#so I stayed late after work and completely reorganised the back room

[strohller27]

.

#so I stayed late after work and completely reorganised the back room #my boss was like ‘you can just go through one box at a time and write down everything in it on a piece of paper!’ #but like. the boxes were full of a whole bunch of different sweaters in a whole bunch of different colours #and nothing was folded. and we didn’t know what sizes we had #and we DON’T HAVE A FUCKING INVENTORY and it is driving me absolutely positively CRACKERS #so I put on some loud music and organised all the sweaters in the back room by brand style and colour #i basically went autism beast all over that damn back room #and I even got the down jackets out because they’re not on the stupid floor yet #because the back room was so full of shit before I got my little autistic paws all over it that we couldn’t even fucken MOVE in there #so now we can. and I hope my manager is happy with my work. #our boss could probably care less but she doesn’t realise how much she doesn’t deserve me #my coworker deserves me tho. she deserves the world. she should get everything she wants #anyways I had to rant about it. #I’ve been overwhelmed by the amount of shit in the back room for three days straight and I said FUCK that #and this was after a fucken weird day where there was this lady complaining about our pint glasses costing $25 #and I think she was trying to make me give her a deal on something because #she kept going back to the $$$$ shit and getting outraged at the prices #and after a few rounds of that she said jokingly ‘i might start spitting at you in a moment’ #and like. I know she was joking. but that pissed me the fuck off. do not joke that you’re gonna spit at me #if you do that you don’t get to buy anything you fucking asshole you get security called on you #anyways today was fucken bonkers how was your day?

[bedbellyandbeyond]

The Straw

(Story Post)

After a long day of work, the last thing Sydryn wanted to see was their refrigerator items strewn across the kitchen counters and floor while their sibling took a nap at the kitchen table. There were also several grocery bags among the catastrophe, heaped and overflowing with countless fluffy pink pastries. “What in the world is going on here?” Sydryn demanded, loud and stern enough to startle Seranan awake. “Sissy! What, oh…” Seranan sat up and looked around. “Oh, yes. I was just doing some reorganising… But then I got tired and took a nap, I guess.” “Reorganising my refrigerator? Full of my food?” Sydryn snarled. “Why in the world would you do this? Not to mention, you left the refrigerator door wide open!” “D'uh. How else would I access it during lengthy grocery reorganisation?” Seranan asked, propping up their head. “And I did it to fit in my groceries.” Sydryn picked up one of the shopping bags and held it open. “This is entirely roll cakes!” “Yes. Disgusting, I know. You can blame your little angel for introducing me. Now I have a wicked craving all the time,” Seranan groaned. “Don't blame Köbi for this! When did you even go out and get nine bags of these? You're not to leave the house!” Seranan rolled their eyes and tapped their phone on the table. “They have grocery delivery apps now. Join us in the 21st century, Sissy.” Sydryn fumed. “You of all dragons did not just tell me to modernise...” “Just because I'm a history hoarder does not mean I don't know how to use the internet,” Seranan huffed. Sydryn threw the grocery bag down and pointed to the hall. “Get out of my kitchen immediately!” Seranan rolled their eyes and got up, cradling their underbelly like it was such a struggle. “I bought them for you too, you know. The angel said they’re your favourite.” “Stop talking to Köbi!” Sydryn snarled.

“You should be happy we get along at all...” Seranan shrugged. “All your little pets typically piss me off.” “Köbi is not my pet, he is my employee,” Sydryn growled. “That kind of talk is exactly why I do not want you talking to him.” “Where is the little ‘employee’, anyway?” Seranan huffed. “He should be here to help clean up this mess...” “First of all, he is my assistant, not your maid. Second of all, I was going to ask you the same thing. I had to work late, so he should've been home over an hour ago.” Seranan shrugged. “I haven't seen him.” Sydryn sighed and stepped out into the hall. “Köbi?” they called up the stairs. Köbi poked his head out of the powder room just down the hall. “Yes?” “Ah. You are home. Seranan said they hadn't seen you.” “Huh?” Köbi walked over and looked into the kitchen. “You don't remember me coming in?” Seranan waved a hand. “How am I supposed to pay attention to what you’re doing all the time?” “But you asked for me the minute I got home. We had a whole conversation about where Syd buys their roll cakes,” Köbi reminded. “I thought that was yesterday.” “It was definitely today, because they would've been closed yesterday.” Seranan waved a hand. “Unimportant. Must have slipped my mind. Anyway, your employer's home. Shouldn't you have dinner prepared by now?” “You specifically asked me not to come into the kitchen since you would be occupying it during your delivery,” Köbi reminded. “Several times, I checked back to see if I could get dinner started, but you hissed me away." Seranan frowned and shrugged. Sydryn groaned and grabbed Seranan by the braid. “Clean up this mess immediately, or I will burn all of these desserts and you won't have any dinner tonight!” Seranan whined. “My tail! Sissy, that's so mean! You wouldn't starve a pregnant dragon, would you?” “Starve?” Sydryn motioned the plastic wrappers strewn across the kitchen table. “You've eaten twenty of these already!” “They hold absolutely no nutritional value, though...” “Then stop eating them!” “It's a craving! I can't help it!” Köbi waded through the sea of plastic grocery bags to get to the fridge. “I was going to make a roast, but I don’t really think there’s enough time, so how about…fettuccine?” “Absolutely not. I will vomit if I eat another beet coloured pink pasta noodle,” Seranan declared. Sydryn yanked their sibling’s hair again. “You’ll eat what you’re served.” They looked to Köbi, though. “I need meat.” “Okay… Uh, how about smoked meat sandwiches?” Köbi suggested. “Perfect. Thank you.” Seranan rolled their eyes. “Everything’s always smoked meat, pink pasta, rose tea, salmon, prawns, grapefruit…” With another swift yank, Sydryn spun their sibling around grabbed their wrist tightly. “Are you mocking my hoard?” Seranan snarled, scaling up under Sydryn’s grip. “…You’re hurting me, Sissy.” “Syd, let’s calm down…” Köbi said, reaching out to take the dragon’s arm. Sydryn flinched away. “Don’t! My sibling, whom I so graciously have been putting up and feeding while they escape prosecution for dracocide, seems to think they can have an opinion on how I run my house.” Seranan glared at Sydryn. “Colours are for children. Your hoard is stupid.” Sydryn’s eyes widened, a wild look of pure and concentrated wrath set ablaze inside them. “Syd! No!” A split second later, Köbi was between them, his hands up, his stance wide. Seranan was in shock, having been pushed back down into the kitchen chair, their sibling’s grip relinquished. Sydryn’s crazed look was gone, instead replaced with surprise and distress as they stared at the angel. Light dripped from his cheek as Köbi reached out and placed a hand on Sydryn’s shoulder. “Sleep.” “Köbi—” Before Sydryn could finish, they passed out, falling into the angel’s arms. Köbi grunted under the weight then sighed as they picked up the pregnant dragon bridal style. “You’re hurt,” Seranan finally emitted, slowly standing up. “They struck you.” “I’m fine. Just a little scratch.” Köbi wiped his cheek on his shoulder and the injury completely disappeared. “Better me than you.” “I would’ve been fine,” Seranan stated, straightening up. “Dragons can scar other dragons,” Köbi reminded. “And it’s Syd I’m concerned about. They’re strung out and emotional right now. If they really hurt you, I don’t think they could forgive themself.” Seranan frowned. “So, what are you going to do? They must be heavy…” “I’m going to put them to bed for now,” Köbi said, shaking his head. “But don’t worry about what I’m doing… If I were you, I’d consider cleaning things up around here a bit. Syd won’t stay asleep long. And I think after a long day, waking up to a meal made by family would just make my day. Wouldn’t you agree?” Seranan scrunched their nose. “…You can’t tell me what to do.” “I can’t. I can only make suggestions.” Köbi carried the slumbering dragon out to the hall. “I’ll come back in a minute to help.” The red dragon barely dignified that with a huff. Köbi just continued on, taking Syd up to their bedroom. As soon as they were tucked in, Sydryn began to wake up. “...Köbi.” They looked at the angel standing beside their bed. “Did I... Did I hurt you?” “No.” Köbi shook their head. “Must've been a bad dream.” “Angels shouldn't lie...” Sydryn sighed, rubbing their eyes. “I'm so sorry...” “No, I'm sorry for sleeping you without permission,” Köbi said. “I’m not supposed to touch you...” “You did what you had to,” Syd insisted. “It could have been bad... Is Seranan alright?” Köbi nodded. “Yeah. They're perfectly fine. Don't worry about them. Tell me about your day. What's got you so riled up?” Sydryn sighed and sat up. “Everything. I have patients who shouldn't be getting pregnant getting pregnant, almost getting pregnant, and I'm pregnant, and I also have to keep an eye on Gardi, even though he wants more responsibilities, and Ix and I are supposed to be collaborating on the celestial pregnancy research, but beyond that, they hardly say a word to me and I wonder if somehow I've upset them in some way... I don't know. I genuinely enjoy working with them, but not when they won't even look me in the eyes.” “Oh. Oh, um...” Köbi rubbed his neck. “Well, if you're worried about Ix, I think you should just talk to them about it. With Reid, from what I can tell, he's pretty much fully recovered. If you trusted him to manage your practice while you were away in the Fall, I think you can trust him now. And as for all the patients, maybe giving Reid more responsibilities would be a good thing. You really need a break. You're putting a lot of stress on yourself.” Sydryn shook their head. “I can't take a break. There's too much going on and even if I let Gardi have more responsibilities, he can't take all of them on.” Köbi tilted his head. “Well, right now, you really should just rest. When dinner's ready, I'll bring it up.” “No, I should probably come down and apologise to Seranan,” Sydryn decided. Köbi shook his head. “I don't think you're ready for that. Wait for them to come to you.” Syd sighed, laying their head down. “...Alright. Thank you, Köbi.” “Don't mention it.” Köbi made his way back down the kitchen where Seranan was now trying to stuff away their groceries into any empty cupboard space they could find. Kobi noticed some bread and meat had been pulled out and placed on the kitchen table as well. “Looks like you got started,” Köbi said delighted. “I’ll get the rest out, and—” “I don’t need your help, I am perfectly capable of constructing a few sandwiches…” Seranan growled. “Go about your business.” “Okay… I just wanted to add, um…” Köbi rubbed his neck. “I’m sorry I prioritised Syd in the situation when they lashed out. After what you’ve been through before, I can understand if this situation was…difficult for you.” Seranan’s eyes narrowed as they turned their gaze onto the angel in disgust. “If you’re trying to suggest that any of my experiences have left me weak with ‘emotional trauma’ or some kind of ‘victim complex’, you are sorely mistaken.” “Alright. Well, just so you know, you can always talk to me,” Köbi stated. “Actually, I’ve been explicitly told not to talk to you, and from this point on, I plan to follow along.” “Okay.” Köbi shrugged. “Well, I like pickles with my smoked meat sandwiches.” “I fail to see the one who asked!” Köbi chuckled before backing out. “Talk to you later, then.” “You will not!”

#lore #Sydryn #Seranan #Köbi #nbpreg #ovipreg

[oftenderweapons]

TikTok Towel Trick

Pairing: member x reader 

Wordcount: 400 to 600 words each

Genre: fluff, mild smut

Rating: suggested 18+

He's not paying you attention? Try wearing nothing but a towel and dropping it right in front of his eyes.

Saw a post that suggested this and I had to comply. It’s a cute/fluffy/angsty/lowkey smutty (implied smut) galore. Enjoy!

Also, here is my Masterlist

Namjoon

It was a lazy afternoon, Namjoon and you had been watching documentaries on the sofa, his body comfortably sitting while your head lied on his lap, his attention increasingly shifting towards the tv. He was so focused on exoplanets or something that he actually didn’t notice the way you were staring at him, that focused look on his face sending little sparks of longing through your spine.

“Joon”. Your hand snaked around his calf and you started dragging your nails softly agains his skin. “Joon”.

“Wait a sec babe”.

And a second became twenty minutes of him clenching his jaw in concentration, his glasses continuously sliding from the bridge of his nose, and him subsequently sliding them back in that half quirky half sexy move of his. Biting your lip you decided that you might as well try something more aggressive. Standing up, Namjoon complaining because you obstructed the view of his oh-so-beloved documentary, you headed for the bedroom, a small pout on your lips. You quickly and briskly undressed and wrapped yourself in a towel. “Joon” you called one last time, a warning delivered with the most saccharine voice.

No answer. So you headed back for the living room and stood right behind the sofa where he was sitting. You cleared your throat and threw the towel right at the television, half covering the screen. “May I have your attention, sir?”

As he heard his favourite voice of yours - that bedroom voice - Joon turned, eyes wide in childlike surprise, his mouth forming a small “o” and then spreading in a mischievous smile. He carefully dragged his gaze back to your face. “Someone is being needy today” he bit his lip and his eyelids lowered in that sultry expression that always drove you crazy. He turned and switched off the tv. Still staring straight ahead he murmured. “Come over baby, let me show you what you got yourself into”.

Jin

He had promised. Promised he would stay in bed and let you make him breakfast. Instead you had woken up to an empty, cold bed and no Mister Worldwide Handsome in immediate proximity. You had been living together for six months now and you had woken up with his face on the pillow next to yours maybe four or five times. Of course, you tended to sleep in while he was more of a morning person, but still you wanted to see your boyfriend first thing in the morning, and maybe enjoy that natural tenderness of having just woken up and other things... So you thought that you might as well get two birds with one stone and drag your boyfriend back to bed while also getting yourself rid of that tendril of wanting coiling in your core. You undressed -- a bit clumsily because you were still half asleep -- and wrapped a towel around you. Feet softly padding to the kitchen -- he was obviously there -- you caught him tasting a blueberry from the plate of pancakes he had prepared for you two. “Oh, good morning honey, you headed for a shower? Maybe you should get breakfast while it’s still warm.”

Your mind quickly corrected your plan. “Maybe you could have a shower with me, Jinnie?” And batting your eyelashes you let the towel fall. “Or maybe you could come back to bed?”

