’re both standing in. You blink a few times, seeing the glint of thrill in his eyes as you stare and stare, the night is long.

But your patience is non-existent.

“You’re no fun, Mister.” your words are barely audible as they leave your lips and he knows you’re teasing, his eyes flutter once more as a small whine leaves your lips and it’s all it takes for him to be envisioning your naked frame, although he’s already done it multiple times up until that point.

You try to be sweeter, appeal to his good nature to get what you want. You know that if a lady from the school is to leave today, with a gentlemen on her arm, it is allowed and you see it as your exit ticket to never return to the hell of a place. Your hands trace the head of his cane, feeling the cold material contrast the warmth of his hands. “What shall I call you?” you ask, danger swimming in your orbs.

“Name’s Solomons, luv.” he speaks, knowing that he needs to be proper and that means saving his name for the more intimate part of the conversation but you don’t seem pleased with the consideration from his part.

“No.” you speak, like a whiny girl and he thinks you’re the most charming whiny girl he’s seen but he waits for your painted lips to part and the sound of your sweet voice. “I knew that. Tell me what you like to be called.” you speak, voice smooth as silk as it delivers the words. He wonders what your voice would sound like if his head was between your soft legs.

There’s evident evil in your eyes but he’s drawn to it, like moth to a flame.

You half expect for him to tell you something absurd. This isn’t something you ask other people but in the rare occasion that you play with fire, the answers have been nothing but disappointing. They’d told you to call them baby, husband or sweetheart.

How pathetic, you thought.

“Alfie.” he speaks, voice low as his eyes don’t leave yours. A smile finds your lips and he stops himself from leaning in and kissing them.

“That’s a very good name.” you speak, satisfied for the first time in a while with a man’s answer. They seem too dull to you, most men are shallow and simply daft but this one seems to shine on you.

“Fuckin’ flattering old me.” he speaks, amused as he shakes his head and clicks his tongue. You’re far too young for him but that doesn’t seem to occur to you as you ogle him.

“Old?” you speak into his face, your perfume surrounding him as you play with his crisp shirt. He’s close to kissing you senseless but he figures Miriam wants him to act proper for the event. “I don’t think so.” you speak again, answering your own question and he watches the light flicker on your face.

“What is a pretty little bird like you doin’ in the corner?” he speaks, breath almost fanning your face while you almost lose yourself in the smell of him. He seems promising thus far.

You look up at him with an open mouth, seeing as he’s interested. Your agape mouth turns to a smile soon after, this victim of yours seems like a proper gentlemen. The truth was, you didn’t really belong there from the start, it was your uncle’s masterplan since your deceased parents were far too gone to do anything. You’d be a proper lady and the school would tame you down, get you a goodie two shoes husband and let you be on your best way.

But you weren’t the little gentle kid they were expecting.

Trouble made life worth living, there was no fun in the four walls you slept in most days and occasions like these were your ticket for the exit. You knew you’d have to tell the head of the class that you’re leaving with a gentlemen but that’s the point of the occasion, to make sure the girls get to know the people around and maybe even snag a husband of their own.

“Talking to you.” you speak, eyes looking up at the tall, handsome man as he sizes you up. He’s already made up his mind to donate a good amount of money to your school solely because of you.

“Ya’ know who I am, lass?” he speaks, no swearing induced with his words because he sees just how young you are, even though you look younger than you are.

“You just told me. Mr.Solomons.” you whisper against his face, voice breathy as his eyes threaten to flutter.

But you barely have a clue.

“I, yeah, am a bad fuckin’ man, luv.” he speaks, eyes locked into yours as his face moves. You watch the way his lips shift with each word and a blush rises on your cheeks. You giggle against his face this time, the music in the room constantly changes its melody.

“Sorry, is that supposed to impress me?” your voice is filled with amusement and laughter. It’s not like you’ve asked him to fuck you or take you home, not just yet.

He looks at you with wide eyes, taken aback by the bravery of such a little thing. You don’t have an ounce of fear in your eyes as you smile up at him and he speaks before you can.

“I don’t think, right, you want to be seen with me, luv.” he says, very aware of the fact that half of the room have been watching you and Alfie for the last hour. But you’ve already been seen with him, so you see no sense in what he’s saying.

“Nonsense.” you speak, the reply is almost automatic and you don’t break eye contact.

He chuckles, it’s low and you’re sure it would be impossible to hear if you weren’t standing so close. You hear his deep voice as he shakes his head. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“You’re the only one worth talking to in this goddamn party.” you whisper without realising it. You don’t intend on telling the gentlemen that but the sparks in his eyes when you change your mind.

Fancy events like this did not interest you, you wanted something real. It didn’t excite you that the carpets in the venue were brought from Milan or that the fine silk curtains were hand-made, you wanted things to be real, raw and not pretentious like all the posh souls were making it out to be. Alfie saw that, mostly because he felt the same way.

You wanted to run away from this place, to talk with someone about the possibilities of what the night had in stock for you and walk on the pavement with bare feet and listen to their laugh and ask them what they really thought of the place they were put in.

Alfie saw that in your eyes, you were young after all.

While you fiddled with your freshly painted nails and tried to ignore the obnoxious color the maid had chosen for you, you let him size you up. You were dangerous in the most complex ways but he liked that, he worked inside danger anyway.

“Say, luv..” he spoke, the pet name making your eyes flutter as he looked down at your small form. You didn’t look out of place here in the fancy venue but it was clear to him that you felt that way. “Do ya’ dance?”

Alfie didn’t dance, that was easy to tell and you weren’t a big fan of slow dancing either, too much intimacy was packed up in it for you. “Only If I like the gentlemen who asks me.” you spat out, true and honest as he watched you like a hawk.

But before he could even get to say anything, Miriam appeared out of thin air. She had been watching Alfie for the past hour as he made conversation with the one girl Miriam hoped he’d stay away from. Her eyes were glistening with excitement and anger, all packed up in giant orbs as she stared at you with a smile.

Alfie cleared his throat when he realised the lady had come in and needed to be introduced. Your posture clearly straightened while he started to speak, uninterested but the deed had to be done so she would leave.

“This is Miriam.” Alfie muttered, almost like a little kid who didn’t want to do it but he soon realised you hadn’t told him your name. His eyes met yours as you looked at the lady next to him and she spoke up at last.

“And who is this lovely lady?” Miriam spoke, voice a little deeper than you’d expect but it suited her. You smiles and took her hand, shaking it like how businessman shook each others’ hands and Alfie smiled at your tomboyish attitude.

“Y/N.” you spoke softly, subtly looking at Alfie direction when he muttered your name under his breath. It sounded right.

“Oh! What a lovely name!” she exclaimed, making you giggle at her excitement for such a normal part of the conversation. You nodded at his words and thanked her like you’d been taught to do.

“Thank you. That’s very kind.” you spoke, a fake smile plastered on your lips while Alfie watched you under a heavy stare, you were perfectly conversing with the lady but it was obvious you wanted to be your own self.

“You two have been talking for quite a while. You don’t mind if I steal Mr. Solomons for a while, do you, dear?” she spoke, almost testing you but you had been trained by the best to not show any emotion. You nodded and smiled, realising that you were a little further down from the bar.

“Of course not.” your words were forced but the lady wouldn’t notice. You shot Alfie a charming smile before the lady dragged him to meet a couple new investors for the Jewish community. It wasn’t like they needed them, but Miriam thought that it was only natural for him to meet people who’d do the same thing as he was doing in terms of donations.

------

The venue was now filled with music, the lively kind. All the couples were tired from the endless slow dancing with the music they had put on so you had finessed the perfect plan to seduce the man who handled the live musicians and although all you had given him was a precious smile, he had started playing tunes you could easily dance at your request.

Most of the girls from your class were now on the dance floor, dancing the day away in the most proper way possible with more than two dozen young men around. No matter how big the opportunity was for them, most of them looked stiff as they moved to the music. They didn’t quite know how to move their bodies in a way that would make men their slave yet and seeing as that was what you were currently doing, you grabbed one of the girls and began teaching her slowly.

Alfie had been talking to a businessman who owned a few casinos up town. He was new to the world of being a gangster but the man seemed speakable enough for him to endure a fifteen minute conversation before he heard familiar giggles overlapping with the music that was being played.

And there you were.

You were an expert at getting yourself in trouble as far as Alfie could tell and the way you moved to the music was the sole proof of the fact. Your body moved to the rhythm, the kind of sways coming from your hips that would be enough to have any man floored if only you’d ask. Miriam watched as Alfie gulped at the sight, he was in deep trouble.

But one tug at his sleeve and he was back to normal.

He ignored the smile on your lips as your drunken state moved to the upbeat song, you were a little too fragile for any man around that night. Tonight was supposed to be about everyone getting to go home with a man on their arm, the sole purpose was to find the grown girls someone to tie their knot with so that the school could invite younger ones.

But you were sure you’d be the last to go.

Men liked to look at you, there was the innocence of a doll mixed with the deadly sins inside your small frame and that was enchanting but it wasn’t enough to keep them interested for the rest of their lives. You were stubborn and didn’t behave like a proper lady should, or so that was what you’d heard since you were a small girl.

So you found no point in trying to act like one.

An hour passed in what felt like the blink of an eye and you stumbled on your way to the big sofa in the corner of the room. Some of your classmates were already gone with men in their arms to keep them company through the night and you had a look around to see who you could entice.

And to your surprise, the pleasant stranger was still here.

He had been watching you for the last hour with the old lady in his arm. She usually talked about giving back to the community and Alfie was all for that but there was something that kept pulling him to you. He had watched as you eyed every person in the room until your eyes landed on him, a small smile playing at your lips and he realised you weren’t as drunk as he thought you were.

That wasn’t you being drunk, it was you being nothing but trouble.

“May I?” your voice was soft against the air while you tried to get to the whiskey on the table but Alfie was blocking your access. You had walked graciously towards him before that and he was sure you wanted something.

“No fucking way.” he spoke under his breath and your eyebrows shot up at the words. He was amusing after all.

While he blocked your hands from reaching the whiskey bottle, you shot him an innocent look and he felt as though he was playing with something a little bigger than himself.

“Why?” you asked with a dash of threat lying under. You could make this moment very difficult for him but it went both ways.

“You, yeah, are too fuckin’ young to even be here, luv...” he speaks and you watch the way his eyes drink you up. You’re too young for drinking but now young enough to keep his eyes to himself, apparently. “...let alone be dancin’ the way you were.” he finishes his sentence and your amused chuckle fills his ears. It’s not what he expects to hear.

“Liked something you saw?” you ask, daring as you look into his eyes. He chuckles, he’s clearly taken aback.

He shakes his head instead of answering. Most of the people around are gone with their gentlemen and the party will be over soon, you figure you’ll be going to the cold bed you woke up in. He catches the faint sign of disappointment on your face and he’s smart enough to put two and two together.

But you seem far too dangerous for a man like him, he thinks.

Before he can answer your question, Annabelle comes around with a plastered smile and starts speaking in the tone you hate so much.

“Y/N! The party is over, dear. You best be on your way to your room.” she speaks, sizing Alfie up along the way. You huff and stare at the old lady. You didn’t think the party was a grand idea anyway.

“Alright.” you speak, knowing she won’t like it and Alfie enjoys the way a hint of smile plays on your lips while Annabelle turns furious for a second.

“What have I taught you?” she says, composing herself in front of the guest and Alfie watches the whole thing play out.

“Yes, Miss.” you say with a fake smile but you’re far from done. They both hear the words as you mutter them under your breath. “Your wish is my command.”

Alfie can’t help but laugh.

You know Annabelle won’t let this go but she smiles at the guest as a sign of kindness, something she hasn’t shown you in your time around here. Alfie turns to you to see the horror in your eyes and he can tell it’s because of the old grumpy lady who keeps bugging you.

And he decides to be the gentlemen.

You’re about to say goodnight and go to your room but he speaks up first to Annabelle, you don’t protest when his hand grabs your small one and caresses it while speaking.

“Actually, this one right here, yeah, will accompany me for the rest of the evenin’..” he speaks and catches the way your eyes light up but he’s composed while the old lady looks at you first and then looks at Alfie.

She’s sure it’ll be a disaster.

“Of course.” she says, wanting to get rid of you as fast as she can.

You watch her leave and Alfie’s hand engulfs your small one in the process. With stars in your eyes, you return to the kind gentlemen but he’s fast to speak before you can thank him. “We best be on our way, lass.”

And he leaves with you on his arm, unaware of the things the night has in stock for the both of you.

----

Tagging: @clairecrive @parkbearum @sourirez @vetseras @mollybegger-blog @babylooneytoonz @peakascum

a/n: I know i have been inactive but i have one more week of school before the winter break so i’ll be better, I promise!! and please let me know what you thought or/and if you’d like to be tagged!! <3 Happy december!

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jackie5656 · 3 years

Text

The Fight

With; Newt (TMR)

A/N: Kind of a long one guys. Thank you again for all the love. I appreciate every like, reblog, and comment. Enjoy!

Warnings: mention of suicidal thoughts/attempt, anxiety, minor panic attack, Minho being an ass (I promise it’s not all depressing and sappy there is a good amount of angst/fluff ofc)

“Bugger off Newt, I want to be left alone.” The boy trails behind as you stomp over to the forest, figuring collecting fertilizer would be better than having to tolerate the pestering blonde any longer.

“Don’t you want someone to keep you company?”

“Am I still speaking English? Leave me be.” It’s been a long day, and a part of you is still getting used to the harsh, mundane work days of the glade since you’re arrival a few months ago. It’s been a lot of pressure, but surprisingly you’ve managed to hold it together. It’s impressive too, you’ve managed to adapt better to your new life better than any other glader had. Perhaps that was why the boy was so drawn to you.

It’s not like he had wanted to be. In fact, Newt would have been more than happy treating you like any other glader. But it just so happened the one and only girl in the glade just had to be a natural track-hoe, so there was no avoiding her. Not her smooth skin, glistening eyes, or her infectious laugh-

“Hello? Would you quit it, shank? It’s like you want to get me jacked.”

“Maybe I just like seeing you all riled up.” You can feel the smirk playing on his stupidly Cherry-red lips as he teases you, quickening his pace so he can grab the straggling branches of the thick forest out of your way. Your stomach flips at his words, but it’s quickly filled with hot anger as the nervousness fades. He won’t quit flirting, and despite your quit wit you’re finding it harder to snap back at him when he says things like that. He doesn’t even mean it

“You’re infuriating!”

“And you’re gorgeous.” The words slip past his tongue before he can catch him, and your footsteps stutter over a stray twig amongst the brush on the ground. You almost trip, but the glader behind you is quick to catch your forearm. It’s silent, and you’re darting your head around just fast enough to catch the stunned look on his face, informing you he hadn’t meant to voice the compliment aloud. Your eyes narrow, trying your best to ignore the longing temptation within you begging to kiss away the stupid blush in his cheeks.

“You know, instead of searching the forest for fertilizer, I should just pick up all the klunk that comes out of your mouth.” The harsh words come without much thought, but you don’t completely regret saying them. If he was actually interested, he wouldn’t be so keen on making you annoyed every minute of every day.

His eyebrows narrow, but if your snarky comment provoked any thought he doesn’t voice it.

“Shuck, sorry then newbie. I’ll slim it.”

“Listen, I was a newbie four greenies ago! So you can stop calling me that.” You spin on your heel to face him, standing your ground when he stops short in order to not run you over. When you meet eyes, he gives a kind smile, studying your features intently. Almost as if you were in a daze, you do the same. Relishing in the sounds of the nature around you and the warm sun beaming through the tree tops, perfectly illuminating the lightest streaks in the taller boy’s hair. You hadn’t notice before, but there are small puddles of gold in his deep brown eyes, speckled about in his irises and disappearing when he tilts his head to the side in feigned curiosity. He licks his lips before letting his accented voice break the silence.

“What’s up with you?”

“What? Nothing.”

“You’ve got that look about you.”

“What look?”

“That look.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“Well, I’m looking at you right now, and you have a look.”

“What look?!” He grins at your suddenly aggravated persistence, holding back a laugh when you let out a dramatic groan and start to tread deeper into the woods.

Later that night, you’re making conversation with Frypan as you help with the dishes. He’s good company, and most times mundane chores like cleaning up after other gladers seem to fly by when he’s around. You let out a sigh when a familiar hand reaches out to help you take out one of the heavier pots from the drying rack.

“Didn’t know you were a cook, greenie.”

“Maybe I;’m just trying to avoid you.”

“Impossible, you’d miss me too much.”

“What do you want, shank.”

“What, I can’t help out too?”

Just then, you’re pulled away by the forearm with a strong yank. Releasing yourself from Mihno’s grip and rubbing the excess suds off of your hands quickly.

“What the hell?”

“Listen, you want him to quit being a shank towards you right?”

“Of course I do Minho, but-“

“Then flirt with me.”

“Wh-what?”

“Flirt with me, squeeze my arm and laugh like I just said something really funny.”

“You’re already saying something funny. You must be jacked.” You attempt to blow your friend off and walk away, but he pulls you toward him again.

“Just humor me for a minute, yeah? Let’s see how riled up this shank gets.”

“Minho, he’s not going to get mad. He lives to annoy me, he’ll be happy to see you’re joining in on the fun!”

“Y/n, you’re not seriously this dense? The poor shank likes you, he’s just got no idea how to show it. The playful banter you two have, although it’s cute, is starting to get old. So, because I’m an amazing friend and wing-man, I’ll help you shanks out. Now squeeze my arm and laugh.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t believe me?” His challenging smirk is enough for you to give in, determined to prove the raven haired boy wrong. Setting aside your irritated mood, you adjust your hunched stance before giving Minho your most charming smile. Muttering idly and pressing his bicep with a dramatic laugh. He shoots you a glare when you pinch with a little too much passion, but a smirk stays on his face nonetheless. He moves just a bit closer to you, eyes darting across the glade and smile widening.

“See she-bean? He’s practically fuming.” The boy does all he can to contain his laughter, pulling himself together when you offer a subtle glance to the blonde across the glade. He’s leaning against the now empty sink with his arms crossed. Looking too angry to even begin to make his death glare towards Minho any less obvious. Admittedly, you don’t think you’ve seen Newt ever look so flustered. When you lock eyes, his lips remain tightly pressed together. Not long after does he turn back around to continue attending to the dishes. All whilst muttering something under his breath and shaking his head.

“Don’t get so cocky, you’re blushing too you shank.” You swat Mihno’s hand pinching your cheek, genuinely laughing when he nudges you out of the homestead hut.

“I’ll probably be banished by sundown for that.”

“You think he’s really that upset about it? I mean, I know we’re good friends and all but I never expected Newt to see me like that.”

