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#night and feeling worse. instead of like having a more consistent routine

tartts-blog · 2 months

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My Reputation's Never Been Worse, But You Can Buy Me A Drink (Part One)

Roy Kent x Fem!Singer!Reader

Taylor Swift Reputation Inspired Series- Requested by @akornsworld

series summary: roy and the reader go from strangers, to lovers, to so much more. inspired by taylor swift-reputation.

part summary: roy and the reader meet at a bar and form a connection

content warning: language, angst if you squint, mentions of an abusive relationship

a/n: this series will likely be 8 parts. feel free to comment or message me any other requests! i write for roy, jamie, and royxjamie. i'll also consider writing for keeley depending on the request.

masterlist

You promptly decided 5 minutes after getting to the bar that deciding to go out for a drink after already having a throbbing headache was a mistake. All you wanted was a break. A break from the media, a break from being constantly reminded of your shitty ex, just a fucking break in general. Your career was overwhelming you, and you’ve had enough. After your extremely public break-up with your ex boyfriend, the media has been harassing you consistently. Even though there was video and photograph proof that he had abused you, majority of society still took his side. Your music sales plummeted, and for the first time in your career your most recent album didn’t make the top 100 list. Everything was just shit. Therefore, showing up at Bones and Honey on a random day of the week was quickly become a routine for you.

Everyone there tended to mind their own business, and leave you alone to wallow in your thoughts. At least, that was until the entirety of the Richmond football club showed up. To be honest, you don’t really follow football, but you recognized most of the players. Your dad loves football, AFC Richmond specifically, so you grew up watching a shit ton of games (even though you never quite understood the appeal). Performing arts was always more interesting to you. So when Roy Kent came to you at the bar, you were probably more open with him than you should’ve been. The amount of drinks you’d already consumed also probably played a part in that. He walked up to the bar next to you, ordered a pint, then turned to look at you.

“Oi, you’re Y/N Y/LN right?”

“Yeah, and if I’m not mistaken you’re the infamous Roy Kent?” He nodded his head up, seemingly surprised that you knew who he was. “What, didn’t expect a singer to follow football?” He looked a little apologetic at that.

“No, sorry. I just didn’t expect you to be so fucking blunt to be honest.” You laughed.

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Anyway, I’m assuming you’re here as a celebration or something. Why are you over here with me and not your team? I’m not exactly a prize.” The bartender brought over Roy’s beer and he took a swig of it.

“I’m with those pricks everyday, and you looked upset. As weird as it sounds I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” That made you uneasy.

“Look, I’m not in the mood for a one stand with a footballer, or whatever else you want from me. I just came here to get my mind off my fucking job and get plastered for the night.”

“Oi, that’s not what I’m fucking here for, if it was I would’ve just fucking said that. I honestly just wanted a minute away from those little pricks,” he pointed over to the rest of the Richmond team on the other side of the club, “and like I said I really did just want to make sure you’re alright. You looked all in your head and shit.” He took another chug of his beer, and you felt your guard start to slip. You took that opportunity to look him over, and that’s when it dawned on you just how attractive he really was. He was fucking fit.

“Alright then, and yeah I’m fine.” You promptly downed a shot of tequila you had in front of you, next to your martini. You really were planning on getting trashed that night. He raised an eyebrow at you, and you pretended not to notice. You stared up at him, suddenly realizing how he was just awkwardly standing next to you instead of actually sitting down at the bar. “Look, if you’re really going to bother yourself with talking to me could you at least sit down and quit standing there like a creep. And buy me a drink.” He let out a chuckle at that, sat down, and ordered you a martini. You smiled softly at him, suddenly a little embarrassed.

The rest of the night went by in a blur. Roy was actually quit enjoyable to talk to, but you know that after that night your little section of the world just to the two of you would end. You would have to go back to your shit career and personal life, and he would go back to coaching a premier league football club and everyone loving him. You tried not to think about that while you were with him though. You found yourself laughing more than you had in months.

You vaguely remember making fun of Roy’s deep voice and the way he talked after both had consumed several more drinks. You couldn’t tell if it was just the alcohol or not, but you were pretty sure he knew that you meant it as a compliment. As the night came to a close, he walked you out to your cab, and you both said your goodbyes. You realized in the cab on the way to your house that you couldn’t stop smiling. Shit. It would be a fucking disaster if the media got wind of the fact you and a football manager, of all people, spent a night at Bones and Honey together. But who could blame you? It was Roy fucking Kent. And you could already tell he was going to make you crazy.

UPDATES WEEKLY!

#roy kent #roy kent x reader #taylor swift #roy kent fic #roy kent i'll write your name #roy kent fanfiction #celebrities #ted lasso #ted lasso fanfiction #afc richmond #roy kent has my heart

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absensia-archived · 1 year

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CHARLOTTE + SLEEP HEADCANONS ☁️

neither a morning person or a night owl, charlotte is able to tolerate her chaotic sleep schedule relatively well. depending on what kind of job or "game" she's currently working, she will have a slight preference for either day or night, but as far as during which time of the day she feels more awake during, there is no preference at all.

like her habits ( or rather, lack thereof ), her sleep schedule also depends largely on the activity and habits of those around her. she organizes her sleep schedule so as to match the peaks and lulls of activity around her.

work, exploration, and general tomfoolery always come first, meaning charlotte, not being obliged to a schedule in the first place, does often go several days without more than maybe one or two short naps to make up her sleep. this does not interfere with her ability to sleep or fall into a more stable sleep routine should she want to. she's able to switch between getting regular sleep and being sleep - deprived quite seamlessly.

charlotte does occasionally suffer from bouts of insomnia which she normally doesn't try to fight. she instead use the time and strange sensation of being wide - awake to go out and observe things she couldn't in daylight, or use the time to study.

charlotte can fall sleep almost anywhere, but that doesn't mean that she can sleep comfortably just anywhere. for the most part, unless she is in an actively dangerous or risky circumstance, she doesn't mind resting and sleeping in public places. on buses and trains, in parks, on campus quads. she also doesn't mind sleeping in other people's cars, on the ground or in the corners of abandoned buildings, on rooftops, in stairwells. . . in these cases, charlotte rarely allows herself to fall fully asleep, remaining only half - asleep and waking in short intervals to stay aware of her surroundings.

it's not a consistent occurrence, but charlotte does often look dead when she is asleep. other times, she will simply appear extremely still in sleep. when properly asleep, charlotte does not tend to move or shift; she stays in whatever position she was in when she fell asleep. even during the worse of nightmares, she does not tend to twitch or make faces. she rarely moans or sighs or mutters in her sleep. her eye movements are the only non - stillness about her while asleep.

her stillness aside, charlotte almost always sleeps in a curled or as closed as a position/posture as possible. that means that when laying down, she will curl in on herself until her knees are nearly at her chest, her chin is tucked to her collarbone, arms are likely folded beneath her head or curled into the space right below her head. in average double - sized bed, charlotte only takes up about a quarter of the bed. when sleeping while seated, charlotte will often cross one leg over the other and cross her arms over her chest.

as far as dreaming goes, charlotte only ever sees nightmares or nothing at all. when she isn't having a nightmare, charlotte falls into a pseudo - void where she "speaks" with the fragment of the void that lives within her. to say that she is used to these nightmares would be inaccurate, but there are some sleeps when she can tolerate them better than others. that being said, if you happen to wake charlotte while she is in the throes of a violent nightmare, she will wake up startled, afraid, and in fight mode.

charlotte never feels rested upon waking. she may be groggy and lethargy in some cases, but more often than not, she will wake abruptly and fully awake and aware. this is independent from whatever mood she may be in upon waking; this refers to her level of consciousness.

charlotte doesn't have a "bedtime routine" seeing as she doesn't even maintain a sleep schedule. going to sleep to her is simply just another activity to tack onto the day; it is not necessarily the "last" thing she will be doing or the thing that "closes" her day. she sometimes looks forward to it, sometimes she genuinely forgets about it for days at a time. being tired isn't necessarily a good enough reason for her to start getting ready for bed, but being bored may be. sometimes you will find her reading in bed before moving to sleep ( in which case, she will be seated at the foot of the bed because she doesn't read where she'll later curl up to sleep ). if she has recently showered, she'll wait until her hair is dry before going to bed because she doesn't like feeling like she's just pulled herself out of a lake and she has bad experiences with hair - dryers. she doesn't need to eat or drink anything in particular before sleeping but doesn't mind snacking before sleep if she is hungry.

in ideal circumstances ( meaning safe and sound situations ), charlotte is neither an overly light or overly deep sleeper. in terms of "depth" of sleep, she is completely Average. sleep time ranges from 10 minutes to 16 hours natural sleep.

#dead even in memory #anything to do with “habits” is always a little tricky for charlotte seeing as routine is hardly conducive with her purpose #i didn't go in-depth with these but most of these obviously do come with underlying reasoning and/or lore but this was meant to be brief #a long list of brief things that is #feel free to ask about any of these if you're curious!#but yeah :') charlotte's relationship w sleep is .... pretty neutral overall #it's functional for her more than anything #as always i appreciate you so so much if you read or even skimmed through all this! <3 #char might not have a sleep schedule but i do and now i say good night good night <3

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katal0gue · 2 years

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state of the katie address for september. weight tw i feel bad talking about that on here but oh well

weight fluctuating. like it's down overall from my heaviest but its not stable. i just want to max out my social acceptability stats man. like i don't necessarily recommend that for others and if i had other things going for me i would definitely be more okay with being fat (i'm not like...that unhealthy i just need to watch my cholesterol) but since i don't have an s/o or a socially functional sexuality or a place or a fulfilling career id like to at least enjoy the privilege of seeing a trendy blouse i like and knowing i'll be able to find one that fits me. i binge ate cheese last night and i guess if i had to reflect on why i did that it would be because i was bored. i think having some nice sensory stimulation that isn't food would help like nice fragrances? i can't have candles in my room so maybe a plug in air freshner.

i have no sense of routine besides going to work and watching jeopardy with my family and i've tried to implement routines but i don't stick to them. the autist in me wants a steady daily routine but the obsessive in me wants to make sure im doing the Right thing and obsesses over the different benefits of like night vs morning showers

i want to move out and travel both of which cost money and idk if i should get a job (or pursue a degree? whole other can of wyrms) in a better place and move there, or move out into a place near my current job, or continue living at home for a while to make it financially easier to travel over breaks and PTO

i'm very depressed because i feel unfulfilled. doing stuff with the library is kind of fun but i don't put my all into it because i shy away from the social interaction aspect especially talking on the phone. i want to go to school or start a project or new hobby or give my effort to something but i don't know how to choose one thing over anything else. life a series of closing doors.

other than the desire to move out and travel that i can't fulfill when other people my age can, I could have also said all of this in high school. i've gotten moderately better at a variety of things but

im really good at making fliers and i finally have the chance to do it a lot for the library because the president of the fundraising group realized we should stop asking the library graphic designer to do everything for us and ask Katie instead <333 which owns and i'm happy about it. Nothing makes me feel better than other people needing a skill that i contribute.

making fliers/posters/graphics is something i've been consistently praised for but its something where im better at it than the average person but worse at it than people in the field so I am useful to people with 0 graphic design abilities but i don't think i'd be very competitive in the field.

#weight tw

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gregory-housemd · 6 months

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I question why out of all the characters in my source, I was the one our system introverted. I mean with how dysfunctional and fucked up we are, I’d think someone like Wilson or Cameron would be better. Someone to pull the body together in a healthy way and smooth the harsh edges left from our trauma. Something something opposites attract.

Yet instead, there’s me. It’s not a bad thing it just didn’t make sense for a while. Eventually though I had pieced it together.

1. I’m Miserable

In source I am constantly referred to as miserable, sad, depressing, and other variants of the term. I can manage my own feelings just fine, which is apparently a problem in this system.

Depression, anxiety, intrusive thoughts, panic attacks, suicidal ideation.

Been there. Done that. I’m no worse off then I was in source. And these emotions, this problem that plagues the rest of my system, gets put on the back burner while I front. Not gone, but not unmanageable.

2. I’m in pain

As I’ve grown accustomed to the body, I’ve come to terms with the fact the body experiences chronic pain. What a joke? I find myself in a new body, just to find that I still experience daily pain.

Thankfully the pain is not as severe as my leg. It’s much easier for me to handle when considering my alternative. The worst of the body’s pain falls in the back and right leg, which I find annoyingly ironic. And with some ice, massaging, and a standard dose of pain meds, the pain is minimal enough to be ignorable, which I can appreciate.

I do not appreciate the phantom pains the body shoots through my right leg randomly as I front. I can rub at the healthy muscle for hours without the pain dulling, and yet I have days completely free of phantom pain.

3. I can take care of myself

I am always in pain. Always miserable. Yet each day I manage to pick myself up, shower, brush my teeth, and eventually make my way to work. Unless the pain is too unbearable, which isn’t a large concern of mine now.

So while managing our emotional issues and chronic pain, I force the body to pull itself together. Part of it may be the doctor in me.

Do you know how many germs are on your hands? That can lead to an infection.

Extended periods of time without showering? That can lead to an infection.

Bad dental hygiene? Wouldn’t you know that can lead to an infection.

That cool new hole that takes the place of my joystick? That thing is prone to infections.

Now I’m not open arms embarrassing self care. There are no face masks as I paint my nails and gossip with the besties. I’m eating, which is an accomplishment for my system, but I wouldn’t describe my eating habits as the pinnacle of health. But I don’t think the body is going to complain about fuel, no matter how processed that fuel may be.

4. I’m a doctor

Unfortunately I’m not brimming with diagnostic knowledge, the brain holds a basic level of medical knowledge, enough to battle common colds and stomach flus, but that’s not why my being a doctor is beneficial. Medication management is like second nature to me. We have medications we take every other day, some we take ever night, and some medications that are used when needed. I’ve got a routine in place to make sure that medication is being consistently taken, even when I’m not fronting. A reminder and habit tracker in place to ensure medications are being taken when they’re needed. Already knowing that by simplifying the process we’ll be more encouraged to continue taking our meds.

And now it makes more sense. It’s almost like a symbiotic relationship really. The pain I deal with is a relief compared to my normal pain, and I will happily make that trade. Unless the Phantom pains are bad I don’t really need my cane. I can run, jump, kneel, stretch, and bend however much I want or please with only slight aches and the usual burn from muscle usage. In return I manage the body, the leftover emotions, the pangs of hunger, the exhaustion from work, and by the time I switch out, the body is in as tiptop shape as I can get it.

#did alter #did system #osddid #did osdd #actually did #traumagenic system #fictive #introject

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henua-india · 2 years

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thedarkeside · 2 years

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Starved Little Kitty

Third installment of Eraserheads Kitten mini-series

"Having only one source of human contact for months on end, it's only natural to become dependent on them for comfort and affection. Once separated from that source of contact for even the shortest amount of time, it can be nearly unbearable."

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x catgirl!reader

Content warnings: Yandere/soft yandere, Stockholm syndrome, isolation

Word count: 1.6k

part 1, part 2

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

Isolated. Nonconsensual isolation. No social contact aside from one person, who’s not even present half the time.

It’s draining, it’s depressing, it’s borderline terrifying.

What if the one person that knows about your location and situation were to get hurt? Or worse? What happens then?

There’s only so much food in the minifridge that was brought in, and only so much you can make on the little hotplate you use when Shouta isn’t present.

These horrifying thoughts led to this… desperation. This had all only occurred to you recently, the fact that while Shouta is perfectly capable, he’s still a prohero. A prohero that deals with villains and criminals and dangerous quirks.

The more you thought about it the worse you would feel.

And all of those thoughts led to the thoughts of loneliness.

Before, you didn’t have many friends. You haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, before you broke up because the two of you were going off to college.