Jin’s face let his confusion and shock show. When he came back to reality, he quickly closed his mouth, staring at your breasts for the shortest second in history, then shutting his eyes and focusing them back in yours. He opened his mouth a couple times as if trying to talk, but then changing his idea, closing it again.

His head kept going back and forth between you and the pancakes. “But breakfast?” He said, looking at you. You shook your head slowly, licking your lips. 

“But they’re still warm...” he whined. You let your hand graze against your chest. “You could bring them to the bedroom with some whipped cream”.

His gaze sparked up in mischief, lips curling in a small smile. Pointing gun fingers at you he said: “I really, really love you.” Then he quickly prepped the ingredients to your spicy breakfast. You simply smiled. Mission accomplished.

Yoongi

Saturday night, you wanted only ONE REGULAR SATURDAY NIGHT. Nothing big, just staying in, maybe cooking together, maybe ordering some take away, dinner together, a bottle of wine, a film and then getting to bed at a decent hour. Getting something more than twenty minutes of Yoongi guzzling his food and then disappearing into his home studio, only to reappear at three am, sliding under the covers behind you, kissing your nape and falling asleep.

And on the side, maybe you also wanted some reminder of those early days, when he would never have enough of you, completely forgetting himself and taking hours to please you. You had complete respect for his job and you would never dare complain about his work ethics, but you wanted that meticulousness and attention aimed at something different - namely, yourself. Just for one Saturday night, just a couple hours.

So after you knocked at the door of his home studio at dinner time you got quite irritated when he said he’d join you later and asked you to close the door.

At that point there wasn’t much left to do. Getting rid of your clothes you wore your favourite accessory and wrapped yourself in a towel.

Knowing it could take a while, you got comfortable on the sofa facing the door of his studio, a book in hand and some snack to quiet down your rumbling stomach. After almost an hour of waiting you heard some shuffling from within his studio.

Yoongi aimed straight at the kitchen, not even noticing you on the sofa. You were outright insulted. You might as well have taken care of yourself.

Once he arrived in the kitchen he looked around, as if looking for you. He turned and finally noticed you on the sofa. “Babe?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’s dinner?” Then he wasn’t looking for you, but just for the food. Wonderful.

You put your book down on the coffee table and stood up, your towel still around you. You ignored his question and turned your back to him, walking to the bedroom.

Once you were right in front of the door you dropped your towel, showing the lovely harness he had gifted you for your first anniversary.

“Dinner’s right here. If you still know how to eat it.” You smirked.

Yoongi got completely still, his pout a lovely, perfectly round circle. He licked his lips a couple time, he brought his hand to his mouth and when he uncovered it his characteristic side smirk emerged, shortly followed by his sinful fingers combing his hair back. He didn’t even bother blinking, his stare fixed on you.

“I’m sorry, love.” He said taking a step closer. “I’ve been ungrateful lately.” Standing right in front of you, he caressed your cheek and kissed your forehead devotedly.

“Yes, you have.” You lamented.

“Then let me make up for it.” He looked for permission in your eyes, then he briskly grabbed the central ring of your harness and turned you around delivering a quick smack on your behind. “Get in the bedroom, sweetheart, we’re gonna be there for a good while.”

Hoseok

It was rare for Hobi not to pay attention to you. Usually the moment you called his name he would look at you right away, attention undivided, eyes and ears on you.

But today wasn’t that day. Your Hobi was currently online shopping after you decided to redecorate your apartment. Not that you didn’t love designing your new space together. Actually you loved it, but with his busy schedule and your frequent work trips you had little time together and you much rather spending it enjoying each other’s physical presence than watching him get more equipment for his studio and look for the right carpet to match the white leather sofa in the living room -- which, by the way, he could show you sending you the link even when you were on the other side of the world.

So trying to get the best of both of you being in the same place, at the same time, you decided to do that towel trick you had seen on tiktok and snatch his attention away from those expensive (and absolutely superfluous) home cinema speakers.

Excusing yourself, you left the room and took your sweet time getting ready for him, putting on his favourite lotion, some excessively bright lipstick and that necklace he had bought you (and that you never wore because you were too afraid to lose it). All wrapped up in a towel you happily went back to the bedroom where he was casually typing on his computer.

“I was thinking we might need to reorganise the kitchen, you know? We could use one of those kitchenaids-- Hey, I thought we were redecorating together! No way you’re going to take a shower now!” His brow furrowed in disappointment as he saw you in a towel.

“What if we did something else together?” You said as you dropped the towel. The grin on his face was immediate.

“Oh sweetie, that’s-- wow. Wow babe, that’s-- lovely.” He quickly closed his laptop and put it on his bedside table. “Is that the lipstick? That one lipstick?”

You nodded as you climbed on the bed.

“Oh jagiya, so pretty-- so hot-- all mine...”

“Take off your clothes and then take off my lipstick, please?” You smiled sweetly.

Hoseok had never looked happier than that.

Jimin

Jimin is the loveliest, cutest creature in the world and you adore him from the top of his head to tip of his toes. Your babyboy brought joy and tenderness in your life beyond belief, his sweetness swallowing your life in spotless splendour. Still he could be needy every now and then, turning to a sour, bratty mood whenever you couldn’t meet his requests. Which is exactly what was happening. Unfortunately your boss had required you to stay a little longer for an extraordinary meeting with some foreign client, which had turned to drinks, which had turned to dinner, which had turned to you sending a text to your boyfriend to inform him that you wouldn’t make it to your weekly film night.

You had arrived at his place at almost two am, only to find his bed empty. You switched on your bedside lamp: no Jimin.

You had a mild idea regarding his whereabouts. As you slipped on a robe, you ventured in the guestroom, where he was very likely sleeping. Indeed you noticed a pile of covers in the middle of the bed. You had very highly fucked up.

He had confessed that the feeling of you nuzzling in the crook of his neck under the covers was his favourite thing in the world so, if he decided to deprive himself of that, he must have been very angry. You decided you needed a treat to get on his good side again. And you had an idea.

You set the alarm quite early for the following morning, hoping you would get in the kitchen before him. Unfortunately you woke up to a cacophony of noises, coming precisely from the kitchen. So his revenge had begun. As you got there you noticed him noisily making his fresh orange juice, the news blasting from the tv. He turned on the mixer to scramble some eggs (he was so obviously trying to be loud).

“Good morning” you said, voice calm and sweet.

“Morning” he replied dryly.

“About last night-” you began.

He set the mixer on a higher level and pointed a finger to his ear, as if saying “I can’t hear you.”

You smirked and unplugged the mixer, then started looking for the remote - which he had surely hidden.

“What are you looking for?” He said, his voice dripping in sarcasm.

You switched the tv off with the buttons hidden behind the screen.

The house was now silent. “I am sorry about last night.”

“What about it?” He replied, offended, his eyes cast downwards.

“You know my boss...”

“Yeah, I know your boss. Maybe you should ask him to keep your bed warm.”

You felt the poison but rather than being offended, you thought you might have hurt him more than what you thought you had.

Wordlessly you retreated to the bedroom. When you came back a while later, you noticed Jimin watching a film on the sofa, a pout still on his lips, arms crossed.

“Jiminie.” No answer.

Time for the treat. As you got back to the living room, clad only in a towel, you started your sweet talking. “I realised that lately I’ve been neglecting my precious boyfriend. He’s always so sweet--” you took a step toward him, your praises growing more affectionate “-- and caring. And sooooo perfect. He’s the loveliest babyboy in the world.” You were now almost in front of him, but he just spared you a side glance. “So I thought I should show my gratitude, and show how sorry I am, and how much of a good boy he is,” and that was his undoing, together with the towel now laying on his lap and your naked body right in front of him. As he extended his arms toward you, you straddled him without second thought, his arms naturally enveloping around your middle and his head buried in your chest. “My lovely, perfect man.” You said, caressing his hair.

“It’s-- I’ve been very stressed lately. I just wanted to talk to you about it and then you said you were late and then I thought you wouldn’t come at all and I felt so under pressure.” He confessed.

“I’m here now.”

Taehyung

Okay, videogames were interesting but you? You had the looks of a goddess and you were REAL! Sure, maybe your boobs didn’t explode out of your corset like those ridiculous side characters, and your hips did not match the proportions of a watermelon, but still you looked pretty good. And most importantly you had actual desires and impulses. A bit more than a binary code and some strategic character design. You didn’t have extraordinary plans for the day, but you just wanted to spend some time with your boyfriend and drag him away from his liveplay with Jungkook -- the two of them saw each other almost every day so Taehyung could as well borrow you a couple hours of his precious gaming-with-Jungoogie time. “Tae, can you please turn down the volume, I’m trying to read.”

“Yeah babe”. But still, you continued hearing Jungkook’s voice from the headset and Taehyung kept half shouting directions in his microphone, every now and then mouthing a profanity or two.

Since Taehyung was so wrapped up in his game you decided to experiment that technique he had shown you a few weeks ago.

You came back to the living room in nothing but a towel, his foot bare against the marble floor.

Taehyung’s eyes were immediately on you. He batted his eyelashes quickly then his face opened up in the most enthusiastic, childlike boxy grin he could sport, eyes wide like saucers.

“Jungkook-ah, it’s happening, gotta go.” He interrupted the game immediately and removed his headset in a flash putting it on top of the coffee table in a brisk but delicate manner.

And now you had his undivided attention. “Come on baby” he could barely hide his excitement. “Let it fall.”

You raised an eyebrow and finally uncovered your nakedness.

The childlike, enthusiastic grin immediately matured into a dark, expressive gleam of his eyes and a stern, tight line at his mouth. Biting his lip, he brought a finger to his lips, the gesture hitting a switch inside you, making your cheeks heaten under his predatory gaze.

“I’ve been trying to get you to do this for weeks.” He said, getting on all fours on the floor and slowly crawling to you. When he was almost at your feet you stopped him, placing your toe against his chest.

“You have a lot of grovelling to do first.”

“I am more than eager to begin.” He said kissing your calf.

Those big-breasted girls might look interesting, but after all you were his goddess.

Jungkook

Gaming sessions with Taehyung and occasionally with Jin were absolutely normal for Jungkook. What wasn’t normal was the fact that he was doing that while being with you. Whenever Jungkook had time with you he tried to spend it together, talking, cooking, laying in bed watching movies, listening to music, working out, anything as long as it allowed you two to bond. Sometimes you also gamed together -- which made this improv gaming sesh with Taehyung even more suspect. 

And you knew exactly where all of this was coming from. 

A few days ago you had shown him a tiktok where a girl appeared before his boyfriend naked while he was busy doing something. He had blushed and teased you endlessly about you being a perv and people being absolutely shameless, saying it was just outright crazy. But still, you saw the way his eyes roamed down your body while you asked if it was all that bad. Your boyfriend was shy and even if he acted all judgey and quiet, you could tell that he wanted it. 

And since he expected the whole towel trick to happen -- he was quietly begging you to make it happen -- you had to find a way to truly surprise him. You were in the kitchen when you heard him grumble and puff out a breath. He paused the game and came in the kitchen. “You okay, Koo?” You asked. 

His mood looked slightly sour. “Tae left the game. Said he’s busy.” He huffed. “Do we have ramen?”

You pointed to the upper cabinet and watched him reach for it. His thin white cotton shirt showed the muscles of his back stretching and from the warmth spreading on your face and chest you immediately knew what to do. 

Rushing to the bedroom -- timing is fundamental -- you changed out of your clothes and into his robe. Spying him from the corridor you watched as he kept his back to you while putting the ramen inside the microwave. As you heard the ding of the timer, you watched as he took the ramen from the microwave. Swiftly nearing him, you hugged him from the back making sure that he put the bowl down (you didn’t want him to spill it and accidentally hurt himself or you). 

“What?” He said, neutral.

“Don’t you want some of this first?” You asked, making him turn around and quickly unwrapping his robe from your body. 

Jungshook meme: unlocked. 

It took him at least five seconds to regain control of his own brain. 

“You look so good, baby. Can I...?” He didn’t know what to do with himself. 

“Don’t you wanna eat first?” You asked, a lowering your eyes and biting your lip.

“Uhm.” You had officially sent him short circuiting. His eyes were fighting between instinct and decency. “Maybe later?” He said goofily.

You smiled your biggest smile and did a cute come hither gesture that made him trot towards you, throwing you over his shoulder and placing a big, playful bite on your outer thigh. “That’s a snack.” He exclaimed carrying you to the bedroom. “Now I want the full meal.”

#bangtan sonyeondan #bts #bts imagines #bts reactions #namjoon x reader #jin x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #jimin x reader #taehyung x reader #jungkook x reader #namjoon imagine #jin imagine #yoongi imagine #hoseok imagine #jimin imagine #taehyung imagine #jungkook imagine

[calumcest]

fight so dirty but your love’s so sweet

[ao3]

SO i participated in a fic event with a bunch of other very talented writers where we all took a prompt and had to include a phrase in the fic. my prompt was lashton - bad boy so...here is what i managed to come up with 

the masterlist of all the fics for this event can be found here 

this fic would be absolutely nowhere without @calumsclifford and @5sosnsfw i owe them an eternal debt of gratitude for their help with coming up with ideas and listening to me scream about it for days on end because i just could not write it and also to jex for betaing for me i owe you my soul at this point i think 

also i literally said when i started this i was going to struggle to keep it under 10k but honestly what do you expect from me? brevity? absolutely not. on the topic i want it to be known that i finished this fic at exactly 4:58pm and it is due at 5pm will i ever change? no. keep your expectations of me low and we will all do just fine 

-

Luke hates a good ninety-five percent of his job. 

A solid thirty percent of that comes from the fact that he works as a receptionist at a hotel, which he thinks is possibly the most thankless job humanity could possibly have created. A further ten comes from the fact that his desk is right next to the kitchen, meaning mouth-watering smells are constantly wafting under his nose, and Luke’s not allowed to eat on shift. 

Fifty-five percent of it, though, is Ashton.  