“It’s a good thing I’m one of the only shanks around here with a brain.”

“Y/n, mind if I talk to you for a bit?” Alby approached the pair of you with a soft expression, his gentle nature filling you with a bit of concern. You nod hesitantly, feeling as though every damn glader needed to pull you from one conversation to the next tonight. You follow Alby closely as he leads you back into the homestead, sitting on one of the hammocks and motioning for you to do the same. There’s a contemplative silence before the head glader speaks, only taking him a few moments to gather his thoughts before meeting your eyes.

“I gotta be honest greenie, I’m a bit worried about you.”

“Why me?” Your eyebrows narrow in confusion, and the older boy’s worried tone makes your heart sink.

“Most of the newbies are jacked the first couple weeks. You know, lashing out one minute and crying like a baby the next. But you’ve been quite, collected. That leaves a lot of room for me to be concerned.”

“Alby, you’re upset that I’m not...Upset?”

“I’m upset that you remind me of myself. I was a lot like you, I kept everything in when I first got here. I was reserved, and I kept everything bottled up inside. And I’m no therapist, but that quickly tore me apart. I understand being a girl might...Complicate things, seeing as some of these shanks expect you to be weaker. You don’t have to prove yourself greenie, at least not in that way.” You take a minute to consider his words, chewing on the inside of your cheek in thought. He studies you for a moment, seemingly thinking about his next words with caution. “I don’t mean to jack you up, just think about it.” He finishes carefully, nudging your shoulder with his own before exiting the hut. Giving you a tight lipped smile and curt nod before disappearing from view. Was that supposed to be a pep talk?

**************

The past weeks had been confusing, terrifying, and downright unbelievable. That was clear, but didn’t you have no other choice than to accept what was going on? You still had millions of questions, and a certain ache in your heart that felt like it was pulling at you. But there wasn’t time to break down, not yet anyway. Is there even a right time? The conversation with Alby seemed to have made you worse off than before. You shuffle for the hundredth time in your hammock, letting out an exasperated sigh at the restless situation.

Despite your efforts, sleep never comes. For the past week, you’ve been exhausted just about everyday. Today had been no different, except when you try to relax, anxiety crawls in the air around you. Suddenly, the warm night air is absolutely suffocating. It’s too much pressure, too much unknown for you to handle it any longer. When your pounding heartbeat begins to drown out the cicadas and other sounds of the glade, you can only think of one thing. Alby was right

Stumbling out of your hammock, you start making your way out of the hut. It doesn’t matter where, you just need to escape. Even when you’re outside, there’s still not enough room. The four walls that once felt like a barrier between you and the horrors of the ominous maze, now feel like a cage. Trapping you inside and shrinking impossibly smaller until they eventually crush you.

Without thinking, you begin to sprint over to the west wall, pounding at the menacing stone and letting out a chocked sob. All at once, every emotion you’d suppressed since your first day in the glade releases from you. It’s nauseating, and you grip your stomach in an attempt to latch onto some sense of stability.

Who put you here? Why was everyone so indifferent to their lives here, and why had you eventually become the same way?

There’s been this ache, some rotting substance in your core that’s been emanating within you since you first woke up in the box. A horrible, indescribable hollowness that is the result of the loss of what must have been your life before the maze. Suddenly, you miss your mom. Or maybe a woman who resembled one. It’s mortifying, to know you must have parents somewhere out there. But you can’t remember them, can only feel the ugliest parts of you that aren’t whole without them. Your vision blurs, and there’s an awful white noise that drowns out any and all sounds of reality surrounding you. Completely immersed in your own thoughts, even the ground beneath you feels as though it’s been meticulously sculpted by whatever monsters put you here. It’s impossible to breath, feeling as though every beat of your heart, every blink of an eye is in the control of the creators. So caught up in your own panic, you don’t sense the boy calling your name behind you.

You attempt to squirm out of his strong grip, his stature never showing how strong he truly is from his long hours in the gardens. It’s no use to keep pulling away when his back hits the stone wall of the glade, using his strong grip to hold your hands against your chest as he slides you both to the floor. Weaker leg giving out from the sheer strength needed to restrain you. Newt’s not sure if he’s helping or making your panicked state even worse, but he’s reassured when you begin to calm. Erratic cries faltering into small whimpers as your head uncontrollably jerks at each sharp intake of air your body forces you to take. You can feel his heart beat rapidly against your back, informing you just how scared he is despite his stoic nature on the outside. You try to release from his grip once again, instincts telling you there’s too much to worry about to calm down. The blonde pulls you closer to him once more, hushing your cries and leaning his chin atop of your head. The world feels authentic again, and you silently think out a plethora of thank you’s to the boy for immersing you back into reality. Doing your best to cease your cries and gain control of your breathing, you grip onto the fabric of his long sleeve sleeping shirt with a terror-induced strength. It’s all too much

“Just breathe y/n, breathe with me.” He mutters softly, chest filling with pride when you mimic his dramatic intakes of air.

The ringing subsides, and the white clouding your vision finally clears when your heart begins to slow. Eventually, Newt releases your arms. And in an instant, you clutch onto his hand in fear the crippling panic will return. Rip you away from everything you’ve come to know in only seconds.

“You’re alright now love, just breathe.” He soothes again, not even flinching at your harsh grip on him. The minute you had left your hammock, something within him beckoned him to follow. You’d been off the past couple of days, and somehow the boy knew you couldn’t be alone. His eyes well with tears, you having reminded him so much of himself his first year in the glade. He wonders what you would have done if he hadn’t caught you in time, and what lengths you would have gone to if the pain never stopped and the maze walls opened. He wills away the thought with a shake of his head, reminding himself that you’re still here, and in dire need of a friend.

“I miss my mom.” You stutter out eventually, soft lips trembling and pulled into a pitiful pout. “I don’t remember her of course, but it’s like I can feel her. I feel everything and nothing at the same time, you know? There’s so much death here, it’s been hard to find something to live for. How am I supposed to do this, how are we supposed to survive this? I mean...This has gotta be some sort of sick joke, nobody could be this shucking cruel right?” You let out a pathetic scoff, still shaking uncontrollably in his arms.

“Listen to me y/n, I’ve been where you are. We all have, and I can promise you there is so much more than that feeling. You have to believe me.” You shake your head, refusing to accept his empty promises. He sighs before continuing, trying to gather his thoughts in preparation to confess what he’s kept secret from almost all other gladers until now. “A couple weeks into my first year here, I couldn’t shake the same feeling you’re describing. That dark, ominous part that sits inside of all of us here. The unknown, the memories begging to re-enter your mind. I hated it, I hated this place, and I hated myself.” You lift your head from his shoulder at that, wanting to study his contemplative expression as he carries on. “Eventually, I couldn’t take it. So I ran out into the maze....And I did what I assume you’ve been thinking about the past couple of days. And I can assure you, nothing you do to yourself with get rid of that pain. That’s why we survive, we persevere, we fight. It might have taken a shattered leg and permanent limp for me to realize, but I know now the only way to beat that feeling is to escape this shucking place. What comes next doesn’t matter, we have to show whatever slintheads put us here that they won’t ever win. Do you understand?” His expression becomes stern, willing each word to bore into your mind as a permanent oath. Stunning brown eyes boring into yours as if they’ll cement each syllable into your mind. You nod, unsure of how to respond.

“You have to promise me.” He mutters softly, eyes welling with tears at your empty expression. “Please love, promise me you’ll fight.” He’s holding your head in his hands now, silently willing the overwhelming demons your facing to escape that beautiful mind.

“P-promise. I promise.” You reassure weakly, overcome with love for the boy under you. Instantly, you encase him in a tight embrace. Heart swelling even more when he plants a soft kiss to your temple.

“Good that.” He breathes gently, pulling you impossibly closer to his heart. Just to hold you for a little while longer. You have to fight, and you’ll do it together.

Tagging: @8avery8 @jenny33996

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coexiising · 3 years

Text

Good Neighbors - Chapter Two

SUMMARY ✦ Your parents host a dinner party for the new neighbors.

WARNING(S) ✦ Nothing

MASTERLIST ✦ Here.

It had been three days since your last encounter with Anakin Skywalker. Three days since you could’ve sworn he winked at you. Not that you were counting . . . No, you were most definitely not doing that.

Since then you had been doing, well, essentially nothing but thinking back to that moment of the two of you talking. And it was probably stupid, since it was just two neighbors talking to each other. He was just being nice to you and that was all, there was nothing to think more of. There were way better things to keep your mind on, like going to your part time job and focusing on finishing up your classes to get your degree. You were busy, but that didn’t stop you from stopping whatever you were doing and glancing through your window to see if you could catch a glimpse at your new neighbor.

You blamed it on stupid infatuation. He was incredibly attractive and you were bored, and you weren’t the only one to think so, since your mother the other day said something about inviting your new ‘attractive neighbors’ to dinner one night. You hated how quick you were to say it was a good idea.

One thing that you learned was that your window was right across from your neighbor's master bedroom, which meant that when the curtains were drawn back, you could see right into their room. Which really wasn’t often, since it was only a side window and they had a much bigger window in the front of the house that was open way more often. But sometimes, if you looked at the right time, you could see Anakin or his wife walking around or talking with one another.

You wondered what she was like. She was very beautiful, with coffee brown hair that stayed in natural curls. She also had a good sense of style, always looking classy and elegant that made you feel out of place every time you and her were outside at the same time for whatever reason. It was wrong to be comparing yourself to her, you shouldn’t, and again blamed it on some stupid fantasy you had made up in your head. It was childish, sure, but it wasn’t like anything was ever going to happen.

You could hear him now, downstairs in the open hallway leading to your kitchen and dining room, talking to your mother about something you couldn’t quite make out. It was later in the evening, almost seven, and your family decided to give the courtesy of inviting the Skywalkers to dinner tonight, something you had been looking forward to since your mother informed you a day prior. Splaying your hands on the front of your black dress, you made sure that there were no creases, looking in the mirror to do one final once over of your appearance. You looked nice, maybe nicer than your family were going for, but no one would comment on it anyways. There was a golden necklace around your neck that had been given to you for your birthday a few years ago, which accented right off of your chest. Once you were satisfied, you opened the door to your room and walked down the steps, getting closer to the voices of your parents and your guests.

The second you got to the ground level of your home and saw the backs of both Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala, you made a beeline for the other direction, deciding to make a detour to the kitchen, stumbling over your feet. You didn’t see all of him, but you could see that Anakin was wearing a dark navy blue dress shirt and those black pants that he was always in, the ones that you always ended up looking at for more than the normal amount of time. Pressing your palms into the countertop, you took deep breaths, trying to compose yourself. This shouldn’t be so hard, you were making a big deal out of this . . . Right? You once again had to repeat to yourself that he was married and there was no way that anything could happen, even though deep down you wished that something would.

“There you are, why didn’t you come down earlier?” Your mother asked, walking into the room and heading for the oven, the smell of something cooking taking over your senses and taking you away from your thoughts. “Anakin was asking about you.”

You almost choked on the air you breathed in. “He was asking about me?” Your tone was a little too questionable and she turned to look at you behind her shoulder, her eyebrow raised and a tiny smile on her face. “I mean, why was he asking about me?” You asked, attempting to save yourself.

“I don’t know, something about a ball and his kids, did they almost hit you or something?”

Oh, right. The incident at the barbeque. Of course that’s why he was asking, that’s probably the only time he had thought about you.

“So, anyways, go out there and be a charmer. Your brother is terrible at it and you know your father is probably boring them with business stuff,” She said, going back to the meal she was preparing. You nodded, deciding it was finally time to face them and get your own awkwardness out of the way. The walk to the dining room was brisk and you saw that your father was, in fact, talking about something business related. Padmé seemed somewhat interested, but Anakin was definitely not listening by the way he stared down at the table. You almost laughed, before realizing that your father was talking to you now and you had no idea what he was saying. You were too busy looking at Anakin, seeing his blue eyes dart to your own the moment you walked in the room.

You faltered for a moment. “What’d you say?” You glanced at your dad.

“I was just saying that you finally joined us!” He said, giving you one of his kind dad smiles. You flashed one back, meekly sitting in the only seat that was open at the table, conveniently right next to the person you were trying to keep your distance from. As you pulled your seat out and sat down next to Anakin, your father started talking to Padmé again. You were glad that the attention had seemingly been taken off of you and you could try to keep yourself together for the rest of this dinner.

Though that didn’t seem to be in your favor.

“Luke wanted me to tell you that he was sorry about kicking that ball again, he seems to be really broken up about it, not sure why,” Anakin said to you, turning his head to look right at you again.

You laughed, looking down at your hands in your lap and shrugged your shoulders. “I don’t know, you may be hearing from my lawyers soon,” You joked, facing him and seeing a grin on his face. “But you’re one, right? So you should be good.”

“I’m not sure, you have a good case,” He joked, taking a sip of his wine. “I haven’t seen you around in a while, still picking up shifts for your friend?” He remembered.

You nodded. “Yeah, but I’m all done now. We get off for the Fourth tomorrow anyways.” The summer holiday had come quickly this year, but it was still something to look forward to. You loved all the fireworks and the food that came with the celebration. In addition to that, it was your family’s favorite holiday as well, meaning that everyone would go out to celebrate like you always did with the traditional block party that the Skywalker’s would now be invited to. It was as if Anakin would never get out of your life no matter how much you wished to avoid him.

Perhaps it was silly, this whole idea that you could have some type of romance with him. He was married, and it seemed like they were happy together. They had two beautiful children together, nothing could ever change that fact.

“That’s good, your mother was telling us all a while ago about the party. You guys sure love to throw them,” Anakin teased, taking a sip of his glass of wine. You watched his lips meet the glass, noting how pink they looked in the correct light. It took you a moment to compose yourself, looking down at the table and taking the biggest breath you could take without him noticing.

You gave a nod, opening your mouth to say something but being greeted by your mother walking in the room with different pots in hand. Finally, a good distraction that could get your mind off of the hunk of the man beside you. Padmé said something about the food that you couldn’t quite make out, reaching to grab one of the serving spoons while you grabbed for the other. Right as your hand hit the wood handle, Anakin’s own hand came down on yours, him not knowing that you were going to reach for the same one.

“Sorry,” You said, hoping that he would mistake your blush from the contact for embarrassment. Luckily, he only gave you a glance and pulled his hand away.

“You first.”

You took some of the food onto your plate, looking down at it until you were sure that the blush had diminished. The room was so hot at this point that you thought that it was possibly on fire. But it wasn’t, it was all because of how close you were to your neighbor, so close that you could feel his presence right next to you and you could smell the cologne that you had smelled the first day that you met him, bringing you back to the moment you looked into his eyes for the first time. You were sure that if you thought about him any more that you would combust right then and there. So you focused on eating, staying silent while the others made small talk.

Minutes passed by and you felt somewhat comfortable again, reaching beside you to grab your phone to check it under the table. Messages blinked up at you, almost illuminating your face as you read: Y/N! Please pick up. I left my computer at work and my brother has my car. I need it tomorrow so that I can work on my thesis, please, please, please can you get it? It was your best friend. Your heart practically thumped out of your chest at the opportunity to get out of this whole ordeal, where you could take your time to get the computer as long as the Skywalker’s would stay over. And then you would have an excuse for your mom instead of just sneaking off to your room.

“Mom, it’s Julia,” You said, holding up your phone so that she could read the text. “I’m sorry, I really need to stop by work and get her computer. It’s important.” You knew that she wouldn’t be happy about you leaving, but nonetheless she said you could go and you were already halfway out the door when you heard your father shouting your name.

Turning around, you saw that he was standing up with Anakin, a firm hand on your neighbor’s shoulder. “Anakin has offered to drive you. It’s late, you know how bad those roads get at night and I would feel more comfortable if you went with him,” Your dad said. You didn’t really have much room to object, since Anakin was already walking into the entrance area and putting on his coat, a black one that matched the same ‘put together’ style that he always seemed to have.

“Okay,” You said, feeling your nerves turn you almost inside out.

“We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Anakin said to everyone, walking behind you out the door and closing it.

You walked to the car alone with Anakin, basically jumping out of your seat in joy the moment you sat down.

#anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin x reader #Anakin Skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #star wars #star wars x reader #star wars prequels #star wars the clone wars #star wars fanfiction #anakin au #star wars au

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spidey-sophie · 4 years

Text

Curiosity Bit the Cat | Tom Holland One-Shot

Pairing: Tom Holland x Female Reader

Warnings: meet cute, fluffy smut, public bathroom sex, hand kink (shocking), fingering (f receiving), sex with a 'stranger'

Summary: On the biggest Halloween party of the year you meet a mystery guy dressed as Spider-Man. You haven’t even seen his face, but somehow you just can’t get enough of him.

Word Count: 5.8k

Notes: Okay, so first of all, thank you everyone for your kind words after reading the teaser! Also, I can’t ever thank enough to my wonderful editors @worldoftom and @hypnotized-so-mesmerized ! Thank you for staying up all night, listening to me talking about it for daysss and making this fic as amazing as it is! Also, thank you to my lovely twin @rebekkah4766 for brainstorming with me and jumping in whenever I needed her to!

It was your favorite holiday of the year. Halloween.

As a kid, you would look forward to it all year, excited to go trick or treating, collect loads of candy, and eat it with your friends. Now, you loved the holiday for a different reason. You still looked forward to Halloween months in advance, but not for trick or treating. Halloween gave you the chance to don a mask and transform. There’s something about those masks and the anonymity that they provide. Wearing a mask always set you free.

“Are you coming, Daenerys Targaryen?” your best friend called out from outside of the car, her voice pulling you out of your thoughts. She wasn’t completely wrong, you did reuse your old Daenerys blonde wig tonight, styling it differently to get your character’s famous platinum blonde hair just right.

“How many times have I told you, I’m Black Cat tonight!” you said, finally climbing out of the car. As soon as you did, you started regretting your decision. Your leather costume was too tight. It did hug your figure in all the right places, but it was so uncomfortable to move with it on. The white fur around your wrists and neck wasn’t helping either.

“Oh yeah, I forgot how much of a nerd you are,” she said as she took your hand and started tugging you towards the entrance.

“Wait a second,” you said, pulling you and your friend to a stop to unzip the front piece of your costume. You had debated whether you should rock the famous Black Cat décolleté, and at the last moment you decided to go for it.

“Well, now we’re talking, come on!”

The loud beats and bass vibrations took over your senses as you entered the club, looking around in awe at the lights and decor. The place was crowded, full of people in various costumes, all of them wearing masks. You could barely recognize the rest of your friend group as they spotted you and waved you over.