But at least you had some kind of contact with people. You worked at a cafe, you waited tables, made small talk with coworkers, chatted with the regulars when it wasn’t that busy.

Now you have Shouta. And he’s fantastic. You love him, really, even if you haven’t said it to him. You confessed feelings but have been too skittish to just out your love because despite your contentment with this situation, you still feel some type of… resentment, you suppose.

Especially when you’re left at home for hours on end. Or in certain cases, days.

He goes on missions, he works nights frequently, he’s a very busy man. He doesn’t always get to come home. That’s why he makes sure you always have food, you always have entertainment. He’ll bring you gifts before and after leaving you for extended amounts of time as an apology, but that doesn’t stop the chill that seeps into your bones as you sit around, no one to talk to, nothing to do once you’ve gone through all of the movies, tv shows, coloring books and puzzles that he’s supplied you with.

That chilled feeling sometimes turns into something worse. It’s comparable to a dunk into the arctic ocean, cold water seeping through your body, making you stiff and eventually, lethargic. It makes you sleep more, it makes you less willing to get out of bed to make yourself presentable. You still do it, making sure you have some sort of consistent schedule to help maintain both your sanity and stave off whatever depression that may develop in these times of emptiness.

You maintain impeccable hygiene, brushing out your ears and tail, keeping your claws at a dull and safe length (especially after that little incident of scratching Shouta). Your room is always clean, your dirty clothes going into the hamper, your daily activities being put away once completed, the food and dishes that you finished being disposed of and cleaned out in the sink in your bathroom.

You don’t like admitting that some of that extra effort is to please Shouta, as he always gives you a forehead kiss whenever he sees you taking care of yourself.

But that’s what it is. Making him happy helps to make you happy.

So, when you’re waiting for him to come back, not totally knowing when he’ll make his return, you still keep up your routine.

Even as you start to crave his presence, his touch and his company, you work on making everything pristine (Shouta doesn’t totally like that you clean so much, thinking that it would be better if you relaxed instead of working on such things that are clearly beneath you. Let him take care of all of the dirty stuff, he’d be more than happy to). It keeps you sane. Gives you something to do. It’s monotonous, yes, but it’s something to keep you active. Sitting in bed all day would be detrimental to your health, wouldn’t it? You were so used to the hustle and bustle of the cafe and all of the effort that went into pleasing the customers that being so idle is… maddening.

By the end of the week, you’ve run out of distractions. You sleep twelve hours a day (a very healthy amount of time for someone with a cat quirk to have) and the other twelve hours are filled with whatever you can think of to do.

Right now, you’ve already gone through all of your given activities. You’ve cleaned your room until it looks like no one even lives in it.

That’s when the chills start coming more.

You feel so pathetic for being so dependent on Shouta, someone who you still recognize as someone who should be considered the antagonist to your little life story, but you can’t. The yearning for him to come home has doubled since the first day.

This mission is slightly longer than others. He didn’t tell you about it. He didn’t want to worry you with his hero work.

So, you sit. You cuddle with your stuffed animals, the pile steadily growing every time he finds a particularly cute or fluffy stuffy that he deems high enough quality for his Kitten.

Cuddling inanimate objects only does so much for your touch deprivation.

You need him.

The heat of his skin, the firm muscle that you feel whenever you’re touching, the smell of his cologne, the tender touch that he always graces you with.

That’s why you're so excited when you hear the numerous locks on the ridiculously heavy door clicking one by one.

Seeing Shouta's face has your ears perking up, your posture straightening up, tail swaying affectionately.

Just like your happy reaction, Shouta's face brightens into a smile.

A soft “I missed you, Kitten,” falls from his tongue and he swiftly climbs onto your bed, grabbing you beneath the arms and easily pulling you into his lap.

You immediately nuzzle into his neck, subtly breathing in his familiar scent.

Gods have you missed this.

His arms are tight around you but not suffocating as one might think. It felt protective. Loving. Like everything was the way it should be.

And according to Shouta, this is the way that everything was fated to work out.

His perfect little Kitten.

“Can… can you play with my hair…?” The hesitant question makes his heart melt. You two cuddle. A lot. But normally it’s him initiating it. You’ve never asked him to do anything to add to your comfort, normally just letting him touch you as he liked (within reason).

Having you actually request for him to provide you with comfort… well how could he possibly refuse?

His hand carefully goes up to your head, his nimble fingers carding through the soft strands of your hair.

It’s easy to see the way in which you dissolve into his tender grasp, the stroking feeling of his hands. It’s exactly what you needed, this intimacy that you’ve undoubtedly become accustomed to throughout all of these months.

One particular caress apparently reaches just a little bit too high on your head, brushing against the silky fur at the base of your ears.

A brief and quiet burst of purring comes from your throat completely unconsciously. The vibrations were just strong enough to reach through to Shouta's chest, his eyes widening immediately at the sensation. The smile that creeps up on his face rises right after.

“Did you just purr, Kitten?” His own voice resembles that of a purr, low and rumbling.

From your content position, you’ve hardly even registered the sound you had produced, instead humming lazily. “No, of course not,” you mumble as you nuzzle further into his neck. It’s sweet how relaxed you become in the arms of your captor boyfriend. He definitely didn’t miss how tightly strung you had appeared when he entered your room. It always makes him feel bad seeing how anxious you grow when he’s not around you consistently enough, even if it is exactly what he was aiming for when he first took you. That dependency is exactly what he’s been hoping to accomplish with his little kitten.

Instead of accepting your denial, Shouta reaches his hand back up and scratches at the sensitive fur covered cartilage, prompting even more purrs to resonate through you. The feeling is like a pleasant electricity being sent through your nerve endings. This time you can’t exactly deny the sounds that you’re making, as they have grown exponentially stronger from the first outburst, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It just feels so good.

Feeling the urge to tease you just a bit, Shouta brings his head just a little bit closer to the ear he's scratching at, whispering in his delightfully raspy voice. “I think that you might be wrong, Kitty.” Instead of properly answering, a soft mew blesses his ears.

Shouta can’t stop his little coos at how adorable you are.

His arms flex around you, squeezing you even tighter to him before he lays the two of you onto the bed, shoving his face into your hair while continuing with the scritches. Your purrs just get louder, and your mind just gets fuzzier as you fall deeper into this blanketed sense of comfort. How much better could this get?

It’s like everything is falling into place, isn’t it? Shouta knows damn well that if this was a few months ago, you would have immediately tried to squirm as far away as possible, the vulnerable position too much for you to handle. But right now, you seem to be more at peace than you have been in the entire- what, ten months you’ve been here? With every bit of progress, Shouta has more and more difficulty holding himself back from leaping over the boundaries that have been set.

Soon, he tells himself. Soon he will be able to have you in every way he wants. Heart, mind, body.

It’s just a matter of time.

#yandere #soft yandere #yandere aizawa shouta #Soft yandere aizawa shouta #bnha #my hero academia #Aizawa shouta #eraser head

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honeyabyss · 3 years

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When Mc gets sick

Lucifer:

will scold the hell out of you

"didn't I tell you to take care of yourself?"

you can have only a slight cold and he will insist on you staying in bed for the rest of the week

humans are weak and die easily, and you're apparently stupid on top of that for getting sick even after his warning

will constantly sigh, scold and act like it's a huge nuisance taking care of you

says he doesn't care

actually cares a lot

keeps his brothers away from you, so you have peace and silence to recover

if your condition worsens he will grow panicked, he doesn't want to lose you!

will take you to a human world doctor so you can get the right treatment

after your recovery, he will be so paranoid and overprotective for the first few weeks, will wrap you up in blankets, constantly makes sure you drink and eat enough, will put his coat over your shoulders if he even just gets the idea you might find it cold

Mammon:

"that's your own fault!"

someone like the great Mammon would never get sick

leaves the room only to come back half an hour later panting and packed with bags full of medicine and other stuff you might need

he didn't know what you need so he got one of all

there isn't the right thing among it? oh well no worries he'll get you whatever you say

after all he cares a lot for his human, even though he denies it

he will keep you company and try to distract you from your pain through telling you about his new money making schemes, or try to get you to laugh through telling you about stories where he failed and received Lucifers punishment

he doesn't like that you have to go through this so he tries to help you however he can

if you'll ask for some quiet time, he will struggle, it's not like he doesn't want you to have some rest to recover, it's just he is so worried and confused, he feels more at ease when you talk to him or laugh about his stories, if you answer that is prove you're still alive and breathing

once you've recovered everything goes back to normal, Mammon will be confident in his ability to take care of you...for now that is, it's probably diffrent once you're actually sick again

Leviathan:

stupid normie! An otaku like him doesn't get sick, because he never leaves his room and avoids interactions with others

he, of course, secretly cares though

"Mc? I brought you these anime that we can watch together to pass the time"

"oh and in case you want to rather read something in silence, I brought you some manga recommendations, but please don't sneeze all over them..."

does the online RAD lessons with you as he stays at home almost everyday anyway, so he can show you how they work and help you

he will awkwardly sit next to you on the bed, trying to keep a small distance between the two of you A) because he is shy and nervous and B) because he can't get sick, he would miss all his in-game raids

will ask if you want to play games as well, but soon realizes that you two won't be making much progress with your current reaction time, so he chooses an easy and fun game for you

he wouldn't admit it but he might have set the game to the easiest settings and he himself plays slower for you

he is actually kind of disappointed when you recover so quick, he will miss you now that you visit RAD again instead of doing the online lessons with him, but he is glad you're feeling better again...maybe you could stay home more often with him though?

Satan:

he will buy and read every single human medicine book so he can find the best solution to your illness

will obviously read them in your room, because he can't leave you alone in this state

makes sure to keep you warm and makes you herbal tea depending on your symptoms

will skip school in favour for your well-being, especially keeps this behaviour up when Lucifer gets mad about it

will yell at everyone who dares to try and enter your room while your still sick, how dare they disturb your rest

will get embarassed about yelling and actually being the disturbance to you himself, will apologize and leave your room to keep reading somewhere else, still checks up on you occasionally and brings you light novels to read so you don't get bored

will come in stumbling into your room with the perfect medicine to cure you, only to find that you're already feeling better

gets embarassed yet again, but says it was worth reading all these books as he can now react faster the next time you get sick

will keep a check on your health and make sure you're always taking care of yourself

Asmodeus:

keep your snotty face away from him, but also come cuddle

he is very conflicted, because getting sick is not good for his skin, but he also wants to make you feel better with his hugs

will wear a mask so he doesn't get infected that easily

Asmo doesn't know much about medicine but he knows that certain herbs are good for your health, so he'll make you a nice herbal bath to boost your healing

also will take over your skin care routine and adjust it while your sick so your skin doesn't get worse, says he will only buy a refreshing face mask, comes back with more stuff though... I mean what did you expect from him?

will stay in bed with you and constantly cuddle so you don't feel lonely

he will most definetly whine if you ask him for some space or alone time, but does comply...fo at most half an hour, look this is hard on him too! His darling is sick and he can't do anything but be a moral support for you

if you thought he stops to cling to you once you've recovered, then you're mistaken, he will give you so many kisses and hugs having missed being able to do that

Beelzebub:

"Will food make you feel better?"

"You don't feel like eating?"

the poor boy is so confused, you're going to die if you don't eat! He will ask Satan what humans need when they're sick

will make yoou the perfect meal based on your symptoms, he'll even hold back on eating from it

he has a huge smile on his face while he watches you eat what he prepared, he is so proud that you like what he made you

eat as much as you can, Beel will eat everything you can't, all this boy wants for you to eat at least a bit so you have enough strength to recover

you get cold? cuddle time!

there is no way Beel will leave your side for as long as you're sick, he'll hold you close and share all his warmth and food with you

is so happy when you're better again. Will celebrate it with inviting you to a restaurant

Belphegor:

being sick is like being sleepy right?

he will just go back to sleep next to you as if nothing happend

wakes up because of your coughs and pretends to be annoyed, but is actually worried

will leave the comfort of the bed to get you some medicine, before wrapping you up into a blanket burrito and cuddling into you

don't expect to be getting up any time soon, he wants to sleep...you better not have to go to the bathroom

sleeping is best medicine but Belphie takes this a bit to literally, you two will almost only sleep

once you're better he will still want to sleep using you as a pillow, good luck getting out of that situation

Diavolo:

"Are you dying Mc?"

"Barbatos turn back the time before Mc got sick! -Wait you're going to be okay?"

Don't scare him like that! He is always ready to save you from death!

He will let you live at the castle for the time being and appoints the best doctor to take care of you, because he still isn't completly convinced you're going to make it

Does his work in your room, so he can keep a check on you

will not do much work much to Barbatos dismay, Dia is just so worried about you and will constantly ask if you need anything

his breaks consist of hugging you gently and drinking some tea with you

he will literally cry and almost crush you in his hug, when you're finally healthy again. This man was so anxious about losing you, even thugh he could've commanded Barb to just turn back time

Barbatos:

*smiles*

he knew you were going to get sick, so he's prepared

knocks on your door in the house of lamentation, before you're even able to tell anyone that you're sick

made himself a very strict schedule for everything so he can help you and still attend to his duties as a butler

gives the brothers various tasks so they can indivdually take care of you in the time he isn't able to be there for you

he will get back to you in the evening after having finished all his work for the day

will make you a light dinner and sit next to your bed

stays with you until you fall asleep stroking you hair and holding one of your hands, when you wake up the next morning Barb await you with a small breakfast, if he stayed over night or left and came back in the morning will stay a secret of his

is relieved and at the same time sad when you've recovered, will miss coming over and seeing you, maybe you can return the favor and visit him at the castle sometimes...

Solomon:

is a human so he knows what to do...

but magic is quicker!

he tries to heal you with a spell, but he just end up making it worse

"Oh no Mc I'm so sorry! Let me make it up by taking care of you!"

undefined matter soup a la Solomon, "eat this", he said, "You'll feel better", he said ...you don't feel better...

the brothers will get so angry and throw him out of the house, he is only allowed to come back once you've recovered, actually scratch that he's not setting foot anywhere near you again if it were for the demons

but Solomon finds his way into your room through your window...will stay over the night, cuddling you and constantly apologizing

will laugh about the whole ordeal once you've recovered

Simeon:

he is so calm, like yeah? Humans get sick, but they recover soon if taking care of correctly

Simeon is just the best!

he knows the right food to make for you, will give you the best medicine and make sure you're taking it at the right time

will make sure you're always comfortable

bored? "let me get you a book!"

tired? "let me fluff your pillow so you can sleep better!"

he will sit next to you the whole time looking so calm and confident

he will pray for you to get better quick so you don't have to suffer too long

promises you to take care of you again if you get sick in the future, this man just wants to be there for you

Luke:

"Are you dying Mc?" Version 2.0

no seriously are you? Will you become an angel? We can live together in the celestial realm and bake desserts for Micheal!

Mc why are you so angry? No you misunderstood I don't actually want you to die!

Is so sorry he couldn't protect you from getting sick, he will feel so helpless

Simeon and you will cheer him up and tell him there wasn't anything he could have done to prevent it

Luke will bake you light desserts so you can eat some sweets while recovering

will visit you daily with Simeon after school and tell you about the day

crushes you in a big hug once you're healthy again

#obey me swd #obey me shall we date #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #Obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me luke #obey me solomon #headcanon

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thisisarcanereverie · 2 years

Text

Something 'Bout You (BIKER! Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

A/N: Hey once again sorry for the delay, I know I've been gone a while school and all. But here's the next chapter.

COMPLETE MASTERLIST

MARVEL MASTERLIST

NATASHA ROMANOFF MASTERLIST

SERIES MASTERLIST

Two months passed and since then nights with Nat had become routine. Once maybe twice a week the red head would come to your place and you would take turns on ordering and drinks.

Usually Nat stuck with pizza, wings, and beer while your usual would be Chinese food and soda.