Ashton doesn’t work at the hotel, but Luke’s pretty sure he’s there more regularly than half of the staff who do. He’s Calum’s friend, or they live together, or they’re in a gang together, or something, because Calum is how Luke knows Ashton’s name. Ashton will always slouch against Luke’s desk, cigarette tucked behind his ear, and then Calum will come out of the kitchen and Ashton will push himself off the desk and walk out with him. Luke’s never spoken to Calum, but he knows Calum’s boyfriend Michael works as a concierge on night shift, and that Michael doesn’t like Luke’s organising system. Luke doesn’t like Michael’s, and especially doesn’t like that he has to rearrange his entire desk every day when Michael’s shift ends at nine a.m. Neither of them is willing to be the first to give in, although privately Luke thinks that if Michael ever said a word to him about it he’d fold and let Michael have his shitty system and probably, like, Luke’s house, or something. Luke’s not very good at confrontation or standing his ground. 

Here’s the thing, though. Luke kind of likes Ashton. He likes the way Ashton’s black curls fall into his face and he doesn’t seem to care, likes the way his hazel eyes light up when he smiles, likes the way he gesticulates a lot when he talks. Ashton’s hot, and Luke’s lonely, and lusting over hot guys from afar is pretty much how he’s lived his entire life.  

However, Luke doesn’t like people leaning against his desk, which is one thing Ashton does. He also doesn’t like strangers speaking to him outside of a professional capacity, which is another thing Ashton does. He especially doesn’t like when he’s trying to deal with a difficult guest and Ashton takes it upon himself to tell them to go fuck themselves, because then Luke’s job is made ten times harder.  

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he says, hurriedly, as Ashton leans back against the desk, leather jacket rubbing noisily against the wood. 

“Excuse me?” the guest says to Ashton, halfway between incredulous and infuriated. Ashton shrugs. 

“You heard me,” he says coolly. “Go fuck yourself.” 

“Sir, I sincerely apologise,” Luke says, almost begging. “Of course I can refund you for breakfast. Which room number should I process the refund for?” 

“Who are you?” the guest says, and Ashton pushes himself off the desk, drawing himself up to his full height. 

“You wanna know who I am?” he says. His tone might be lazy, his face might be carefully slack, but his hazel eyes are hard, an edge of a threat in the way he cocks his head. 

“I want your name,” the guest blusters. “I want to file a complaint for your behaviour.” Ashton’s lips quirk up in an amused smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I’d be happy to introduce you to my boss,” he says, taking another step closer to the guest. The guest takes a small step back, stumbling as he does, and Ashton edges closer, baring his teeth in a grin. “But I can’t promise you’d come back in one piece.” 

“Your room number?” Luke says, trying to diffuse the situation, and it only comes out as half-squeaky, which is pretty good going for him. 

“Uh, actually, it’s okay,” the guest says, words tripping over themselves in their hurry to leave his lips. “Um. Thanks.” With that, he turns on his heel and speedwalks out of the lobby. 

Well. Fuck. 

Ashton watches him leave, then grins, pleased with himself, and turns back to Luke. Luke swallows, feeling himself flush under the heat of Ashton’s gaze. 

“You’re welcome, pretty boy,” Ashton says, when Luke says nothing. Pretty boy. Luke hates when Ashton makes fun of him like that.

“Thanks,” Luke mumbles, even though he absolutely doesn’t mean it. Guests like that never just leave it; his manager will be getting a strongly worded email later, and Luke’s going to get fucking reamed for it. 

“You’re fucking cute when you blush,” Ashton comments casually, sauntering back over to Luke’s desk. Luke doesn’t know what to say to that, never does, so he says nothing, pretending to be completely preoccupied with making a note for James, the guy on evening shift, to process the refund for the guest anyway. He’s not sure why the guy waited until five p.m. to ask for a refund for breakfast, but whatever. James’s problem now, not Luke’s. 

With two minutes left to go on his shift and Ashton’s eyes burning into the back of his head, Luke busies himself with gathering his things together so he won’t have to look at Ashton. He can feel Ashton’s eyes follow him as he gets up and shrugs his coat on, and wishes Calum’s shift would hurry the fuck up and end already. Luke always has to wait an extra couple of minutes for James, who’s always late, and Calum’s usually out of the door at five on the dot. 

Sure enough, as Luke watches the clock on his computer tick over to five, the door to the kitchen bangs open and Calum strides out, face splitting into a grin when he sees Ashton. 

“How’d you get here?” he asks, and Ashton pushes himself off Luke’s desk again to fall into step with Calum.

“Took Michael’s bike,” he hears Ashton say as they walk out. “Mine’s still in the fucking shop.” 

“He’s going to be pissed if you get him another tick-,” Calum says, cut off when they walk out of the lobby. James passes through the door they’d pushed open as it swings shut, and Luke lets out a heavy sigh of relief. 

“Would it kill you to get an earlier train?” he asks James as he pulls his bag off the chair, even though this is early for James. 

“Maybe,” James says. “Haven’t tried it, just in case.” Luke rolls his eyes, shouldering his bag. 

“See you tomorrow,” he says. “I’ve left a couple of notes for you.” James nods, sitting down in the chair and pulling the keyboard towards him. 

“See you,” he says. Luke nods, starting to walk away, when James shouts- “Hey, Luke!” 

“Huh?” Luke spins around to see James holding out a scrap of paper. “What?” 

“You left this,” James says, waving the paper. Luke frowns. 

“No I didn’t,” he says. 

“Well, it says Luke on the front,” James says, arm still outstretched. Luke hesitates for a moment, because he really hasn’t left anything behind - he’d checked meticulously when he’d been packing, anything to avoid Ashton’s gaze - before crossing the room back over to James and taking the paper from his hand. 

“Thanks,” he says. James makes a ‘don’t mention it’ hand movement, eyes already on the computer screen. 

Luke’s eyes flick down to the piece of paper in his hand - it does indeed say ‘Luke’, which kind of surprises him, although he’s not sure what James would have had to gain from lying about that. 

“You’re going to miss your train,” James says, not looking up from the screen, and shit, he is. Luke pockets the note and heads towards the doors of the lobby. 

“Wouldn’t miss it if you would fucking get here on time,” he says, pushing the doors open. 

“Fuck you!” James sing-songs after him, and Luke grins as the cool May air hits his face. 

 -------

 Luke forgets about the note in his pocket until he shoves his hands in his pockets to protect them from the biting wind on his way from the station to his house. He curls his fingers around the paper so he doesn’t forget about it, not wanting to lose it to the wind that’s howling in his ears, only letting go even when he has to unlock the front door.

As soon as he’s safely inside and has kicked his shoes off and chucked his bag down next to the sofa, he pulls the note out of his pocket and unfolds it. 

Golden boy, 

Golden curls, golden smile, golden heart. You burn me with how bright you shine, drown me out with your smile. 

What I wouldn’t give for you to see me. 

- AFI 

Luke stares at it. 

What the fuck? 

This has to be some kind of a joke. AFI? Like the fucking band? Luke doesn’t even listen to them. Or, actually, maybe there’s another Luke this is intended for. Luke does work as a receptionist, after all. Maybe someone dropped it off, wanting him to pass it on to a guest called Luke. It’s a pretty common name, so that’s not out of the bounds of possibility. 

Yeah, Luke thinks, folding the note back up carefully and putting it back in his pocket. He’ll check the list tomorrow morning, and see if there are any Lukes staying at the moment. 

 -------

 Michael’s always gone by the time Luke gets to the desk, even though Luke gets there ten minutes early every day. Luke often wonders how long Michael’s actually at work, whether he just fucks off at eight when things start getting slow after the early morning checkouts have gone. 

The start to the day is usually slow, which is good since Luke always has to reorganise the entire desk from the way Michael’s trashed it (seriously, who puts the returned room keys in alphabetical rather than numerical order?). It takes him until half-past to sort that out, cross-referring the guest database to the keys and hoping some deity takes pity on him and curses Michael to the ninth circle of Hell. By then, a steady stream of people are going in for breakfast, and Luke starts getting his first red-eye check-ins. 

The note completely slips his mind (again) until a lull at half-past three makes him decide to check his phone, which is in his jacket pocket. His fingers brush the paper as he reaches in, and he suddenly jolts, remembering he’d been meaning to look up all the Lukes currently staying at the hotel. 

Phone forgotten, he pulls the database up again, and does a quick search for Luke. Four names flash back at him, and Luke sits back, sort of satisfied, sort of disappointed. Some part of him had kind of hoped there weren’t any Lukes staying, and the note had been intended for him. The last time anyone had said anything nice to Luke was probably, like, a good three years ago. And it was probably his mum. 

He sets a note next to all four Lukes for himself, James and Michael to ask whether they’d been expecting a message when they check out, and then pushes the note from his mind and gets back to work. 

He barely even notices the time pass, so focused on answering emails, until there’s a tapping at his desk. He looks up, a customer-service smile already plastered on his face, only for it to slide off when he sees Ashton. 

“No need to look so happy to see me, pretty boy,” Ashton says, flicking a lighter on and off idly, but his eyes are twinkling. Luke swallows, and turns back to his screen. 

“Good afternoon,” he says politely, typing out a reply to a booking request and steadfastly not looking at Ashton. Ashton leans against Luke’s desk, leather jacket rubbing loudly against the wood, and Luke wishes he had the balls to tell him to stop. 

“I’m not a guest,” Ashton says. “You don’t have to be polite to me.” Yeah, but I’m kind of terrified of you, Luke thinks sourly, as he nods primly. 

“I’m on shift,” he says. “I’m polite to everyone.” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ashton’s lips quirk up in a grin. 

“I bet you are,” he says, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear and putting it between his lips.

“Um- you can’t do that in here,” Luke says, as Ashton flicks the lighter on again and lights the cigarette. Ashton looks up, arching an eyebrow. 

“Oh?” he says, around the cigarette. “Are you going to stop me, pretty boy?” Luke opens his mouth, and then closes it again, because who the fuck is he kidding? He’s not going to say shit. The fire alarm will speak for him, anyway. 

Ashton smokes in silence for a few minutes, and Luke thanks God that five isn’t a popular checkout time, so he doesn’t have to deal with guests throwing Ashton (and Luke) dirty looks. Five more minutes until Calum comes out, he tells himself. He can make it through five more minutes. 

“Do you smoke?” Ashton asks after four and a half minutes have passed, out of the blue. Luke blinks at him for a moment, realising Ashton’s talking to him. 

“Uh, no,” he says. Ashton cocks his head. 

“Shame,” he says. “Bet your lips would look good around a cigarette.” 

Luke has absolutely no idea how to respond, because he never knows what to say when Ashton mocks him like that, but he’s saved from answering by the door to the kitchen slamming open and Calum walking out, already grinning before he even sees Ashton. 

“Mate, I got a pay rise,” he says, as he and Ashton set off without a backwards glance. 

“Who’d you fuck for that?” Ashton asks, laughing as he dodges a punch to the arm from Calum. Luke just stares at them as they walk away, still bickering about Calum’s pay rise, wondering why Ashton gets such a kick out of making fun of Luke. His thoughts are cut short, however, when the fire alarm suddenly starts blaring. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says, scrambling to his feet and sprinting to the box to press the reset button before guests start piling down the stairs. 

Grace sticks her head out of the kitchen door, frowning. 

“Wasn’t us, I swear,” she says, seeing Luke pressing the reset button like his life depends on it. 

“I know,” Luke says. 

“Why does it smell like smoke in here?” 

“Uh, does it?” Grace’s frown deepens, and then there’s a shout from the kitchen and her head disappears again. The fire alarm finally stops, just as James walks through the door, giving Luke a confused look as he ambles over. 

“They burn toast again?” he asks, because none of them are ever going to let the kitchen live that one down. Luke shakes his head, and James wrinkles his nose. “Hey, why’s it smell like smoke out here?” 

“Don’t know,” Luke says as he shrugs his coat on, hoping there’s no ash on the carpet, or anything. “I’ve got to go, I’m going to miss my train. See you tomorrow.” 

“Hey,” James says, holding out another piece of paper. “Stop leaving shit behind.” 

“That’s not mine,” Luke says. James frowns at it, and then at Luke. 

“Says your name on it. 

“Yeah, I think it’s for a guest,” Luke says. “I made a note in the system. There’s four Lukes here right now.” James’s brow remains furrowed. 

“No, I think it’s for you,” he says. 

“I’m pretty sure it’s not,” Luke says. 

“Take it.” 

“I have to go.” 

“Well, take it with you.” Luke rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t have time to argue with James anymore because he really is going to miss his train, so he just snatches the note out of James’s hand and makes a mental note to bring it back tomorrow. 

“Don’t miss your train,” James calls, as Luke speedwalks towards the door. Luke just flips him off over his shoulder, hunching into himself as the cold May wind wraps itself around him. 

 -------

 This time, Luke reads the note on the train. 

Golden boy, 

I try not to look at you, as if you were the sun, but I see you, like the sun, even without looking.

Let me bask in your sunlight. 

- AFI. 

Luke frowns. 

He knows those words. That’s Anna Karenina, with the pronouns changed. Someone’s quoting Tolstoy to whoever this mystery Luke is that these notes are intended for, and Luke’s kind of a little bit envious. He wants someone to write him romantic, literary love notes. 

Whatever, he thinks, shoving the note back into his pocket with a little more force than strictly necessary. He hopes whichever Luke gets these notes appreciates them, and the effort Luke’s putting into getting them to him. 

 -------

 There’s a note in the system when Luke gets to work the next day. 

not luke evans - michael 

Okay, Luke thinks, clicking on the three remaining Lukes still checked into the hotel. Their checkout dates are all in the next couple of days, so Luke still has time to get the notes to whichever one it is. He’s put both scraps of paper in a corner of the desk, folded carefully so the name is clearly visible, lest James or Michael forget about them.  