“How did you manage to get us into this club?” you leaned over to ask your friend. This wasn’t a place you’d usually go out to. It was too luxurious for your taste. And for your wallet.

“I know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows a guy… don’t question it, enjoy it while you can!” Your friend said, gesturing afterwards that she was going to the distant table your friends were at. You nodded, deciding to push through the crowd to the bar to get you both some drinks first.

There was one thing you needed to be able to fully let loose in the crowd - alcohol. You made your way towards the bar and, after a while of squeezing your way through the crowd, you finally managed to get to the bartender. As soon as you finished ordering your drink, you heard someone laugh right next to you.

Intrigued and liking the way the laugh sounded, you turned around. It was immediately clear why this mystery person had laughed.

There, right next to you, was a guy dressed as Spider-Man. You couldn’t help but smile at the coincidence.

“Never thought I’d see you here, Cat,” you heard an appealing, smooth voice coming from under the mask.

“Back at ya, Spider. Thought you could only ever be spotted over the city's skyline.” You didn’t know exactly why, but you decided to play his game.

"Well, I heard a rumor a certain thief might be here and had to check it out."

You started to reply but lost your train of thought when the crowd jostled him closer to you, letting you see him better in the dim light. He was wearing a red and black version of the famous Spider-Man suit, with the mask fully covering his face. There was no skin in sight, but nearly every muscle of his was noticeable through the tight suit. Your eyes landed on his broad shoulders, and you couldn’t help but continue checking him out. Sure, you couldn’t see his face, but you could see plenty of his body and, for the moment, that was enough.

“Wow, after all these years, you’re still thirsty for me, Cat?” His voice startled you from your observations.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Spider.” You looked back up and turned around to face the bartender who just came back with your drinks. "I was just passing the time."

“You two have the best couples costume I’ve seen so far,” the bartender said as he gave you two shots for you and your new friend.

“Thank you, but I don’t like to be associated with spiders,” you said, and could almost hear the guy next to you smiling at your quip. Just as you grabbed your drinks and started walking away from him, you felt his hand on yours, lightly squeezing it.

“Will I see you around?” he asked, almost whispering into your ear.

“Maybe. If you use your spidey senses to find me.” You winked at him and finally left to join your friends.

The rest of the night went by pretty quickly. You spent most of it either dancing with your friends or meeting some new people, but none of them caught your attention like the mystery Spider-Man did. You couldn’t explain it, but there was something about him that attracted you. You felt stupid that you hadn’t even see his face yet, but there you were, searching for him in the crowd while drinking and dancing. Yet he was nowhere to be seen. You didn’t mention your mystery man to your friends. The only thing you knew about him was that, judging by his accent, he was probably American, but that clue wasn’t enough for you to find him.

You eventually gave up on looking for him and focused on the night. With your friend’s hand in yours, you strutted towards the dance floor. The music was so loud, it was almost throbbing inside your body. Letting yourself sink into the feeling, you started moving to the rhythm. You could feel many eyes gazing at you, following your every move closely. But, you felt indifferent to their attention. Hand in hand, you were dancing with your friend, spinning each other around and having a blast dancing together to your favorite songs. She was there for a little bit, but then her hand left yours and she gestured to the bar, and you nodded, continuing to dance on your own. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt this good, this free. You stayed dancing alone on the dance floor, most of your friends too drunk to join you or had already hooked up with someone, but you didn’t care. You just wanted to have fun.

A few songs had passed when you felt someone only a few inches behind you. Curious to see if it was one of your friends or someone else, you started turning your head back but paused when you heard a familiar voice.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

His soft voice sent shivers down your spine. You couldn’t believe you were so drawn to someone’s voice. Though you’d just met him a few hours ago, you’d missed hearing it. You smiled and finally turned your whole body to face him.

“What happened to those spidey senses of yours?” you said, stepping closer as his hands moved to rest on your elbows. You look down at his suggestion of proximity and surprisingly didn't feel uncomfortable with it. It felt… nice.

“Turns out they don’t mix well with alcohol," he said, "or maybe you were too skilled for them tonight. Where were you hiding?” The music was too loud so he had to be close to you in order for you to hear him.

“See that Harley Quinn who keeps frantically waving at us? She’s at my table.”

“Oh, I see. I was at the complete opposite side of the club.”

“You know, I almost approached the wrong Spider-Man,” you told him with a slight giggle, putting your hands around his neck as he drew you closer by the waist. The last thing you had wanted was for him to know you were looking for him, but somehow the alcohol made your mouth work faster than your brain. “There’s too many of you guys now anyways, I can’t keep track anymore.”

“Which one is your favourite?” he asked you.

“Oh, Miles. Definitely.”

“Well, he’s one lucky guy then, to be your favourite,” he said, running his hands up and down your lower back. Your skin felt like it buzzed with prickles wherever he touched you, hands still resting on the back of his neck. Since you couldn’t see him, you tried to focus on other things apart from his face and eyes, such as his voice. It sounded very comforting to you, almost like you’d heard it somewhere before.

"But you come a close second, Parker," you said with a grin and a partial wink. He chuckled and shook his head.

"You know," he said, moving one hand close to yours and starting to intertwine his fingers with yours. "You have quite an irresistible smile."

Transfixed by his flirt, you let him hold you like that, relaxing into him. And there you were, face to face. One of your hands was still on his neck, while he brought the other one to his chest, still holding on tightly. Even with his gloves on, you could feel how warm his hand was against your cold one.

“You do, too… I mean, not that I’ve seen… I meant the sound of it.” The embarrassment tingling through your body was unbearable, so you moved your hand from his neck to wipe a phantom drop of sweat from your brow. You felt stupid, but in a good way. In a way you haven’t felt ever since talking to your first childhood crush.

He laughed yet again. "Don't worry, kitten, I know what you meant."

Before you knew it, you were quickly wrapped around him from the warmth of his words.

You danced quietly for a bit, both of you moving your bodies out of sync with the music but in tune with each other. You’d become used to the silence between the two of you when he finally said, “I really enjoyed spending time with you tonight.”

“And I liked talking to you,” you replied, gently caressing the back of his neck with your nails.

“Maybe we can talk better if we go outside. If you want to?” he asked when the dance floor got too crowded, and the music got even louder. As close as you were, you could barely hear each other now.

“Yeah, that’d be nice. I just need to stop by the restroom first.”

“I’ll go with you.” He took your hand in his and led the way. That little gesture made your heart beat faster. However, once you were in front of the bathrooms, you saw the familiar long line you were hoping wouldn't be there.

“I can’t believe I’ll have to wait ages to pee,” you groaned.

“Wait, you can use this one, there’s no one else inside.” You saw him opening the door of the men's bathroom and gesturing to you with his hands to come inside.

“Are you sure it’s okay that we’re both here?” you asked him once you walked in.

“No, but we’ll see,” he laughed, and so did you.

You were done fairly quickly, but he seemed to still be in one of the stalls. You decided to sit on the sink counter, waiting for him to come out of the toilet. You looked around. The counter was fairly big, there were four sinks with a big mirror. On your left were urinals, the stalls on your right.

“How did you get out of that suit?” you asked, to kill some time while you were waiting for him.

“I have a zip at the back, darling.” You loved the way he used pet names for you, it made you smile and caught you off guard. “But I’m going to need your help to zip it back,” he said as he got out. His gloves were off, so now you could see his hands. They seemed soft and a bit bony. The thing that drew your attention the most were his fingers. They were really long, with a few veins popping on them. You watched him washing his hands and caught yourself imagining how those fingers would feel on your body.

“Can you even see in that thing? Can you breathe?” Once you realized you were staring way too much at his hands, you tried to change the subject.

“I can, and sadly not so much. Could you zip me up please?” You loved the way his fingers clenched the towel while he was drying them.

He got near you, right between your legs, facing the opposite direction. You saw a fair portion of his freckled skin through both sides of the zipper as it fell open till about half of his back. As you zipped him up, you could feel your heart pounding and your hands growing clammy with sweat. Especially when you looked up and caught sight of his curly brown hair peeking under his mask.

“All done,” you said nervously.

"Thanks," he said as he turned around to face you. You lifted your head and looked at him. Your eyes flicked over his face, trying to distinguish his facial features, but his mask hid them very well. You lingered on his nose jutting out through the spandex before taking in the details of his white lenses. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't see his eyes, though you could almost feel him studying you just as intently. Neither of you said a word, but the silence didn’t feel stifling at all. In fact, you couldn't help but smile at how calm you felt just sitting in front of him like you were.

"I thought cats had vertical pupils." His voice sounded lower than before. Sultrier.

"Don’t spiders have eight eyes? It's unfair that I can't see yours to find out."

"Well, they hold too many secrets, kitten." You smiled at his remark. He lifted his hand and put it on your arm. It felt like his touch was emitting fire on your already warm body. Your fingers were trailing from your thighs to your knees, searching for distraction but you wanted to put them back on his body so much that they were almost aching.

"Your lips are fully human tho," he said while he traced little circles with his thumb on your forearm. "Can I kiss them?"

You noded shyly. You started removing his mask, but just as you pulled it over his nose, he caught you by the wrists. He placed your fingers near his lips and kissed them.

“Look, I, um, I’ll need you to trust me right now. This is gonna sound odd, but do you mind if I keep my mask on? If it makes you uncomfortable in any way, we can stop. Say the word and we'll stop, alright?” he told you, and you nodded. You couldn’t explain why, but this idea excited you.

You took a closer look at the bottom half of his face. Well, as much as you could since the lights in the bathroom were too dim and red. They complimented his mask. Your heartbeat quickened, it felt like it was about to come out of your chest. You hoped he couldn’t feel it since he was so close to you.

His jawline was the first thing you noticed. As you gently traced the strong path with your finger, you noticed his lips curving into a devilishly hot smirk. That’s when you decided that your best response would be to kiss him.

You lightly brushed your lips on his. Excited but also a bit surprised that you had the courage to kiss him first. Just when you thought about parting your lips from his and apologizing for kissing him, you felt his hands on the small of your back, bringing you closer to him.

His tongue flicked at your lips and you finally parted them, letting out a small moan as you let him in. His hands tightened around your waist as he kept pulling you closer than you already were, like he never wanted to let you go. Instinctively you lifted your legs up and around his waist. The heat of his skin was seeping through the material of both of your costumes.

And he was kissing you so good. Somehow, it seemed like this mystery man knew just the way you liked being kissed, hard and slow. Your hands were on his neck, touching the only parts of his skin that were exposed for you. His skin was soft, and you could feel the way his neck muscles tensed while he was kissing you. Your hands started roaming his body, not breaking the kiss.

Just below his abs, you could trace the outline of his erection in his suit, and he kept pressing it into you. Soon he started slowly and lightly jerking his hips to meet yours, which was enough to make your whole body twitch, desperate for more. His hands had gone around to your ass, caressing it before squeezing it hard. You were desperately yearning for his touch that even though his action took you by surprise, you moaned into his mouth.

The kiss got hungrier than before. He nibbled on your bottom lip and after a while, started moving back slowly. You moaned once his lips were away from yours. In the heat of the moment, both of you forgot to breathe. He moved from your lips to your neck, his breath was hot and it sent shivers down your spine all the way down to your toes.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I saw you.” He growled into your neck. His voice sounded even more familiar to you now, but you couldn’t focus on it, your mind turning hazy from the pressure of his lips. Just when you were about to ask him if you'd ever met, you heard someone coming into the bathroom.

You jerked away from each other, quickly reminded that you were still on the counter, at a public place. He pulled you by the hand, guiding you until you were both crammed into a bathroom stall.

His body was pressed flush into yours even though there was enough room in there. He was so close to you that you could feel him breathe. You focused on the way his muscles were tensing, on the way he smelled and on his paced breathing. Looking up, you kept your eyes on his plumped lips. They were puffy from all the kissing. You could hear the sink run as the person that came into the bathroom washed their hands and felt relief that soon you’d both be alone and wouldn't need to keep quiet anymore.

Once you heard the person leave, he captured your lips with his yet again, kissing you like you had all the time in the world, his tongue exploring your mouth like both of you could stay there forever.

Your hands went up to your mask and you tried to remove it, but he held them. “I still have mine on, it’s only fair if you keep yours on, too.”

You removed your hands from his and slid them down his arms instead.

“And, y’know, you look hotter with it on, too,” he added, his mouth shaping into a smirk.

It was captivating, but you wanted it gone, so you kept moving your hands until they reached his growing bulge. His skin tight costume couldn’t hide how excited he was. You started moving up and down, feeling him growing even more. You needed to use both of your hands to cup him completely, caressing and stroking him through the fabric. He thrust into your hands, grinding on them while he kissed every exposed piece of skin on your face and neck. His fingers worked his way to your back where he found the zip to your own costume. He pulled back from your neck.

“Is this okay?” he asked you as if he hadn't started to unzip you already. As soon as you nodded, he pulled the zip down to your bottom and started pulling it down your body. He squatted in front of you and peeled it slowly off your legs, leaving you in a lacy black underwear. He put your costume on top of the little countertop behind the toilet while still on his knees in front of you. Your underwear was soaking wet and you knew he could see it, feeling the brush of his finger on your clit. He gently kissed your clit through the fabric. You were yearning so much for him it was almost painful. To hell with him for choosing this moment to tease you.

He got up and slid his hand behind your back to unclasp your bra. You were overwhelmed but you wanted to see his body too. Just when he was about to start kissing your neck, you pushed him off of you and reached for the zip on his back. You knew very well where it was from having helped him before, so your fingers found the pull tab easily.

You started pulling his costume off his shoulders, feverishly tugging it down the rest of his body. The first thing you saw was his collar bones, you started moving down his abdomen. He was wearing white Calvin Klein boxers, which was nice and made you send him a cheeky look, but you wanted them gone anyway. You knelt in front of him, tugging every piece of clothing down to his ankles. Looking up, all he had left was the mask over the top of his head.

You ran your hands over his exposed abs, your nails lightly dragging over his smooth skin. He quivered and flexed, and led you to kiss the mole right above his belly button. Just as you were about to start kissing his cock, he put his fingers on the nape of your neck and pulled you back up.

“If you do that now, I’m not going to last long,” he said in an accent that sounded different than before. It had an English touch to it, more pronounced.

Once you were standing, he bent down and pulled your hard nipple into his mouth, gently stroking the other one with his left hand. You moaned, digging your fingers into his back.

“I need you,” you panted.

“Oh do you now,” he growled into your collar bone, moving slowly back to your neck. He started sucking on your skin very hard while moving his right hand down into your soaked panties.

“Do you have a condom?” you asked him, struggling to catch your breath. His hand stopped right at the hem of your underwear.

“No… but wait a second.” He pulled away and slowly opened the bathroom stall door. You took a quick look, too. There it was, attached to the wall, one of those vending machines with condoms and toothbrushes, but both of you were naked and someone could come in any second.

"I got this," he said, pulling his boxers back up in a hurry, attempting to pull up his suit too, but ultimately leaving it half hurled around his knees. When he sneaked out of the stall, you peeked through the opened doors and saw him trying to walk as fast as he could. It was nearly comical, but you contained your chuckles for the sake of the moment.

Soon after, he was on his way back to you, sporting a grin, but the bathroom door opened and you could hear at least two guys chatting animatedly on their way in.

You cussed to yourself, but he was less smooth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mouthed repeatedly, audibly too, until you were able to reach out and pull him back in by an arm. Just in time because you could still hear a boyish 'woaaaah' coming from outside even before the door was locked.

"Get it Spidey!" a voice said, and immediately you both started laughing and shushing each other at the same time. You almost didn't want to because his laugh was the cutest sound you'd heard in a while.

“Sorr…” you started, but he put his finger over your lips to silence you. Still there was no way to stop your wide smiles, even though you had pretty much been walked in on.

You moved your eyes to his chest in an effort to stop smiling, and noticed him breathing heavily. Unsure if he was struggling to hold back more laughter or high on the adrenaline, you decided to give him something else to focus on. His finger was still on your lips which made it easy to part them and start sucking on it, keeping your eyes focused on his face. His smile instantly faded, his mouth hanging open while he sucked in a sharp inhale.

Satisfied at his reaction and wanting more, you used your hands to maneuver his middle finger into your mouth as well, grabbing his wrist to suck on both fingers hard. You could see his lips dancing around the word 'fuck' and glanced into the white eye-shaped lenses, daring him to stare back at you from behind the mask. It felt weird yet captivating to not be able to see into his eyes.

As soon as the restroom door banged closed again, he removed his fingers from your mouth and you let out a small whiny moan. His hand snaked into your underwear, its motion heightened by the kisses he littered on your neck, all the way down to your breasts. He pinned you to the wall with his shoulders, sucking on the soft skin right under your collar bones. You moaned softly under his ear as he slowly worked his way around your pussy and clit, cupping it with his fingers, rubbing it with his whole palm.

He slowly put one finger inside of you while his lips were all over your neck and breasts. Once his finger was fully inside of you, you started moaning a bit louder. He had to kiss you to keep you quiet. His tongue was teasing your lips, waiting for you to let him in. At the same time as his tongue entered your mouth, he put his other finger inside of you and started curling them. The kiss was urgent and sloppy, like your whole life depended on it.

The tension in your lower abdomen started building up. Whether it was the adrenaline rush from the risky location, the fact that he was so mysterious that he wouldn't even let you look him in the eye, or simply his skilled fingers and mouth, you didn’t know. But the truth was that you hadn’t been this wet in a while. You weren’t even kissing him now, just breathing into his mouth. Your hands were around his neck and you could feel the ends of his hair within reach of your fingers. Your lips left his and you started moaning into his neck, feeling him shiver from the warmth of your breath.

Your lower back was still pressed against the cold bathroom wall, thrusting hard into his fingers as you started clenching around them. You started mouthing his shoulder to control your moans and to keep yourself from slipping down.

“I’m so close,” you whispered into his shoulder, kissing and biting into it while your hips bucked hard onto his fingers. He was working you up with his middle and ring fingers, his palm on your clit providing you with more stimuli. They were curling inside of you, hitting just the right spot. You could feel the pure pleasure building inside of you and let out a loud moan when it finally approached.

This time he didn’t try to shut you up, smirking instead as you came down from your high. Your hands instinctively went to his throbbing cock, the need to erase that smirk from his face overcoming your exhaustion You pulled the foreskin over his head and started jerking him off, watching as his lips parted and let out a soft moan. You smeared the precum of his tip and brought your fingers back to your mouth, humming around the taste.

“Turn around,” he told you and you knew exactly what to do. Turning around, you put your hands on the bathroom door and leant against it. You heard him ripping off a condom with his teeth while he rubbed your clit with one hand.