Sometimes the night would go on with Nat fixing a few things here and there while you sit there and obviously subtly admire the way her tattoos moved.

However, most nights consisted of sitting on your couch watching netflix. Recently you had started the Witcher with her. She had picked it one night and hasn't stopped watching it since. You had offered to give her your password so she could watch it on her own, but she refused.

"I started it with you and I'm ending it with you."

You didn't have the heart to tell her you already binged watched the entire thing.

Through those nights you both had become closer, you learned more and more about her as she slowly opened up. Like how Clint and her had met, how Nick bailed her out of trouble more than once. How she met Toni and funny stories about Yelena.

Despite her opening up more, you could still feel that bit of distance between you. It was small, but it was still there.

It didn't help that as time flew and the closer you got to her, the more those pesky feelings of yours got in the way. The way Natasha lit up each room she was in, how seeing her improved your mood, how easy it was to relax and laugh around her. You started wanting to hold her hand and to go out some nights instead of in, dance with her, and kiss her.

You knew you had to back away, create some distance and some boundaries for yourself. You wanted her, but you knew you couldn't. Your friendship mattered too much, it was fine the way it was and you shouldn't go ruining that.

It also didn't help that on the nights she wasn't with you she was always with someone else, always inviting them back to hers for the night only to leave early in the morning before she goes on her run.

You were lost in thought behind the counter, staring aimlessly at the register in front of you. You didn't even hear the door opening or the click of heels against the floor making their way towards you.

"Earth to (Y/n)," a voice broke through your thoughts as you looked up from the register and to a familiar brunette.

"Sorry Maria," You apologized.

"How long were you up last night?" Maria asks concern showing on her pretty features, "you look like you haven't slept in a while."

"It's just stress," You say, "the order for that book has been pushed by a week again and I need it by friday, so I was looking for other options. And then the power went out last night and all the food I had in the fridge went bad so now I have to go grocery shopping after work, I also have to plan Wanda's bachelorette party and make some time to go dress shopping with Wanda, and-"

"It sounds to me like you need a night of fun." Maria observed leaning a little closer, "it also sounds like you need a stress reliever." She winks and you blush, "I'll pick you up at seven and wear something nice."

And with that Maria was gone. You stood there a couple of seconds processing what had just happened, the Maria Hill best lawyer in the county had just offered to be a stress reliever. You shake your head trying not to get ahead of yourself, as well as shake the slight guilty feeling you have.

The guilt got worse as Nat came in. Her eyes landed immediately on you behind the counter and a smile stretched her face.

"Hey Nancy Drew," She started, "so tonight I was thinking maybe cheeseburgers instead of pizza? There's a place I wanted to check out for a while now and Yelena says it's good so-" Nat pauses. Taking in your appearance, your face was flushed and you were wringing your hands nervously.

"What's wrong?" Nat asked. You take a deep breath before responding evenly.

"I can't do it tonight." You said.

"oh," Nat said, masking her disappointment, "ok, um, did something come up?"

"uh, yeah, actually," you started, "it's a really funny story actually but um I guess long story short, Maria Hill just asked me out tonight."

You tried to read Natasha, however her face was still, not showing any emotions beyond what she wanted you to see. There was a pause that seemed to stretch forever until Natasha broke the silence.

"That's great." She said a small smile gracing her features. "Maria Hill, she's a lawyer right?" you nod, "that's great. I think I remember her from school actually, she went to the public school around here with us right?" You nod again slightly confused on where she was going with this, "yeah, I mean I'm sure she's changed since then so the date should go great."

"What do you mean by that?" You asked, one hand on your hip as you stand.

"Mean by what?"

"By you're sure 'she's changed so the date should go great'."

"Well I mean, last I checked she was a total bitch. But I don't know I haven't seen her in years so maybe she's changed." Nat shrugged.

"I thought you were friends with her in school?"

"yeah and then she put gum in my hair causing me to cut it." Nat explained, "but you know blessing in disguise cause I look really good with shoulder length hair. Less hassle to maintain."

"Well a lot can happen in a few years."

"Apparently." Nat said before leaving the store leaving you confused and a little hurt. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, you knew this is what had to be done. Distance. You had to distance yourself from her for a bit. This date was a perfect way to get over lingering romantic feelings for her and to have some fun. It's going to be fun.

So why do you feel so bad?

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #x reader #marvel x reader #mcu #mcu x reader #angst #marvel #black widow #xreader

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blzzrdstryr · 3 years

Text

Reveries of changes

Yandere!Childe x Fatui!gn!reader

[Previous chapter] [Next chapter]

CW: Dissociation, mentions of rape, violence, unhealthy relationship, abuse of power.

Sometimes you find yourself asking what ifs. What if the Event never happened and you never received the vision? What if Ajax never developed his obsession with you? What if you treated him a little bit warmer? Would he be more tolerable? There are thousands of possible scenarios buzzing in your head, sometimes diverging just by words left unsaid or an outstretched hand being shaked. You know it’s a futile thing, thinking about the future and the present that you will never have, but you can’t stop, thoughts spiraling further and further.

This morning starts with the similar what if. What if I agreed to start again? The brief conversation from yesterday is still on your mind - you dread it’s another of the turning points in your relationship, just like the rejected handshake or the hospitalized recruit were. A moment after which there’ll be changes, changes that you won’t have time to prepare for. Speaking from the experience alone, Childe, like the rotten bastard he is, will act even worse from now on. It all started from teen Ajax following you and offering his friendship at every turn and somehow ended in him personally asking Tsaritsa to assign you to him, reducing you from a highly respectable Fatui agent skilled both in stealth and subterfuge to a glorified escort and a secretary.

One day he’ll just get tired from all of this and will forcefully bend me over in some dark murky corner, you darkly conclude, the remnants of the sleep leaving your body entirely at the grim thought. Or maybe he will break his promise not to cheat and will order me to do it.

Unwilling to think about the Ninth Wave of your unwanted relationships, you quickly stand up from the bed and start preparing for the day. Dressing and freshening up from the sleep you still mentally return to the darker place, cautious of what Tartaglia will pull out this time. Finally, you exit the door fully ready and lock the room, hiding the key under the clothes after, and make way to the fourth floor of the bank.

Here lies Childe’s working space and personal quarters , and if the former can be easily seen and entered just by walking up the stairs, the latter is hidden from view by the wall and massive door. There is a wide work desk and two armchairs placed too close for your comfort. You peek into the interior window, only to find it veiled by a thick curtain from the other side, so you decide to broaden the space between the chairs.

Satisfied with distance now, you sit at your place, taking a sheet out of the pile of documents, mostly consisting of reports of credits approved and money returned, unusually mundane yet highly classified information. Aside from accompanying Childe when he needs to beat and threaten the debts out of deadbeats, you also have to track the transactions the bank makes, a routine job consuming most of your daytime.

At the sixth or seventh fiscal account, you hear door opening and mentally brace for Ajax’s presence. Harbinger doesn’t smile, looking serious instead. You hope it has nothing to do with you, as it’s too early in the day for you to already deal with his usual mess.

“[First]”, you look up, staring at the bizarrely humorless Ajax looming over your sitting form. He clears his throat, as if he feels awkward right now, “Are you sure you won’t have one of your episodes?”

Your mind blanks for a second and then there’s a mix of shame and anger flooding your being and making you see red. Over the last months you spent working with him, he was the sole trigger of your affliction and now there are considerable gaps in your memory, in which you have absolutely no clue what happened to you. You had an inkling that Childe is aware that you are not always completely here, but a slap in the face with such casual mention is enough to render you wordless for a good minute.

“I... It happens only under certain circumstances”, you find your voice wavering and his face darkens, as he quickly catches unsaid ‘because of you’. Fortunately, he decides not to press it.

“There’s a problem at hands, one that needs your skills". These words make you do a double take - Ajax doesn't look like he's lying, speech lacking usual grandiose and bravado, yet you still can't believe he lets you return to your former work. You make a quick guess.

“Qixing?”

“Qixing” he nods,"their spies must have learned something about the sigils. It's a minor issue now, but if Tianquan or Yuheng will learn about it…"

"A diplomatic disaster and a permanent loss of Geo Archon's gnosis" you continue for him, “Fatui would be banned or seriously limited in Liyue and most of trade routes will be cut off, Ningguang can easily press sanctions against most of Snezhnayan import”. You frown at the thought, no matter what Fatui would do in such situations there's too much to lose and almost nothing to gain, even if you start destroying the investigation and replication of sigils right now, it will be a waste of possible weapons against Rex Lapis.

Then, there's one painless exit from the complicated mess: destruction of all meager material evidence and clues they somehow scraped together. Despite finally having a glimpse of a freedom, you don’t feel any excitement, but doubt instead - just a year ago, such operation would be another routine task for you, but now, having wasted months because of Childe's possessiveness, you can't help but feel incompetent.

You contemplate, glancing at him: on one hand, Tartaglia can easily send any other agents, but on the other hand, none of said agents possess a vision, a vision that you specifically molded to be a perfect tool for stealth and assassinations. He tilts his head, a hand impatiently drumming against the desk, waiting for your answer - you can infer his inner monologue - Tartaglia, just like you, is torn between his loyalty to Tsaritsa and his own feelings on the matter and this is what finally cements your decision.

You can almost see how much he itches to forbid you from taking the mission, but stops himself out of his sense of duty to Snezhnaya, and this knowledge fills you with darker type of satisfaction to the very brim: You lean back, pretending to still ponder over his words, enjoying the view of apprehensive Childe for once.

“I think, I can’t...” you start, your voice deliberately small and hesitant, watching how Ajax smiles again, convinced that you no longer have any confidence in your abilities, “let Snezhnaya be compromised in any way”.

He doesn’t let any of the anger and frustration show on his face, yet the drumming ceases, leaving you two in the silence, save for the sounds of the street coming out of the window.

You know you’re poking at the sleeping tiger, letting a childish impulses to guide your words, but the opportunity to upset Harbinger are much harder to come by these days: he took away your job, your delusion and your freedom, the least he can do to compensate is suffer in return.

“Alright”, he finally says and fails to hold back disappointed sigh “agent [Last]. Your delusion is in Ekaterina’s possession, just as the rest of the equipment. You will start tonight, information is in the upper left drawer. You have no right to fail, if you do I will write a complaint to Tsaritsa against you and personally oversee that you will be discharged”.

It’s a gambling game then, and terribly unfair at that - even if you win it won’t set you free or relocate under someone easier to handle and Tartaglia loses virtually nothing by allowing you to roam out of his sight for one night only, and by failing you will literally had your life into Childe’s eager hands.

You won’t let the bastard triumph.

***

After getting your gear and delusion back, you spend the rest of the day reading the data and mentally preparing for what is about to come. The qixing base you're to infiltrate is located awfully near the current place of sigil research, as if Ningguang or whoever planted it here already suspected Fatui from the start. The base itself is disguised as an ancient Liyuen ruin with a couple of deactivated ruin hunters placed nearby to scare off the adventurers who no doubt will try to explore it.

You are almost panting when you finally reach it - turns out that despite being easily visible from afar, the base is surrounded by the tall and steep cliffs from all sides, with the only passage bound to be guarded. Invoking to the power of your vision, you effortlessly become invisible to the eye, enter the building and almost rush back the same second - there’s a millelith passing nearby in whom you almost bumped in.

Heart racing you enter the building again, walking on half bent legs to minimize the sounds, and avoid milleliths on your way. They feel a sudden rush of frosty air, but seeing no one nearby, just write it off as a sudden midnight chill. You continue to make your way, peeking into each room, forcing yourself to remain in this form longer and longer, body aching and freezing from the overuse. Finally you see it - a stack of documents placed on the bamboo table near the oil lamp in a conveniently empty room.

Your hand is already extended to push the lamp and fake an accidental fire, when you decide to investigate the papers - it’s better to learn what qixing already knows. Your eyes quickly peruse a liyuen script, characters upon other characters - a report about suspicious activities, a detailed intelligence of Northland’s spendings and thankfully, not a word of sigils, except the note stating that Fatuis are buying a considerable amount of paper and ink.

Having memorized each of the documents, you throw the lamp now, a flame quickly spreading to the documents and soon consuming a whole table. Someone in the corridor screams about fire, four milleliths rushing in the room and you use this distraction to sneak out. Having escaped the borders of the faux ruin you quickly run, still maintaining invisibility, and only when you reach the cliffs again do you allow yourself to rest.

After climbing over the rocks, the rest of the trail is spent between jogging and walking, frost from the vision still residing inside. Bitter chill slows down your movements and you can’t help, but shiver from time to time, arms and legs aching and burning from it. You eye the pyro delusion and consider using it - unlike a cryo vision that you sculpted for secrecy and agility, the delusion is more battle-focused, able to produce quick bursts of fire in the rare occasions you get into a brawl.

Suddenly, a ball of flames explodes near you - a whopperflower bursts out of the ground, sensing you in proximity. You dodge another fireball, instinctively flinching at the sudden flash of light and send an ice blade it's way. It slightly grazes the creature's skin, yet a mimetic plant rushes back under the ground as you summon another icicle and swiftly stab it in the "head" the second it emerges again.

The plant dies in convulsion, it’s reddish walls contracting around the blade, a fast stream of boiling hot energy nectar shooting from the wound the moment you pull away the weapon. You curse, as some of the liquid hits you on the leg, burning a part of your pants and scorching the flesh underneath. Hissing and gritting teeth, you use your vision again, now to soothe a throbbing pain.

Well, at least I am not freezing anymore.

You return at the first rays of dawn, dull pain still lingering in the lower body, pulsating and echoing every step. Slightly drowsy Nadia at the entrance nods at you, her gaze at your wound obvious even with a mask on, and you nod back, a wordless exchange providing a slight reprieve, before you have to deal with Childe again.

“Hard day?”, she asks right before you enter, a pale shadow of concern in her voice. You frown, confused by the sudden disquiet.

“Something happened?”

“Uhm”, a small pause, “the boss. He was restless tonight, very restless”.

Ah, shit.

“Well, that is unpleasant” you deadpan, any remaining desire to go inside the bank vanishing the same second: “Thank you anyways” and then you step in.

Harbinger waits right there in an absolutely empty lobby - it seems that Ekaterina’s shift hasn't started yet. He’s leaning on the wall, head turning to you as you enter and immediately noticing the state of your leg. His expression grows darker, when you thought he would lighten up at your perceived failure instead.

"Who did this to you?" he asks, hints of steel appearing in his voice. You lift your eyebrows - no teasing, starters or bravado. Maybe he's so impatient to hear about your failure that he forgot to keep up the act?

You swat away his question, deciding to report on your mission instead - documents were destroyed by a set up accident, none of the qixing and milleliths saw you; he doesn’t seem to listen though, eyes still glued to the burn and then he repeats his question, voice taking the dangerous tone.

“No one, no one did it. It was an accident on the way back”, he isn’t convinced judging by the way he grabs your arm, his monstrous strength evident in the steel trap grip. “Damn” you cuss, trying to free your hand - if Tartaglia learns that you let the whopperflower of all things injure you, he won’t let you live it down and will weaponise it, to point out your so-called incompetence over and over again.

“Let me go” you tug harder, a vision coming back to life from the distress. You pull away your wrist from him again and again and then you hear it first and feel it second - a small cracking sound and a sharp pain, shooting up your arm - you broke a bone. It’s too sudden for you to realize what happened or even properly sense the shock of ache.

He lets go of you in the same second, eyes looking blankly at the injured hand. His lips thin and he exhales, in a long and strangely controlled manner - seeing Childe act and look so emotionless is sure bizarre. He hauls you up bridal carry style, ripping out a low hiss of pain as his clothes rub against the burn, and directs himself to the stairs. You're too busy gritting your teeth and trying not to cry in front of Childe to notice him climbing past the third floor and only when he opens the door to his room with a kick do you finally snap back to reality.