He clicks off the Luke Evans note, and another note pops up. 

stop fucking with the room keys - michael

Luke’s kind of outraged at that. There’s literally nothing that makes any less sense than organising the room keys alphabetically rather than numerically. It takes more time to do anyway, because it means cross-referencing the key number to the guest database. He’s not sure whether Michael’s joking or just a masochist, but either way, Luke’s not having it. 

Stop putting them in fucking alphabetical order then. - Luke 

He presses enter before he has the time to second-guess it, because this is a topic that’s close to his heart, and if Michael actually fucking listens it’ll save Luke half an hour every day. He quashes the instant flare of fear that forces its way up his throat the minute he’s made the note, because he’s a little bit terrified of Michael, and clicks onto his emails, ready to make a dent in his already-full inbox. 

It’s a Friday, which is one of the busiest days at the hotel, so Luke’s checking people in and out for most of the day. His cheeks hurt from politely smiling by the time it starts to slow around four-thirty, and he has to stop himself from sighing when a shadow appears over him twenty-five minutes later. He’d hoped that was it for guests for today.  

When he looks up, though, he’s confronted with Ashton, leaning against his desk with a grin on his face. He’s not sure whether that’s better or worse than another guest. 

“Afternoon, pretty boy,” Ashton says. He’s got his usual leather jacket on, and his hair is all fucking windswept, and Luke doesn’t think he should be this attracted to someone he doesn’t know and is a little afraid of, but whatever. 

“Afternoon,” Luke says politely, averting his gaze and hoping Ashton doesn’t see the slight blush creeping up his cheeks. Ashton’s gaze flicks over to the pile of room keys Luke’s still got to wipe.

“Busy day, huh?” he says, indicating to the room keys with a tilt of his head. Luke just nods, and keeps typing. “Y’know, I sometimes wonder if I should quit the day job and become a receptionist.” 

“Oh,” Luke says, because what the fuck else can he say? 

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “Probably wouldn’t be nearly as much fun, though.” Luke purses his lips. He’s not sure whether Ashton’s trying to shit on Luke’s job, big up his own job, or get Luke to employ him. Luke’s not in charge of hiring, anyway, and if Ashton’s hoping he’ll put in a good word, he’s got another fucking thing coming. 

“Right,” he says eventually, when it becomes clear Ashton’s waiting for some kind of response. He kind of wants to know what Ashton does for a living, given that he seems to have the time to hang around waiting for his friends during normal working hours, but he’s far too shy to ask. Plus, what if the answer’s, like, assassin, or something? 

He doesn’t end up needing to ask, though, because Ashton supplies the answer for him. 

“I work at a bar,” he says, flashing Luke a grin. “Barback.” 

“Not bartender?” Luke asks in surprise, before he can stop himself, because Ashton doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d be content to not be the centre of attention. Ashton laughs, and Luke’s stomach flips at the sound. He’s not really sure why it makes something warm fizz through his veins, why it makes him want to make Ashton laugh again. 

“Not trained,” he says. “I’m just working off a debt.” And, okay. Luke’s not really sure he wants to know what said debt is. No debt that needs to be paid off by barbacking sounds like one Luke needs to hear about.  

“Right,” he says again, hoping he doesn’t sound as flustered as he feels. 

“You should come by sometime, pretty boy,” Ashton says casually. “Bar’s on King Street.” 

“Oh,” Luke says. “Thanks. Yeah. Maybe.” Jesus Christ. His job is talking to people - why the fuck is he suddenly so bad at it when it’s a hot (and mildly terrifying) guy?  

“You can drink on the house,” Ashton says, eyes twinkling, “as long as you give me your number afterwards.” Luke feels his mouth drop open slightly, stuttering as his mind tries to both process what Ashton’s said and string together some syllables in response, but then the door to the kitchen slams open and Calum stalks out, looking furious. Luke jumps at the sound and shrinks into himself a little at the irate look on Calum’s face, but Ashton just looks over his shoulder lazily. 

“Afternoon,” he says idly, falling into step with Calum, who doesn’t even pause.  

“You come on Michael’s bike again?” Calum says, and Ashton nods. “Good. Fucking crash it on the way ba-” The door swings shut behind them, cutting him off, and Luke stares at where they’d been standing two seconds ago in surprise. What the fuck could Michael have done that was so bad Calum wanted Ashton to crash his bike?  

Luke shakes himself out of it and starts shoving his things haphazardly in his bag, because he’d been too distracted by Ashton to remember to pack, and as he’s wrapping his scarf around his neck, James ambles through the door. 

“Fucking cold out,” is how he greets Luke, from underneath his scarf. Luke indicates to his own.  

“It’s May, mate,” he says. James rolls his eyes, pink-cheeked from the wind, and tugs his scarf off as he walks behind the desk.  

“See you tomorrow,” Luke says, heading for the door. 

“Stop leaving your fucking notes behind,” James says, before Luke’s even got halfway there, and Luke rolls his eyes before spinning on his heel to face James. 

“They’re not for me,” he says. 

“They are,” James says, holding the note out. “Why else would whoever’s leaving them leave them here?” 

“Because they don’t know the room number of the Luke they want?” Luke suggests. James rolls his eyes. 

“They could ask.”

“Maybe they want to remain anonymous.” 

“They’d be anonymous to this hypothetical Luke, anyway, because they’re dropping it off at the reception,” James points out. 

“Well, I-” 

“Take the fucking note, Luke.” Luke scowls, but James isn’t going to let this go, and Luke doesn’t have the time to argue or he’s going to miss his train, so he just rolls his eyes and snatches the note from James’s outstretched hand. 

“Hope you make it,” James calls behind him as he starts to jog towards the door, and Luke just flips him off without looking back. 

-------

 Golden boy, 

Your lips are on my mind day and night, night and day. I wonder just how many other hearts they’ve sent racing. 

You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how. 

- AFI.

Luke frowns at it. Huh. Gone With The Wind. Whoever this AFI person is knows their literature, and Luke’s trying his best not to be impressed by it. 

Whatever, he thinks, shoving the note back into his pocket and trying not to be too sullen about the fact that some Luke out there is getting romantic, literary notes written for him. He’ll put it with the others on the desk on Monday. 

 -------

 Luke’s weekend is spent watching movies and eating junk food, with a little feeling sorry for himself sprinkled into the mix, so he’s feeling pretty well-rested by the time he gets into work on Monday morning. He steps through the door at ten to nine, shakes out his umbrella before slotting it neatly into the umbrella stand, and heads over to the desk that Michael has already vacated, as usual.  

There are two notes in the system for him when he fires it up. 

not luke johnson - michael 

alphabetical order makes it so much easier to sort through fuck you - michael 

Luke scowls at the screen, tapping out a reply before he can think better of it. 

How does it make it easier to sort through?! You have to cross-refer everything to the database!! - Luke 

He clicks off the notes, mentally crossing out a second of the four Lukes, which reminds him to set the third note on top of the other two in the corner of the desk for James and Michael to see. 

Besides Fridays, Mondays are the busiest days for check-ins and checkouts, so Luke’s face is already aching from the polite smile plastered on his face by ten past two. He’s idly rubbing at his cheeks when the door to the lobby swings open, and Ashton comes striding in, looking somewhere between furious and concerned. Luke starts in surprise, checking the time to be sure he’s not, like, missed two hours of the day somehow - nope, definitely ten past two - but Ashton doesn’t even stop at Luke’s desk, doesn’t even spare him a glance as he heads for the door to the kitchen. 

“Um- you can’t go in the-” Luke starts, but he’s cut off by the door to the kitchen banging shut behind Ashton. Luke stares at it, and then sighs. Whatever, he tried. 

He turns back to his screen, expecting to hear Calum and Ashton striding out of the door any minute, laughing and joking and nudging each other, but the door stays shut. Instead, after Luke’s read the email in front of him at least three times, mind elsewhere, he hears raised voices shouting in the kitchen, although he can’t make out what they’re saying. 

He clears his throat, and reads the email again. This isn’t any of his business, he tells himself, trying to focus on just what week Ms Barnet wants to book seven rooms. Ashton’s perfectly capable of looking after himself. 

(He vaguely registers that maybe he shouldn’t be more worried about a stranger than about his colleagues, but whatever.) 

The voices get louder and louder, still muffled by the kitchen door, and Luke strains his ears to try and hear what’s being said (he’s pretty sure he can make out a bunch of fucks). After a good two minutes, the door slams open again, making Luke jump, and Ashton walks out, Calum leaning into him, an arm slung over Ashton’s shoulders. 

“...can fucking look after myself,” Calum’s saying irately, as Ashton strides towards the door, Calum limping at his side. Ashton’s got his arm around Calum’s waist, clearly supporting his entire body, and Luke tries his best not to think about how strong Ashton must be to do that. 

“Look after yourself? You fucking fainted, Calum, and they let you keep working!” Ashton says furiously. 

“I’m fine, Ashton, I told you, I’m fucking fine,” Calum spits, and Ashton growls, like, literally growls. Luke swallows, hard. 

“Oh, sorry, Doctor Hood, want to show me the medical degree you’ve got to back up that opinion?” Ashton says sarcastically. 

“Fuck you, Ashton, seriousl-” the door swings shut behind them and cuts off their conversation, leaving Luke staring at where they’d been standing half in surprise, half in arousal. 

Okay, so he might have just discovered he has a bit of a thing for protective men. Or, maybe he’s just discovered he’s got a bit of a thing for Ashton. Which, frankly, isn’t much of a discovery, more of a confirmation. 

He shakes his head, trying to erase all the images this has conjured in his mind, and resolves to look into getting laid as soon as possible.

 -------

 Luke scours his desk before he leaves on Monday, but there’s no note. He finds himself a little disappointed for a moment, because it’s kind of nice to be able to kid himself that the notes are for him for a minute or two, before James finally arrives and he’s able to push it out of his mind in favour of shouting at James for being a whole ten minutes late. 

On Tuesday, Luke finds himself tensing up around ten to five, but Ashton never comes and Calum never leaves. There’s no note on Tuesday either, and Luke wonders whether maybe the fact that the mystery note-leaver isn’t getting any responses from the mystery Luke has disheartened them, and immediately feels guilty that he hasn’t tried hard enough to get the notes to the right Luke. The thought is forced out of his mind, however, when James arrives (half an hour late) announcing that the trains are all cancelled because of some signal failures and he’d had to carpool to work, so Luke needs to, like, call an Uber, or something. 

“Fuck’s sake,” Luke says, because he really can’t afford an Uber all the way home. 

“I know,” James tells him, sitting down in the chair heavily. “At least you’re not the one who’s going to be dealing with pissed off guests.” Luke has to concede there. 

Luke goes to the station anyway, in the vain hope that the Sydney Trains will actually fulfil their single function as a transport service, and is informed by an overwhelmed-looking station guard that it’ll probably be another three hours before they’ve sorted out the problem and got all the trains moving again. 

Great, Luke thinks, as he walks out of the station and into the cold mid-May air. Where the fuck is he supposed to spend the next three hours? 

He wanders around aimlessly for a while, sits down on a bench in Hyde Park for about ten minutes before the wind starts threatening to take his nose from him, wanders around some more, and then, because the universe wants Luke to lose the will to live entirely, it starts to rain. 

Great. 

Luke ducks into the nearest building - a bar, he can make that work - and shakes the water out of his hair, chancing a glance at the bar itself. Seven isn’t too early to order himself a shot, right? 

He stops short, however, when he sees who’s behind the bar. 

Ashton. 

He’s about to turn on his heel and walk out - he’s dripping wet, in a terrible mood, and Ashton’s terrifying on the best of days - but it’s too late. Ashton’s already spotted him, face splitting into a grin, beckoning him over to the bar. Fucking hell. 

Luke edges over hesitantly, trying to surreptitiously arrange the curls around his face - fucking rain, honestly - giving Ashton a hesitant smile as he gets to the bar. 

“Didn’t think you’d come, pretty boy,” Ashton says, still smiling, as Luke reluctantly sits down on the bar stool opposite him.

“Um,” Luke says, glad that the bar is poorly lit so Ashton won’t see the blush creeping up his cheeks. “It’s raining.” That doesn’t dim Ashton’s brilliant smile at all, though.

“I remember saying you could drink on the house,” he says, eyes twinkling.  

“Conditionally,” Luke says, without thinking. Ashton looks at him for a moment, and then laughs. Luke’s stomach flips, heat pooling low in his abdomen - Jesus, someone as hot as Ashton shouldn’t be allowed such a cute laugh.  

“Is giving me your number such a burden?” he says, grinning. Luke flushes, and looks away. He doesn’t get why Ashton gets such a kick out of making fun of Luke like this. He’d thought he’d left the days of people pretending to be into him for fun behind in high school. 

Ashton seems to sense Luke’s trepidation, and leans back from the bar. 

“Relax, pretty boy,” he says. “I don’t bite.” Luke can’t help the sceptical look he sends Ashton’s way, and it’s met with a dimpled grin. “Okay, I do, but you’ve gotta pay for the privilege.”  

“I don’t have any money,” Luke says, because it’s true. That’s the whole reason he’s here in the first place; he can’t afford the fifty dollars it’d cost him to Uber home. 

“Well, lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood,” Ashton says, leaning against the cupboard behind him. “What’ll it be?” Luke hesitates. On the one hand, he really doesn’t have any money, and if Ashton reneges on his offer, Luke’s kind of fucked. On the other hand, he’s had a shitty day, he’s still got an hour until the signal failure might be fixed, and he wants a fucking shot.  

“Tequila chilled, please,” he says eventually. “But I thought you weren’t a bartender.” Ashton’s lips quirk up in a grin, as he reaches for the tequila and a glass. 

“I’m not,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “But what are you going to do, tell on me?” His tone is both amused and challenging, and Luke swallows. They both know Luke’s not going to do shit. 

“That’s not chilled,” is all he says weakly, when Ashton pours the tequila straight into the glass. Ashton laughs, and pushes the glass towards Luke. 