He teased your entrance with his cock, spreading your wetness all over him. He pushed inside of you slowly, making both of you moan. You gasped when his hands reached and squeezed your hips. They were all over you, moving from your hips to your ass cheeks and then finally to your stomach, leaving goosebumps behind in their wake

One of his hands finally slipped back onto your swollen clit. He started rubbing circles around it, while pushing into you with only his tip.

“Are you close?”

His words were distracting, but when you tried to answer, he filled you up completely and your mind went blank. Your only response was a loud moan, you didn’t even care if there was anyone outside of your stall who could hear you.

You felt your arms beginning to ache, shaking a bit from the effort of keeping yourself in position while he pounded into you.

“Can you please hold me?” you whispered through your moans, and he did with a hum. He moved his hand from your ass to your stomach, holding you tight, pressed onto him. His breathing intensified, matching yours.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” you finally said as you felt your body melting into his.

“I got you, I got you,” he moaned breathily, not stopping his movements. He fucked you until it was too much for the both of you. You came when his hand found your nipple, the pleasure it caused setting you ablaze. Then you felt him tremble behind you, hips erratic from chasing his high. Your hands were shaking and his hands on your body were the only things keeping you from falling. Even after he was finished, he couldn’t stop grunting while rocking his hips slowly back and forth, still not ready to pull out and to stop this magnificent feeling for both of you.

When he finally pulled out, you needed a few moments to collect yourself. You struggled to stand still, bracing yourself with one arm on the door. Once you turned around, he grabbed the sides of your face and kissed you hard.

“Fucking hell, this was something else,” he said while his hands were still on your face and his head was resting on yours. You stayed like that for a few moments, and you could feel his hot breath all over your face. When he moved away from you, he got rid of the condom while you took some toilet paper to clean yourself up. A smile bloomed on your face while you took your suit and started dressing up. You couldn’t believe what you had just done, but it felt so good. Your eyes went straight to him and to the way his muscles shifted while he was dressing himself. He turned around for you to zip him back up. You left a little kiss on his back and you could feel him smiling.

“Thank you, kitten,” he said, sounding more American again, using his Peter Parker voice.

“You’re welcome, Spider.”

But as he moved to help you, it hit you that a few moments ago his voice sounded a bit different and his accent definitely had an English lilt. “Can I ask you something?” you asked him while he zipped your suit up.

“Sure. But let’s get out of here first.” You turned around and he pressed his lips lightly into yours while your heart was pounding furiously. The kiss was gentle and sweet, you never wanted this to end.

But it had to. He broke the kiss but moved his hand up to your cheek. His thumb was caressing your lips, almost like he wanted to savor this moment. He smiled before he put his mask back on. You took one last look at the bottom half of his face. And maybe you were out of it, maybe the leftover alcohol was playing tricks on your mind, but you were now almost completely sure from where you recognized his voice and his smile. You needed to ask him. He couldn’t be who you thought he was.

Luckily, the bathroom was empty so you had no trouble getting out of it. Just like when you first came in here, he was holding your hand and leading the way. As you got out of the bathroom, you were blinded by the lights and startled by the loud music. It was hard to believe that you had been in the same building this entire time, the bathroom seemed like it was its own bubble. You stood there with him for a few moments, as you both tried to figure out the best way to get away from the crowd when someone dressed as Batman appeared in front of you.

“Tom, mate, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’re outside, ready to leave.” You felt your heart sink into your stomach. No. It couldn’t be.

“Right, mate, I’ll be there in a second,” he answered him in that same accent he had while he was having sex with you.

“I’ll use my spidey senses to find you,” he whispered in your ear. His American accent was back on. You didn’t know anyone who could switch accents this effortlessly except for the person you thought he was. You were too shocked to respond to him. You just stood there watching him with your eyebrows slightly raised while he showed you a peace sign and left.

Once he was gone, you mechanically walked towards the table your friends had been at. Yet, as you tried to find them, only one thought was on your mind. And you still couldn’t believe it.

Did you just have sex with Tom Holland?

taglist: @duskholland @perspectiveparker @whattheheckparker @thefallenbibliophilequote

#tom holland #tomholland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland smut #tom holland one shot #tom holland fandom #mcufam #tom holland oneshot #tom holland fic #tom holland x fem #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland fanfinc #halloween #halloween fic #spider man #black cat

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stephspurs · 3 years

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A Family Affair | Euro 2020 Football Fanfiction

Hi besties - here is part 6! We are officially halfway through this fic! Part 6 sees friendships blossom, situationships struggle, and cheeky intercontinental facetime chats! I hope you all are enjoying it as much as i am! I love hearing from you after you've read it! Love always, Steph xx

Part 6 | parte sesta

warnings; a couple of tugs on the heartstrings (in both the best and worst ways)

word count; 2301

writing tools; third person until dashed line, first person thereafter.

next update; Friday 06/08 5pm AEST. Updates are three times/week (Monday, Wednesday & Friday)!

Tags (as requested by users); @footballffbarbiex @obsesseds-world @abysshaven

link to fic masterlist here

Amelia had been back in Turin for a week or so, settling back into her city apartment had been more difficult than she anticipated as she was now alone for the first time in more than 2.5 months. It wasn’t very often, but sometimes she did miss the companionship of having a boyfriend. She missed someone to have breakfast with, to watch movies under the covers, to bring to official events. She still did all of these things, with a date, that was a friend, that sometimes maybe crept beyond the friendship zone and into the we shouldn’t be doing this but it feels so good zone.

Fede was someone that hung around Amelia like a fly to sugar. She enjoyed the attention most of the time. She appreciated his friendship, wisdom, talent and intellect. He could hold a conversation, talk to her about the arts, sell her the dream. She even didn’t mind it when they did cross that line a few times. Long afternoons and even longer nights spent wrapped up together in his bed sheets, her bathtub, his kitchen, her lounge room...you get the point. It was almost as though the two were in a committed relationship - committed being the operable word.

Fede wanted Amelia all to himself, and she was just that - available to him and for him whenever he wished, which was often. That’s what confused Amelia most, he didn’t want to label their situationship. He was happy to be ‘friends’ outside the four walls of their respective homes, but lovers when the curtains were drawn. She would maybe understand if he was elusive, always going out and on his phone but he wasn’t. He spent all of his time with her, there wouldn't have been enough hours left in the day if he separated those he spent with her from those he spent alone.

The Juventus players noticed this behaviour early on, seeing a noticeable difference in the way their number 33 paid attention to their tactical sessions. How he was turning up to the training centre early, with an extra piccolo for the english member of their coaching staff. Federico claimed he was helping Amelia brush up on her Italian, but having an Italian-born mother who insisted on sharing her culture with her kids, meant she was pretty much fluent in the language before arriving in Turin. His teammates weren’t stupid and neither was she.

This was the one area of her life where Amelia felt comfortable to go with the flow, she didn’t need to prepare or overthink anything to do with the charming Italian boy from Firenze. She let him take it at his own pace, she was in no need to rush. She let him take her home to meet his Nonna, she spent quality alone time with his dogs when he’s running late from training, and that’s a rare occasion being that it’s normally her there after him and he hangs back to drive them both home.

Everything was progressing at his pace, and the moment Amelia just asks for some clarification on the situation, he would get visibly stressed. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. And for a long time he could, he had Amelia's attention and affection at Juve, he even had it during their european campaign. At the end of the tournament, when they all broke up for their summer breaks, Fede conveniently waited until their final round in the shower, if you know what i mean, before pulling her into bed and having a heart to heart with her.

Amelia thought that she was finally getting the clarification that she was after, which in a way she did. Fede spoke whimsical words about how she makes him feel wanted and understood, and in turn he told her about the affects he knew he had on her. It was a conversation that would turn Shakespeare to a pile of rose petals. In the end, he told her that he wanted to continue what they had just how they had been doing it. And so, that's exactly how they left it. No labels. Friends outside of the four walls of their apartments. That was all Amelia needed to be able to enjoy her family holiday in Mykonos, guilt free, not missing the man that became the equivalent of her shadow.

The constant company she had in Mykonos compared to what she was experiencing in Turin made her more eager to return to work than she had previously. Of course, there are group chats and facetimes and phone calls throughout the days that kept her occupied, but she was missing the boys and her brother. Her friendship with Kyle was back to its old ways, memes being shared across the european continent, long phone calls to talk about their problems. Kyle knew all about the Fede x Amelia situation, Amelia having given him the sparknotes version over a wine filled zoom session one evening that same week. Their pre-seasons hadn’t gone back yet so they were able to indulge in a bit of vino, guilt free.

She was surprised about the constant contact, or lack thereof, that some of the boys had maintained with her. Ben Chilwell hadn’t once messaged or instagrammed the girl, despite being active in their group chats and liking her holiday pictures on instagram. He even made the rookie error of liking a picture so far down on her instagram, there was no way to explain his need for being there. She messaged him a couple times, assuming he just got busy with whatever he was doing, but there was radio silence on the other end.

A friendship she was surprised had blossomed so well, considering their flirtatious start to life, was with that of Jack Grealish and Tyrone Mings. There had been more facetimes than she could count between herself and the two villa boys. Whether it was Tyrone telling her about a book he had finished that he thought she would enjoy, or Jack asking her how to cook dinner, maybe even them both cooking dinner together - of course she had to have a later dinner to be able to do so, with the time difference and all...and there was no way Jack was going to be having dinner an hour early “athlete’s schedule an all tha ya’know” he would smirk down the camera, brummie accent on full display.

She met Tyrone through Jack, he facetimed the girl for outfit advice one night before going out with the tall defender and the pair hit it off. Both giving Jack the fashion advice he needed but didn’t want to hear (a Gucci two piece tracksuit set is never the answer). Tyrone immediately noticed a certain attention to detail being applied by his fellow number 10, to the tactics that were being put forward by the girl that was far too good at her job. His training was improving, his set pieces having a certain amount of flare. There was also a lack of attention being paid from Jack to other girls. Instead, much preferring to spend the evening at home watching the same netflix series as Amelia so that he could discuss it with her the next day, or better yet, at the same time.

As pre-season had commenced, Amelia had been applying the same tactics that she developed (and that obviously worked) throughout the European campaign to her Juventus club level. Having faith in the four men that were with her and the Azzurri to ensure that their other teammates were completing them accurately. It appears that her skill was widely recognised, having a few missed calls and voice messages left from English telephone numbers that she was yet to listen to. In all seriousness, she was nervous to listen to them. Worried that they would make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. A wise person once told her that you shouldn’t make any decisions whilst you're at the top of your happy, or the bottom of your sad. You should make important decisions when your life is at its constant. It's very easy to accept things that you wouldn’t normally when you're at the peak of your mood, just as easy as it is to forget the bigger picture when you're down. Who knew Kyle Walker was so wise.

“So, i’ve got a bit of a dilemma” She spoke down to her facetime camera one evening in early August.

“Hit me with it darlin’” Jack spoke back to her, getting his dinner utensils out so that they could cook together again. He didn’t like not being prepared for her tutorial, he got stressed if she added pepper and his pepper was still in his pantry. Each afternoon, when it was agreed upon what they would be cooking together that evening, she sent him a list of what he would need out on his bench to complete the meal.

“I’ve missed a few calls from English teleco numbers this last week or so”

“Ok? Do you think they’re scams? You’re beautiful Amelia but I don't think it's actually an Egyptian prince on the other end that wants to offer you 250k in exchange for your paypal info…”

“Ha ha very funny - that was one time ok and he wasn’t a Prince, he was claiming to be an investment banker and wanted to help me start up my portfolio-ANYWAY JACK I WAS 16! God just forget I even told you that story” Amelia barked down facetime, now pausing what she was doing to point at the British boy with her wooden spoon, the same way her mother would to her when she was being cheeky. All she was met with was boisterous laughter.

“Nah i’m only joking, continue with your story.”

“I began to listen to the start of one and it was a talent acquisition manager for one of the premier league clubs, offering me a job” Amelia said as she continued to stir her pasta. Tonight they were making penne arrabiata. She received no reply from the boy. Looking down to her camera to check the call was still active, she saw him looking at the camera with a serious expression.

“Are you going to tell me what the problem is before I start to get excited that you’re going to be living within driving distance from me? Oh god i’ve just realised - was it from Villa? You could be even closer than I imagined” Jack started to ramble, getting over excited with the prospect of being so close to the girl that he could physically hang out with her, instead of virtually.

“Jack calm down, I didn't listen long enough to find out what club he was from. I have 5 more just like it waiting in my inbox.”

“What's the problem then Mils?” Jack could see the girl had apprehension written all over her face.

“I’m just nervous that they're going to tell me everything I've always wanted to hear. That they’re going to make me an offer I can't refuse and I have to leave my life here.” Their pasta was ready to be dished up now, so the girl poured herself a glass of red wine and got herself comfy on her couch.

“Come on, play the messages and i’ll listen to them with you, be your voice of reason,” Jack offered the girl.

“I should probably call Tyrone, you’re just going to reject every club that isn’t Villa.” she laughed before switching facetime to her laptop, moving to the floor of her lounge room and resting her elbows on her coffee table. With the phone near the screen of her mac, she began to play the messages.

_____________________________________________________________

“Hi Amelia, Shaun here from Newcastle United-” “As if you’d waste your talents at Newcastle”

“Jack! That's horrible! At least i know i already look good in the black and white striped kit”

“No, not happening. Next”

“Amelia, Hope you don’t mind but I got your number off of one of my players who knows you. Long story short, we have a position here are Arsenal” “Bloody Bukayo, needs to keep his silky mitts off ya”

“Jack, give it a rest or i’m calling Tyrone”

“Amelia White, Greg here from Aston Villa Football Club” “Get in Greggles!! That's it, stop listening, you’re taking this one”

“I need to listen to them all Jack”

“So, you’ll consider Villa?”

“I’ll consider all of them”

“You’d really go to Arsenal? Aren’t you a Spurs supporter? Shocking stuff”

“Ok maybe not all of them”

“Ciao Amelia, Mario here from Chelsea Football Club - I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. We could really use you here at Chelsea next season. Give me a call when you get a spare moment to discuss the opportunity”

“What? Nothing to say to this one, Jack?”

“Nah, sounds ok. You deserve to showcase your skills at a big club like Chelsea. And besides, you’ll have Jorginho there to look after you. Come on, next one”

“It’s the last one actually”

“Amelia, we’ve got a fantastic opportunity here at Manchester City for someone with your skill set. It would be a massive advantage to have your tactical insight to the game coupled alongside the fantastic leadership we’ve already got at the club”. “Holy shit, Pep called you himself? Kyle Walker really knows how to pull strings when he wants something”

“I am overwhelmed”

“Hey, you don’t need to make any decisions right now. Sleep on it, talk it over with your family. Speak to Jorgi, I know you’re close with him. And just let me know when you decide to pick Villa so i can start house huntin’ for ya”

“Night Jack, speak soon”

“Sleep tight darlin’, speak to ya tomorrow”

Part 7. | settima parte

74 notes · View notes

hes-writer · 4 years

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Reign (3)

Summary: harry sees something he's supposed to have

Warnings: angst in the beginning, angst in the middle, angst near the end

Word Count: 4881 words

A/N: @devilinbetweenthesheet-s : dont cheat and don’t do drugs, kids

Tarnish (1) . Halo (2) . Reign (3) . Trial (4) .

Errors (5) . Ruin (6) . Crumble (7)

Error Taglist

____

A writer that cannot write is dead.

When one loses the ability to tell their stories and anecdotes through the mere action of swirling words together to create an imaginable atmosphere of real-world fantasy; they are dead. A writer recovering from the mundane and mediocre way of penning experiences to bounce back into what they used to be is difficult. It is easier to free fall and drown in the depths of despair. The moment thoughts and rumination fog up to form a blurry image of conviction is a warning sign, blaring at the back of their minds and sometimes even in their faces.

Harry is a writer--or, he was. Picking up the pen to style the words lingering in his head used to be as easy as blinking; quick and natural. Now, the words claw at the swell of his throat, trying to spit an adjective to describe the way he felt. It was at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be lathed into existence. It did not matter if his cognition was mingled with various chemicals aimed to be able to feel happiness.

He was sober but he had trouble placing his finger on why it was so strenuous to narrate his feelings throughout the breakup. Being high or drunk was never the answer for him. Weed made him tired and made him have a case of cottonmouth. Harry learned from a young age that he should only ever engage with alcohol if he was in a mindset and setting that catered to increase existing good vibes. He thought that maybe he was in an odd phase of perceiving the opposite, and so he intoxicated himself enough to understand that it didn’t matter if he was soaked head-to-toe in sobriety or whizzed out of his mind by the amber liquid swirling in the glass in his hand. But that wasn’t the circumstance. It also didn’t matter if he was grasping his favourite pen to write--because it was comfortable--or tapping his calloused thumbs against his phone keypad. Hell, it didn’t make a difference when he sat down and prepared his typewriter to indulge in a headspace of vintage songwriting. Maybe that would help.

It didn’t.

He had stories to tell. Everything was laid out in misty overcast yet Harry’s great ideas morphed into gentle mistakes, harsh mistakes and discoveries that had him almost ripping his hair out of the roots of his scalp. When he felt the wave of his ocean-thoughts rise and peek where the sand shifted, his fingers were ready to move and discern for the eyes to see. But with each fritter, he couldn’t seem to get even two paragraphs in to decide that it was utter shit.

Harry was old enough to understand that slumping on the wet sand was a part of life. Sometimes picking up a fistful of grains and throwing them back to the sea was a great way to release frustration. But it seemed like this plunge of his ability to write was a hole of quicksand. He was trying his hardest to displace himself as swiftly as possible but it only made his scenario worse. The muddy sand clung unto his legs like sticky glue, heftier with each effort to leave. He wanted to move on. He wanted to forget everything that occurred in the past four years. Harry wanted to erase Y/N from his life because she wasn’t around anymore to bring those memories back to sparkly existence.

What he needed to do was nestle himself into a certain depth, calmly, in order to pull a limb out and ensure that his progress on the so-called ‘moving on’ did not have any drawbacks. Until then, he cannot possibly create songs that he was well-known for if he wasn’t patient enough.

He wanted so badly to tell his side of the story. Harry craved to think as clearly as he did when he told Y/N about his plan for their future. Admitting to his feelings was a hard route. Sure, he can be vulnerable but it took a great deal of convincing on his part to immerse himself in the deepest parts of his brain to understand why he felt the way he did. He usually had the means of songwriting to help him out but that obviously wasn’t working out that good for him.