Despite working for him for months now, you enter his quarters for the first time. It's a spacious place, with a wide bed and writing desk located near the window. There are different weapons decorating the walls - swords, claymores, spears - all with the traces of use, and a small pile of trinkets and children's toys on the desk, placed right near the started letter, some of them already half wrapped - must be a gift for someone, then.

He sets you down on the bed and turns to the wall, taking a dagger from its place and some small container. A part of you gets scared all of the sudden - you remember your morning thoughts and all those instances when his eyes focused on your body for far too long to be innocent or comfortable. Is this it? Did he get so fed up with you that he decided to drop any pretense and abandon the cat-and-mouse game you two seemed to have?

Ignoring the pain in both limbs you jolt for the exit - there’s no meaning in fighting him, yet you can still flee, lock in your room and then plan what to do. “Stop it” he says, a warning clear in his voice, and to your frustration it’s enough to glue you in place. You look at him, heart booming in your chest, barely suppressing a flinch at every step he’s taking. He leads you back to the bed, as you feel the world warping around you again and the worst part is that you can’t stop it - It’s unfair, I can’t leave, not yet, I will hate myself for the rest of my life if it happens.

He kneels down, blade slicing through the pants as you forget how to breath. His figure deforms, a dark blue sea leaking out of the dead fish eyes and you see great leviathans lurking underneath the surface. Childe is the ocean, in a sense that he contains horrors beyond the human imagination. He is the great sleeping kraken that will swallow the world and you are his first victim.

His hand takes something out of the container and you expect it to burn and to hurt you, but instead there’s a muffled soothing feeling that comes, an unintentional “ah” coming out of your mouth. He doesn’t force himself and patches you up on the contrary.

You come back to yourself little by little, when he almost finishes with ministrations, leg and wrist looking like two casts. It feels bizarre to come back to your body halfway, to see Ajax kneeling in front of you, head hung low and it’s even weirder to hear his voice, hurt and utterly defeated: “So that’s what you think of me”.

He helps you come back to your room, as you still feel dazed. You pinch yourself a couple of times, still unable to believe that any of these happenings are real, they are.

A turning point, you conclude, there’s no way anything will stay the same after this.

You both dread and anticipate the changes.

#yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere childe x reader #yandere childe #yandere tartaglia #yandere genshin impact x reader #Reader is unreliable narrator #It's not super obvious here #But it will be evident later #yandere #childe #tartaglia #yandere x reader #my writing

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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volleyball-dontknowher · 3 years

Text

Sick - Tanaka x reader

Warnings: none

Words: 2282

Summary: You and your neighbor walk your dogs at the same everyday, but what happens when he stops showing up

A/n :! I am so so so so sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth, college is hard man and then it’s partially online and COVID and things and the depression really hit and I have started a new self care book and it is adding one thing back in my life at a time that I am passionate about and last week was French and this week it is writing because I really do miss it! I threw this together last night based off of a request I got forever ago and I hope it is liked <3

You’ve lived in the same apartment for years and people always come and go, in and out, it feels like you see a new face everyday. In your three years there, you’ve only had one consistent fact, and that’s your bald neighbor who goes on walks with his dogs at the same time as you twice a day. At first you only saw him occasionally and now the two of you go out at 7:30 am and 6:30 pm on the dot. You have no idea how it started but now you get kinda excited to run into your neighbor on the stairs everyday and hopefully make a comment about how good his two big dogs are looking or even jsut the smallest acknowledgement with him.

Speaking of your neighbor, he wasn’t out this morning before work, and you didn’t think too much of it because he works kinda funny hours and some random days misses the times. (Though he always tells you about it in the afternoon or the next time you see him) and because you’ve learned he’s a personal trainer he has finicky clients and sometimes is up wayy too early or way too late. It bugged you all day that you hadn’t seen him and no matter how hard you tried to focus at work you couldn’t imagine why he wasn’t out on a Wednesday. All of your explainations could make sense but you really don’t feel right about any of it. And when you got home and took your two babies out and he wasn’t there you were sure something was up. Tanaka loved his dogs more than anything and says that their routine keeps them together and that it keeps them well behaved. Something had to be wrong. Maybe he got a new girlfriend? Or he forgot? But he didn't forget and he hasn’t been with anyone ever, and if he was his dogs would still come first. You had no idea what you were thinking but when you came back up the stairs you kept walking and knocked on the door of the man you knew so completely and not at all. You quickly realized what you’d done and your heart was racing as you silent prayed that no one was home and that you could creep back to your door before anyone heard you.

This was a great thought, except you forgot what happens when you knock with dogs. They bark. And unfortunately for you Tanaka doesn’t get a lot of guests so his dogs barked a lot. Like they could wake the entire neighborhood a lot. You had to grin and bear it and face the consequences of your irrational actions.

After thirty or so seconds the door creeps open and there he is, Takana Ryuunosuke, in his pajamas and a beanie opening the door. He looked like a walking corpse and by the way he sniffed out a weak “hello” as he opened the door told you everything you needed to know. He was sick. Very sick, and you had just knocked at the door and now have to figure out what to say to him.

“Oh, hey,” you stutter, “I was just checking on you to see if everything was alright, you weren’t out with your dogs and I was wondering if anything was up, or if you needed me to take them out for you because of their routine and everything,” you ramble on, hoping that somewhere your logic connected and this made sense.

Takana stared at you blankly and you couldn’t help but mentally smack yourself because that was exactly what a stalker would say and you now seemed like his stalker.

After a few more seconds of blank stares his expression caught up to your words and he broke out the goofy smile you love so much.

“My dogs? Walk them?” He asked. Maybe they hadn’t caught up after all.

“Well yeah, they weren’t out at their regular time and i wanted to make sure they were still going out and I have my two out and they are so well behaved and you clearly don’t feel well so it would really be no problem,” you rambled on again.

This time he was closely listening and nodded along with you before smiling once again. “No no no,” he chuckled, “ I can take them out” though he was laughing you could hear that he wasn’t feeling well and his energy was lower than you had ever heard.

“Let me do this one favor for you, I can take them out, no big deal, okay?” You smiled.

After you smiled it was a done deal for Tanaka, he grabbed the leash and thanked you about a hundred times. His dogs are fantastic and took you less than five minutes to walk before they’d used the restroom and were ready to go back inside. You took them back and he thanked you once again and you headed back to your apartment to make some dinner.

You settled on a sun dried tomato soup with grilled cheese and happened *wink* accidentally *wink* make more than you could eat on your own and you’d hate for it to go to waste and you do have a neighbor who is sick and could probably use a hot meal right about now. So, you packed up a container for him and wrapped the sandwich in aluminum foil so that it would be hot for him and put some tea in a thermos and headed out your door once more. This time though, you were a little less bold and just rang the doorbell and ran back to your room. You did however, leave a little note saying “hope you feel better soon - room 420” on it and you hoped that it would at least help his night a little bit.

Little do you know, Tanaka was so shocked to see this from you that he almost dropped the hot soup onto himself in a panic because this not only meant you paid attention to him but you cared for him. This was the best thing to ever happen to him. He finished every last bite and washed the container and thermos and placed them back by your door with a note of his own.

When you got up the next morning and went to take your dog out you couldn’t help but beam when you saw your tupperware back in front of your door. You picked up the two items before seeing the little note on top of the container.

‘Best Soup Ever! -Room 419’

You beamed and did a little happy dance before deciding to go knock and see if he needed your help with his dogs again today, and boy are you lucky that you went. WHen he opened the door he somehow looked worse than yesterday, you could have swore that he had snot dried to his face and he was a total mouth breather and the bags under his eyes as well as tripled overnight. There were no arguments when you asked if he needed help with his dogs, because truthfully he really did.

The walk was quick and the morning was over before you knew it. Another distracted day at work, you found yourself wondering how you could help him feel better, especially because he lived all alone and his closest family was something like an hour away last he told you.

You had a brilliant idea and decided to go to the store after work and make him a ‘get well’ basket. You filled the basket with cough drops, tissues, teas, chocolates and other little goodies that help him feel better and put him in a better mood. You got the groceries and were right on your way, practically skipping with excitement.

Once again, you accidentally made an extra soup after you’d taken care of the dogs and happened to leave it with the basket later that evening.

In the morning however, none of your dishes were by your door, which was no big deal, especially because he was feeling so under the weather, but what was even more strange is that he didn’t answer the door and the last thing you wanted to do was wake him up. So, you headed to work wondering if he liked what you did for him or if you’d crossed a line or if he was allergic to chicken noodle, or if he was too much of a health nut and you’d offended him, or if he’d… you had no idea, maybe died. This was not good for you and you could feel the stress starting to get to you when you got off work the sprint back home was exhausting and anxious. You rounded the corner of the stairs when you saw

Nothing.

You saw nothing.

That was fine, everything is fine. You are fine. Life is fine. If he doesn’t feel good you can’t expect him to do dishes or even leave his room. That’s best for everyone, no one wants a walking germ contaminating everything around, there were probably old ladies on this floor, you hadn’t seen any, but they were there, probably, so he was just doing the world a favor.

Again, he didnt answer the door for his dogs and you couldn’t force your kindness onto him so you had a night to yourself and went to bed way earlier than usual. You couldn’t help but wake up earlier than usual and instead of looking for things that weren’t there you got out and went to work early and got busy right away. You had a full day and worked until almost 8pm, hurrying back to hopefully get home before your local take away had closed. You made it, but just barely, and got your favorite meal to bring home with you to watch something horrible with.

You got home and plopped on the couch completely exhausted. Immediatley you started eating and got about halfway through when you heard a knock at the door. Oh shit. You had no one in your life that would ever knock, well almost no one. THere was one person you were really hoping wasn’t on the other side of the door. You were in a t-shirt you got 10 years ago and a pair of crappy shorts from the general store, there was nothing remotely nice, or even tame about your appearance, you looked to be frank, crazy.

You creeped the door open and saw exactly who you were hoping not to see, Tanaka Ryuunosuke standing in front of your door beaming.

“Hey?” You question nervously.

“Hey, I noticed that you didn’t take your dogs out earlier and was wondering if you needed me to take them out for you?” He questioned genuinely, smiling from head to toe, clearly feeling better.

You had no idea what to say or do but he just smiled as your dogs trotted out the door with him, without you saying a word. You awkwardly closed the door and stood there in shock. That was horrible. An embarrassment to you, an embarrassment to your family name and even worse an embarrassment to society. The shock still hadn’t worn off when you heard a second knock at your door, and well that was the man with your dogs and you couldn’t just leave them outside.

This time when you opened the door you couldn’t help but gasp. Tanaka has a giant bouquet of red roses and a giant blush on his face.

“Y/n, I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but I have had a crush on you since I first met you, and I never knew how to tell you, every time I got close to you I just freeze and I started taking my dogs out when you do to try and get to know you and I could never make myself do it but you have been unbelievably kind to me and I can’t wait any longer. I want nothing more than to have a chance with someone as stunning as you are. Y/n, will you go on a date with me?”

This time it was you standing there dumbstruck for longer than you should have. You heard every single one of his words and your heart was fluttering out of your chest. You’d had feelings for him for as long as you can remember and here he was with a bouquet of flowers standing in your doorway asking you to go on a date with him. You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything so you just grinned and nodded at him enthusiastically, hoping he understood just how much this means to you.

He beamed right back and handed you the bouquet of flowers, “perfect, then I’ll see you Friday at 7, I’ll pick you up.” He winked.

You were still dumbstruck and nodded again, and right as you were about to close the door for the night he stuck his foot in the doorway.

“One more thing y/n,” he pushed the door back open and had a basket of little goodies for you, as well as a homemade meal in the containers you’d given him with a little note that says ‘your soup warmed my soul, and my heart’. You couldn’t help but absolutely beam with happiness. You set the basket down and threw your arms around his shoulders and pulled him into a big hug, repeatedly thanking him for his kindness. You two parted ways happier than you could have imagined and both in great anticipation for Friday.

The next morning, you were both out at 7:30 on the dot, excited to see one another.

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canyouhearthelight · 3 years

Text

The Miys, Ch. 152

I’m not going to jinx it, I’m not going to jinx it, I’m not going to jinx it...

Okay, maybe I am. I managed to queue up the chapters I had in the barrel! Yay!! Which also means that I have a super duper exciting chapter coming up, which I can’t wait to write and can’t wait for y’all to read. I just need it to be perfect.

That said, thank you to @baelpenrose and @charlylimph-blog for your help with this particular chapter. I love when we are all three in one of these sessions and just descending into chaos in the chat. Also, @mamayoda (who I can’t tag but I do want you to know I see your likes in my notes!) for love-bombing my notes recently.

“Is it just me or is everyone really jumpy?” Charly asked as I set my food down across from her. It was our thrice-weekly lunch dates in one of the public mess halls, and she definitely had a point. I had already noticed three people scowl distrustfully at the food consoles, hugging closely to the prepared food side of the room instead.

I sighed. “It has to have been Derek’s stress test. It wasn’t supposed to impact systems we didn’t design, but…”

She snorted loudly. “Tell that to the week I spent taking cold showers again. At least this time, the doors didn’t play any music when I walked through them.”

“Did your doors at least open consistently? I was stuck in my quarters for a whole day until we figured out that I could walk through if I had an escort.” I laughed and shook my head before digging in to my food. “And, come to find out, we actually do manage the water systems, thanks to BioLab 2.”

Contrary to myself, Charly was entirely unperturbed at this revelation beyond sniffing her hoodie and shrugging. “My doors worked fine as far as I know, but Coffey and I tend to work the same hours, so… Maybe that was it. Oo!” Her cheer of enthusiasm caught me off guard as she started bouncing in her seat. “OOOOO! I bet he activated the routine Xiomara had running when you and Jokul weren’t friends yet!”

“There was a routine!?” I asked, exasperated. “I behaved, thank you. It wasn’t necessary.”

“Meh. Just in case. What do you think her deal is?” She tilted her head to the side, at a table near us.

Sure enough, the woman at that table was darting glances around the room, her shoulders hunched, elbows close to her body, eyes wide. I could practically feel her shaking from where I was. “I can’t tell if she looks suspicious or afraid,” I murmured, hoping the woman couldn’t hear me. “But the fact that I’ve met mice and chihuahuas who shook less, I’m going to go with afraid.”

As I watched the woman, weighing whether or not a stranger trying to comfort her would make it better or worse, Mona’s familiar face approached her instead. She was speaking softly enough that I couldn’t make out words, but the woman clearly recognized her and only jumped slightly.

I was so focused on the sight of Mona comforting the woman that I nearly hit the ceiling when Parvati’s voice came from entirely too close to my right shoulder. “Rebecca. She lost her family twice, first her parents, some cousins, and an uncle when the hack happened, and then her partner and children in the After. It’s understandable that she’s terrified right now, after the stress test. Too many bad memories.”

My face flushed in humiliation. “Pranav and Zach sent a ship-wide alert that the stress test was happening - “

A perfectly manicured hand clapped over my mouth, one dark eyebrow arched in eloquent disbelief. “Sophia. You of all people know that mental scars do not heed logic.”

Charly’s hair flew around her face as she nodded enthusiastically. “After day three of cold showers, I flinched every time I went through a door in case that stupid song started playing again, no matter how many times I reminded myself that it was a stress test and I had decidedly not given Derek boba tea again.”

Both my hands flew up in surrender. “I stand corrected, I just feel awful to see people react like that.” Gazing around the room, I was suddenly much more aware of all the darting eyes, protective postures, seats turned so that backs were against walls.

Charly had obviously seen the same thing. “We may need to talk to Pranav about limiting the tests to one or two systems at a time.”