“Try it,” he says. Luke stares at it, wrinkling his nose, and Ashton grins. “C’mon, I’m not trying to poison you. You’re far too pretty for that.” Luke bites his lip, but picks up the glass and glances at the clear liquid in it warily. He doesn’t even know Ashton, he thinks. This might be, like, straight hydrochloric acid, and Luke would be none the wiser until his oesophagus disintegrated. 

Despite his better judgement, though, and largely due to the heat of Ashton’s gaze, Luke raises the glass to his lips and tips the tequila down his throat, wincing as it burns down his throat. It’s warm, and it really does burn, but it burns in a good way, kind of peppery in his mouth, and Luke finds he doesn’t actually mind the aftertaste. 

“Huh,” he says, as he sets the glass back down, staring at it in surprise. 

“Told you,” Ashton says smugly. “Want another one?” Luke hesitates, and Ashton rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning. “On the house, pretty boy. You look like you could do with one.” Luke nods, and Ashton pulls the glass back towards him and pours him another shot. Luke watches him pour, trying not to think about the way his fingers are curled around the neck of the tequila bottle. He blames it on the alcohol making its way through his veins, ignoring the fact that it’s far too soon for it to have had an impact.  

Ashton pushes the glass towards Luke, who takes it and downs it without a second thought. Ashton laughs again when he sets the glass back down on the bar, eyes crinkled at the corners. 

“Rough day, huh?” he says. Luke, fingertips tingling, cheeks a little warm, nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Guess that’s what happens when I don’t show up for a day,” Ashton says, eyes glittering, and there’s something behind the humour on the surface that Luke can’t quite put his finger on. 

“Is Calum okay?” Luke asks, without thinking. Ashton looks at him for a moment, surprised, and then nods. 

“Took him to hospital,” he says. “Doctor said he should rest for a few days, but he’d be fine. He’s kind of pissed about it.” Luke can’t help the snort that escapes him, and Ashton’s lips curl up in a smile. 

“He sounded pretty pissed at you,” Luke says, as Ashton pulls the glass back towards him and pours Luke another shot. Jesus. Luke’s not even going to make it on the train at this rate. 

“He was,” Ashton says nonchalantly. “But Michael would have been more pissed if I hadn’t picked Cal up from work, and I’d take Calum’s wrath over Michael’s any day.” Luke wrinkles his nose. 

“Michael has a terrible organising system,” he says, swirling the tequila around in the glass. 

“He says the same about you,” Ashton says, which makes Luke start in surprise. 

“He knows who I am?” Ashton gives him a funny look. 

“Of course he knows who you are,” he says. “You’re day shift.” 

“Oh,” Luke says. “Day shift. Yeah. That’s me.” 

They lapse into silence for a while, Ashton gazing at Luke like he’s trying to work something out, Luke staring through the bottom of the glass and wondering whether he really should take this shot or not. 

“Are you afraid of me?” Ashton asks, eventually. His tone is even, and his face is calm, but Luke sees the tension in his posture, the hardness in his eyes. 

(Luke takes the shot.)

“Uh,” he says, when he sets the glass back down on the bar. “I’m afraid of everyone.” It’s not technically a lie, and Ashton considers it for a moment before shrugging. 

“I’m not trying to trick you, pretty boy,” he says, and he’s aiming for casual but Luke hears the seriousness beneath it. 

“I didn’t say you were,” Luke says, now definitely a little buzzed. Ashton cocks his head and narrows his eyes, gazing at Luke.  

“You don’t trust me,” he says after a moment. Luke shrugs uncomfortably. 

“I don’t know you,” he says. Ashton scrutinises him for another moment, and Luke desperately wishes he had something that wasn’t Ashton or his hands to stare at, before Ashton grins. 

“Let’s change that,” he says. 

“Huh?”

“Ask me anything you want to know,” Ashton says, putting his elbows on the bar and leaning forward. His hazel eyes glint in the dim light of the bar, and Luke parts his lips to respond, but finds himself too caught in the brown-gold-green. 

“Uh,” he says intelligently, shaking himself out of it when he remembers that hello, staring at hot and intimidating guys is kind of a bad idea. “What?” 

“C’mon,” Ashton says, eyes sparkling with amusement. “There’s got to be things you want to know about me.”  

“What’s the catch?” Ashton laughs, tipping his head back, and God, Luke wants to mark up that throat. Jesus. He makes a mental note for the future that tequila at seven p.m. is a no-go. 

“You really don’t trust me, huh?” Ashton says, grinning. “Well, I was just going to let you ask, but...how about I get to ask questions in return? Quid pro quo.” Luke swallows. 

“Okay,” he says, because what’s he got to lose? 

“But you have to be honest,” Ashton says seriously, and Luke nods. He’s a shitty liar, anyway. “Alright. You first.” Luke’s eyes widen, and Ashton looks at him expectantly.

“Uh. What- what’s your favourite colour?” he asks stupidly. 

“Seriously?” Luke shrugs, averting his gaze to the glass still sat between the two of them. “Okay. Green. Why don’t you ever speak to me when I’m at the hotel?” 

“I’m on shift,” Luke says automatically. “What’s your favourite food?” 

“Carbonara. Do I bother you?” Luke hesitates. He’s tipsy enough that he can’t lie, but still sober enough that he doesn’t want to potentially aggravate Ashton by being too honest. 

“Yes and no,” he says after a moment’s consideration. “When’s your birthday?” 

“Sixteenth of July,” Ashton says. “What do you mean, yes and no?”  

“Yes, because I’m trying to work and you’re really fucking distracting, no, because you’re-” Luke coughs, feeling himself flush. “Uh. Do you have any siblings?” 

“A brother and sister,” Ashton says. “Because I’m what?” Luke swallows. 

“Give me another shot,” he says, and Ashton laughs.  

“I think you’ve had enough,” he says, grinning. “You still need to get home in one piece, pretty boy.” Which, shit, what time is it? Luke pulls his phone out of his pocket - fuck, ten to eight, the trains might be back up and running by now - and pushes himself off the bar stool. 

“I’ve got to go,” he says, steadying himself against the bar as his vision spins from standing up too fast. “Uh. Thank you? For the drinks.” 

“Hang on,” Ashton says, catching Luke’s arm as he turns away. Luke’s skin burns red hot under Ashton’s warm, calloused fingers, and he tries not to let it make him even giddier. “You owe me a number.” 

“I don’t know my number,” Luke says, and Ashton frowns.  

“Hey,” he says, sounding a little concerned. “You can say no.” 

“I’m not saying no,” Luke says. “I’m saying I don’t know my number.” Ashton blinks at him for a moment, and then drops his arm. 

“You’d say no if you meant no?” he says, like he’s not quite sure he believes Luke. Luke nods. 

“That’s why I’m not saying no,” he tells Ashton, and then his stomach lurches, because fuck, that might have been a bit too forward for Luke, even in his mildly inebrieted state. “Uh. I really do have to go. Thanks.” Ashton nods, leaning back against the cupboard behind him and folding his arms. Luke closes his eyes so he won’t have to stare at Ashton’s biceps. 

“See you around, pretty boy,” Ashton calls, as Luke turns on his heel and heads for the door as fast as he can without looking suspicious.  

The cool May wind crashes over him when he stumbles outside, and Luke gulps in the crisp air like a drowning man. 

Jesus Christ, he thinks, tipping his head back and letting his eyes flutter shut. Hopefully Calum has to stay home for a long enough time that Luke can legally change his name and move to Perth, or something. 

 -------

 On Wednesday, Luke checks a tired-looking Luke Newham out. 

“Thank you very much, sir,” he says politely, when Luke Newham hands his room key over. “Oh, by the way - we had a number of notes arrive for a Luke in the hotel. Were you expecting anything?” Luke Newham looks surprised.  

“No,” he says. “Definitely not for me.” Luke frowns, and nods, and mentally strikes Luke Newham off the list. 

Well. It’s got to be Luke Byrne then. 

On Thursday, Luke arrives to find a note in the system from James on Luke Byrne’s guest data.  

Told you they were for you. - James 

Luke frowns, and reaches for the three notes folded carefully in the corner of the desk. 

Golden boy. Surely that’s not Luke? Okay, he thinks, looking at the first note - golden curls, yeah, he’s got blonde hair, but besides that? Golden smile, golden heart? If whoever is leaving these notes thinks Luke’s customer-service smile is golden, he’s going to have to recommend a lobotomy. And, he thinks, shuffling to the second and third notes, nobody could think he shone like the sun, nor have their hearts sent racing by his lips. Luke just isn’t that person for anyone, never has been.  

He spends the whole day puzzling about it, so consumed in trying to make sense of the situation that he doesn’t even realise how fast the time is going until the door swings open at ten to five, Ashton already grinning as he walks over to Luke’s desk. 

Oh, fuck. 

Luke hasn’t seen Ashton since the night at the bar, and he’s been trying his best to keep Ashton out of his mind, too. He’d nigh-on had a panic attack when he’d thought back to their conversation in the shower the next morning, so he’s counting the repression as being for health and safety reasons, which is definitely permissible. 

However, he can’t avoid Ashton at work. 

“You look happy to see me, pretty boy,” Ashton remarks, leaning against Luke’s desk, that one fucking curl falling in his eyes, and Luke forces the trepidation off his face. 

“Long day,” Luke says.  

“Need another pick-me-up?” Ashton asks, lips quirking up in a grin. Luke wills his blood to remain where it is and not rush to his cheeks, and averts his gaze back to his screen. 

“No,” he says, and then thinks it might have come out a bit curt, and adds, “thank you.” 

“Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind,” Ashton says. Luke nods tightly, and taps out a response to an email. 

“Michael says someone’s been receiving mystery notes,” Ashton says after a moment, far too casually. Luke’s eyes snap to him, and narrow.  

“What?” he says. Ashton shrugs. 

“Says someone’s been leaving notes for a Luke, and you’re trying to find who it is,” he says. Luke hesitates, then nods. 

“Well, they’re for a Luke, but I’ve checked with every Luke that was staying here when they came,” he says. “So. I’m going to check whether there are any Lukes due to arrive soon.” 

“You ever stop to consider it might be you?” Ashton asks, amused. 

“Well,” Luke says. “I mean. No? Like, I’ve thought about it, but- I’m not, y’know. That kind of person. I mean. Nobody, like.” He shrugs uncomfortably, wishing he’d never opened his mouth in the first place. 

“Nobody what?” Luke sighs. 

“Nobody would do that for me,” he says, all in a rush. Ashton raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh?” he says. “Says who, pretty boy?” Luke opens his mouth - to say what, he’s not quite sure - but they’re interrupted by the kitchen door banging open, Calum striding out, beaming. 

“I’m going to do it,” he says to Ashton. 

“Good,” Ashton says, pushing himself off Luke’s desk. “Only taken you a decade.” 

“Are you fucking mad, as if he would have said yes when we were sixte-” 

“See you tomorrow, pretty boy,” Ashton calls, and Luke starts in surprise. Ashton never says goodbye, forgets all about him as soon as Calum comes out. 

“Uh,” Luke stammers, “bye?” Ashton throws him another amused glance over his shoulder, and falls in step with Calum, who’s saying something about how he had to wait for the right time, okay, sixteen is way too young, even if he already knew back then. 

Luke stares after them for so long after the door has closed that his eyes start to water. 

Ashton doesn’t say goodbye to Luke. It’s one of the universal laws of, like, life, or something. The sky is blue, the Earth is round, and Ashton doesn’t say goodbye to Luke. Luke’s honestly not sure what to make of it - does Ashton think they’re, like, friends now, or something? Is he just trying to unnerve him? Yeah, it’s probably that, he thinks. Ashton clearly gets a kick out of making Luke flustered, and throwing him a curveball like that is a surefire way to do it.  

When Luke finally tears his gaze away from the door and back at the desk, he notices another scrap of paper to the left of his computer screen. He reaches for it, frowning at the Luke on the front, and opens it. 

Golden boy, 

Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love. 

- AFI. 

Hamlet. AFI is quoting Hamlet. Not just that - he’s quoting a lesser-known part of Hamlet, which means he’s either googling ‘romantic quotes to put in anonymous love notes’ or he’s well-read. Luke decides to choose it’s the latter, because the idea of that makes his heart skip several beats.

Although, to be fair, that might just be him jumping in shock when James slams his bag down on the desk. 

“Got your daily note?” James asks, seeing the piece of paper in Luke’s hand. Luke flushes, and folds it back up. 

“It’s not mine,” he protests weakly, getting to his feet, and James rolls his eyes. 

“We checked every Luke in the system,” he says. “Who the fuck else is it going to be?” 

“Maybe it’s for a Lucas,” Luke suggests. “Maybe Luke is a nickname.” James pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“You’re fucking impossible,” he says, holding his hand out. “Let’s see it.” Luke hesitates, and then drops it in James’s hand and busies himself with getting his things together so he won’t have to see the look on James’s face as he reads. 

“Put it on top of the pile,” Luke says, his back to James as he shrugs his coat on. 

“Luke,” James says, like Luke’s the stupidest person alive. Luke resents that. “This is about you. This is about you doubting the notes are for you.” 

“It’s not,” Luke says. 

“You’re doubting a note written about how you shouldn’t doubt the notes?” James says, eyebrows raised. Luke scowls into his bag. 

“Fine,” he says, turning around to face James. “And what if they’re for me?”

“Then we find out who’s leaving them,” James says, swinging himself into the chair and spinning around. 

“How?” James shrugs. 

“You’re going to miss your train,” is all he says. Luke scowls, and flips him off. 

“Get an earlier fucking train,” he calls, as he jogs towards the door, because shit, he really is going to miss his train. 

“No can do,” James shouts after him, and Luke flips him off again, almost shutting his finger in the door as it closes behind him. 

 -------

 Luke can’t sleep. 

He’s been lying in bed for two hours, tossing and turning, but he can’t get the notes out of his mind. 

What if they are for him? Luke’s barely even stopped to consider the idea - no, he’s actively stopped himself from considering the idea, because there was no way they were for him, and it would have been stupid for him to build up that kind of hope only for it to come crashing down. 