___

Harry was packing the rest of Y/N’s things in boxes to be picked up later in the afternoon. He was annoyed at first at how she depended on him to fold her clothes properly instead of doing the bundle of the work herself. But he guessed that she didn’t want to be around him for longer than she had to. To be frank, he also did not want to indulge in what might turn into an argument if they spoke about the reason for their breakup. It was just a bit confusing because he had an urge to still want her around despite their less than likely situation.

Torture. If Harry had one chance to describe the way he felt right now; it was torture. With every nook of Y/N’s side of the closet emptying into brown, cardboard boxes--he physically how much she had integrated her life with his. How much space she took up in his life. How his clothes and her clothes were so interchanged between them that he couldn’t decide if the gray pull-over was actually his or hers. And in a moment of selfishness did he tuck it away for his safe-keeping despite seeing the tag imprinted on the inside; a shop that he hadn’t set foot in so it was a guarantee that it was hers.

Her scent embedded in the thin threads of each fabric wafted to his nose; each with a new wave of memories engulfing his senses as if each piece garnered a specific scent tailored to a specific event. Like her sunflower sundress--it smelled of fresh flowers as if the print was a scratch and sniff that released a fragrance. Or their DIY-ed tie-dye shirt of pastel blue and cotton candy pink. It was a matching piece made out of the cheap dye and a simple white tee but it was theirs. Things like these made Harry want to yell in frustration because every time he thought that he was completely over her-- Y/N appears out of visibly nowhere and towers over him.

Seeing her for the first time in days was a breath of relief. She looked fine. Glowing even, and Harry did not know what to make of it. As sadistic as it sounded, he was expecting dry-stained tears and a birds’ nest of hair trampling her head. Instead, Y/N was dressed for comfort in her baggy jeans and an even looser sweater covering her body. Her lips were drawn in a thin line, giving him a nod in greeting as he gestured to the boxes littering the floor.

Harry offered to help--it was the least he could do. And somehow, silence protruded from the tense atmosphere, begging to be cut by a knife yielded through their voices nipping at each others’ emotions.

“Let go of my damn hand,” Y/N stated, her hard stare could turn Harry into stone. He just wanted her to listen before she left.

He shook his head in denial of her request, tightening his grip further. “No. Listen to me, Y/N,”

“What do you possibly have to say that will change anything between us?”

And maybe it was her fault for assuming that he wanted to fix things. The sliver of hope thinly dressed behind closed lids enabled her to think that maybe he was going to say that he wanted to make things work again. That he had broken up with Camille and he realized what a stupid he had done throwing away everything they built up to for the past four years for an affair that couldn’t quench the thirst of his desire to have a family.

Harry sighed, a shadow of mischievous smirk painted on his lips. But maybe it was Y/N’s sight in deception because she could never see Harry as anything other than sweet and kind Harry incapable of hurting a fly.

“What? I don’t intend to. We’re broken. We’re beyond fixing,”

The hitch in her breath was as sharp as the stare he was searing her with. Forcing her to please understand that this would be their last conversation--if time and fate were on their side. “You’re not something I would take the time to handle,”

“Stop saying shit you don’t mean, Harry” Y/N rolled her eyes in annoyance. His macho act was barely an act and more like a stage curtain easily pushed with a flick of a wrist.

“Things I don’t mean?”

“You heard me,” She crossed her arms over his chest in defence, leaning against the closed trunk. “Say what you will but our love was real. Don’t make me seem like I’m crazy. Don’t tell me that I’m a mistake,” Her voice was filled with confidence because she knew the affection that Harry diffused.

The cradles of his palm at the small of her back when they had to walk past a crowd. The subtle graze of the back of his fingers caressing the bare skin of her arm. Kisses pressed to her temple as she read a novel and swirling fingertips twirling her hair. These were acts of love that happened nearly every day in their relationship. A routine that felt different if it wasn’t done to or with each other.

Exasperatedly, Harry felt the same itching crawling up his spine. His ego ballooning into a delicate size and one more word from Y/N’s lush lips would have him on his hands and knees, begging for her back.

“This, us, was a fuckin’ mistake,” Harry’s accent thunked heavily in her cochlea, practically spitting the words out of his mouth as if they were poisonous. Ringed fingers gesticulated the space between them to emphasize how much of a misunderstanding they truly were. “I should’ve known the second things went further than planned,”

Y/N felt her heart drop to her full stomach. The feeling so nauseating that she instinctively palmed her belly over the fabric to protect her little baby from his harsh words. Even though they weren’t directed towards anyone but Y/N. She didn’t think that their unborn child deserved scrutiny from their own father.

“You don’t mean that, Harry.”

Because how could he? Not when he emulated sincerity through his syrupy voice. Not when he spent hours loving on her tummy and spoke to it like he would if she were pregnant. Especially not when every kiss from him felt like a buzz of electricity coursing through her veins because he was the main distributor of her happiness.

Harry truly was an asshole for making her hope and wonder of what the future held when he was unsure himself. He did want a family. That was a statement in all its truthfulness. What he wasn’t sure about was if he wanted a family with Y/N. He could have a family; kids of his own in his own time. But Y/N didn’t have to necessarily be the mother. So was he besotted with the concept of family and marriage regardless of who it was with?

“But I do,”

The rain started drizzling in frequent spurts, planting a fat droplet on her cheek that could be argued as a tear escaping Y/N’s eye. It hurt a lot to hear that from him. The man of her dreams blatantly denying each sugary word because his plans had changed.

“You’re a goddamn mistake is what you are,’

“Why are you. . .saying all these things to me? Are you trying to hurt me?” The shakiness of Y/N’s tone had Harry swallowing his words down his strep throat.

He shook his head in disagreement, “No, I’m not. ‘M just tryna make you see my side. So you can understand,” His head dipped to the side, softening his tone yet stern as though he was speaking to a child.

And that was one of the reasons why Y/N didn’t believe his all-too stoic demeanour about her. Harry was great at making others see his side regardless of how much in the wrong he was.

So why was he struggling?

___

Needless to say, he wasn’t very respectful towards Y/N any other time afterwards. He had unblocked her number months after blocking it at one point and demanded answers that he didn’t have the right to know. In retrospect, Harry was embarrassed by the way he acted. He did cheat on her and suddenly he was a saint because she moved on quicker than he thought she would? Unbelievable.

In his defence, the night he became the drunk caller was the same night he fought with Camille about having children; having a family they can call their own. Ever since that discussion did Harry notice a dispatch in their relationship. It was like they were aware of a missing link that had disappeared in their connection, but neither one of them wanted to be the one to bring it up. Harry supposed that now that Camille knew what he wanted (and vice versa)--she was feeling the pressure of giving in to him. Don’t get him wrong, Harry absolutely wanted a family and he thought that Camille was the right partner to build it with. However, he couldn’t help the voice at the back of his mind slyly whispering that he had forced her to give him what he wanted for the sake of saving their failing relationship.

___

It had been two and a half years since he mildly and miserably accepted that his dream family was being erased like a pencil on paper.

The first year; Harry still clung to the obscure hope that Camille might change her mind of having kids. Many fights sprouted between the two of them concluding in them sleeping at different places for weeks on end until they eventually crawled back to each other like an invisible string. The second-year; Harry brought up the idea of adoption. It was a hard choice for him as he desperately wanted kids of his own. A boy that looked like him and his love or a little girl that smiled at him with deep dimples mirroring his own.

And Harry liked to think that he was just on the edge of convincing Camille to consider the option when his tour was scheduled a few months after. A new dealbreaker was that Harry wasn’t going to be around much to watch and nurture the little bub they might’ve adopted. It was a sudden intrusion to think about since Harry was good with kids. He knew that. That was why he had three godchildren of his own. But what hit him the most was how sure Camille sounded when she yelled at him about leaving for months at a time and returning for a bit, only to leave again. Now, Harry hadn’t considered that part. But surely he will be ready to choose between a family and his career, right? When the time comes, he thought.

___

It pained Harry to admit that his relationship with Camille was dwindling down the drain. The knowledge that there was no future--the one that Harry envisioned--for them was getting more and more real each passing day.

A late-night grocery trip was one of the many examples that had Harry rethinking his actions for the past couple of years. It was the time period where night owls arose and barely any customers littered the aisles. Still, Harry made sure to keep his hoodie up to shield his face.

Camille had an early flight to Milan in just a few hours later that day and she wanted to purchase some things to bring with her; in case they weren’t available in the country. So here they were at three in the morning.

As Camille walked ahead of him in her sweatpants and a plain tee, Harry couldn’t help but let his eyes flicker to the clothing section to his right The first-floor space was decorated with pastel blues and pinks; a stroller was displayed with a price would not make a dent in Harry’s bank account.

“‘M just gonna grab somethin’ over here, Cam,” Harry muttered as he pointed a thumb behind him. She nodded, “Meet me at the produce? Need to get you some fruits,”

Harry felt guilt thudding his chest because although he was losing feelings he thought were written in stone, Camille appeared to care for him the same way she always had.

He walked to the brightly lit area, puffing his cheek as a cute onesie caught his eye, “You’re so golden” with the word ‘golden’ printed in a shiny, yellow glimmer. He smiled at the thought of baby angel cooing at him as he tickled her tummy. Harry passed by the shoes next, picking up a pair barely the size of his palm. His mind flashed back to a conversation with Y/N years ago,

___

“I’m just saying,” Y/N took a bite of a pickle she held on her left hand, “Baby shoes have no business being that expensive,”

Harry chuckled from his place across the counter, “Babies need shoes too, love,’

She grabbed her fork and stabbed a piece of strawberry from her bowl, “I didn’t say the don’t need shoes. For tiny things, they could at least be a bit cheaper,”

Harry watched as she munched on a pickle on her left and took a bite of a strawberry on the other. His tongue poked out in a gag at the odd combination, resorting in glare and a huff from Y/N.

“You should try it instead of judging me,’

“No, thank you. Watching you eat it is enough for me,’

___

Harry craned his head at each aisle, hoping to find Camille and to distract himself from the endless Y/N related thoughts that somehow returned to his brain. He needed his girlfriend to remind him that he cannot just knock on Y/N’s door and ask her about the baby she has. If he could hold them for a bit because his baby fever was through the roof.

Locating the produce section, Harry whistled mindlessly as he searched for a blonde head of hair, failing to notice that there was a basket in front of his feet. He had kicked it, jolting him out of his thoughts in a hurry.

A man with brown hair sporting an outfit similar to his (sweats and a hoodie), chuckled at him as Harry leaned down to retrieve the gray basket filled with a jar of pickles.

“Sorry man,” Harry muttered, holding the handles up for the man to carry.

“It’s alright, it happens,” The guy had not seen his face yet, too busy inspecting the carton of strawberries.

He decided to continue the conversation, “Strawberries and pickles? Odd combo, huh,” Harry was briefly reminded of Y/N’s obsession with the two rival products.

“Yeah, m’lady loves ‘em. Had a craving in the middle of the night. She’s in the car right now with our lil bubba,”

Harry’s heart fluttered at the mention of a baby. He needed to get his rails in check. He cannot keep having his heart bursting with adoration at the mere mention of a baby.

“I’m Connor,” He said, finally facing Harry after choosing the best carton.

“I'm--,”

“Harry!” Both men turned their heads towards Camille carrying a basket full fruits and green veggies, “Got you some stuff to blend for your smoothies,”

Connor squinted his eyes at the couple and Harry internally screamed because he knew that he and Camille had been recognized. “Harry. Yeah, I know you,” The sudden hostility made Harry confused as Connor grasped his basket from him in a harsh manner, heading towards the checkout.

The rest of the time inside the store was filled with curiosities as Harry carried the paper bags towards the car, barely recognizing Connor’s figure heading towards his own vehicle. Luckily, Harry has parked only a few slots away and could inconspicuously watch Connor and his so-called ‘lady’.

Except, Camille was ushering him to hurry up as she still had a few things to pack at home.

___

On most days, Harry was used to waking up alone. Used to feeling the shiver crawling up his side, used to seeing the indent left by Camille’s body instead of her. He had grown familiar with the sudden cast of loneliness blanketing him thicker than the duvet on top of his body.

The early morning trip to the store had tired him out, paired with the overthinking of the man named ‘Connor’ that flipped his attitude towards him quicker than he could kick the grey basket with his feet. He flopped back to the mattress after washing his face and brushing his teeth. It was noon when he jolted out of bed again at the sound of his front door opening, voices filling the empty space that had Harry running towards the foyer in case there was an intruder.

His tense shoulders sagged in relief when he caught sight of his mum and Gemma, “Oh, s’just you guys,”

Both women looked up at him at the top of the stairs, “You forgot we were coming over for the weekend, didn’t you?” Gemma teased as she headed to the living room. Harry followed, walking down the stairs.

He scratched the nape of his neck nervously, “No. . . “

“Can you help me reach this, H?” Anne called out from the kitchen.

His mum gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Yes, you did, by the way. Slept through the whole morning. Good thing Camille let us in before she left,”

At the sound of a bag crumpling and squeals echoing the hollow house, Harry scrunched his nose in curiosity, briskly walking where Gemm was currently holding up tiny baby clothes in front of her. “Who’s that for?” He thought of any possible friends that had had a baby recently but couldn’t recall any.

She immediately stuffed the clothing into the bag, nervously placing a hand on her chest, “Gosh, Harry, you scared me,” Her brows went high on her forehead in alarm, sharing a look with her mum trailing behind Harry.

“Well? Did I miss something?”

“Oh, it’s for one of my friends,”

Harry contemplated on his next words, “D-did you know that Y/N had a baby?” It couldn’t be right if his sister and mum knew about his exes baby and not him, right? That’s just plain odd to still be in touch with an ex's family. His brows furrowed in suspicion as both of them declined his question.

“What? Nooo,”

Awkward silence filtered through the air as Anne sipped water from her mug and Harry was slowly putting the pieces together. Gemme dove to the centre of the couch where her phone was when it rang suddenly, surprising all three of them. Harry was quicker, eyeing his mum and sister and inspecting the emoji substituting as a name before sliding his thumb to answer it.

"Hey, Gems! Are you coming to the park? We're waiting for you,”

Harry felt his heart drop to his stomach just as the phone nearly slipped from his clutch. That voice. He could recognize it from everywhere having spent nearly every morning for the four years that they were together hearing it lulling him out of sleep. It was Y/N’s voice calling his sister who was looking extremely anxious.

He tapped on the ‘mute’ button, “What does she mean ‘we’?”

“Nothing! Give me my phone back,” Gemma tried to reach for the device but Harry held it high beyond her reach.

“I saw the picture you sent me. I told you that you and Anne didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry felt dizzy. “Connor and I got some things a few weeks ago. But that skirt is so adorable!”

One part of him was glad to hear her voice. In fact, Harry found himself smiling too, despite what he just heard. Connor. “Harry, won’t be there right? Hello? Have I been talking to myself this whole time,” Y/N laughed a little; she had a habit of talking endlessly when she was excited. It made Harry more sombre, letting his guards down and his arm in reach for Gemma to grasp.

“Hey! I'm just organizing the clothes, see you soon!" Gemma jammed her finger on the red end call, anxiously glancing at her brother, piecing everything together.

“Who's Connor?" Could it be that the Connor he met last night was the same as Y/N’s? The one who bought pickles and strawberries--one of Y/N favourite food combinations? He mentioned that he had a little girl and Y/N just called to meet his sister and his mum at the park. And baby clothes?

Anne and Gemma looked at each other, quickly deciding that for the benefit of Harry that they should tell him at least a little bit. He was looking as if he was going insane, especially with his bed head pointing his hair out in different directions.

“He’s Y/N’s partner”

Harry gulped, reeling his thoughts to a halt, “Partner? And the baby is...?” The last bit of confirmation was all he needed to lash his feelings out.

“Is... waiting for us at the park! Sorry H gotta go,” Gemma was swift enough to gather all the bags without having Harry chase after her. His state of confusion and shock was enough to render him partially speechless and immobile.

“Hey wait!”

Anne garnered his attention, “Oh, Mrs. Q from next door wants me over for dinner. I’m sure wants to see us both. Why don’t you get ready, Harry?” Anne tugged his arm in the direction of the staircase pushing him to stumble up a couple of steps.

Harry was confused. He made the sounds of his footsteps creeping up the wooden stairs, hearing his mum quietly talking to Gemma on the phone, “Elmsway Park, you said? How long till you're home? I’m not sure how long I can keep him occupied,”

With that being said, Harry was out of his house, silently unlocking and locking the door. He was dressed in some basketball shorts and a graphic tee, slipping on the first pair of sneakers he had tossed aside. Harry jogged to his car, typing in the name of the park on his phones’ GPS. The route was only a few minutes away so he decided to take his time, gathering his scattered thoughts along the way.

He parked just beside the playground scouting the trees around the premises. Harry decided that it was the perfect day. The sun was out. It wasn’t too humid and the birds were chirping on the branches. He could see why the playground was full of children running around in delight. The green patches of grass were partially filled with picnic blankets and food to be shared. Families laughed with each other as one in particular caught his eye.

It made him smile at first, seeing just how adorable the couple was with their baby. He exited the car, making sure to lock the vehicle. With his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his shorts, Harry could feel the tethered grass rubbing against his legs. As he got closer, he couldn’t help the twinge of familiarity spark in his chest, recognizing that what he was staring at was Connor playfully chasing a little girl of about two-years-old as she squealed at how close he was getting to tagging her.

Harry stood by a tree, shielding him away from view. He tried to appear invisible without seeming too creepy. He knew that it was only a matter of seconds before his eyes found the woman he had been missing, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Connor picked up the little girl in his arms, dotting pecks all over the girls’ cheeks, causing her to giggle and push his face away with a tiny palm. And there she was standing outside the raised platform of the playground, coming up to the both of them with a juice box in hand to hydrate the little angel. Connor turned his attention to Y/N, planting the most adoring kiss on her lips that made her smile so wide and the baby cover her eyes. They laughed together, looking like a picture-perfect family.

Gemma sat on the bench, flickering her gaze to the precious family in front of her and to the figure of her brother walking away from the scene. Her heart broke for Harry, and it cracked, even more, when he turned back. This time, watching Connor and Y/N cheer on baby angel to go down the slide. Both of them clapped their hands in enthusiasm as the girl hesitantly slid down the plastic slide. The smile on her face was infectious.

It almost made Harry smile, too.

___

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___

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ellewriteswrongs · 3 years

Text

layers of love - prinxiety

1.8k words

ao3 / ko-fi / previous work

summary: self-indulgent fluffy prinxiety, very domestic, some shrek references, y'all know the drill

cw: mild swearing, slight innuendo/suggestive dialogue

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Virgil asked from where he laid against his boyfriend’s chest. Roman’s hand stilled as he played with Virgil’s hair.