“I wish we could,” I admitted, stabbing a potato out of my pie slightly harder than necessary. “His department was passing the tests with flying colors when Derek was limited to one or two systems at a time. But they failed this last test miserably, it turns out. As soon as they would react to one thing, Derek would switch to another system, and they couldn’t be everywhere at once as well as they convinced themselves that they could. And they can’t just be good at small scale attacks: the revolt that happened before the End brought everything down at once, from multiple access points. It was… kind of elegant, in a terrible way. Very clean.”

Charly squinted at me and Parvati in suspicion. “Are you supposed to know that they crashed and burned in the test.”

I rocked my hand back and forth while I chewed on a mouthful of crust. It had way too much butter in it, but at least it was actually crust this time. A week ago it had been something pretty close to paper mache. “Technically we don’t officially know that. Officially, all we know is that Pranav has requisitioned enough additional staff to increase his team of programmers by seventy percent.”

“Asses handed to them, got it,” Charly nodded in understanding.

“We also officially know that Pranav currently owes Hannah quite the enormous favor,” Parvati confided.

“How big?” Charly ventured slowly.

“Big enough that his grandchildren may be indebted to hers,” came the laughing response.

Charly shook her head and clucked her tongue. “He should know better than to bet against Derek. He breaks the systems for fun, and they asked him to really go for it. What did they expect?”

“Apparently to put up a better fight at least.” I forced a smile, but guilt weighed on my heart as I studied the room again, fully seeing the microexpressions of anxiety, fear, and anger. It felt like the entire Ark was constantly swinging between hope and fear. The random drills weren’t really helping, either.

“They aren’t,” Parvati agreed, letting me know that I had been thinking out loud. “Everyone is sleep deprived, on high alert, and then all of a sudden all the computer systems went on the fritz for a week.”

I sighed and rubbed my forehead, pushing what was left of my pot pie away from me, appetite gone. “We need to talk to Grey and Antoine about getting counselling for everyone, seeing as how Xiomara and Pranav pretty much just triggered the entire ship. I mean, everyone knows counselling is available, but I think allocating training and resources to the therapy teams is going to take priority over Pranav’s request for the moment.”

Charly tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Do we have the space for some quiet rooms, like you set up for the Food Festival a few years back? That may be a good idea.”

Snapping into work-mode, Parvati flicked her datapad open, bangles clattering as she started making notes. “The quarters left by those who relocated closer to the Archives are still uninhabited, those can be used. We may be able to convince some people to relocate so we can spread the rooms out more evenly, but even if we can’t, just having those rooms available will help.”

“Make a note to add in the proposal for Grey: possibility of having specific vendors permitted to serve food in BioLab 2. Encourage mental health days and picnics.”

Parvati nodded in acknowledgement of my request, before adding her own spin. “As a contingency plan, find vendors who will pre-package picnics. Between the current distrust of the consoles and the fact it will remind everyone of the annual Festival, the good emotions will help.”

“I like it,” I confirmed. “What else?”

“Paintball tag day in the corridors,” Charly announced, without preamble or warning. “Make it a holiday, everyone is off work, limit it to one end of the Ark.”

I shook my head. “Guns, not the best idea.”

“Ew, no. No pew-pew.” She wrinkled her nose. “I was thinking more paint-soaked splash bombs.”

Finger guns deployed, dual wielding. “I am so here for a paintball tag day in that case. The flavored paint?”

“Not the scotch bonnet please,” Parvati begged. “I just know someone will get that in the face, I don’t care how much Else likes it.”

“Got it, no more pepper spraying people,” Charly agreed seriously. “OOO! I could test the new arrows out! With something like buttered popcorn paint, obviously. Maybe kiwi on the other team.”

“Just limit the pull on the bows, okay? I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“Fiiiiine…”

Parvati smiled and added to her notes. “So, we probably want someone to correlate the current date to whatever the date would be on Earth… Just in case we need to get a consultant for Holi.”

“Good point. Conor is alarmingly good at that, so I can ask him. It would be a nice cultural event if we could do that. If not, we can totally work on celebrating Holi when it comes around.”

“Final suggestion for right now, because I have to get back to work,” I sighed happily. “This is going to be the biggest ask, and the smallest at the same time…” Both nodded at me to continue. “Care packages, for everyone. And I mean everyone on the Ark.”

“Sophia,” Parvati scolded me. “That’s almost ten thousand people and sixteen animal companions.”

“Well aware,” I forged on, “We’ll talk to Sam about the bows, I can wrap them. Commission some of those really nice chocolates, or maybe some taffy from Simon. And something salty. I know there is someone on the Ark who makes aromatherapy candles, Tyche is bananas about them.”

Shaking her head, she added it to the list. “If you insist on that, I insist on a celebration for the drop out of FTL. Hannah and I can use some of the plans from the Food Festival, include Charly’s paint tag - “

“And Kink Night!”

“- and Kink Night, apparently… have several events going on across the Ark, since we already discussed declaring a holiday.”

“Get Bash’s permission to use the Undine again, and I won’t object,” I surrendered before standing. “On that note, I really do have to get back to work. Come on, Vati, we have work to do apparently.”

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#the miys #found family #humans are weird #science fiction #aliens #apocalypse #humans are space orcs #humans are space fae #earth is space australia #post apocalypse #post post apocalypse #original science fiction #original sci fi #original writing

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everyonesfavoritelesbowrites · 3 years

Text

RATLD Headcanons pt. 4

Fears and insecurities

Raya and Namaari both have nightmares of the betrayal in Heart.

During those six years, Namaari can't remember a night where she didn't have a nightmare. Almost all of them of the betrayal.

Having to be careful, Raya learned to sleep very lightly. The smallest amount of noise will make her spring into action. So she didn't get into deep sleep often, but whenever she did she would get nightmares as well.

While Namaari's dreams were mostly focused on her betraying Raya and it going a bit too far. Raya's dream were of her Ba or Namaari going too far.

With more interactions with each other throughout the years came more dreams

Namaari would have dreams where in a fight one would kill the other. Raya would dream similarly, but a lot of them would focus around the Druun.

Raya has many dreams of the Druun getting her, (sometimes getting Namaari but she didn't understand why it got her all worked up).

Namaari would sometimes dream of Fang's famine 100% worse and watching everyone die while she lives in Luxury. (Although she also grew up with not enough food, leaving her a malnourished child)

After the event in Spine, Namaari consistently dreams that she kills Raya instead of Sisu intervening.

She also had dreams of killing Sisu and Sisu not coming back or she would come back and blame her\revenge.

Raya dreams of the fight in Fang's throne room where instead she didn't hesitate and kills Namaari.

Raya also has a hard time sleeping in an actual bed once everything is back to "normal". She's so use to sleeping in trees or caves or against TukTuk that it's accutally too soft.

Raya also wakes up constantly, worried she'll be Druun food or just hearing the smallest noise.

One day she just can't take it anymore and goes for a walk, where she runs into Namaari who looks like she's having a panic attack.

"What are you doing out here, princess Undercut- woah, are you okay?"

They end up telling the other about their dreams and how the beds are too soft for Raya and somehow they end up in the same bed having the best sleep they have ever had.

If they are together it just becomes an unspoken routine where they will sleep together to have a peaceful nights sleep.

They almost always end up in each other's arms but they don't talk about that

Chief Virana and Chief Benja thinking they are sleeping together, like sleeping sleeping together and are surprised when they find out they aren't even dating yet

They wake up when the other has a nightmare and comfort them.

"You're okay."

"Just breath."

"I'm still alive, see? You didn't have the guts to actually kill me."

"Look at me."

"Do you need to go for a walk?"

"We can talk to Sisu if you want."

Raya wonders why Namaari's room is so... empty so she tries to ask her in a way where she can just play it off as a joke if Namaari gets uncomfortable

But Namaari tells her

Namaari tries to not get sentimental to any objects because she's afraid she'll lose them and the events that happened after giving her Sisu necklace to Raya haunt her.

She keeps any sentimental items she gets stored safely away so she won't lose them. It's mostly drawings kids make her or things Raya leaves behind

She also feels guilty to have such an extravagant room, to live in such luxury, when her people have a major homelessness problem. This goes side by side with her food insecurities, although she was pretty malnourished as a child.

She also thinks she deserves to be lonely, not that she already does did feel lonely, but making her room bare helps give her that feeling that she doesn't deserve anything. She thinks this is fair considering her past.

Raya is understanding but also is loosing her mind over Namaari being so hard on herself.

Raya tries to sneak some things into Namaari's room. It first disappears quickly, Namaari tucking them away for safe keeping but after a while, she tries to just let them stay.

She worries constantly, ending up just staring at whatever Raya brought in this time. Perhaps if she engraves it into her memory, she won't worry if she loses it.

It takes a while, but Namaari eventually gets to the point where she won't feel sick not putting things away. She can just let it be with only a few thoughts of worry.

Raya becoming comfortable enough to sleep through the smallest of sounds, but she's never going to not wake up to sounds, it's just too engraved into her.

Namaari smiling when Raya doesn't wake up from a small bird outside the window.

A storm comes around one night in Heart when Namaari is visiting. Raya wakes up from a loud boom of thunder and finds Namaari literally shaking.

Namaari is scared of Thunderstorms, or more specifically loud noises send her into panic.

She has trained herself to not panic when there's a single or just a few loud noise/s, but if it's consistent she just can't handle it.

Raya, unable to sleep anyway, comforts Namaari and tries to distract her.

"We could spar."

"I can ask Sisu if her brother can make it stop."

"Tell me about the things you learned about Dragons as a kid."

"Remember when [moment]?"

"When I was 15, I [tells crazy story]."

"Let's go get [Serlot name], I bet she'd love to cuddle!"

"What do you think makes the noise of thunder?"

"Hey, I thought you weren't scared of anything, dep la. How can I make you flinch like that?"

"I wish I was the one making you shake like that." "What?" "Nothing! Tell me about your cat!"

"Under the blankets, Undercut."

"Shut up thunder!"

Namaari not seeing Raya eat any food when she comes to Fang and asking who made a dish when she's in Heart.

Sisu mentions something about poison and it just clicks.

Namaari hands Raya a dish in Fang, taking her own bite right in front of her first. "Just checking for poison."

After a few times of doing this, Raya ends up confessing to being posioned when she was 13. Namaari understands and keeps tasting food for her and even starts cooking for them right in front of her.*

"Don't forget to check for poison." "Of course, dep la."

"I didn't take you for a cook, let alone a good one." "It's better than your Jackfruit jerky, that's for sure."

Namaari admits to refusing to eat meals given to her unless she pays, otherwise she has to make it herself.*

Raya telling her that she paid for foods in Heart for Namaari, even if it's a slight lie. She's the princess, she kinda gets whatever she wants.*

Namaari paying Boun after they watch him cook for them

Raya gets separation anxiety, worrying that her Ba turned to stone again although it's not posible. She even worries for Namaari but she won't admit to that

Namaari reminds her that her Ba is fine and it helps

Her Ba also comforting her about it ofc

"If anyone will turn to stone, it'll probably be me not your Ba." this doesn't help but she won't tell Namaari she has dreamt of her being stone as well

Namaari accidentally hurting Raya during a Spar and she like breaks. She refuses to talk to her and avoids her because she feels horrible and it reminds her of Spine and Fang's Throne room.

Raya ends up cornering her and is afraid she did something wrong but Namaari admits that she's beating herself up for hurting her and Raya's heart swells and breaks at the same time.

"I've done worse to myself."

"It's literally nothing."

"It won't even scar."

Raya also hates to hurt Namaari.

"Fuck! I'm so sorry! Here, get me so it's fair!"

"I didn't mean to, I swear."

"If it does scar, it'll look sexy..." "What?" "I mean awesome, it'll look awesome. You're not sexy at all."

Raya notices Namaari acting strange around Sisu and asks about it. Namaari explains how whenever she looks at Sisu or even hears her or someone mentions her, the memory of shooting her replays in her head. She explains how she has nightmares about it and hates herself for it.

Raya comforts her by explaining how it wasn't her fault, or at least not entirely. Raya admits how she should have trusted Sisu.

"It's all in the past, we can't do anything about it, Namaari."

"I feel like I have to make it up to her... to everyone." "You literally saved the world but go all out I guess."

Raya stages an "intervention" for Namaari, bringing Sisu to talk to her so they both can make it better for Namaari.

"Don't you hate me?" "No! Why would I!?"

"I don't hold it against you, Namaari."

"What can I do to make it up to you?" "You don't have to do anything! You already saved the world!"

"Well... You could hang out with me more often."

Afterwords, the tension is much better but it takes a bit longer for Namaari to really open up with Sisu.

Namaari also ends up taking with Chief Benja about trying to take the gem. He's too understanding.

"I understand if you despise me, Chief Benja." "I don't."

"If I was in your position, I would have probably done the same to be honest..."

"If I had known your nation was in famine..."

"I don't blame you, it would have happened either way. It was just simply a matter of who and when."

Namaari only feeling intimidated by three people. Her mother, Chief Benja, and Sisu. Maybe Raya when they were fighting but not anymore.

Raya having issues letting people in. Mostly on instinct.

She gets defensive immediately.

"Why do you [add something here]?" "Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy Benturi." *Silence* "I'm sorry, [explains]."

"Dewdrop, what have you been up to?" "None of your business- fuck, i'm sorry, Ba. I was sparring with Namaari."

"Are you okay?" "Who cares?" "...... I do?" "Right, sorry, I'm good."

"Where did you get that scar?" "Minding my own fucking business- I mean, I tripped on a rock accutally." *Namaari still processing*

Raya eventually gives in but it takes a while and a lot of comfort from Namaari and sisu but whatever

*I elaborated on this before

#ratld headcanons series #ratld #rayamaari #raya and the last dragon #raya #namaari #sisu #ratld headcanons #headcanon #headcanons

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t-o-m-hollands · 3 years

Text

And so finally here it is, the fourth and final part of this series.

Warnings: Smoking, drinking and smut. One scene contains memories back to an emotionally abusive relationship (not between main characters). This is set in Nice in the 1950’s, I have never been to the French riviera and I wasn’t alive in the 50’s, so probably a very inaccurate description of the place (also at times simply just made up). Also features a PROFOUND misunderstanding of Nietzsche’s work.

Summary: Can you and Timothée make a life together?

Themes: Artist!Timmy, period piece (1950's).

READ THE PREVIOUS THREE CHAPTERS HERE,

this is the final part of this series.

August, 1953

The days are spent like this, one much like the other, settling into life without either one of you ever really noticing. The future is never mentioned more than a few days ahead and all plans are made for the day only.

But without really meaning to, you both make a home out of villa Marguerite.

Timmy buys a vespa from a man in town. It’s rusty and old but steers easily. His sore feet thanks him for no longer having to walk up and down the long hill each time you’ve forgotten to buy something in the village, instead he now just swings his leg over the saddle and swiftly sets out to buy it for you (“unpitted black olives, please”).

Each night you insist on doing the cooking, telling him you find pleasure in it; and well, who is he to deny you anything that brings you joy? So each night you cook and after the food and the wine shared on the terrace he goes back inside to do the dirty dishes. With shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows he sets to work, going over each utensil with great care. Louise snickers at him most nights, tells him there’s no need, that it is her job; looks at him with a knowing smirk he can’t quite translate to meaning. Still, he does the washing up. Wants to do it. Loves the domesticity of it, you cooking; feeding the both of you, and him cleaning after; helping out.

One afternoon as the sky above shifts in shades of pink and lilac Timothée and Marco sit by the square, playing chess. Marco is winning, a habit he has when they are playing together. Timothée in turn is trying not to sulk, something he spectacularly fails at, which is entertaining Marco to no end.

It is not the losing that has got him in such a terrible mood.

You have had to go back to London for a few days, (“there are papers that need to be looked over and signed”).

“Honestly” Marco says, as he takes Timothée's queen. “Why don’t you just tell her you are crazy about her?”