But now that they’ve checked every Luke in the system, he has to toy with the idea that maybe, just maybe they are for him. Sure, they could be for a Lucas, or for a Luke that’s still to arrive, but the rational part of his mind tells him that the likelihood of that is incredibly low. Logically, he knows he’s looking for other explanations because the idea that they could be for him just doesn’t compute. Luke’s not someone who gets romantic notes. Luke’s not someone who gets romance full stop - the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for him is pay for his cab home from their place. 

(He still thinks about Nick fondly.) 

And if they are for him, that opens up a whole new can of worms. Luke’s barely even given any thought to who AFI might be, because he’s been telling himself the notes aren’t for him. But now that he’s starting to entertain that notion, that question is crowding into every corner of his mind. 

Is it a reference to the band? Is it some kind of cryptic musical reference that Luke’s somehow supposed to understand? Or maybe it’s someone’s initials? AFI are pretty unusual initials, he thinks. He doesn’t think he knows anyone with a name starting with F, or a surname starting with I. Maybe it’s double-barrelled? 

He sighs, and rolls over onto his side, trying to put all thoughts of the mysterious author of the notes out of his mind. There’s nothing he can do about it now, and running in circles in his head clearly isn’t helping. He’ll just have to pay better attention tomorrow, see who’s dropping pieces of paper on his desk. 

You know, a little voice in his mind tells him as he’s on the verge of falling asleep. Ashton starts with an A. 

Luke pushes the thought away and allows sleep to envelop him. 

 -------

 On Friday morning, Luke pushes the door to the lobby open, yawning from his lack of sleep, and stops short. 

Michael’s there. 

He’s standing by the desk, hands on his hips, looking distinctly irritated. 

“Oh,” Luke says, completely bewildered. Michael’s never there. 

“I’m specifically supposed to give you this,” Michael says, thrusting a hand out. As Luke edges closer, he sees a piece of paper in it, the same scratchy handwriting spelling out his name on the front. 

“From who?” he asks. 

“Can’t tell you,” Michael says shortly, dropping the note in Luke’s hands and hoisting his bag over his shoulder. “I’ve left the keys in alphabetical order, and if you fucking mess them up again, I’m going to have Calum commit a fairly serious crime against you.” Luke clenches his teeth, watching Michael as he saunters out of the room without waiting for a response from Luke (not that he would have got one anyway), only dropping his gaze to the note in his hand when the door closes behind Michael. 

Okay, he thinks, unfolding the note, and trying to ignore the way his heart is racing and his fingers are fumbling with the paper. So the notes are for him. 

Golden boy, 

Maybe I’ve been too subtle with these. Maybe you needed the pomp and blare, and not the old friend through quiet ways, the seeming prose. 

- AFI. 

Luke frowns at it, sitting down in his chair and pulling up a browser on the computer. He’s not really sure whether these are AFI’s own words, or whether it’s a quote from something he hasn’t read before. However, a quick Google informs him it’s a (very butchered) line from Anne of Avonlea, which immediately makes Luke’s heart jump a little, because who outside of bookworms reads any further than Anne of Green Gables? Jesus, Luke’s already a little in love with AFI, and for all he knows it could be James playing a prank on him. 

And, like, okay. The notes are for him, and it makes Luke’s palms sweat a little just to think about. AFI thinks he’s a golden boy. AFI thinks he’s worth sending romantic literary notes to, and wants him to know they’re for him. 

And, more importantly, Michael knows who AFI is. 

Luke stews on that all day, thoughts stumbling over each other in their haste to get to the forefront of his mind. Why wouldn’t Michael tell Luke who it is? Why is AFI so keen to remain anonymous? Are they embarrassed to like Luke? Actually, that would explain a lot, and Luke can’t really fault them for it. He’s not exactly anyone to show off to friends and family. 

He’s so preoccupied that by four-fifty he’s only about two-thirds through the emails he should have answered, but as soon as he feels the familiar presence of Ashton looming over his desk, he knows he’s not going to get anything more done. He sighs, leaning back, and looks up at Ashton, who’s grinning at him. 

“Afternoon, pretty boy,” he says, looking particularly pleased with himself for some reason. Luke decides not to ask. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“You look pensive,” Ashton remarks. Luke shrugs, a little uncomfortably. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? Yeah, you wouldn’t happen to know who dropped a note off for Michael to give to me this morning, would you? Cheers, mate. By the way, I’ve wanted to fuck you for, like, six months, and your presence is getting a bit unbearable, so would you do me a favour and not show up again until I’m out of this dry spell? 

“Uh,” he settles for. Close enough. 

“Heard you met Michael this morning,” Ashton comments, examining his fingernails. 

“Yeah,” Luke says, even though he’s met Michael before. “He’s, uh.” Bitchy? Luke’s not sure insulting Ashton’s friends is the best idea he’s ever had, so he says nothing. Ashton seems to get it, though, and just laughs. 

“Yeah, he’s like that,” he says. “But he’s lovely when you get to know him.” 

“Right,” Luke says doubtfully. Ashton just grins, and reaches for the cigarette behind his ear. 

“Uh,” Luke says. “You can’t smoke in here.” 

“Oh?” Ashton says, raising an eyebrow, cigarette already halfway to his lips. “What are you going to do about it?” Luke opens his mouth, and closes it again. Then, suddenly-

“I’ll give you my number if you don’t,” he blurts, and then immediately feels himself turn an impressive shade of red. Ashton’s hand stills for a moment, and then he grins, and tucks the cigarette back behind his ear. 

“If I remember correctly, you owe me your number anyway, pretty boy,” he says, but he’s still smiling. 

“You almost gave me a hangover,” Luke says, but he’s reaching for the phone in his coat pocket anyway, if only to spare himself from having to look at Ashton. Jesus Christ. What the fuck came over him? 

“Not my fault you’re a lightweight,” he hears Ashton say, and he scowls, unlocking his phone and pulling up his own contact. He spins back around to his desk and pulls a piece of paper towards him, scribbling the numbers down at the top. He hesitates, and then writes Luke at the top, even though Ashton clearly knows his name. He’s not sure how many numbers someone as attractive as Ashton must be receiving on a daily basis, so it can’t hurt, right? 

He pushes the piece of paper towards Ashton, who takes it with a grin, reading the numbers at least three times. 

“You know, I know your name,” he remarks. 

“I know.” Ashton glances back at the numbers again, and looks like he’s going to say something else, when the door to the kitchen opens. 

“You come on your bike?” Calum asks Ashton, who nods. “Good. I’ve picked out a few places I think might have good ones.” 

“In your budget?” 

“Fuck you,” Calum says, as they start off towards the door. “I got a raise, remember?” 

“And you still think Michael’s going to say yes when he hears how you got it?” Ashton says, sounding amused. 

“He already knows,” Calum says dismissively, pushing the door open. “And it’s not like he’s above threats of violence himself.” 

“I’ll text you, pretty boy,” Ashton calls over his shoulder, just before the door shuts behind him. 

Luke’s glad the door’s between them, or he might do something stupid like shout yes, please do, and please fuck me while you’re at it after Ashton. 

Jesus, he thinks, putting his head in his hands. Ashton’s got his number. He’s given Ashton his number. He, Luke Hemmings, had the gall to give the hottest guy in the entirety of Australia his number. 

Whatever, he tells himself, packing his things together. Ashton’ll probably forget to text him, anyway. Luke’s not exactly high up on anyone’s to-do list. 

 -------

 Much to his surprise, Luke’s first text from Ashton comes on Saturday evening. 

0491570156  Evening, pretty boy. 

Luke looks over at his phone lazily when it chimes, not intending to answer his mum when Mike Ross is about to get found out as a fraud by Jessica, and jerks upright when he sees the nickname. 

Hi. 

Hey. 

Hi :)

Hi! 

Hi 

Luke types and erases each one. Too serious, too enthusiastic, too childlike, not cool enough. By the time he’s decided to just bite the bullet and go for Hey, Ashton’s typing again, and Luke erases it all and waits with bated breath. 

0491570156 You typing an essay or something?

Shit, Luke forgot Ashton could see when he was typing. God, he’s going to have to start typing on Notes, or something. 

Me Sorry. Hi 

It’s terrible, but so is Luke, so it’s fitting. He clicks off the chat so he won’t have to see Ashton typing, and saves him as a new contact, by which time Ashton’s sent another message. 

Ashton You sound pleased to hear from me 

Luke swallows. He’s not sure whether it’s just because it’s over text, but Ashton sounds kind of pissed. 

Me I am!  

He erases that immediately. 

Me I am, I’m just surprised 

He bites his lip, and then thinks fuck it, takes another gulp of his wine, and adds a line. 

I’m also pretty bad at talking to people. 

Ashton’s reply is instantaneous. 

Ashton You’re cute when you’re flustered 

Ashton Although honestly, you’re cute all the time

Me I’m flustered all the time

Luke stares at the screen, willing Ashton to respond, heart beating wildly. He’s not exactly known for his flirting prowess. 

Ashton Damn...thought I was special 

Luke inhales deeply, and types without letting himself think about it. 

Me Never said you weren’t the reason I’m flustered all the time 

This time, Ashton replies immediately. 

Ashton Good :) I was starting to think this was all one-sided 

Luke lets out a shaky exhale. What’s that supposed to mean? 

He’s halfway through typing out a message along those lines when another text comes through. 

Ashton Sorry, my shift is actually about to start. Wasn’t expecting you to reply so quickly 

And then another: 

Ashton See you around, pretty boy 

Luke stares at it, and then puts his phone down, slightly dazed. 

He’s not going to think about this until he absolutely has to. 

 -------

 ‘Until he absolutely has to’ turns out to be about ten p.m. on Sunday night. 

Ashton Hey, pretty boy

Ashton I’m on my break 

Luke jumps when his phone chimes, and grabs for it with fumbling fingers. 

Me How’s work?

Ashton Oh, you know 

Ashton Only had to kick out one guy so far 

Ashton So pretty good 

Luke huffs out a laugh. 

Me Pretty sure that’s a bouncer’s job, not a barback’s 

Ashton I’m a good multitasker 

Okay, Luke doesn’t have, like, a thing for bouncers, but the idea of Ashton squaring up to some drunk guy and throwing him out is kind of doing something to him. He blames it on the fact it’s late, he’s tired, he’s desperate, and Ashton’s far too attractive for his own good. 

Me Clearly, since you bartend too 

Ashton Hey, you said you wouldn’t tell 

Me Telling you doesn’t count as telling 

Ashton You don’t know who might be watching over my shoulder 

Luke grins. 

Me Who’s watching over your shoulder? 

Ashton No one, but it’s the principle of it 

Luke doesn’t really know what to say to that, but he’s saved from having to come up with anything by another text from Ashton. 

Ashton You should come by the bar again soon 

Me Bars aren’t really my scene 

Ashton The way you knocked back those tequila shots says otherwise 

Me I said bars, not alcohol 

Ashton Come after closing, then 

Luke hesitates. 

Me I have work during the week. I can’t be out at three 

Ashton Then come on Friday 

Luke exhales heavily. 

Me Maybe 

Ashton You can say no

Me I’m not saying no 

Ashton :) 

Ashton Break’s over. I’ll see you soon, pretty boy x 

Luke throws his phone down on his bedside table, pretending for the sake of his sanity that he hasn’t seen the fucking kiss at the end of that message, rolls over, and goes to sleep. 

(And if his dreams are filled with dimly lit bars and hot guys in leather jackets, that’s a total coincidence.) 

 -------

 It comes to a head on Tuesday. 

On Monday, Luke’s note had read: 

Golden boy, 

Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I think we are the latter. 

- AFI. 

Luke hadn’t had to look that one up - it’s Sense and Sensibility, anyone would know that. It might have made his heart race a little, seeing those words in the rushed, scratchy writing he’s come to associate with AFI, and knowing that they’re for him. Someone out there thinks that despite the fact they’ve only been leaving him notes for a little over a week, that’s enough. 

Ashton doesn’t show up until a minute before Calum’s shift ends on Tuesday, which is unusual for him. He’s got bruised knuckles and a black eye when he does turn up, and he can only throw Luke a slightly half-hearted smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and doesn’t even call him pretty boy. 

“Hi,” he says, sounding tired. 

“What happened?” Luke says, frowning. Ashton shrugs. 

“I owed someone a favour,” he says simply, and there’s a tone of finality to his voice that tells Luke not to pry. Luke swallows, and nods. 

“You should put ice on that,” he says instead, nodding at Ashton’s eye, and Ashton huffs out a laugh. 

“Yeah, I-” he starts, and then the door to the kitchen bangs open, and Calum’s striding out, looking stricken when he spots Ashton. 

“What the fuck?” he demands, coming up to Ashton and cupping his face in his hands. “Jesus, was this Leon?” 

“Ben,” Ashton corrects, and Calum drops his hand. 

“Ben?” he says, an edge of fury to his voice. “Which Ben?” 

“You know which Ben,” Ashton says uncomfortably, turning away from Luke and heading off towards the door. Calum jogs after him, making a noise of anger. 

“Ashton Fletcher Irwin, what the fuck did I tell you about going after Ben?” he says dangerously. 

“I know, but Sam said-” Ashton says, cut off by the door swinging shut behind them, and Luke never gets to find out what Sam said. 

It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s gaping at the spot Ashton and Calum had just been standing in. 

Ashton Fletcher Irwin, Calum had said. Ashton Fletcher Irwin. 

AFI. 

Luke barely even notices he’s on his feet until he’s at the door, tearing it open and looking around wildly. The cold May air heads straight for his nose and ears, but he can’t even bring himself to care, rushing down the steps when he spots Calum and Ashton arguing by two motorbikes. 

“...owed him, Cal, you and I both knew he was going to call the favour in at some point,” Ashton’s saying. 

“Ashton,” Luke says, and both Ashton and Calum turn to him in surprise. 

“Yeah?” 

“Ashton Fletcher Irwin.” Realisation dawns on Ashton’s face, and he swallows. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter this time. 

“You?” Ashton squirms a little, and nods. 