“Hmm?” He hummed, continuing to rock them with one leg hanging out of their shared hammock. “‘Course you can.”

Virgil made something akin to a purr as he laid in the sun, his hoodie discarded for once.

“When you first said you loved me…was it scary?”

Roman’s brow furrowed at the question, leaning back to try and see the other man’s face.

“Scary? I…I guess I don’t know. I think, in the moment, it just felt right,” he spoke with a soft smile, pausing only to plant a kiss on the other man’s forehead. “But ever since I realized it…every time I thought about saying it, I was terrified.”

When Virgil only shifted, tightening his grip around Roman’s waist, the latter continued.

“I was so worried you’d be freaked out and think I was moving too fast and the last thing I ever wanted was to scare you off, but I…” he trailed off, letting out an amused chuckle. “I was only ever afraid of losing you. Loving you has never scared me.”

Virgil hummed, leaning up to steal a lazy kiss from the corner of Roman’s lips.

“But what about all those stupid stories you like?” He smirked, folding his arms over Roman’s chest as he rested his chin on them. “Quite a bit of pressure there, Princey.”

Roman chuckled, twirling a particular strand of hair around his finger.

“Ahh yes, those stupid fairytales that you make me read to you all the time,” he teased, earning a playful slap on his shoulder. “I’ll have you know, I have more than enough understanding of when dramatic proclamations of my undying love are unwanted.”

Virgil just exhaled a short chuckle, reaching to pull Roman’s hand out of his hair and over to hold it against his cheek, first pressing a kiss into the palm.

“Isn’t that why it’s such a big deal though?” He mused, his eyes half-focused on the beach around them. “Like, isn’t the whole point of falling in love so that something changes once you say it? And…and nothing changed when we said it.”

Roman stiffed a little bit from under him. “Did you…want something to change?”

No. No, of course he didn’t. That was the best part about it.

He told Roman as such.

“I guess I just…always thought something would change, even if we didn’t really want it to,” he explained, closing his eyes as Roman started playing with his hair again. “But I like how we are. How we’ve always been.”

“How we’ve always been? I don’t know about you, stormcloud, but I think things have definitely changed for the better.”

Virgil huffed with a small smile.

“Alright, fine,” he said, his cheeks hot. “I’m glad we changed even if it was just a little.”

Roman chuckled, his chest vibrating comfortingly against Virgil’s head.

“Yeah, I think I like you a little bit more these days, sunshine.”

Virgil scoffed, jabbing Roman’s side with his elbow.

“Thanks, babe," he spoke teasingly. “What glowing praise."

Roman only wrapped both arms around him and squeezed tight, one hand cradling the back of his head and the other holding him by the waist.

"My darling dark and stormy knight,” Roman cooed dramatically, peppering kisses all over his face until the other started laughing. "The angel from my nightmares, oh how I adore you with everything I am."

Virgil smiled, his gaze soft and fond as he looked up at the man he loved.

"Mhm, that's more like it," he smirked, stealing a kiss. "I love you, dork."

Roman bent down to lean their foreheads together.

“What's with all the introspection, my love?"

"Good word, babe."

“Shut up, I'm just worried about you," Roman grumbled, tucking Virgil's head back under his chin.

"You're worried about me? Because I’m talking about being in love with you?" Virgil asked, taking one of Roman's hands to fiddle with his fingers.

"Well, you just don't...talk about it. We both don’t,” Roman explained, his voice vibrating through his chest. "And I'm glad we are, it's just...not what we do."

Virgil smiled, sighing contentedly.

"Nothing's wrong, I promise,” he assured him. "I guess I've just been thinking a lot lately."

"Oh wow, congrats," Roman teased with sarcastic claps.

“Shut up, oh my god,” Virgil complained, not even trying to hide his laughter. "I'm trying to be serious here."

"Alright, alright, I concede," Roman smiled, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"I just kind of realized that I've been feeling different lately,” he started, causing Roman to immediately stiffen and lean back to see Virgil's face. Virgil smirked, rolling his eyes fondly. “I just told you nothing's wrong, chill babe."

"You telling me to chill out is quite ironic, methinks," Roman teased, relaxing back into the hammock. “It's not my fault you're rubbing off on me, Frank Fear-o.”

Virgil snorted a laugh at the nickname before he continued.

"Ever since we said it, I've just felt... better," he spoke, a soft smile on his face. "I don't even know how to explain it, it's just...better. I get headaches less, when I get anxious, it turns into panic attacks like half as much."

He paused as Roman's lips met his temple.

"And I think the strangest thing is," he spoke, propping himself up on his forearm to look down at his boyfriend

below him. “When you told me you loved me, I didn't doubt it for a second."

Roman gave a short, watery chuckle; his eyes tearing up just a little.

"Even just a year ago, I wouldn't've believed anybody who said that to me but you," he paused, reaching to squish Roman's cheeks with one hand until they both laughed. "I knew you'd never lie to me, but more than anything, I felt it."

He leaned in, intending to only steal a quick kiss before it swiftly escalated.

“Who knew you were such a sap?" Roman teased, breathing heavily as they eventually broke apart.

“Says you, Romeo."

“Oh, I wear that badge with pride, darling," he beamed. "According to Thomas' Twitter, I'm his 'simp' side."

Virgil snorted, laying back down as he leaned into Roman's shoulder.

"Okay, they're definitely right about that one,” he mumbled, ruffling the other’s curly hair affectionately. “I’ve got you wrapped around my finger and you can’t even deny it.”

Roman grabbed one of said fingers and brought it to his lips, planting a dramatic, drawn-out kiss with the most exaggerated noise he could.

“But of course!” He bellowed, earning a fond eye roll from his boyfriend. “For it is my only duty to bestow upon you all of the love one can possibly muster.”

Virgil quirked an eyebrow.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve got a few other duties, babe,” he challenged with a smirk. “Like maybe the concept pitch for the next scripted video that you haven’t done, or the notes for the editors, or the fact that Thomas hasn’t even picked up his ukulele since last year, or—“

“Okay! Okay, fine, I can’t devote my whole life to smothering you forever,” he agreed exasperatedly. “But if I could, I would.”

Virgil chuckled, folding his arms over Roman’s chest and resting his chin on top.

“Hmm, yeah I think I’d hate that.”

Roman gave an almost comical pout, pulling out the puppy dog eyes.

“Nope, absolutely not, you’re not getting me with that shit,” Virgil asserted, trying to maintain a firm tone as he came dangerously close to breaking into a smile. “Smother me twenty-four seven and I’ll dump you on the spot.”

Roman pulled a disbelieving face.

“You really think I’m buying that?” He smirked. “That you’d dump me for spoiling you absolutely rotten with my sweetness.”

He knew full well what he was doing.

“I need my space, princess,” he spoke, putting on a suave tone that he knew he wasn’t pulling off by the giggles that came from his boyfriend. “I gotta’ keep up the aesthetic.”

Roman brought Virgil’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“Alright, alright, I respect the commitment,” he spoke, punctuated by kisses from Virgil’s hand up to his shoulder. “It’s so tragic that Mr. Misery Business would rather brood than swoon.”

“Who says I can’t have both?” He grinned. “I’m multi-faceted these days, babe. I have layers.”

Roman snorted a laugh, ducking his head right by Virgil’s ear.

“Layers,” he spoke with a heavy Scottish accent, his hands squeezing Virgil’s sides. “Onions have layers. Ogres have layers. We both have layers.”

“Oh my god,” Virgil cackled with laughter. “I hate it. I hate you, never speak to me again.”

Roman smirked, unfazed.

“But Virgil, that’s what friends do, they forgive each other.”

“One more word and you’re not getting any kisses for the rest of the week.”

“It’s already Friday.”

“Well, I don’t exactly want to punish myself in the process.”

Roman flushed a little at the rare admittance of affection.

“You think you couldn’t go a full week without any kisses?”

“I mean,” Virgil spoke, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t exactly want to find out.”

He answered with a chaste kiss to the other man’s temple. “I guess the world may never know.”

“If Logan were here right now, he’d probably try to get us to find out.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I never listen to the ol’ poindexter anyways,” Roman grinned, quirking an eyebrow.

“Ahh, yes, my favorite thing about you,” Virgil teased with a sly smirk. “How you’d rather be eternally petty than have an ounce of rational thought in that pretty little head of yours.”

Roman gave an offended scoff.

“You know what, I’m just going to ignore everything you just said in favor of the fact that you called me pretty,” he defended with a humph.

“Oh, you like that?” Virgil continued teasing. “As if you don’t already know you're pretty.”

Roman feigned his innocence.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea, darling. Perhaps you’ll have to enlighten me on what you find so appealing,” he drawled, his voice syrupy sweet in a way that would’ve made Virgil weak in the knees if they weren’t currently lying on top of each other. “My cute button nose? Thick, wavy locks? Maybe my taut, round buttocks?”

Virgil barked out a laugh, rolling his eyes with fond exasperation.

“Pull another Shrek quote out of that ass and I’ll see to it that you won’t be able to sit for a week—a full week.”

Roman froze, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Is…is that a threat or a promise?”

Virgil just groaned, shoving him until the hammock teetered and he panicked, clinging back onto the other man. “You’ve been spending too much time with your brother.”

“You may be right, but this is certainly more fun, I must admit,” he sighed happily.

“Just shut up and take a nap, princess.”

“As you wish, my love.”

#prinxiety #my work #my writing #ts prinxiety #ts roman #ts virgil #sanders sides #tss #tss virgil #tss roman #sanders side fic #roman sanders #virgil sanders

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nugnthopkns · 3 years

Text

hold me like that

word count: 1.6k

warnings: explicit!fem reader, soft wedding vibes

recommended listening: it's all coming back to me now | celine dion

a/n: guess i go here now. got inspired by that video where the avs sing their go-to karaoke songs and tbarrie does not disappoint

Tyson has always had this magnetism about him.

You felt it the first time you met him. It was a sleepy Thursday night in Denver, and your friends had convinced you to join them for a few drinks to celebrate the long weekend you’d all found yourself faced with. You weren’t huge on going out on weekdays, but you did have Friday off because the building that held your office was undergoing construction. Instead of forcing everyone to work from home the company decided to create a long weekend, and you were incredibly grateful. It had been a hard couple of weeks with project deadline after deadline, but that was behind you now and you could kick back and relax. Plus, your friends offered to foot your bill, so how could you say no?

The dive bar you had found yourself crowded into was hosting a karaoke night. It seemed like every patron was scrambling to get a turn at the mic, but you sat at a table off to the side and just cheered them on. Your friends did their best to convince you to do a rendition of ‘Wannabe’ with them but you refused, staying in your seat while they made fools of themselves in front of hundreds of people. Somehow, Sarah had gotten the crowd to join in, and it turned into a giant sing-along. Laughter tumbled from your lips as you watched, and once they finished you whistled loudly, clapping along with the rest of the crowd. The four of them took dramatic bows before they exited stage left. They tumbled back to the table as the emcee called for the next participant.

“Tyson? You’re up next!”

Chants of his name erupted from a group of men across the bar, and one of them peeled off to hop onto the stage. He smiled brightly at the crowd and gave a timid wave before turning to his friends and flipping them off. Their laughter echoed off the walls and you joined in. However, your laughter was less in good spirit and more of the awestruck variety. The man in front of you had kind eyes and gently tousled waves that just suited him. His smile made you want to get to know him better, and you found yourself drawn to him. The opening piano notes of a ballad fluttered through the speakers as you watched intently.

“There were nights when the wind was so cold,” he crooned, and the pitch of his voice surprised you. It took a few more lines for you to realize he was imitating Céline Dion, though rather poorly. Everyone in the bar was enthralled by the performance he was giving, and you spotted more than a few girls near the stage who were trying desperately to get his attention.

The group he came with continued to shout their support, but it was hard to understand them due to just how much they laughed. Prepared to go all out for the chorus, Tyson ripped the microphone from its stand and walked to the edge of the stage. “When you touch me like this, and you hold me like that,” he sang, and turned in the direction of your table. Boldly, the stranger pointed directly at you as he continued in the ridiculous accent. “I just have to admit that it’s all coming back to me.” At the end of the sentence, with his arm still extended, Tyson winked at you.

He continued to sing and the rest of the crowd joined him, but you were too shocked to form the words. You sat there dumbfounded until the end of the song, when you came to your wits just enough to join the applause. Tyson took it all in stride and gave the same wave he offered at the beginning of the performance before he shuffled off the stage. Instead of rejoining the festivities at his friends’ table, the brunette made his way through the crowd towards you. He stuck out at hand once he stopped in front of you, and spoke with the softest demeanour you had ever encountered.

“I couldn’t help but notice you from up there. I’m Tyson.”

Your insides melted at the sound of his voice, and you choked out a reply as you tried to figure out a way to stay close to him forever.

☼☼☼☼

He’s the same way now, a handful of years later. No matter what room you're in or how many people are between the two of you, one soft smile from Tyson has you slinking across the space and into his side. Friends and family laugh at how you’re always found close to one another, but they truly don’t mind because the love between you is palpable. It took you both an incredibly long time to find the happiness each other brings and no one is going to try and take it away from you.

It’s late in the evening, the sun having dipped behind the mountains hours ago, but somehow you’re still stuck repeating the same thank you spiel to wedding guests as you walk around. Tyson is nowhere in sight, but you’re sure he’s doing the same thing. No one informed you how much time you’d actually spend separated from your newly minted husband on your wedding night – if you had known you would have cut the guest list down dramatically.

You slip from the conversation you found yourself in with Tyson’s aunt and grandmother and head to the balcony of the rustic ski lodge you rented for the ceremony and reception. The fresh air greets you like a welcome friend, but it’s chillier than you expected. Wordlessly you pull your husband’s suit jacket tighter around your shoulders and stare at the idyllic landscape in front of you. Though you no longer live in Colorado, Tyson’s job landing you in Edmonton via a short stint in Toronto, you knew you had to get married here. It was your home for so long and your closest friends still reside in the state. Besides, it has that low-key feeling that is an exact replica of your relationship. Everything is easy in Colorado, just like it’s easy with Tyson.

There’s a rustling behind you that signals someone else has appeared on the balcony, and you don’t have to turn around to know it’s Tyson. The air around you has warmed up significantly and there’s a prickle of electricity at the base of your neck that flickers whenever he’s around. A pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, and you lean back into the body they belong to.

“Hey there stranger,” Tyson says softly, tilting your head gently to press a delicate kiss to your lips.

“Long time no see,” you hum in response. “I didn’t know I’d never get to see you once we were married.”

He throws his head back in laughter at your grovelling, and you swear you’d be content if that was the only sound you heard for the rest of your life. “We have a lifetime ahead of us baby, I think we can let your nieces have a few dances with me.”

You know he’s right, but you’ll never admit it. Time doesn’t feel quite as fulfilling when it’s spent apart from Tyson. A comfortable silence engulfs the little bubble you’ve found yourself in, and Tyson says pressed to you as you point out the various constellations littering the night sky. Astronomy was a hobby you picked up one season to keep the loneliness at bay while Tyson was away, but it stuck and he listens to you ramble about the stars as often as he can. The silence is so peaceful, filled with so much love, that you think about never returning to the reception area.

“Do you remember the first night we met?” you whisper, nervous about disturbing the tranquil atmosphere.

“How could I forget? You were the most beautiful girl in the room.” It’s your turn to laugh, but Tyson insists. “I’m serious babe. Gabe had pointed you out when we walked in, but I was too much of a chicken to do anything. I kept waiting, hoping you’d go up and sing a song so I’d have a reason to come talk to you, but you never did. The guys gauded me into doing that ridiculous Céline Dion impression, and I only did it to catch your attention.”

Surprise laces your features. “Why have I never heard this version of events?”

“Because it’s stupid.”

You turn in his grip as gently as possible, looking him in the eyes. “I don’t think anything you do could be considered stupid Tys.”

“Even that one time at Worlds where I cut myself wrestling with Simmer?”

The sparkle in your eyes only intensifies as you giggle. “Maybe that,” you sigh, “But nothing else.”

Out of things to say, probably because he knows that was an incredibly stupid moment, Tyson leans down to close the distance between your lips. The kiss isn’t unlike the ones you’ve shared all day – sweet and full of so much love the grinch would snuff up his nose. However, it’s also different. It manages to convey a thousand words Tyson would never be able to vocalize about how thankful he is for you, and you revel in the feeling. You’ve never loved someone as much as you love him and it’s clear he’s in the same boat.

Eventually you pull away, a bright smile taking up much of your face as you rest your head on Tyson’s shoulder. When Tyson came out to find you he didn’t shut the sliding door properly, and the piano melody that started it all makes its way to your ears. Tyson’s laugh rumbles in his chest and you feel it against like a sunshine beam on your cheek. Wordlessly he begins to sway in time with the music, and you follow his lead.

“I love you,” he says with the same amount of conviction a judge does when giving a sentence.

Your response is automatic, and the easiest thing you’ve ever done. “Forever and ever.”

#i think this man is going to start making regular appearances here #but i'm not mad about it #tyson barrie imagine #tyson barrie x reader #edmontion oilers imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey imagine #hockey fic #cwrites

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never-quite-logistical · 3 years

Text

Letters

word count: 1,073 words

pairings: logicality

content warnings: mentions of alcohol, i think that's it?

a/n: this is my first fic I'm posting, the prompt was from @does-this-look-logicality-to-you's Ollie anon :)

There it was. Looming, sitting there. A small, white gift box, with navy blue accents on it. It’d been four days since Logan had unpacked—he had a small apartment before, on top of being a minimalist, it hadn’t been much to pack or unpack—but that stupid box had sat in the corner of his bedroom the whole damn time. Beckoning him to open it.

And he did. It took another three days, but he did. It was letter after letter of his saved apologies. Apologies to Patton for the nights before. Promises that they wouldn’t do it again. But the letters kept going; it was a piecrust promise. One of them would get drunk, or sad, or lonely, or just wanted to be near the other. Though that was never voiced by either of them. And so he kept flipping through the letters. At the bottom were the first ones. The farther to the top, the closer to their last night together.

He sighed and set the box on his bed and grabbed his phone. He wanted to call Patton. But who was to say he hadn’t already gotten someone else? He and Roman were always friendly on game nights. Or maybe Janus. He was always flirting with Patton. And why should he have cared? They were only friends. Friends with benefits, sure, but that was all.

Logan had been stupid for wanting more than that.

He hadn’t been worth Patton’s time, romantically at least. He wasn’t good in relationships, or with feelings, no matter how sure he was that he liked Patton. Bubbly, sunshiny Patton would never have been actually compatible with cold, stoic Logan. Maybe he was better off with Roman or Janus. Logan only wanted him to be happy, even if the thought made his chest ache.