“Afraid that ship’s sailed, mate” Timothée mutters, taking one of Marco’s pawns, a small victory indeed when one has just lost his queen. With his head resting on his folded arms on the table he observes the chess board in front of him with vague interest, trying to figure out Marco’s plan of action.

“Why’s that? She has clearly not kicked you out of the house so she must be somewhat fond of your sulking ass?”

Timothée snorts. “Fond? How nice, the word we save for people we can’t force ourselves to love”.

“Then why do you stay there? Leave. Find another woman, let yourself heal.”

Timothée’s head snaps up, and for a second he’s stunned silent. “No” he says eventually, but not after having first considered the idea. “ No, I can’t do that” he says. It is not as if Marco had suggested something impossible, like walking on water or turning water into wine. Timothée could leave. He could go back to your home, pack his bags and take the first train back to Paris. It would not be an equal action to that of the resurrection. Marco moves his queen across the board but Timothée isn’t looking, has his mind somewhere else; far away. For the first time he truly ponders about the option to leave. To start anew; to forget he ever met you.

But he doesn’t want to.

It’s as easy as that. Living with you, sharing space with you; why would he ever leave that? Even if he’ll never get to kiss your soft lips again he’d still stay. As long as he sees you in the morning, unguarded with tousled hair; drinking coffee he’s made you; as long as his days end with a meal shared with you, drinking wine and talking.

Marco waves a hand before him, a sly smile on his face, “your turn, Romeo”.

Timothée rolls his eyes and moves his king out of Marco’s queen’s way.

“And shack mate” Marco says, a broad smile on his face as he knocks Timothée’s king over with his knight. “Next time maybe keep your focus on the game” he adds, winking at him.

“Oh you fucker” Timothée grumbles, taking a swing from his wine glas.

Later that night as he walks home, having drunk much too much to drive, he hears a small, injured whimper. He stands very still for a moment, trying to ignore all other noise, before he hears the sound again. Following the injured mewling he soon discovers the source. It’s a kitten. Looking not older than a few weeks old and tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, with fur completely black from head to paw and eyes shining yellow in the night. It looks strangely like a very small panther. It looks slightly worse for wear as well. Skinny and small and with uneven fur. The kitten looks up at him, opens its mouth and lets out the same whimpering sound once again.

Timothée stands up, presses the small animal against his chest to keep it warm, and takes him home. He lets it sleep in his bed and it curls up beside him and the next day he takes it to the vet; who informs him that the creature, all though underfed, is in perfectly good health.

When you come back from London the next day, face more strained than before but seemingly happy to be back, Timothée tells you the story.

“What have you named him?” you ask, scratching the purring kitten behind his ear.

“Well, I thought that maybe you should be with me on the decision” he says, watching you pet his newfound friend.

“Any suggestions?”

“Well,” Timothée begins, suddenly shy. “I was thinking maybe Chopin?”

You smile at him, with genuine fondness in your eyes, and he feels his cheeks heat up. “Chopin it is. It was very good of you to save him, Timothée”.

And something like hope blooms in his chest.

That night as he lays in bed, Chopin sleeping on his chest, he reflects on his conversation with Marco and the words ‘let yourself heal’ comes back to him. The words had startled him, confused him, and maybe even shocked a little. He ponders over the words, the meaning and the implications, and decides that no. He cannot heal.

Because he is not wounded. He had been, after you left Paris that spring, he had been a wounded thing; a child who flew too close to what he wanted, only to find his wings melting and his body falling down into the sea.

But he wasn’t wounded anymore.

Through the other side of the wall he can hear how you walk around your room, going through the nightly routine. He hears the squeaking sound as you lay down on the big iron bed. Chopin purrs on his chest and Timothée closes his eyes, ready for sleep to take him.

There’s no use in thinking ahead, he decides. What will be, will be.

September

Late one night Timothée is playing cards with some new-found friends.

Marco had finally given in and arranged a jazz night to Nathaniel’s and Timothée’s great joy. The Milanese jazz band consists of five free-spirited and unbound vagabonds. When they play the whole village square dances. After their performance Timothée, Nathaniel, Marco and the musicians sit down to play cards. The night passes and the rum flows as easy as the conversation. The room is quickly filled up with cigarette smoke and wild anecdotes of past victories. The musicians, although a cheerful lot, have not got much to bet with, so the stakes are kept low and the spirits high.

So how exactly it came about that Marco lost the old piano in the bistro to Timothée no one can remember the following day, for the details are blurry and stained by drink. Nevertheless, as they wave the five musicians off the following morning, it is clear to them both that Marco owes him a piano.

“Ridiculous” Marco grumbles, his Italian accent clearer when aggravated, as he and Timothée push the piano up to the truck. “You can’t even play the damn thing!”

Timothée snorts, “I can learn!”

“Oh really?” Marco bursts out, sarcasm heavy in his words “like how you’ve ‘learned’ Italian you mean?”

Sweat runs down his back, the afternoon sun is bearing down on them and the heat feels like a physical pressure against his skin. “I speak perfect Italian, thank you very much” he defends himself.

It is Marco’s time to snort, which he does with great satisfaction before announcing “speaking French while putting on an Italian accent is in fact not speaking Italian at all”.

His head is pounding; but he is in a good mood and so he laughs. With much effort and even more grumbling from Marco they manage to load the heavy thing inside the rented truck and after having driven it up the hill they carry it into the villa. Deciding to place the instrument in the drawing room they lean on each other’s shoulder for a bit, trying to catch their breath; laughing.

He offers the older man a beer, but Marco declines; has a business to get back to.

So Timothée steps out into the burning sun on his own, the stone floor of the terrace scorching his bare feet. The world feels peaceful in all its golden glory. He can hear the rhythmic waves of the ocean far below, the radio playing in the kitchen; the seagull’s calling in the sky. He takes a deep breath and tastes the salt of sea water on his tongue.

His oil paints and canvas are still where he left them yesterday, a half-finished attempt of a sunrise pictured on it. On the table stand a vase with bright blue hyacinth and blood red poppies that you must have picked.

For a few minutes he just stands there, soaking in the sun. With unhurried fingers he starts to unbutton his white linen shirt. Removing it he lays it on the sunchair beside him and his trousers soon follow suit. Turning away from the sun he walks down the hot stony steps by the terrace and down to the private beach. It’s a long walk down, but he feels a great need to wash himself clean of the sweat, the dirt, the booze from last night.

With his eyes glued on the steps in front of him he makes his way down, and only as he jumps the last hot stone does he rise his head; and he sees you. You are already out in the water, swimming on the spot, your face turned towards the horizon. He clears his throat, not wanting to pry on you, nor does he want to scare you. He fails, as you turn around, startles, and lets out a sharp gasp.

“Hi,” he says, feeling awkward, shifting from foot to foot, aware that he is only in his underwear. “Didn’t know you were here”.

“’s alright” you say, sinking down into the water slightly.

Knowing not where else to look he looks down at the ground, spotting with surprise a white towel thrown on the sand, next to your dress. It is only then he realizes that you are completely naked.

“Mind if I take a swim as well?” he asks. He’s almost certain that you will ask him yes; tell him to wait until you are done but you just shake your head.

“Hop in” you say “the water’s nice and cool”. And so he asks you to turn around, so that he too can rid himself of his last remaining piece of clothing before walking out on the jetty and jumping down into the deep water.

Swimming out to you he keeps a few meters distance out of respect. The water is still somewhat clear, and he doesn’t want to peep, even by mistake.

And so there, wading in the water, avoiding the others eyes, you both watch as the sea and sky in front of you slowly turn from vibrant blue to lilac as the sun begins its journey down the horizon.

“I, eh, I won a piano” he says eventually, wanting to break the somewhat awkward silence. You turn to him, wading the water, surprise written on your face. “A piano?”

“Yeah, put it in the drawing room, hope that was okay?”

You laugh, the sound clear and bright and something flutters in Timothée’s stomach like the wings of a butterfly. He tells you the story of how he came by it and you laugh some more and he can’t help but smile at the sound, can’t help but stare himself blind at your beautiful face.

You swim on the spot and you talk; about everyday life, how you both think Louise has fallen in love with a baker in the village, about Chopin scratching on the furniture, about the pasta you had for lunch. About life in all its domestic simplicity.

You’re looking at the sun. It is the golden hour and it has painted you golden as well. You seem to shine in the light, laughing at something he’s said as you wade the water in front of you, the water golden as way; a reflection of the sky above. It hits him almost with brutal force, how beautiful you are. He looks at you thinks; Aphrodite, who entered the world fully formed, born out of sea foam, the goddess of love and beauty. You blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly and his chest feels too tight, as if something inside where his heart should be is taking up too much space

Without either one having realized it you’ve swam closer to each other. You are so close that he could easily reach out and touch you; could easily lean in and taste the saltwater on your lips. You are looking at his mouth and he is wondering if that is what you want him to do but he is not sure and because he is afraid to ruin the tender friendship you have built by blundering in - he doesn’t. And you don’t either.

‘But, we used to be lovers’ he thinks. His body used to know your body like it was a continuation of his own. And perhaps that is why it hurts so bad to be parted from you.

“I should get back” you say in the end, avoiding his eyes. “We haven’t even had dinner yet”.

“Alright” he says “I’ll come join you in a minute”. He turns away from the beach, leaves you to get out of the water and get dressed in privacy.

Later that night there is dinner, and drinks, and your bare feet as you dance in the dining room to a jazzy tune, a glass of sangria in hand as Chopin runs circles around the hem of your dress. Later there is laughter as Timothée tries to teach you poker, something you turn out to be disastrously bad at.

And later somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

One day is much like another. You wake up in the morning and Timothée makes you coffee and you share it on the terrace. Then he paints and you move through the house; going through the things that need to be gone through, doing the tasks of the day. You read your correspondents and write your letters back.

You set out to the market, chat with the vendors. You learn their names and their stories and in turn they share their family recipes for the perfect pasta vongole or ratatouille. You buy your vegetables and bread, your fish and meat, your wine and cheese, excited for the dinner ahead.

Sometimes you go to the tailor and you share a cappuccino in the sun with Claudette, the old woman running it. You chat about clothes, of fashion in the past versus the fashion of now, about the passing of time. She tells you about the war and the occupation. Of the rationing of fabrics and how she has learned how to make each cut of cloth work - wasting nothing.

In her store you pick out a light floral pattern chiffon and Claudette turns it into a beautiful summer dress, so light and different from the heavier material you wore in London.

You buy handmade pottery from the woman in the square. Big pots and jars and urns that she’s crafted with her own hands and with handpainted flowers and patterns on them; made by her sister. You keep olive oil and flour and flowers in them, and place them around the house in their rightful place.

You go to the beach and you collect seashells. Bringing them with you home you tie them up on strings and you hang them by the terrace door and with each dust of wind the gentle noise of the seashells rattling against each other can be heard.

You don’t talk about the future and never plan ahead. You are not together; just two people living in the same house after all.

You watch him, laying on some faded old sheets on the terrace floor, soaking up sun. Timothée approaches sunbathing the way he does everything else in life; with reckless abandon. Despite Louise’s warning words that he’ll burn his pale skin he lays under the scorching sun for hours, wearing nothing on his skin but white bathing shorts. His nose has already turned an angry pinkish colour that will surely change to red soon. Beside him lay an open book, Robert Graves - The Greek Myths. His half-finished landscape painting of today lay abandoned on the table.

In the kitchen you hear the clattering of dishes as Louise does the washing up after lunch. She’s singing along to a tune on the radio and without looking you know that she is dancing.

Walking back into the house, up the steps and into your bedroom, you lay down on the bed. The bedchamber had been your aunt’s at one point and her style still lingers over the room like her old perfume, a bottle of which still lay on the antique vanity. A comforting presence.

Staring up at the white ceiling you’re trying to put a name to the feelings you’ve been having lately.

It feels, you decide, like you’re playing a game with the past and you’re not sure you’re winning. Going back to London had been a mistake. You had walked the same old streets, dined in the same old restaurants and met the same old people as you had when you lived there with Freddie. It had been a mistake to go back, and hear all the tittle-tattle gossip of the divorce, of your absence from the London scene. You had sat there, in the great white dining room of The Luxembourg, you’re back straight and poise perfected, and the gossiping tongues around you had played in your head like an orchestra. You had seen your dinner companions mouths moving, but the words all seemed distorted and slow, coming to you as in a haze. Your face feeling strangely taut, as if you were wearing a mask over your own skin, unable to move the mask's features.

The only success of the journey had been that it made you all the more certain of your decision; to sell the Mayfair flat and rid yourself of the London scene once and for all.

You had visited your parents as well. Had sat through a luncheon with them and calmly listened to their grief and despair over your split from Freddie. Had heard their praises and glorification of your former husband and you had kept quiet all the way through it, poking at your food and feeling rather sick.

In London baron Freddie Fairfax was a constant presence even in his absence.

Your marriage had consisted of days filled with silence. Days spent apart, seeing different people; living different lives. Thought not at all really, since it was all in the same small social circle. Any secret relieved between friends between crystal glasses of wine at lunch would not stay secret for long. By cocktail hour it’d be known by one and all of the tight-knitted, blue-blooded social circle you called friends. Any secret shared to a confidant would reach Freddie’s ears before the sun set, no matter how much time you spent apart; dining and drinking in different restaurants.

The evenings, if shared just the two of you, would either be spent in total silence; during which you would turn on the radio just to fill the space between you. In the night he would touch you, move in and out of you with sharp thrusts as you pretended to be somewhere else, his grunts filling the only sound in the night.

Or, if he was in one of his moods, the evenings would consist of him leaning over your shoulder, wherever you turned. Breathing down your neck. Always ready with a comment, a sly remark on your clothes, your face, your figure; you’re thoughts and opinions. On the things you said, or on your defeated silence. He never asked you any questions about yourself, had no curiosity about who you were or what you thought. The only exception was when he interrogated you about the men you conversed with, or at times about your female friends; how long you’d known them, if they were dating anyone. How attractive he found them.

Your feelings were his to toy with, because in his eyes you were his plaything to do with as he pleased. Because to Freddie love would always go hand in hand with possession and to you love would always mean hunger.

Hunger for something gentler, warmer, and altogether different. Hunger for someone else.

Pictures of dark curls play in your mind. Timothée, his eyes furrowed and a pencil in his mouth, looking at the canvas in front of him with great concentration. Timothée, with blue paint splattered on his pale cheek, the sun shining in through the dirty windows of his artist flat, illuminating him.

Timothée who had slowly helped you put yourself together again when you fled to Paris; thought he’d never asked for glory for his role in the mending of your heart.

Nevertheless, he had. With great care and gentle hands.

Once in Switzerland you had gone with your father to the horologist. Your father was to have his watch repaired. You had watched the horologist with great interest as he sat down by his desk, thick glasses resting on his nose as he opened the back of the clock. The old man had furrowed his grey brows and with great focus and piety set to work with repairing the complicated machinery of the timepiece. Putting it together with the expertise of a mechanic who not only knows how each fragile piece works but why.

That’s how you imagine Timothée loving you; with great precision, knowing just how every piece of you fit.

And so maybe in the end that is what love means to you; not hunger, but being understood.

The windows are all wide opened, but no breeze makes its way inside and the room remains boiling hot under the late summer sun. The warmth feels like a heavy blanket covering you as you lay there in bed, just taking in the sounds of the house. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the seagulls screeching in the sky, the far-away sound of Louise singing in the kitchen and further away still; the ocean.

The bedchamber remains stuffy and hot.

Sitting up you reach for the cigarette package on your bedside table, discovering that they are Lucky Strikes; instead of your usual Gauloises. Timothée’s cigarettes then. You must have taken them by mistake. Grabbing the package you walk down stairs and out on the terrace again, where Timothée lay where you left him, sprawled out on the floor, the tip of his nose now bright red.