“Holy shit,” Luke says, because he doesn’t get it, can’t wrap his head around it. “Fucking- you’re AFI.” 

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “Look, I’m sorry, I just-” 

“You read Anna Karenina?” Ashton glances at him in surprise. 

“What? Yeah, it’s one of my favourite books.” 

“And Hamlet?” 

“Who hasn’t read Hamlet?” 

“Gone With The Wind?” 

“I- yeah? I just-” Luke takes a deep breath. 

“You’re AFI,” he says, again. Calum’s watching this entire exchange with something between bewilderment and amusement, leant back against his bike. 

“I just said that,” Ashton says. 

“You wrote me romantic notes.” 

“I- uh, yeah. I did.” Luke blinks at him, and takes a deep breath. 

“You- did you mean them?” 

“Of course I meant them,” Ashton says, sounding surprised. “How could I not? Jesus, Luke, look at you. You’re a fucking fantasy come to life. I’ve wanted nothing more than to kiss you since the day I first saw you. You think I was coming to pick Calum up from the hotel to be a good friend?” Luke stares at him. That’s the first time Ashton’s said his name, and Luke wants to hear it for the rest of his life.

“I’ve wanted to fuck you since the moment I saw you,” he says, without thinking. Ashton chokes on his next breath, and Calum sniggers behind his hand. 

“I’m going to go ahead,” he says, still smirking, throwing a leg over his bike. “Be safe, boys.” Ashton flips him off as Calum kicks his bike into gear and rides off, leaving Luke and Ashton alone in the deafening silence that follows Calum’s roaring exhaust. 

“I wasn’t expecting that,” Ashton says, after a minute. Luke bites his lip. 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he says, “but I have no idea what I’m doing. I almost never do.” Ashton laughs at that, amused and fond, before his face falls again, like he’s just remembered something.

“Luke,” he says carefully. “I- look. I like you, but I’m- I’m not a good guy.” 

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?” Ashton sighs. 

“No,” he says. “I- look. I’m trying to be better, okay? But I don’t want you to get caught up in all this. I’m trying to end it.” Luke hesitates, and then nods. He’d kind of known Ashton was mixed up in something, and he finds that it doesn’t really bother him. 

“Okay,” he says easily. 

“No, Luke, you don’t get it,” Ashton says, sounding a little frustrated, and Luke takes a bold step forward, because what the fuck does he have to lose now, and places a hand on Ashton’s forearm. 

“Hey,” he says, summoning all his courage. “You owe favours, you’re repaying debts. You don’t have to tell me what they are. I’m okay with that.” Ashton frowns at him.  

“I’m ending it,” he says again, like he doesn’t think Luke believes him. “These are the last few jobs. I’ll be out of the bar in a few weeks.” Luke nods again. 

“Okay,” he says. “I can wait a few weeks, if you want me to.” Ashton tilts his head, and stares at Luke. 

“You’d do that?” 

“Well, I’ve waited six months, haven’t I?” A slow grin spreads across Ashton’s face. 

“You don’t have to wait,” he says. “It’s not- like, I’m not in the fucking mafia, or anything. I just don’t want you to get caught up in my business.” Luke shrugs. 

“I’m good at lowkey,” he says, and Ashton huffs out a laugh. 

“Yeah, I can believe that,” he says. “So. How about mine on Friday, instead of the bar?” Luke blinks at him. 

“Don’t you have to work?”  

“Not if I call in sick,” Ashton says. Luke hesitates, and then a small smile spreads across his lips. 

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “Yeah. I’d like that.” Ashton grins back at him, swinging a leg over his bike and pulling his helmet on.  

“I’ll text you,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Luke says, a little dazed. “Text me.” Ashton kicks his bike into gear, and Luke sees his eyes crinkle, which means he’s smiling.  

“See you around,” Ashton says, “golden boy.” 

#lashton #5sos slash #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #malum #i'm telling you i haven't struggled this much to write a fic since like 2015 #JESUS CHRIST I HAVE 2 MINUTES AND I AHVENT WRITETN AN AUTHORS NOTE FUCK ME #OH SHIT I SAVED IT AS A DRAFT INSTEAD OF POSTING IT SORRY IM 5 MINS LATE

[feeling-uncomfy]

EYY SHOUTOKO TIMEEEE

Mafia AU part two, featuring a tiny tsundere and a tall himbo. What more can I say? They're a mess

So, warnings are as follows-

- gore/blood

- mentions of abuse(brief)

- kidnapping/drug mention

If there are anymore, they'll be specified at the beginning of the part-

Hope you enjoy! :D

After the fiasco that was Tokoyami getting kidnapped, Hawks had become paranoid. He downright refused to let his little brother out of the apartment they shared for the first two weeks, and his little brother was practically stabled to his side when he was allowed back in the building.

Tokoyami didn't mind at first, though after a while he started to get annoyed. He wanted to have just one moment of peace, and the only way he could get it was by going to the bathroom. But if he took too long, Hawks would freak out and break the door down.

It was like he'd developed some form of separation anxiety, he couldn't stand being apart from his little brother. It ended up turning into an argument between him and Endeavor, and what a sight that was. Hawks and Endeavor rarely fought, but when they did, it was lengthy and loud.

Todoroki and Tokoyami never usually minded, but at this rate it had been a week and they were still arguing over letting someone come over and help upgrade the security.

"Will they ever shut up?" Todoroki asked, raising his voice to be heard over the yelling. Tokoyami shrugged, looking over at his older brother and Endeavor. "I hope so, I'm getting tired of the yelling," for some reason, both of them froze after Tokoyami's words. Ah, right, the last time this had happened, Dabi had made an appearance.

Luckily, he was nowhere to be seen, and they both relaxed. Hawks stopped yelling, a true miracle, and Tokoyami looked over.

Hawks seemed to be thinking about something, whatever it was, he was obviously putting a lot of thought and consideration into it. This could either be great for the company, or an absolute disaster for it.

Most likely the latter, knowing Hawks.

Hawks sighed. Endeavor had suggested asking Gang Orca, another high ranking class boss in this world Hawks had grown to call his, to come help with the security. He was very skilled in negotiations, very persistent and persuasive. One thing Hawks knew the man prided himself on was security. Best of the best.

And he wasn't bluffing, either. Hawks had heard stories, seen things. That man was bigger than the three fully decked bodyguards that followed him around. But Hawks knew that it didn't change a thing. If needed, the guards would lay down their life for him, and surprisingly, Hawks was told the favour would be returned. He didn't dare question it.

He'd only met the man once, and he'd describe him as something like a helicopter parent. He was paranoid like all hell, and kept a close eye on the hallway leading up to where he was staying, though Hawks never figured out why. Nor was he told. Apparently it was one of the reasons he was gunned at so much, no one knew what he was hiding.

He'd seen him fight. It was friendly, and yet Hawks still winces at the memories. The man did not hold back, for whatever reason. Apparently the two had a dispute and settled it over a fight. It was brutal even despite the rules set up. Hawks swears he can still hear the sound of teeth cracking.

Aside from that, he was a respected and respectful man. He was polite when others were, and knew what he was talking about. A real leader, and under that wall of brute force Hawks was told there was a soft side to him. One that obviously wasn't shown often.

Hawks knew having his type of security would insure his little brother's safety, he knew it'd be ten times safer. But that didn't mean he was comfortable with this high ranking man who could easily snap his spine in two wandering the place he kept his plans.

Hawks sighed again. Logically he knew he couldn't turn it down. But that didn't mean he had to he comfortable! He didn't like the fact that if he wanted his workplace safe, everything would have to change. Everywhere would be searched and moved.

Endeavor spoke up. "Hawks. Any security I have to offer, or anyone else has to offer would pale in comparison. You want better security, let him do his job." Hawks bit the inside of his cheek to avoid immediately snapping back. Once he was composed, he started speaking. "I'm aware of that, but forgive me if I don't want someone who could easily use all these details against me to snoop!"

Endeavor fired back immediately with a response. "He's not going to snoop, he asks that all important files and documents are taken out, stored correctly, and then once he's done you can put them back," well, that made Hawks feel a little better, but he wasn't convinced.

"He completely reorganised your office! What's to say he won't do that to mine?!" Endeavor gave him a deadpanned stare. "Your office could use reorganising."

The gasp that tore out of Hawks's throat made Tokoyami and Todoroki turn their heads quickly, only to see Hawks with his hand placed dramatically over his heart. "Reorganising?! I'll have you know it's an 'organised mess' bitch! I know where everything is!" Hawks yelled indignantly, honestly offended.

Endeavor just stared at him with a look that screamed 'bitch really?' making Hawks even more mad. Before the petty argument could continue, Endeavor forced them back on topic. Right, security, letting Gang Orca go through his organised chaos.

The only reason he was even considered it was because he wanted Fumikage safe. Other than that? He didn't care, he didn't want to know. Yes, his security was shit, he was aware. But fully decked out bodyguards? Was it really necessary?

Not for him, for Fumikage. Hawks reminded himself that he was doing this for his brother's sake. His safety came first. Always.

"Fine. He can come help." The words were forced out, and it actually hurt Hawks to say, but he said it. Wasn't that enough?

Endeavor nodded and pat his shoulder. "I will have him meet you tomorrow at the earliest," he turned to Todoroki. "Shouto, we're leaving."

Tokoyami and Todoroki seemed to have a mental conversation before Todoroki snorted and stood up, walking over to his father and standing by his side. Tokoyami stood and made his way over to his brother's side. It felt like second nature at this point.

Hawks and Tokoyami said their goodbyes, and the Todoroki's left. Tokoyami looked up at his brother. "Do you want to tell me what that was about?" Tokoyami was, as of late, not in the bests of moods. He was irritated with the constant having to stand by his brother's side and then not get to know why he was even there.

Hawks pat his head. "We're upping our security, that's all," Tokoyami sighed. "The security here is fine, I don't see why you're bothering." Hawks looked down at his brother. His literal will to live, at some points. Hawks brought him in for a hug. "I'm not gonna risk losing you like that again. Ever."

For Hawks, this was a promise. A promise never to let his brother be put through that again. A promise to make up for what happened, he was serious. Never again.

For Tokoyami, it simply felt repeated. He'd heard those words so many times over the past four weeks that Tokoyami wasn't even sure if he meant it at this point.

Nevertheless, Tokoyami was reassured slightly. He trusted Hawks, he trusted his brother. He knew he wouldn't let them down. He knew that Kiego wouldn't let it happen again.

At the end of the day, he trusted his brother.

Hawks pulled back first, and the two went home as normal. Tokoyami curled up on the couch, checking his phone, as normal. Hawks was taking calls and ordering food for them. There was a small dispute on the kind of food. Spicy or plain? Choices were difficult sometimes.

A compromise was made, normally they'd take turns and get one over the other, but recently they've been getting a little bit of both, and now they couldn't remember the order they went in, so the two just agreed to get both each time.

So they sat there, eating their meals, playing video games until Tokoyami couldn't keep his eyes open. Hawks called it quits then and the pair went to sleep as normal. And, almost like a schedule, Tokoyami's nightmares began.

They were all identical, but they scared him shitless without fail every time. The noise of the drill, the pain he felt when it dug into his bones, the face of his kidnapper standing over him one second, laying dead the next.

The word "murderer" kept playing over and over and over again and it wouldn't stop. He couldn't stop it. How much longer until he killed Hawks? Todoroki? He couldn't- he didn't want to—

Tokoyami opened his eyes to the roof, again. He looked around expecting to see the body of Shigaraki, only to him Hawks laying lifeless. No, no surely he didn't do that. Tokoyami wouldn't.

Would he?

Tokoyami ran to his brother's side, shaking him as the rain fell. "Kiego...?" Tokoyami's voice cracked, and when he didn't get a response, he shook harder. "Kiego! Kiego get up! Please–"

Over and over, until Tokoyami couldn't tell the difference between "Kiego" and "Murderer" he screamed.

"Kiego!" Tokoyami sat up with a start, looking around the room. Not a roof, but rain hammered down on his windows like tomorrow wasn't coming. Maybe, a terrible part of Tokoyami thought, maybe Kiego's tomorrow wasn't coming.

Before Tokoyami could even work on untangling himself from the bed sheets, the door burst open. "Fumikage-?! What's wrong!?" Kiego was there, he was alive- he wasn't—

Tokoyami let out a dry sob, curling into himself. One look at the shitty weather and Kiego knew what was wrong. "Hey, it's okay.." helping his brother out of the mess of bed sheets, Kiego noted the tremors and the eye bags his younger brother sported, making him look older.

Kiego hated that his little brother looked like that, he shouldn't. He should be happy, healthy, and not afraid of getting kidnapped every second day. It's not fair on him, but they both knew life wasn't fair.

Kiego gently coaxed his brother to move out from under the sheets, and the two sat there hugging. They weren't sure how long, long enough for Tokoyami to fall asleep again, that's for sure.

Hawks was woken by his phone the next morning, and froze when he saw Gang Orca's ID flash across his screen. He didn't give him his number, or name for that matter. Nevertheless, he picked up.

"Hello?" Hawks's voice was soft, not wanting to wake up his brother. A deep voice answered, sounding like he's been awake for hours. Maybe he was.

"This is Hawks, correct?" Hawks blinked tiredly before answering. He sounded as intimidating as they made him out to be. "Yeah, that's me. What's up?" Gang Orca moved something on his line. "I was told you needed an update on your security?"

Hawks paused. "Yeah.. I do," Endeavor really wasn't pulling his leg when he said that earliest would be tomorrow. "Very well, I will be down to you're office if that's alright with you?" Harks agreed, shaking Tokoyami awake. Gang Orca was silent on his end.

Hawks thought of saying something, but he was beaten to it. "I'm going to be bringing.. my-.. son," Hawks blinked in surprise. "You have a son?" Hawks couldn't keep the blatant surprise out of his voice. Hawks didn't think to question the hesitation when Gang Orca said 'son' though in hindsight, he probably should have. He could then feel the guy's glare on him.