And so that night, though he didn’t want to, he looked through the letters again. He leafed through them, just glancing at the pen ink was all he could manage before the guilt set in. He had always promised Patton it wouldn’t happen again.

Then, his eyes flicked to something a little off. On the top left corner of the letter he was looking at, there was a bobby pin. Not something unusual for Patton to have, he used them to keep his wavy hair out of his eyes when he insisted Logan shouldn’t pay for a haircut. But the bobby pin attached another paper to the letter. And the letter behind had one, too. And the one after, and the one after. They were a pale color, almost matching the paper. Easy to miss, evidently. They attached second letters. Instead of Logan’s hydrangea-decorated borders, they had little stars on the edge of each paper. They were hand-drawn, too, unlike on Logan’s paper. Each one seemed to be kinder than the last; truly written by Patton. Logan was in tears by the last one, the letter he had left Patton on their last night together. He never did stay. Just left before Patton got up. But he read his letter, though he knew what he wrote.

“Patton—

I’m sorry I’ve let things go on this far. You do deserve better. But I’m afraid this truly will not be happening again. You see, I’m going to be moving for my schooling. I didn’t want to tell any of you because I did not wish to upset you. But I’ll be leaving on the fourteenth and I’m afraid I will not be able to meet up with you again before then, considering I need to study and pack. I’ll still be in contact and I do hope you’ll all visit.

Sincerely, Logan.”

And Logan hated looking at it. He hated to think about what he had done with Patton, he hated to think he left him, but most of all, he hated that he had developed feelings when they were just friends.

But Patton’s response was just as sweet as all the other letters, especially considering the circumstances presented, though he had apparently decided against some words.

“My dearest Logan,

I’m so excited for you! I’ll We’ll all miss you. Hopefully you’ll even get to be an astronimer astronomer! How cool would that be? We’ll all come visit you. And you can come visit us, too, that would be so amazing! I’m gonna have a bakery, maybe I can could make you a cake some time. I hope I’ll give these to you before you go. I probably won’t if you’re all busy and everything. I’ll mail it to you if I have to. I hope you don’t forget me.

Love, Patton”

And if he wasn’t crying before, he surely was now. Patton had felt the same. Patton had felt the same, and Logan was supposed to have known since he moved. And he didn’t even call Patton. He must hate him now. Still, he could try, couldn’t he? It was worth a shot…

He cleared his throat and pulled his phone out, quickly going to Patton’s contact and hitting the call button. What he heard on the other line had him going from butterflies to an ache in his chest; it was Patton’s laughter. “Heya, Logan, d’ya need somethin’?” he asked after his giggling stopped, but two other voices could be heard in the background. They sounded like Virgil and Roman.

Oh, dear… what was he even supposed to say? Well, he had never been one to beat around the bush, had he? With the exception of emotions. Oh, well, he had to try, didn’t he?

“Patton, I’m sorry about not calling you sooner,” he started hesitantly. “I didn’t… I hadn’t read the notes yet. I didn’t see them. I’m sorry. I would have called you sooner. A lot sooner, actually,” he explained, more just rambling than actually explaining.

Patton giggled softly at Logan’s ramblings. He always did find it adorable. “No, no, it’s fine, Lo. I’m glad you called. But I haveta go, Roman and Virgil are over for a game night. I’ll call you later, ‘kay?” Patton’s smile could be heard, even over the phone.

“Yes, I’ll talk to you later,” Logan agreed. “I love you,” he added hesitantly, hanging up as soon as he said it.

Patton had a stupid grin across his face as he set his phone away, quietly whispering “Love you, too,” to himself, unable to keep his euphoric laughter to himself. Of course he had to explain to Roman and Virgil.

#logicality #romantic logicality #ts logan #ts patton #this is a human au btw #for the record im working on another au and i dont know how attics work #thatll make more sense later i guess #misc

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collisiondiscourse · 3 years

Text

on the wonder duo (part 1)

(BNHA Analysis Post Ahead! This isn’t explicitly romantic, but it is an analysis of the relationship between the two most popular characters in BNHA--Katsuki Bakugou and Izuku Midoriya. Split into two posts because I realized that this was gonna be long as HELL)

yall ever think about the fact that the wonder duo is perfectly set up in so that bakugou and deku together are the better version of all might?

bc like. ive been thinking.

everyone knows the win to save and save to win parallel. How they are supposedly two halves of a whole perfect hero (which, previously, was defined as all might)

but ever since bakugou and deku started working as one—growing together to win AND save and continuously reminding each other that they shouldnt try to do things alone, ive realized that its BECAUSE theres two of them that they surpass all might. its not a case of deku and bakugou both being 50% of an ideal hero, but rather i think that they are 100% of what all might SHOULD HAVE BEEN from the very beginning.

as early as the AM v AFO battle in kamino, we see the effects of all mights flawed existence. the fact that he, the greatest and supposedly infallible symbol of peace, was destroyed—society had begun to collapse. there was suddenly no pillar to hold people together and the impacts were so severe that even in the latest chapters of mha it keeps on getting worse. the truth is, all mights biggest mistake was the burden he placed on his own shoulders

with bakugou and deku... its different.

its different for them because down to their attributions, they seem like two halves of a whole person.

i think that the wonder duo are going to surpass all might because of the fact that they work together.

@bakugoukatsuki-rising @svpercraigus @tybee @isaustraliaathing

(batshit crazy and conspiratorial essay under the cut !)

1. Complementary Colors

I’d like to first preface literally everything I say by the fact that I am not an expert analyzer or literary major in any way. I am literally just some random fan on the internet who has wayyy too much time and looks wayyy too deep into things, but here we go!

A common thing we see when we talk about bakugou and deku is the way they are... sort of an inverse of one another.

Down to the design of their features and the way they move, Deku is the obviously softer of the two. There’s an intentional contrast between the two of them, in the way that Deku’s drawn with round shapes and curvy hair and the way Bakugou is literally all spikes and half-mast eyes and rough muscles. Bakugou’s movements too are languid and showy, with the way he leans when he walks and splays his legs and kicks open doors. Katsuki, in a casual sense, is loud and dramatic.

Deku on the other hand s finicky. He jitters when he walks and he’s often fidgeting and mumbling. Comparatively, the aura he radiates is energetic and frenzied, even self-conscious to a point unlike Bakugou’s calm and confident movements.

the point is, there’s a clear difference in how either of them are designed and what exactly they are supposed to represent. They utterly complement each other down to the way they behave and even their main colors (red-orange and blue-green) being literal complementary colors.

Now, moving to my more ungrounded points, this is quite a bit of a stretch so I’ll try as much as possible to make sense of these with hyperlinked sources because. yeah.

Down to their names, I think Deku and Bakugou both symbolize something deeper. I think that the way Hori expresses characters and what they’re meant to do is something that we have to pay close attention to when we talk about the Wonder Duo’s rise to success.

Izuku Midoriya (緑谷出久), as some of us may know, does have an interesting meaning when broken up. According to a lovely fan translation of his name, ‘Izuku’--while not an actual name used commonly in real life--means to ‘Come out’ or ‘Long time’. ‘Midoriya’ on the other hand means (Midori) ‘Green’ and (ya) ‘valley’. The translator further pointed out that his first name ‘Izuku’ could be a reference to him being the first legendary hero to come out of the long-running All Might Era. (or, if you’ve been reading @/bakugoukatsuki-rising’s posts, the first significant anime protag in a long while to come out as queer, ppfft)

but that isn’t my focus right now.

We know that Hori LOVES telling stories with names, and more often than not in the BNHA universe, names alone tell us a lot of things about the characters. When referring to Izuku’s last name, Midoriya, it’s important I think to step back and realize that hey, maybe there’s something more to Green Valley than just the fact that his motif is all green.

After searching for a lil on the specifics of green valley, I’ve found out that across many cultures, the colour green and valleys in general tend to represent life. From dream analysts, to Christianity, and even old Taoist teachings, valleys are seen as areas of fertility and escape. They are seen as safe havens and often escapes for people to come to after running away from bad circumstances.

(Sound familiar?)

Deku, in essence represents life and peace. He represents being the “salvation” that the world in BNHA needed. To me, it sounds like Horikoshi is trying to say that he is the long-awaited hero in the sense. The one that people can feel will create a society that feels safe for everyone after years of All Might just saving people from themselves as a band-aid solution.

On the other hand, we have Katsuki Bakugou (爆豪勝己), who’s name we commonly know means (Katsuki) Winner and (Bakugou) Explosion Master. He is essentially, the champion. The power. His name means success and power and all the things that make up winning.

When putting them side by side, it then becomes increasingly... interesting to me how their names almost perfectly slot into All Might’s save to win and win to save mantra, and how they are both quintessential parts to what made All Might as a hero.

2. Hero Too!

Now, I’m not even gonna really TOUCH much of what happens in canon. If you want me to do a step by step breakdown of their arcs in regards to the plot of manga and anime, feel free to send me a gratuitous ko-fi tip so I can pay for the headache I get after trying to organize my thoughts into word vomit.

What I WILL talk about on the other hand, is the subtle shift both of them slowly have in regards to how they look. Bakugou and Deku, while growing up, seem to have MANY many parallels--but before I elaborate on all of that, I wanna talk about something else.

Detour: Deku’s Red Shoes

We all know the iconic symbol being Deku’s red shoes. For all his life, save for some outfits like his hero one, we see Deku more often than not wearing his signature red sneakers which have become a running joke in fandom.

But the funny thing is, in Japan, red shoes seem to have an interesting connotation.

In 1922, a popular Japanese nursery rhyme was written, called “Red Shoes”. The interesting part to me about this song was the symbolism that, in my tiny pea-sized brain, I could connect to the story of BNHA.

The story goes that there was a little girl with red shoes named ‘Kimi’. She was from Shizuoka prefecture (which, if you didn’t know, is most likely where Musutafu supposedly is) and was raised by a single mother. When she was young, her mother had to entrust her with a foreigner under the impression that they would give her a better life in America. The stranger is a man named Charles Hewitt (who was described to have blue eyes) and supposedly took her away.

The singer of the song (supposedly the mother, but some argue it was written from the perspective of a childhood friend) believes that Kimi is happy and living a better life away from them, when the reality of the situation was much worse. The young girl with red shoes in actuality had Tuberculosis, and thus the foreigner whom she was entrusted to had left her to fend for herself and eventually left her to go to America while she died alone and orphaned.

“When I see red shoes, I think of her.”

A very interesting story with very interesting implications indeed.

Anyway, moving on to the more... “nuanced” and connected parts of this section, I have every reason to believe that Bakugou and Deku were simply MEANT to be working together down to how they dress. Now, I’d like to discuss their hero costumes.

At the start of their series, using these godawful pics for reference, it’s clear to see that neither of them seem alike in any way--reflecting the dissonance in their relationship at that point in canon.

ough. deku why. (yes we know why its because you love your mom you stupid little bunny <3)

Anyway, we see an immediate gap in how the two of them are. Deku’s first costume is one that reflects how he treated his dream of being a hero. He was still in that childlike idolization phase, the one where his dreams and aspirations were hinged on pure feelings and inspiration from All Might. Katsuki on the other hand was a lot more tactical--professional to an extent. The gap between their respective development with their quirks is something that is clearly felt in every fashion decision they’d made.

(Notice how Deku’s green is a lot brighter and less like the green accents Katsuki has all over his costume.)

As time progressed however... their costumes changed. The colors, the silhouettes, the practical functions, most things.

(Deku’s Gamma Costume and Bakugou’s Winter Costume used respectively)

we begin to notice a few similarities.

As the show goes on and we see more evolutions of their costumes, it almost seems like they begin to look like a matching pair. Deku’s green grows darker and almost teal in nature, while Bakugou’s orange is veering towards red territory. This is important to note because red-orange and blue-green as I said earlier were complementary colors as compared to simply orange and green. The minute shift is something I really wasn’t quite sure was intentional, but something I find interesting to pick up nonetheless as the colors they used to accent their costumes begin to match up.

Secondly, I think and important thing to note is silhouettes. The way that both Bakugou and Deku’s costumes are designed follow a lot of parallels that typically we don’t see with the rest of 1-A. For one, they both have a combination of tight long-sleeved tops with a bulkier set of bottoms. They also share the use of utility belts and metal pieces typically worn around their necks. Deku has his bunny-eared hood that mimics All Might’s hair, while Bakugou has his orange and black explosion ear-pieces that mimic his own quirk.

i don’t think any other people in class 1-A match each other as subtly yet strongly as these two. Uraraka and Deku and Bakugou and Kirishima do come close however.

“But Codi, you fucking knob!” I hear you plea. “This is such a reach and tells us practically NOTHING!” And yes, I’m inclined to agree with you! You’d be sort of right in the idea that this is a reach. Maybe I am looking too much into this, and maybe it really isn’t that deep--but I do think that them subconsciously matching outfits means something quite brilliant.

In the way that their costumes are designed, each aspect of either outfits have a very logical explanation. The changes were strategic and made with their fighting styles vividly in mind, so what that tells me is that BECAUSE these costumes are so complementary or similar in nature (Bakugou’s reinforcing his arms while Deku reinforces his legs), these two are implicitly showing the audience that their combat styles are complementary as well.

The evolution of their design choices and similarities tell us that even unknowingly, their minds line up in strategy on the battlefield--a clear exhibit for why they would be INCREDIBLY POWERFUL as a Hero Duo to begin with.

When I look at their hero costumes side by side, I see a mirror. I see the way that these two are reflections of each other and are strong where the other isn’t. The point I see in BNHA repeatedly is that EVERYONE HAS A WEAKNESS. Nothing is infallible, regardless of how hard you train or how powerful your quirk is. Everyone will always have a weakness, but the significant difference I see when fandom discusses the future of Pro-Hero Society is that the new generation is finally raising itself to be RELIANT on each other.

Observing their fighting styles and the simple use of their quirks, its obvious that they are indeed two parts of a whole hero. Bakugou, who’s quirk emphasized his arms and hands and the power that comes from it, while Deku who’s quirk now emphasizes his legs and lower body and the way he’s always running to save people.

IN CONCLUSION:

As they become heroes, it is easy to assume that if nothing else, Bakugou and Deku will cover each other’s weak spots (especially when you consider the way Deku probably won’t be able to keep using his arms with the way both the anime and manga are going...) (also chapter 285, anyone?)

Part Two: Interactions, OfA

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pomegranates-and-blood · 3 years

Text

Hrygð (Ivar’s PoV)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Hrygð: affliction, grief, sorrow (Old Norse)

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Summary: A night post Chapter 45. I told ya Ivar was under a lot of pressure from the Greeks being around, and he does stupid shit under pressure.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: The usual for the story, plus mentions/descriptions of dead bodies, allusions to murder, hallucinations. My best attempt at writing a downward spiral. And oh, THE ANGST. Yes, bold, italic, capital letters angst. It warrants it, believe me.

A/N: So, I promise this makes sense when you get to the end. Trust me.

You wait for him in your bedroom, he knows you do.

He wishes he could walk inside and tell you he regrets it, he wishes the Greek blood staining his hands were something he wanted to wash off.

But he doesn’t.

They didn’t leave him any choice, they forced his hand. He couldn’t let them take you from him, he couldn’t let anyone take you from him.

If he has to deal with your rage, then so be it. You will be angry, and you will grieve, but you will understand, Ivar knows you will.

When he walks in, there is no rage, and that does unbalance him. It makes grow in his chest what a weaker man would call fear, to see you so deadly still.

You don’t turn around, leaving him to look at the straight line of your back, leaving him with nothing to read in you except your voice when slowly, expectantly even though you know the answer, you ask, “What did you do to them, Ivar?”

“They were a threat and you kn-…”

“What did you do to them?” You interrupt. When you turn around, the first thing he notices is the stains the dirt left on your dress. He tells himself that is the first thing he notices, because he refuses to admit he notices the redness in your eyes, the tremble in your lip. “What did you do to my people?”

“They aren’t your people. The people of Kattegat are your people.”

You shake your head, resolute, unwavering. It grips tight at his heart, the way you seem to be unmovable, the way you feel locked away from him somewhere he can’t reach.

Anger burns at him from the inside, bubbling under his skin and making his grip on the crutch tighten until he fears it will break. You made him do this, he did this for you, and now you will turn your back to him?

“I will always be their daughter before I am your wife, you know that. You know before there was a ring on my finger there was Greek blood running through my veins,” Your voice starts to rise, your anger breaking past the cold distance of your disdain; and he almost feels relief at the sight of your rage. “The same blood you have spilled.”

“You made me do it!” He yells, uncaring with how your eyes widen in affront. He wants you to be angry, he wants you to fight. He cannot stand the thought of doing something that makes you surrender. “You let them get close, you-…I know you will choose them over me, over everything I have given you!”

You walk closer, deliberately slowly.

“Everything you have given me!?” You repeat, disbelieving. “You have given me chains, Varangian, nothing more than that!”

His breath stutters and gets stuck on his throat, and Ivar can only look at you with wide eyes.

Varangian.

The fight leaves him, the fire leaves him. He remembers what that feels like, the useless struggling as air is unavailable and useless lungs slowly suffocate him no matter how much he fights against it, he remembers what it is like to be tied to a mast and dragged down to the depths in the inescapable grasp of Rán’s net. It feels exactly like this.

You continue attempting to ignore him, but he won’t be overlooked, he refuses. It is maddening, because he…he believed that was over. He has lived with the uncaring glances, the irrelevance, all his life; and now things are supposed to be different. They have to be, he is better now, he is King, he…

“I must tend to the wounded, Varangian.” You tell him, returning your gaze, your attention, to your work.

Grabbing onto that knife feels like relief, feels like control. When the drops of blood hit the floor, he feels his lips tremble into a mad smile he has to bite back.

By force if you make it so, by fear if he has to, but he won’t be ignored.

Ivar feels like his head is filled with noise, and he stumbles back, catching himself on a wooden post. Dazedly, he thinks he remembers sitting on the ground before that pillar, with you sitting between his legs, your back against his chest, as he taught you to throw knives and watched you fail miserably.

Varangian.

He shakes his head, or he thinks he does. He isn’t sure of that. He isn’t sure of anything, really.

He isn’t even sure that memory of you in his arms is real.

You lift your hands between you, the rattling of chains making him grit his teeth.

“I refuse to die a Varangian’s prisoner.”

Your eyes are burning with a disgust he is familiar with, though not when it comes to you, and that is what makes him want to make you pay for looking at him that way.

So, he chuckles, mocking you and your anger, and your pride. He’d rather have you hate him, if that is all he will have.

“You think you have a choice.”