“You’re burning yourself” you tell him, throwing the cigarette package down on the ground beside him. Timothée lifts a hand to shade his eyes, otherwise blinded by the light. He looks at you with a lazy grin, before moving on the sheets to make room for you. Keeping his eyes on you he pats the spot next to him on the floor and so you lay down beside him.

“Think you have my Gauloises” you say, the entire world orange as the sun shines through your closed eyelids. “Must have taken your Lucky Strikes by mistake”.

Timothée hums, before rising and moving into the house. A minute later he is back with your package of cigarettes and an ashtray. Handing you the cigarettes he then helps you light up with his precious silver gift, his dark curly hair falling down his face as he does so. He smells of seawater and turpentine and as you lay down on the ground beside him on the ruffled sheets you feel like you can breath again.

Laying there under the sun you smoke and observe him. His hand with their specks of blue paint left from his work this morning, his legs slightly spread, his chest slowly moving up and down with each breath. His eyes are closed, and the ghost of a smile still plays on his lips. He seems at peace.

You wonder how long this fine line you both have been walking is going to last before one of you tumbles. The fine line between lover and ex lover. You wonder what will happen next.

Or perhaps this is the way things will always be. Each day lived out ad infinitum, one much like the other. A foolish thought; a childish one. For sooner or later he will take another lover, find someone new to cherish. Someone in no need of healing. And you think of Lucy, and her laugh as light as the bubbles in champagne, her easy charm and carefree personality.

You’ll wonder if he’ll take someone home with him one day, make her love to her in the room next to yours. Where he’ll learn her body like he once knew yours .

You wonder if you’ll do the same.

***

October

The days are cooler now, still pleasantly warm but not intensely so, and most of the tourists have left the stony shores; leaving the whole village less crowded and easier to move through.

For two weeks Timothée goes back to Paris. He sits in the street and paints the people he sees in their everyday life; reading newspapers on the park benches, friends sipping cappuccinos on rotting chairs outside the café, old women choosing their bread with great care at the boulangerie. He adds no drama or sensationalism to the scenes, but settles for painting the people in all their simplicity and its realism.

He visits his art dealer, who with great astonishment accepts nine landscape paintings and a handful of sketches. “No portraits then, monsieur?”

And Timothée tells him no. He is waiting for the perfect model for the job.

He goes to his artist studio, and is surprised to find that it feels less like home than before. He doesn’t linger for long, and when two weeks are up he books a new compartment on the Blue Train, treating himself with a first class ticket this time.

On his way to the station, his bag slung over his shoulder and a package of new pots of paints tucked in underneath his arm, he walks by a bookshop. Casting an eye at the shop window he stops dead in his tracks. A placard with William’s face stares back at him through the window, his mouth twisted into a wide smile and his hair styled neatly.

Timothée walks into the store and five minutes later he walks out with a freshly printed copy of ‘A siren calls’ in his hands.

He borders the train, lays down in his train compartment and he begins to read. And through the entire journey home he reads.

Villa Marguerite is much the same when he returns from Paris. Chopin greets him as he hears him come in, happily accepting scratches behind his ear as an excuse for his absence. Placing his bag and his paints on the floor, but book still firmly in hand, he walks out on the terrace in search of you, but finds it empty.

Walking upstairs he knocks at your door and upon hearing you call ‘enter’ from the other side he steps inside.

You are laying on your stomach on the bed, wearing your silk canary yellow robe, flipping through a copy of Tatler, the gramophone in the corner playing Chopin. You look up at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

He clears his throat, unsure how to approach this any other way but straight on. “Have you seen this?” he says, and raises the book for you to see.

“Oh that” you say and sigh. “Yes, he wrote to me informing me of it weeks ago”.

“You knew?” he says, astonished.

“That William’s great piece of literature was going to be about me” you flip a page in your magazine “of course I did.”

Timothée leans against the doorway feeling like the air has been pushed out of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look up at him again, and again with a surprised expression on your face. “I didn’t know you wanted to know that” and then “is it any good? The Tatler’s reviewer calls him the new Fitzgerald”, you nod down to the magazine in front of you.

Timothée hesitates, unsure how to respond. “It's, well yes I suppose it’s alright. The prose is quite stunning, if not slightly overworked”.

“But?” you say, sensing an objection.

“He’s made a caricature out of you”.

“He’s written me as he saw me, just as you’ve painted me as you saw me. And you’ve both sold your works for money. On this, if perhaps on this only, you are the same”.

Again he is stunned. Then, voice slightly shaking with held back frustration, he says “please tell me I’m closer to the real you then this” and he holds up the book again “this rubbish. He’s made you out as this, this…” he wrecks his head for the right word before finally settles for the obvious one “siren. This woman he can’t help but love but his love for her is standing in the way for the life he wants to live of unbound pleasures. A siren that keeps calling him back from his path on the search for perfect bliss. This siren that drowns him with her love”.

Silence for a heartbeat, then “you were”. He blinks, and you continue “you were closer to, as you refer to it, the real me. But that doesn’t make his interpretation of me any less real. Like I said, I’m sure that is how he sees me”.

“Well he’s dedicated the book to you”

“That’s sweet”

“I’m not sure it’s meant to be. Before it could be up for assumption who the book is abou. Now it’s crystal clear for everyone to see.”

“You don’t think he’s meant that as a compliment?” Standing up you tighten your silk robe around you. “I think so. I think he’ll consider it a great honour to have a book written in your honour, no matter the subject matter”. You walk past him “but never mind, let’s have drinks on the balcony upstairs, I think it’s going to rain tonight”.

“You never talk about Freddie” he states. It is late at night, rain dipping against the ceiling above, and they are sharing a bottle of wine.

“There’s not much to talk about” you say, avoiding his eyes, eyes set on the rainy scenery in front of you.

“He was cruel to you, wasn’t he?”

“There are others who’ve had it worse.”

“Doesn’t make it less cruel” he says. Feelings are fighting with each other in his stomach, like a nest of vipers they twist and turn inside him, fighting for dominance. Feelings of anger, empathy, sadness and love.

He walks over to you, and sits down on the bench beside you, his warm hand cups your cheek and you close your eyes, looking ready to weep.

“I’m so sorry, ma chérie, I really am” he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, moves his arms so that he holds you to his chest instead. Soon you let yourself cry. He holds you to him, his chin resting on the top of your head and as far beneath you the waves are crashing against the rocks and in the chill evening air he keeps you warm.

He holds you for the longest time and somewhere in the village church bells are ringing.

***

An early morning some days later you walk out on the terrace. It is decidedly cooler outside this morning and the air feels crisp in your lungs and pulling your robe tighter around you you sit down by the laid table.

Timothée sits hunched over a book, a cigarette in hand, a cup of black coffee next to him. Despite the morning chill he’s only wearing his usual paint-stained linen trousers.

“What are you reading?” you ask, pouring yourself coffee into a small, porcelain cup. His eyes are still on the book, brows furrowed, and so you look around, take in the scenery around you; the cerulean blue sky stretching out over a landscape of hills and pastel coloured villas, and further down - the ocean.

“Nietzsche”.

“It’s too early for Nietzsche”

“I never went to sleep” he answers.

You try to keep your eyes on the horizon in front of you, but despite your might they dart back towards the tussle of brown, curly hair on the other side of the table. He’s hunched over his book and it is hard to tell, but you think you can see shadows of blue underneath his eyes. He looks tired.

“And what does Nietzsche have to say?”

“Well” he starts, before going on to read from the page. “Nietzsche claimed that the exemplary human being must craft their own identity through self-realization and do so without relying on anything transcending – such as God or a soul. This way of living should be affirmed even if one were one to adopt, most problematically, a radical vision of eternity, one suggesting the eternal recurrence of all events.”

“What does that mean, the eternal recurrence of all events?”

“That the universe and all existence and energy has been recurring, and will continue to recur, in a self-similar form an infinite number of times across infinite time or space”.

You stay silent, contemplating this momentous new idea.

“You know, scientists say that we are made out of stardust” Timothée says.

You don’t follow his train of thoughts but you go along with it and ask, “how could that be?”

“Well, everything we are and everything in the universe and on earth originated from stardust, and it continually floats through us still. It directly connects us to the universe, rebuilding our bodies over and again over our lifetimes. When stars get to the end of their lives, they swell up and fall together again, throwing off their outer layers. If a star is heavy enough, it will explode in a supernova. The brighter the star; the faster it burns. So you see, most of the material that we're made of comes out of dying stars, or stars that died in explosions. And those stellar explosions continue. And so, we have stardust in us as old as the universe, and then some that landed here maybe only a hundred years ago. And all of that mixes in our bodies.”

You stay silent for a while, him with his eyes stuck on the page in front of him, obstinately avoiding your eyes and you; eyes fixed on him, sipping your coffee.

“I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me, Timothée” you say in the end.

He blinks, eyelashes fluttering over cheekbones delicate like fine china, now tanned after months spent on the riviera. The sun is shining down on the both of you by now, and through tousles of dark curls you can now clearly see the dark shadows underneath his eyes. The wind whistles through the cypress trees.

“Just that there is nothing new under the sun” he says after a long silence. “And I guess that I’m trying to talk to you about destiny; how we are born, and reborn ad infinitum. Again and again and again our dice are cast, casting out our roles in life. We all have our parts to play. Parts that we are destined to play, and they are decided for us. It is beyond our control.”

“And what do we learn from this?”

“Amor fati”

“To love one’s fate?”

“To love one’s fate”.

***

One afternoon Timothée wakes up from a nap on the terrace. He opens his eyes and for a moment he’s blinded by the light, seeing only silhouettes in front of him. Stretching out his arms and legs, his body stiff from laying on the terrace floor, he groans. His limbs feel heavy and numb and his mind is unusually quiet, as it has a habit of being just after he wakes from slumber. Closing his eyes again he lets the bright sunlight turn the world white behind his eyelids.

Above him the seashells you’ve put up tinkle in the soft breeze. From way down below he can hear the ocean, steady today in this fine autumn weather. But he can hear something else as well. The clinking of a piano being played. Standing up, as in a haze, he follows the sound.

Walking into the house, past the tinkling seashells and white curtains, through the kitchen and hall he follows the sound into the drawing room.

You are sitting by the piano, playing Für Elise with unpractised hands. The sun is coming through the large windows, lighting you up, painting a halo atop your head.

“Can I paint you?” he asks, for the first time in months.

Your fingers fumble with the piano chords for a second before carrying on, showing no other signs of having heard him. You continue playing until the piece comes to an end.

Then, in the silence, your soft voice.

“Alright”

***

Someone has dug out an old Fletcher Henderson record and the music is blaring from the gramophone as people dance to the old jazz music, one woman has gotten up on the table and is stamping her bare feet along to the rhythm, twirling her dress and swinging her hips. Others are standing in groups, laughing and chatting; cocktail glasses in hand. Others still are sitting by the table.

You can’t tear your eyes from Timothée as he sits leaned back in his chair, arms draped over the railing and head thrown back in laughter. The afternoon light has turned the entire world golden, but Timothée seems to have been more blessed by the light than anybody else; as if he had been picked out and touched by Midas himself. He seems to shine as he laughs with his new-found friends, cheering them with a glass of cheap wine. They’re discussing new revolutionary ideas and he laughs as they clink their glasses in celebration of their own drunken brilliance. He’s wearing his nice white dress shirt and suspenders. The first couple of buttons are undone at the top, and sunkissed skin peeks through. His hair a mess of sea-salt curls, falling over his face, and pearls of water falling from his skin like little stars; the party having gotten back from a swim just moments before. They are mostly Timothée’s friends, though some are yours. Locals, whom you’ve befriended during your time here; with the added number of guests being a couple of british and dutch backpackers Timothée met up with on the way back to the villa.

You look at him, carefree and golden in the sun, and you know the image of him like this will stay with you forever – that you never will see anyone or anything this beautiful again. You don’t think of rebirth, or of reincarnation - of lives destined to be lived over and over again until the sun finally implodes and swallows you all; thus setting you all free from your destinies. You don’t think destined, star-crossed or fated.

Or of amor fati.

Instead you look at him and you think of immortality. Of gods and heroes of the ancient past and of all the holy creatures legends say has roamed the earth since there was anything to roam. You watch him in the golden afternoon light and you think of Achilles and of Apollo and of the archangel Gabriel.

(And you understand why the ancient Greek believed in heroes and god amongst men. You believe as well.)

On the first day God created light.

And so, the scientists say we are all made of stardust. You watch the golden boy in front of you, seemingly shining in the sun, and you wonder to yourself if perhaps the stardust he was made of ever really settled into human skin.

You have never felt more blue, like a sea creature dragged up to the surface against its will; but he is half boy, half ethereal creature. Something Holy. You can almost see it; heavy white wings sprouting out between his shoulder blades, casting a great shadow beneath him, wherever he goes; a golden halo atop the mess of curls on his head. There, at the table under the golden mimosa tree, he throws his head back in laughter again and the sound rings clear over the music, over the other’s voices.

His eyes meet yours where you stand in the shadow underneath the roof and the laughter seems to die in his mouth.

On the third day God created the seas.

The sun goes over the horizon; the golden hour has passed, and everything is set in shadow. You keep your eyes on each other while the rest of the party roars on around you. Their laughter, the clinking of their glasses and the loud music falling on deaf ears as he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

The sun has set, and the boy in front of you is no longer golden for you are all in shadow now; you are both human again.

Yet you still swear you can see the faint light of a halo atop his head and you can still feel the heavy weight of saltwater inside your lungs, taste it on your lips.

Eyes still fixed on his, you raise your glass to your lips, and you drown the last of your red wine. You can feel a drop slip from the corner of your mouth and make its way down your chin, your throat, your chest; down on your white silk dress. You put the glass down beside you and turn away from his gaze, walking away from him.

On the fourth day God created the moon and the stars.

The deep steps down to the water are wet from the passing tide and you move your feet carefully forward as you make your way down to the water. The sounds of music and laughter are soon replaced by that of waves. Passing by the old wooden jetty you walk down to the small piece of stony beach by the rocks. And there you stand. In front of you, a landscape of water so dark it appears black, and reflected on it from the sky above, the moon and the stars.

You hear the creaking sounds of someone stepping on the jetty.

And on the sixth day god created mankind in his own image.

Timothée stands in front of you, hands in pockets, his shirt undone and suspenders slightly astray; looking at you with such intent that you swear there’s thunder in the air, though the sky remains cloudless. Slowly, as if giving you plenty of time to retreat, he moves closer. Then, with his hands holding on to you, he kisses you. It is saltwater and sweet wine. It is red hot and wet and slow, until both of your breaths come heavy and your hands are fumbling over the other’s clothes. You tumble back against the flattened cliff wall behind you and you’re pulling him closer to you, tugging at his clothes until he’s pressed against you, chest to chest. Your hearts as close to each other as can be.

Your hands fumble with his zipper until it finally comes undone, and lifts up the skirt of your dress, pushing down your underwear until they fall at your feet. Hooking your leg around him you struggle for a second with finding the right position. Then, with a jagged thrust he’s inside you and you suck in a sharp breath. “Careful now” you moan in his ear, your arms around him holding onto him tightly. “It’s been a while”.

The reminder seems to soothe him, and the thrusts become slower, more dragged out but deeper too. His hands become gentler, less rushed, but still firm as he holds on to you; each hand pressing into the smooth flesh of your thighs. Your arms are clinging onto his shoulders, painted red nails digging into his back, your own back arched from pleasure. Moans and whimpers are falling from your lips and into his ear; his hair, still wet from the earlier swim, feels cold against your cheek.

There, in the dark; the night only lit up by moonlight, with waves crashing against the stones beneath your feet, he moves in and out of you and the air itself tastes of seawater.

You lean down and kiss his exposed tanned collarbones peeking through his half-opened white shirt and as you gently bite down he hisses and fumbles with the pace for a second, before regaining his posure; pressing you harder up against the wall again.

“That’s right” you moan, hands clutching onto his shirt and your head thrown back. “Fuck, harder!”

And he does.

And when you come it is white-hot bliss. Like the invisible strings holding together reality are all pulled out and you tumble through existence; unsure of where anything ends or begins.

Except that maybe the answer to both of those things are Timothée’s ragged breaths as he fucks you with feverish pace. Maybe there is where it all ends and begins. He comes in a whimper, your hands in his hair, his face in the crook of your neck.

And there you both stand, holding each other; fighting for air, as the waves crash around your feet.

***

You’re in the market and nothing feels real to you.

It is like you’re watching it all happen on film in front of you, the vendors shouting out prices and shoppers picking out their vegetables. It is like you are watching it all happen very far away.

The sun is high in the sky, and it is unusually warm for a day in late october. Your skin is clammy and your palms feel sweaty; yet you feel strangely cold. And you are trembling, feeling certain that if someone were to prick you with a needle right now – you wouldn’t feel a thing.

You see the people moving, arguing over prices of leek one moment and laughing the next. People carrying wicker baskets filled to the rim with ripe fruit and vegetables. It is like they all move in slow-motion, the sounds they make muffled and far off.

You step away from the crowd but when you turn around you walk straight into Timothée. He stumbles backward a step, unprepared for the collusion. He says something, swears perhaps, but you can’t hear him. There’s a ringing in your ear and the ground feels unsteady underneath your feet, the sun glaring down at you.

Then his hands are cupping your face, and you see him mouthing your name. He looks at you, eyes full of worry. He takes your hand, leads you away from the market and into the ancient church. His hand warm in yours he leads you down the aisle before turning into one of the box pews. You sit down beside him and he takes your hands in his.

“Your hands are cold” he says, before lifting them his his lips to kiss them.

He had been inside you just hours ago. You had cleaned up as best you could, before walking up the stairs again and re-joining the party. You had retired early, claiming a headache, while Timothée stayed out on the terrace with his friends. In the morning you had risen before him, heading down into the market before breakfast.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” he asks and you want to laugh. Because the question is so precisely what has been on your mind ever since last night.

You think of the ocean; the way it can carry you or drown you depending on its whim. You think of the seawater in your veins, of lungs heaving for air. You think of never ceasing, impossible blue. Of bones engraved with memories from the past. And how all of this is who you are, that it is not a temporary blueness.

“Do you think we can ever be happy?” you ask back.

“I don’t know” he says. The church is cool and drafty, despite the warm weather outside and his hands around yours feels warm and safe. It wakes an unholy sort of wanting inside of you.

“Ask me who I am” he says.

“Who are you?”

“Someone that loves you.” His voice is low. You are not the only two people in church, a few rows ahead there is a woman praying and at the front two priests are conversing with one another. He continues in his soft voice, “I can’t promise you perfect happiness forever, no one can, and frankly; I’m not sure that is what you really want either. It’s perhaps what you think you should want, but that’s not the same as actually wanting it. I think part of you loves your melancholia”.

“Well then, what can you promise me?”

“I promise you that on the days you feel like you’re drowning I will keep us afloat and I’ll hold you until it passes. I’ll keep you warm”.

“And you don’t wish I was more yellow?” you ask, voice sightly trembling.

“You know, I’ve always loved the ocean. I’ve never felt the need to change its hue, despite its darkest blue”.

“It’s that easy?”

“It’s that easy” he says, and kisses your hands again.

***

On the balcony floor outside your bedroom you both lay that night, spread out on sheets and plush pillows you’ve carried out. You lay there, your head on his stomach, and stare up at the stars. Neither one of you is wearing a thread of clothing, but you are both tangled up in sheets. There’s an empty bottle of wine beside you and in Timothée’s hand his book on Nietzsche’s philosophies.

“So what do you think?” he asks. “Do we have a free will or is it as Nietzsche believes, that the dice have already been cast far before we’re born, leaving us to live out our stories without the ability to ever change the outcome. Leaving us to simply accept our fate; to love our fate”.

“It sounds terribly defeatist to me” you say

“Or brave” Timothée says, “I’m really not so sure which. Perhaps both.”

“So you agree with him? You agree with Nietzsche? We are not ourselves in charge of our lives?”

“No, no not at all” he objects “I don’t believe he’s right. I’ve made my own choices in life. I’ve created my own mistakes and fortunes. And my fate has never been to love you, I’ve done that intentionally.”

You love me on purpose?

Yes I love you on purpose. I chose it, I chose you”

“I chose you too”

*****

Inspirations: Jenny Slate’s tweet about wanting someone to love her on purpose, my own quite frankly disastrous relationships, Johnny Cash saying paradise is “this morning, with her, having coffee”, Anna Karenina, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (OBSESSED with https://www.ntathome.com/packages/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof/videos/cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof-full-play version, highly recommend renting it), Greek mythology, The Blue Train adaptation by ITV Poirot (season 10 episode 1, watch it, every episode is individually based on one of her books so no need to see it chronologically) that has been playing on repeat and also the fact that for the last month I’ve been thinking of nothing else than traveling to Italy, France and Greece again.

#timothée chalamet #timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x y/n #timothee fanfic

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steves-on-a-plane · 3 years

Text

Keeping the Monsters At Bay

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Anxiety Attacks, mentions of nightmares, mentions of broken bones Word Count: 2137 Square Filled: @star-spangled-bingo Free Space & @buckybarnesbingo U5 *Picture Square* Summary: Reader forgot to replenish the medical supplies after a previous mission and it’s almost time for the team to leave for the next one. The pressure triggers an anxiety attack for Reader, which is when Bucky comes upon them. With Bucky’s help, Reader is able to manage the attack. The next night Reader is able to return the favor when they’re awoken by screaming. Bucky is having nightmares again so Reader helps him get through the night.

“Shit!” You hissed out the word as you slammed the storage compartment closed. You looked over your shoulder to see if anyone else had overheard your outburst. Dr. Banner was the only on the quinjet with you. He politely pretended not to have heard you. The other’s would be arriving soon and expect you to be ready to go. You opened another compartment only to discover it too was empty.

“Everything all right, [Y/N}?” Bruce asked after you loudly closed a third compartment.

“Yes, I think so.” You sighed. “I’ll be right back.”

You stormed out of the quintet mumbling every curse word you could think of. On the last mission Steve had asked you to rotate the medical supplies. Apparently you’d remembered to empty all the medical compartments, but never refilled the supplies. As soon as you were sure that you were out of Bruce’s sight you began running through the corridors. There was a sinking feeling in your stomach when you thought of how you could be a reason for the mission to be delayed. You didn’t have much time together everything you needed, but you’d have to do your best. The last thing you wanted was to be in the field and not have something you needed.

“[Y/N]!” Tony called out to you as you almost collided with him. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“Sorry Tony, I’ve just got to grab something quick.” You told him without stopping.

“Wheels up in ten minutes!” He shouted after you. “That’s with or without you!” He hadn’t meant anything by it. You knew he didn’t because half of everything Tony said wasn’t serious. You also knew there was no way Steve would let him leave you behind, but you couldn’t rationalize with anxiety.

You really wished you could turn this part of you off. There was never a convenient time for an anxiety attack, but a mission was one of the worst times. You were already experiencing a stomach pain so intense it felt the way a towel looks when it’s being wrung out. You knew what would happen next, the worrying and overthinking. You’d worry so much about making sure to pack everything that you were bound to forget something. You felt the pain in your chest as you rounded the next corner.

“Almost there.” You whispered as you forced yourself from a run to a walking pace. You were starting to have troubling breathing. You tried to tell yourself it was from the running and the worrying. It would go away once you had all the supplies. That did nothing to sooth the burning feeling in your lungs.

“[Y/N]?” You’d been so inside of your own head, you hadn’t seen Bucky at the other end of the hall. Gasping for breaths now, you allowed yourself to lean against the wall and waited for him to come to you. “Are you okay?” He asked you quietly.

You nodded “Yes” Unable to answer him verbally. He seemed unhappy with that answer.

“You wanna try that again?” He asked. His tone was gentle, inventing. It lacked the usual sarcastic whipping you were used to from him.

“I’m…fine.” You managed between gasps. You closed your eyes and tried to focus on your breathing. It was no use. A part of you was still acutely aware of the time crunch you were under. You didn’t have time for an anxiety attack, which was only making it worse.

“You can lie to me if you want to, but it’s not going to fix the situation.” Bucky said. You opened your mouth to tell him again that you were fine and instead you began to cry. You confessed to Bucky the reason that you were so upset.

“The medical supplies? [Y/N] you didn’t forget to refill those after the last mission. Tony was doing something to the jet a few weeks ago and there was a hydraulic fuel leak. A bunch of the stuff in the jet was ruined. Steve and Tony forgot they’d thrown it all away. That’s what I’m doing here.” He removed the backpack he was wearing and opened it. You could see the bag was filled with supplies.

“We have to go.” You gasped. Instead of feeling better, you felt worse. You’d wasted time coming all the way here you were making everyone else late.

“They’ll wait for us.” Bucky said with certainty. “Do you have water with you?”

“I’m not thirsty.” You told him.

“You’ll feel better if you drink water.” He produced a water bottle from his backpack and forced it into your shaking hands. You tried to sip slowly from the bottle, it did seem to loosen the horrible feeling in your gut a little. “Would it be okay if I hugged you?” He asked. “Sometimes it helps to regulate the breathing.”

You nodded. Bucky wrapped his arms around you. It was like magic how he held you just enough to feel secure but not too tight that you felt trapped.

“We’re going to take big deep breaths and let them out together, okay?” You nodded again, nestling close to him. The act felt a little childish, but it was helping you. After a minute of breathing together and sipping from your water, you were calming down. You were already feeling the post-anxiety attack drain on your system. You felt like you could sleep for a week.

“Okay.” He smiled. “Ready to go? We can take another minute if you need…”

“We should go. We’ve already kept them waiting.” You started to jog away.

“[Y/N], wait.” Bucky caught your hand and you stopped. “We can walk. The extra two minutes won’t make a difference. You continued down the hall together, with Bucky still holding your hand. You decided you should say something before you joined the others.

“Thanks for that back there.” You mumbled.

“Anytime.” He vowed. “Attacks like that can be hard to pull your own way out of. It helps to have someone who can help.”

“I hate asking for help.” You confessed.

“I’ve noticed.” He nodded. “But we’ve got your back. That’s what being on a team means.”

“I haven’t had an attack like that in a long time.” You explained. “I thought I’d grown out of it.”

“You don’t outgrow anxiety [Y/N].” He said. You didn’t know what to say. You were coming up on the quinjet and could tell everyone else had boarded. Tony was standing outside waiting for you both.

“Barnes, [Y/L/N] is this mission an inconvenience to you?” You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment and the panic rising in your chest again. Bucky gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

“Honestly, yeah, it’s put a damper on my plans for sure.” Bucky called back. “Especially since I had to go all the way to medical to refresh the supplies you ruined.”

“Well, thank you ever so kindly for your contribution Sargent Barnes.” Tony said with a salute. “Thanks for collecting him [Y/N].” Tony winked at you. “He’d probably still be down there gathering bandages without you.”

You and Bucky walked past Tony and continued onto the jet. Bucky dropped your hand and went over to the compartments designated for medical supplies. He began organizing everything While Tony and Steve prepped the jet for take-off.

“Did you find what you needed, [Y/N]?” Bruce asked.

“Hmm? Yeah, I think so.” You nodded. “What did I miss in the briefing?” You changed the subject.

The mission you’d been sent on was, all things considered, a brief one. You were all back by dinner time the following night. The most severe injury had been your own. You sustained a broken fibia when you failed to stick what should have been an easy landing for you. Clint had patched you up in the field and you’d gotten yourself to the team doctor as soon as you got back.

The team lapsed into their post mission routines. For most that meant well deserved naps in their dorms. Steve always liked to work in his debriefings right away and Tony had a new piece of alien tech he wanted to play with.

Your usual post mission routine consisted of pacing around the building until your body and mind were too tired to do anything but sleep. With a broken ankle you couldn’t exactly do that, but you still had no interest in spending the night in the infirmary. As soon as your leg was wrapped in a cast and you received the okay from the doctor, you hobbled out of the medical wing on crutches. Your dorm wasn’t too far away and you were confident you could make it all the way there without assistance.

You were already wearing a plain pair of grey sweatpants an Avengers logo tshirt that had been given to you in medical, so you didn’t bother changing once you reached your dorm. You didn’t bother turning on the lights either. You just placed your crutches by the door and hopped on one foot over to the bed. You feel asleep as soon as your head touched the pillow.

Screaming. You were awakened with a start to the sound of screams. You opened your eyes and tried to listen to where the screaming was coming from. It sounded like one of the dorms. Not wanting to waste any time, and crutches be damned, you raced from your room. The screaming had stopped, which only concerned you more. The lights were off in every dorm in the hall except one, Bucky’s.

With a sliver of light visible under his door, you knocked. When he answered Bucky was covered in sweat. His hair was sticking to his face and he was panting harder than if he’d just run a marathon.

“[Y/N], everything okay?” He asked like you’d been the one screaming your head off just know.

“You tell me, Buck.” You answered. “Either you’re having a hell of a good time in here by yourself or…” you indicated your disheveled appearance.

“Nothing to worry about.” He told you. You didn’t believe him.

“Are you really going to try to ice me out?” You raised your eyebrows at him. “I was honestly with you yesterday when…”

“It’s nothing to worry about, [Y/N].” He repeated. “I’m sorry if I woke you. Shouldn’t you be resting your leg?” He pointed to your cast.

“I was, until someone’s screaming woke me up.” You pointed out.

“Oh. Sorry about that.” He apologized awkwardly. “I’m good now.”

“Why were you screaming? Were you having nightmares again?” You asked.

“They’ll go away on their own.” He told you.

“Aren’t you the same person who told me that my anxiety wouldn’t go away on its own and that it’s okay to ask for help?” You reminded him. “I’m here, let me help.”

“It’s not that easy [Y/N].” He frowned.

“Bucky your room is across the hall from mine, so I know you don’t get nightmares every night. You haven’t found anything that helps stop them?” You questioned.

“Well,” He hesitated. There was one thing that seemed to help keep the nightmares away, but he hadn’t exactly tested his theory. He’d only noticed that while he was away on missions, if he had someone sleeping close by him, he would sleep through the night. Steve was the only person he’d felt comfortable sharing this information with so far.

“Let me help you.” You insisted, reaching out and taking his hand. Bucky explained his dilemma to you. “Oh, that’s all?” You smiled at him. “I could stay in here with you. I’m supposed to be resting my leg anyway so would be a win-win. My leg gets to rest, and we both get some sleep.”

“What if someone were to find out you were sleeping in here?” He worried.

“We don’t have tell them why.” You promised. “It’s none of their business. C’mon, help me in the bed.” You put an arm around his neck and leaned against him, relieving the weight on your bad leg.

“You’re sure this is okay with you?” He put an arm around your waist and helped you over to the bed.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.” You promised as you sat on the bed.

“Are you okay with the lights on?” he asked, sitting down next to you.

“Whatever helps Bucky.” You nodded. He laid down and you snuggled up next to him. You hadn’t imagined how soft his muscular chest would be, it was the best pillow you’d ever had. When he wrapped an arm around you to hold you close, you were immediately enveloped in warmth.

“This okay?” He questioned.

“Mm-hmm.” You hummed happily while he drew the bedcovers over both of you.

“Good night [Y/N].” He whispered as your eyes fluttered closed.

“Good night, Buck.” You yawned before drifting off to sleep.

#Bucky Barnes x Reader #Bucky Barnes Reader Insert #Bucky Barnes Fan Fiction #Bucky Barnes FF #Bucky Barnes Fan Fic #ssb2021 #BBB21 #bbb3

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