Voice rough, he orders, “Do not call me that.”

Varangian, Varangian, Varangian, it rattles inside his head. Taunting him, mocking him.

“That is what you are to me,” You retort coldly, cruelly, “That is all you will ever be. The Varangian that took me from my people, that slaughtered them!”

Ivar stops by the door, gripping tightly onto the crutch by his side. Slowly, he asks you to repeat yourself, dares you to.

But he should know the kind of woman you are by now, he should know you are too stubborn to keep your mouth shut. He wishes he could hate that about you.

“You need my consent for us to be married, Varangian,” You state proudly, standing up. He turns to face you, gritting his teeth, and you continue, “I am a free woman, you can’t force me. You won’t break a promise, so you won’t make me a slave.”

Ivar feels the familiar burn of anger and resentment, a pointless and pathetic hope dying somewhere, and he steps forward. He refused to tell you about your mother’s deal with him, but now you’ve forced his hand.

If you ask, he will tell you he hid it for this long because you wouldn’t believe him, but if he’s honest with himself, he knows he did it because he held the stupid hope that marrying him could somehow be your choice.

“I am your husband.” He corrects you. When your eyes are drawn to it, he notices his hand not on the crutch clenched into a fist.

You slowly lift your gaze to him, and demand, “I want you to tell me what you did to them. I want to hear it.”

You don’t, but he was never one to refuse a challenge.

Ivar steps forward, a deep thrust of the crutch against the wooden floor that he didn’t intend to make you flinch, but finds himself almost satisfied that it does. If nothing else, he will take fear.

He will take fear, he will take hatred. Anything but indifference, anything but that distance, that coldness.

“Our men attacked while they were sleeping, lit their homes aflame. Most died screaming, burned alive,” It is a lie, it was just iron and arrows that ended the Greeks, but he knows what will make it more painful. “The ones that ran out were struck down, forced to watch. Happy?

You stay silent, eerily silent. Tears run down your face when you close your eyes, but there’s a jarring kind of peace to your expression as you accept his words that makes Ivar feel like the ground isn’t solid under his feet.

“Answer me!”

“You betrayed me.” You tell him, and he hates it, he hates the way your voice has no tone to it, even the accent seems gone for a moment. He hates the way he made you sound dead.

But no, no, this isn’t his fault. You forced his hand, you and those Greeks.

You have to understand that it isn’t his fault.

“And what are you going to do, hm?” He dares, and he isn’t sure what he wants to hear as an answer. He isn’t sure if it is the part of him that wants more than anything to hear that this is something he can fix that makes him ask you that, or if it is the part of him that has always known you would turn your back to him at the end that does.

Whatever the answer is, it is better than this silence.

You shake your head, though he isn’t sure if it is at his question or at your own thoughts.

“I don’t want to fight anymore, Ivar,” You confess breathily. When your hands join together in front of you, he can’t help but notice you aren’t twirling your wedding ring on your finger as you usually, do, but clawing at the edges of it, as if trying desperately to take it off, though you don’t attempt to. “I do not want to fight you.”

He does. Still, he walks closer, his free hand reaching for you.

Ivar cups the back of your head, noting the way you lean tiredly into the caress and finding his breathing gets a little easier at that simple gesture.

“Can you forgive me?” He asks, though he knows he shouldn’t. He still doesn’t regret it.

Your lips pull into a trembling smile, “I have no choice, do I?”

Instead of giving you an answer, Ivar brings you to him and kisses you deeply, letting himself believe when your breaths are one that everything is as it was, or that it will be, somehow.

Brow pressed against yours, he studies your features carefully, noting the strain in your expression even as your eyes remain closed.

“I love you.” He whispers, and he knows you are aware it is a pathetic and desperate request to hear it back, but he doesn’t much mind anymore.

Your eyes search his, bloodshot and tired and defeated, and he knows he is the reason why. He knows, and it tears at whatever is left of his heart, but he still cannot regret what he did.

The silence deafens him, and he grits his teeth to keep at bay desperation made words.

Say it back, even if you don’t mean it. Lie to me if you have to.

A few quick blinks as if to dispel any tears, and you offer the faintest of smiles. Your hand lifting to cup the side of his face lets him breathe easy, and Ivar doesn’t bother stopping himself from leaning into the caress, the softness.

He hasn’t lost that yet, he hasn’t lost you.

“And I love you,” You tell him. He can pretend your voice doesn’t break halfway through; he can do that, and he can pretend everything is as it was, especially when you press a gentle kiss against his lips and whisper, as if nothing had changed, “More than anyone, more than anything.”

____

When Ivar first wakes up with his arm stretched over the empty space where you should be, he keeps his eyes closed, knowing he will soon hear your soft footsteps as you go about the room, hear you cursing to yourself in your native tongue as you skip over the cold wood, hear you poutingly asking that he move to the colder side of the bed to leave room for you.

He tells himself to wait, and he does, for so long he can no longer pretend the empty side of the bed is still warm in your absence.

Ivar opens his eyes half-expecting to see you there, sitting silently by the dim fires, lost in your own thoughts. When you see he is awake, you will return to bed with him, with your always slightly-cold skin pressed against his, and it will stave off the bubble of fear that is growing in his chest, leaving no room for his lungs to breathe or his heart to beat.

You aren’t there, you are nowhere he can see, even as he sits up on the bed and looks around the darkened room.

But you wouldn’t leave, you wouldn’t leave him. He knows that.

He asked you once, demanded out of you maybe, that you promised to never turn your back to him, to never lie to him; and you gave it, you gave him your word and your trust and your heart and…and he still has them, all of those.

You wouldn’t leave him, you love him. You told him you did, and you don’t lie to him.

So, he calls your name. You’re probably on the other part of the room, moving the weakest of plants you continue to insist on taking care of towards the windows so they can soak up the sunlight.

You will hear him call for you, and you will return, muttering about how it was a mistake to try planting those seeds from the East this far into winter. You will burrow close to his chest, seeking his warmth, and he will wrap his arm around you and everything will be as it was, everything will be as it should be.

But it isn’t, it won’t be.

You are nowhere to be found.

He finds you, eventually. The old bedroom you used to occupy before you were married to him, the one that you still lose yourself in sometimes, with the tougher plants that need less frequent care from you.

One of the thralls told him you had gone there sometime during the night, and hadn’t come out yet. Ivar knows what he did is wrong, and he knows…he knows it will be difficult for you to forgive him, but he will convince you to return to the bedroom you share. He hates the idea of sleeping without you by his side.

He opens the door with his free hand, walking in and immediately recognizing the familiar scent of lavender. It is comforting, more than he would like to admit.

Until he sees you.

There lays the bloodied and lifeless body, blade embedded deep in the chest, round handle of the knife almost hidden in the bloodied folds of the dress. The knife he gifted you, so long ago.

I do not fear death, no Hiereia of the Dread Gods fears death, you told him once.

He has always known you’d prefer death before chains, he has always known above anything else you would choose your freedom.

“N-No, no, no,” Shaking hands drag him to you -he doens’t know when he fell to the floor-, and the way your body lolls lifelessly when he holds you to him makes him feel like vomiting. All that leaves him are choked gasps, he isn’t sure if the ragged and roughened sound that he hears is his voice, but it seems like it. “No, p-please, I-…”

He doesn’t know what he is talking to, he surely cannot talk to you since you are…

No, it isn’t you.

The shape of her nose is wrong, and the color of her eyes, even past the veil of death, is wrong. Everything, once he can actually think clearly, looks wrong about her.

She isn’t you.

He is going to lose his mind, he is sure of it.

Ivar moves away from her, from…it, but the way she still resembles you so strikingly makes him sick, and the sound the body makes as it stiffly falls from his lap to the cold wood rattles inside his head.

He closes his eyes, focuses on breathing. She smells like lavender, like you, and…yes, he is sure he will lose his mind here.

Ivar doesn’t know how much time it passes, how long he stays there in that room with a dead woman. He knows at some points he forgets it isn’t you, and at he knows when he remembers it isn’t that he realizes this is your last message to him.

By the end of the day, Ivar stumbles back into an empty bedroom after standing for so long as they celebrated a funeral for a woman that lives and breathes, but even as darkness presses ruthlessly against the dim lights of the room, he refuses to get in the bed to sleep.

He will not lay alone in that damn bed again. Not until you return to him.

And you will.

____

He knows you went to them. He knew that, long before they received word from their scouts that you had reunited with the surviving Greeks.

It took them four days to find where you had been, and three days of travelling. Ivar wants to find those responsible for taking this long and punish them for their slowness.

If he could focus on the anger for long enough, he would, but he can’t seem to focus on anything.

“Our faster men can reach that town in a day and a half, let m-…”

“She will come back, brother,” Ivar interrupts, eyes focused on the shape of the snake in the bracelet you left behind. Since he gifted it to you, you haven’t parted it from it, wearing it as often as you can. He knows you wouldn’t leave it behind if you didn’t intend to come back, he knows you left it as a sign to him, a promise that it is only a matter of time. Like the knife he gifted you, it was all a message, he knows it. Ivar swallows thickly at Hvitserk’s silence -it sounds so much like pity, he hates it-, and insists, “She didn’t leave me, didn’t b-betray me.”

“You betrayed me.” You tell him, voice by his ear, a defeated sort of numbness in your voice that he remembers from that last night. Sharply, he turns to you with a gasp that dies on his throat.

But, of course, all that he finds is nothingness.

“Ivar,” Hvitserk calls out, an edge to his voice. He turns to his brother, finds a frown marrying his features. “I can go myself. Let m-…”

“She will come back!” He interrupts again, though it sounds manic even to his own ears. He tries making his body let go of the stillness that makes even breathing difficult, but he can’t. Still, he offers a smile that his brother almost flinches at, and insists, more calmly, “I know my wife better than you, hm? I know…I know her, just-…you’ll see.”

Offering only a sigh, his brother stands up, “At least get some sleep. You haven’t slept in…what, three days?”

Seven.

____

Days continue passing, and almost as a punishment for refusing to accept you are gone, for insisting on not even looking at that damn bed until you are back by his side, Ivar hears your voice more and more often.

Today, you are talkative, and you sound as if you were sitting by his left side in the emptiness of your bedroom. He wishes with your voice also returned the familiar scent of lavender that seemed to accompany you everywhere. He misses that.

“Find a way or make one, but you will always have a choice.”

You told him that before, when you were sanding by his side, and your hand was solid and comforting in his grasp. He wishes he could pretend he still feels the press of your lips on his shoulder from that day, he wishes he could pretend he still feels you next to him.

Still, because it is just him and your absence now, no one left to see he has lost it, he asks the nothingness, “What choice did you leave me with, hm?”

He hears a delicate laugh somewhere at his left, and that is all the answer he gets.

Ivar knows what the people would whisper when he first brought you here, those tales of a half-mad king that lost what was left of his mind to a foreign witch.

He realizes with a laugh that bubbles in his chest but sounds choked when it stutters past his lips, that maybe they were all right. Maybe you did bewitch him, or curse him. Maybe he did lose his mind because of a foreign witch.

Your voice breezes past his ear, this time startling him less, “With all the ways we drive each other mad, you still think the Gods fated this?”

It isn’t the teasing edge of that day, the smile he can hear in your voice isn’t the soft and disbelieving one. There is no warmth to any of it.

It is mocking, it is the disdain he made you queen to avoid facing, it is the coldness of the woman he never wanted to see you lose yourself as.

Your words from that day, the words your ghost -his mind?- spits back at him seem fitting, in a way. A twisted, ironic way, but still.

Because you did drive him mad after all, just not with your presence. With your absence.

Regardless, after nearly two weeks, he realizes you aren’t coming back.

He supposes it shouldn’t have taken that long, but then again there’s a part of him that still dares think this is all some twisted nightmare.

They tell him most of the Greeks, including you, have left with merchant vessels near Eldham towards the Mediterranean, they tell him there is no way to track you down now.

They don’t tell him, but he hears it regardless, that you are lost to him.

Ivar’s eyes are trained on this small and pitiful plant you kept potted near the table where you’d rest against at night as you took off the earrings and jewelry you wore that day.

He cannot take his eyes off this insignificant, withered thing. It almost seems impossible, that it looks like that. You’d spend half a day if you had to looking after these things, making sure they were as vibrant and lively as you could keep them.

It dawns on him that it died in your absence, in the absence he had convinced himself was a passing thing, temporary, inconsequential.

You told him things said aloud are made real, you told him that by will alone he could achieve anything he wanted, and he believed you.

He believed you when you told him those things, just as he believed you when you told him you were staying. Just as he believed you when you told him you loved him.

With a yell that sounds like a roar to his own ears, he puts all his strength behind the movement of his arm as his hand grips the edge of that table, flipping it and throwing the things on it, even that damn plant, across the room.

Almost two weeks without sleep have left him weaker than he would like to admit, and it isn’t easy to move his limbs to stop himself from falling painfully to the ground, the movements too uncoordinated, too sluggish.

Resigned to the cold and hard ground, Ivar turns to lay on his back.

With the silence ringing in his ears, he finds himself asking, “Will you stay?”

If all he has is a ghost, he might as well be on good terms with it.

“Of course I will stay. I wanted to, you know,” You reply somewhere at his right. This is the first time you’ve spoken something you haven’t said before, this is the first time your ghost seems to answer coherently. That is, until you whisper, “If you had asked, I would have said yes.”

The words sound more mocking and crueler than they ever did, though perhaps he was foolish to think they were ever anything other than a reminder of what following his father’s last advice cost him.

Be ruthless, be ruthless, be ruthless.

It echoes in his head, louder and louder each time. At some point he realizes that even if the voice of a ghost gets loud enough that he has to resist the urge to uselessly cover his ears with his hands, it at least drowns out his thoughts, and it silences you.

On the floor by the bed he refuses to even touch since it still doesn’t have you in it, he lets himself sleep for the first time in so long.

____

He wakes suddenly, sitting up on the bed and taking gasping breaths to fill his lungs, eyes wide as he searches the nothingness in front of him.

“Ivar?” You ask, and the bed dips when you move to sit up as well. “Ivar, what’s wrong?”

The plant is alive.

And he cannot take his eyes off it.

It is still a small, pitiful thing, but he cannot look away from it. His breaths quicken as he blinks rapidly, trying desperately to get used to the darkness of the room, needing to see clearly that the damn plant truly is alive.

The more time it passes the more he starts to see it withered and dead, and even as through gasping and frantic breaths he somehow smells the comforting scent of lavender and you, it somehow isn’t enough.

It terrifies him, that he doesn’t know what is real and what isn’t.

He knows what he wants to be real, and it is the bed soft and warm underneath him, the sound of your voice being more than an illusion, the damn plant being alive still. But somehow wanting it to be real makes him think that is the one it isn’t.

“Ivar!” You insist, voice more anxious. Your hand on the side of his face almost makes him flinch, but when you turn his face to you, he can see you there beside him. He lifts a hand desperately to hold your own against his face, lest you stop touching him and disappear. Or he does. He isn’t sure. Your eyes search his, and your thumb runs back and forth over his skin. It’s soothing, more than you could ever know. “It was just a nightmare, love.”

Was it?

You are straddling him, arms wrapped tightly around him, hands running up and down his back. He doesn’t know when you moved, but he is grateful for it.

His hand reaches tentatively for you, still irrationally afraid you will vanish, and when he finds soft skin under his grasp, Ivar feels a breath leaves his lips in something too close to a sob.

“Shh, it is alright,” You whisper, soothingly, though he notices the tremble in your voice. “Just a nightmare. I’m here, it’s alright.”

Yes, of course it was a nightmare. He never attacked the Greeks, you never left him.

He knows that now. It felt so real, though.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, surrounded by the feel of you and the maddening scent of lavender, and matches his breaths to the cadence of your own, trying to hold on to the calm you so easily offer.

Ivar isn’t sure how much time it passes, it is more than enough for the sweat on his chest and back to have been bitingly cold and now be gone, it is more than enough for his breaths to be back under his own control. It isn’t enough for his hold on you to loosen, but not enough time can pass for that to happen anytime soon.

Laying back down on the bed with you, keeping an arm safely secured around you as you two lay on your sides, Ivar keeps his eyes roaming over your features, uncaring that you do the same -though you are most likely studying for any tell that he still isn’t well, which he isn’t-, taking in the way your eyes soften to accompany the small smile you offer and the familiarly unpredictable way your hair is tussled by sleep.

“Will you tell me about it?”

His answer is immediate, “No.”

Your lips furrow, and he knows you will insist by that alone. Stubborn, insufferable woman.

“Was it about me?”

“I said I don’t want to tell you.” He snaps, but you don’t seem to mind the brashness.

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t real.” You reassure him. He hates the fact that he clings to those words, he hates how they fill him with a relief none of his assurances to himself couldn’t match.

“I know. Stop coddling me, woman.” He grumbles past gritted teeth, prompting only a smile from you.

“You secretly love it,” You tease, leaning close to press a kiss over the scar on his cheek. “What would you do without me pestering you, hm?”

He swallows thickly, and doesn’t answer. Settling a little closer, you meet his eyes again, a tranquility to your gaze he wishes he could find again, and he gathers he can, as long as that adoration and that softness that shine in your gaze don’t go anywhere just yet.

“You should sleep some more. I promise, Melinöe won’t claim you while I’m here,” You offer with a glint in your eye, managing to make his lips pull into a smile. Closing the distance between you, you rub your nose against his before kissing him sweetly, so softly it almost makes Ivar feel he will shatter at the gentleness of it. Breaths one, you promise, “I love you.”

He exchanges seeing you for feeling you, and closes the distance again, claiming your mouth in a short kiss.

Pulling away, Ivar finds himself asking, “Tell me again.”

Without hesitation, you whisper, “I love you, Ivar. More than anyone, more than anything.”

It doesn’t sound like a lie. Even if it is, he doesn’t care.

____ ____ ____

First of all, I’m sorry. Second of all, I hope it made sense. Those of you that read ἀλήθεια know what Ivar was living through, since this was brought to life by @youbloodymadgenius‘ request of an Ivar PoV of the night she left him in Alatheia and the times that came after that. But, because I am one soft bitch, I couldn’t bring myself to write all that hurt without at least some comfort, so...here ya go!

I would love to hear your thoughts on this!

Btw, technically hallucinations as a result of sleep deprivation go from visual to auditory, but fuck it, y’know? I do research to confidently write down useless stuff, yes, but I also do research to stubbornly go against said research for the sake of plot. This time it was the second.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @the-a-word-2214 @fae-sedai @crazybunnyladysworld @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside @aprilivar @msrawog @kaitieskidmore1

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar the boneless #ivar #νοσταλγία masterlist

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