"Yes. Is there a problem?" Hawks did not like the threatening undertone of his words. He didn't like it at all. "No, sir. Just taken by surprise." That was true, but still, it felt like a lie. Gang Orca sighed. "We'll be over in twenty, tops."

[And that's part one! Hope you're ready, I'm not all that good with writing ships, but I'm getting better (I hope)]

[See you at part two!]

#boku no hero academia #tokoyami #bnha hawks #mafia au

[softschofield]

the convoy boys (before and) after the war, part two - malky ♡

part one (rossi and cooke): x

parry/malky: x

moodboard: x

malky is the one to struggle the most after the war, though none of his friends ever know until he off-handedly and sweetly mentions the full extent of his trauma and they’re all taken aback by the pure horror of it. 

he’d been one of the few to come from a happy home: his whole family living in two-up-two-down row houses on the same street in newcastle-upon-tyne, his parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins; a neighbourhood who knew and loved him, stores run by people who’d watched him grow up, a family that numbered half the city; christmases where the whole neighbourhood would bring their dining room tables out onto the street for one big party if the weather was fair, and where they’d cram into each other’s houses for singing and dancing and joyous, clumsy piano performances if the weather was snowy. 

those christmas gatherings were noisy, beautiful things; his parents would let him have a little glass of brandy, and it would fall to him to watch over the younger children and play with them, and often a cheer would go up somewhere near midnight and he’d be encouraged to plod out a few bad piano songs with his half-year training (that his parents had pooled their savings into) so everyone could sing along; and once it got late and the adults started to get drunk, malky would find a spare seat on the couch and watch the chaos with a shy, happy little smile and feel the warmth in his heart at the sight of all these people he loved and who loved him. 

his childhood was warm, and soft, and happy, and crowded. he was never lonely, but he was also never alone, and so he came to love and value quiet, peaceful moments by himself. he found a love for pressing flowers, one that came to mean calm and softness, and his bedroom was always filled with flowers, and he’d walk for hours along the river and through meadows and woods. when he was sixteen, he started working at a book binder’s for a half-deaf, grumpy old man, and that peace, that being able to just work at something in the quiet for hours at a time, became something he loved with all his heart. 

when the war came around, he was still living in his childhood bedroom with his parents. he’d never had any reason to want to move out; he was happy, and to all the neighbourhood he was still the baby of the family. he wanted to do his duty, in a vague, half-formed, guilty sort of war - he wanted to help his country, wanted to have an adventure, wanted to make new friends. but he never really expected to enlist, knew it would break his parents’ hearts. 

then conscription was introduced in 1916, and he had no choice. he was called up, assigned to the worcestershire regiment at random, given a few months of training that tore at the soft skin of his hands that were never made to fire a rifle, and shipped off to france as a replacement. 

almost immediately he and rossi formed a bond. malky had never had to go very far out of his way to make friends - in newcastle, you fell over them almost by accident wherever you went - and he was a little overwhelmed at the front. that first night, with shells rumbling in the distance and boys murmuring in the dark around him and little fires hidden under raincoats to avoid being seen by german planes, malky wandered between the little groups aimlessly. he’d catch the eye of someone, and smile hopefully and start to walk over to them, only to have them turn away and go back to talking to someone else. he’d hover over a group and try to think up something to say, and be snapped at. he wandered, helpless and dispirited and blushing, until a boy sitting by himself beside a little fire called him over in a gruff, quiet voice. there was nothing wrong with him, no reason he’d be by himself - he could have been the centre of a group if he’d wanted to be. but, evidently, he didn’t want that. 

and so, malky and rossi became the founding members of the convoy boys - because rossi, patron saint of waifs and strays, of the unwanted and the mocked and the outcasts, had called malky over. he’d mostly expected to be annoyed by the boy, to just keep him company for the evening until he got more settled in and could stand on his own two feet; and when malky first sat down beside him at the fire, where rossi was fiddling away at a part of a radio from headquarters, he’d hardly looked at him. but malky, gentle and unexpectedly witty in a delightfully deadpan way and northern to the core, had quickly established himself as an equal, and from then on it was malky and rossi. 

after that, they’d adopted others into their little group and taken them under their wing - cooke, too insecure and too desperate to prove himself to easily make friends; butler, too stand-offish and idealistic; jondalar, for obvious reasons. jondalar quickly became a leader of the group, and even he didn’t entirely realise that malky another of them - he was more than happy to settle into the background, to let others take centre stage, but he was no less one of the three leaders, one of the hearts of the group: he was the comforter, the one who gently soothed and patched up small wounds, the one who listened when someone had to break away from the group and stumble into the dark and weep about home and all the horror and trauma looming over them, the one who held them when they needed a soft, tender touch.

and then, after the war, he realised that while he’d been doing that for everyone else, no one had been doing it for him. he suffered afterwards in a similar way to kilgour - but while kilgour was aware of his own trauma, while he tried to hide it with cheerfulness and big smiles and the complete dismissal of his pain, malky was genuinely unaware that there was something wrong with him. he tried to go back to his old life, tried to slot right back into that world of noise and warmth and claustrophobic, stifling joy. his friends, his family, his cousins, his aunts, his neighbours - they were all over him, and for the first time in his life, he realised, with such a flash of horror that it made him sick, that he didn’t want to be touched. that he flinched at the sound of a train horn. that his heart was always thundering and frantic. that there were dark rings under his eyes. that the flowers on his walls made him feel hemmed in, and that he wanted to reorganise his bookshelf at 3am because he had to do something, anything, had to open a window, had to clean, had to repaint the dining room walls.

and it wasn’t that he felt he had to be someone for all the people who had known him - it’s that he honestly, genuinely, did not realise he was suffering from trauma. he thought that, now that the war was over, he could move on, and start a new chapter, and go back to smiling, to evening walks in summer, to giving piggy back rides to his young cousins. he thought he’d be alright. 

while he was in this confusing state of turmoil, this state of smiling happily through the day and not understanding the mess he became at night, he kept up his letters to his friends. sweetly. cheerfully. religiously. it’s a nice habit, he thought; i don’t understand it but i feel like i’m coming apart at the seams and this is the only thing holding me together, he meant. one by one they stopped writing him back, but that didn’t matter. he kept sending them.

he got his old job back at the book binder’s. didn’t last. he’d sit down at his desk and look at the clock and it was 10am, and then he’d just stare at nothing for a few minutes, losing himself in a soundless haze with his pulse in his ears, and he’d blink and it was 4pm. the old man fired him after a week and he stumbled out onto the street in a tearful daze. 

and that’s how his life went for months: happy, smiling, cheerful, and frantically tearing apart down the middle while all he could do was watch. blindly trying to stitch himself back up with soft coloured wool that just fell to bits at his touch, and stirring himself into a horrible frenzy of confusion and fear and sunshine.

then came the letter from cooke, telling him to come down to london. then came parry. then came healing. 

when he returned to newcastle, he was still broken - but he understood that that’s what it was, and his smile was a little more genuine for finally having a diagnosis, for knowing that life itself wasn’t fracturing, for knowing there could be an end to it, for knowing there’s hope. rossi was the only reason he was staying in newcastle, because it wasn’t terribly far from scotland and it made him feel close to him even when only silence greeted his letters. when rossi made the move to london, malky followed him. he smiled around at his childhood bedroom and breathed in the smell of it one last time before he closed the door, and he lugged his suitcase down the staircase and left it by the front door - and that evening, the whole street is alive with celebration. 

his parents cry, but they know that if it will make him happy, if it’s right, then he has to go - and all the neighbourhood will miss him, but they don’t lament it: they turn it into a celebration of a new chapter in his life. lanterns are hung throughout the street, and the tables are brought out, and people wheel their pianos out, and the warm evening air is alive with music and laughter, and everyone wants to dance with malky - most of all his kid cousins, which is an adorable sight - and he’s smiling and laughing just as much as he’s crying, and it’s happy. 

and as night falls, he hugs everyone he loves, and tells them he’ll visit and write every week and send photos, and his mother tells him she’s proud of him and hugs him the longest, and as he picks up his suitcase and walks to the train station, the whole street goes with him - skipping along at his side, and singing, and cheering, like a huge procession through the streets of newcastle. people come out of their homes and poke their heads out of windows to watch - and there’s malky, at the head of it all with his suitcase and a hundred people who love him all around him, and he’s laughing and sobbing at the same time, and it’s magical. it’s beautiful. it’s family. it’s home. 

they wave him off at the platform and laugh and cheer and blow kisses, with kids sitting on their parents’ shoulders and a little yapping dog perched on someone’s head, and then the train is pulling away, and he leans out the window to wave at them for as long as he can; and once he can’t see them anymore, he sits back in his seat and just cries - not only because he’s going to miss them, but because he’s so happy, he’s so overwhelmed, he’s so full of love. and when the crying stops, all that’s left is a dopey smile on his face and red, swollen eyes, and his chest full of warmth and light as air.

all his friends meet him at the station in london, and they’re just as much a home as the one he left. he gets a job as a baker and he loves it: his customers line up early every morning to get his pastries, and also to talk to the sweet, bashful baker with the shy, kind eyes and happy smile; in turn, he loves all his regulars and always comes out to the till to serve them and chat with them and wish them a good morning at work. he’s the highlight of their day and they his, and his friends just listen with befuddled, patient expressions where he gushes quietly about what his customers are up to - because malky is the one none of them tease. he’s too gentle for that. 

and he’s happy!!!! he does a lot of quiet healing (much of it at scho’s cottage in cookham when he mentions he’d love to see the countryside, and then it just becomes a tradition to go there once a month), and arranges flowers in his flat to clear his head, and takes up knitting as stress relief and knits blankets for all his friends, and he’s happy. and i love him. so much. 

#1917 #parry will come next <3333 #mine #boy!!!! tumblr crashed at the bit where he arrives at the station in london and i hadn't saved the draft in a few hundred words #and i was SCREAMING but it saved it!!!! it's fine!! crisis AVERTED #<33

[looselucy]

Up the Junction

November 11th Harry had appeared at my home before 8AM even hit, smirking, shirt undone, only stood in my doorway for a matter of seconds before I’d dragged him inside.

I was now running ten minutes late for work. I might have owned the shop, and it may have been a Sunday, but I’d told Louis I’d be there at 9 and it was only a matter of time before he came banging on my door, likely predicting I’d slept in. I was otherwise occupied. “Harry, I need to go.” I panted, feeling his tongue brush against my nipple. “M’close.” He whispered. “M’so close, gimme a few more minutes.” “I swear, Louis is gunna storm in here any second now, oh my god you feel so good. Don’t stop.” “Make your mind up.” “Please don’t stop.” After a brief snigger, his lips were back around my nipple, my hands back in his hair, my mind back on the movements he made rather than the fact I was supposed to be working. We’d definitely been making the most of our arrangement. There hadn’t been a day since our official agreement that I hadn’t seen him; before work, after work, through the night, whenever we could. There had been a few occasions where I had stayed at his place, or him at mine, just so we could do it until the very last minutes of our days and then the very first minutes of the following. We were getting into this pattern where being with one another was almost constant, all our free time committed to one another. We kept things simple, playful, fun, and the more time we spent with one another, I felt like we were getting much better at covering the tracks of what we were doing. I’d stopped acting so strange and on edge, even my lying abilities must have been improving by the day. Yet holding such a large secret made me want to share others. I knew I was ready to talk to Louis. And it seemed, Louis was ready to talk to me. There was a loud knock on the door, quickly followed by the sounds of the handle rattling, the man himself trying to get inside. Thankfully, I’d remembered to lock the door behind us. “ALFIE, IT’S ME! ARE YOU ASLEEP? YOU’RE LATE, C’MON!” I was about to yell back, but Harry stopped me, rushing to put his lips back on mine, silencing my attempts at calling out to him. “Harry!” I groaned, trying to wriggle my head free. “Don’t reply.” He gasped, moving more ferociously. “Let him think you’re asleep. If you reply now, he’s gunna notice you’re breathless, it’s gunna make you obvious. Don’t answer.” “Fuck, you’re right, fuck, okay you’re gunna have to cover my mouth, because I’m about to cum.” He did as he was told, his lips twitching upwards as he watched over my face, dulling my moans as much as he possibly could. Louis started knocking again. “ALFIE, WAKE UP! C’mon, we’re gunna be busy today. Hellooooo? You’re fast asleep, aren’t you? I’m gunna ring you. I don’t know why I’m still talking.” Harry covering my mouth with his ridiculously large hand was helpful to cover both my moans and my laughter, Harry trying to shush me as I came, but he still hadn’t finished. My phone started ringing. Still working into me, he leant down to the ground to retrieve it for me, dropping it lightly onto my chest as he pushed upwards, positioning my leg on my behalf so that it was up against his body, my foot lingering beside his head. “I can’t answer when you’re doing this to me.” I cried. “Then don’t.” “Just… chill, for one second.” I scrambled to pick up my phone and answered just before it cut off, and thankfully my voice could be confused to match with someone who had just woken up, but even so, I kept it short. “Hi!” “Alfie, I’m outside your door. It’s past nine!” “Shit, really? I just woke up.” I lied, hopefully sounding convincing. “Yeah, c’mon! I know it’s Sunday, but you said that there’s summat going on or summat, and we should be busy. I dunno, I forgot what you said. But hurry up!” “Okay, just… go grab breakfast at PJ’s and I’ll ring you when I’m ready.” “Alright. Don’t fall asleep again!” “Okay bye!” I hung up as soon as I could, double checking the line had definitely cut before freeing the moan I’d been hiding, my phone tumbling back down to the bed, clutching at the headboard and lifting my other leg to balance over his other shoulder, Harry pushing his weight against me for his final few thrusts, the morning sun lighting his face quite marvellously as he unravelled, cursing to himself, rigid for just a few moments before he became completely limp, my legs the only thing stopping his body from crushing down on top of mine. I chuckled, trying to push my legs and failing. I watched him in that beautiful post-sex state for a while before I spoke. “You’re surprisingly heavy.” I told him. “It’s all my muscles.” He tried to say that seriously, but the tiny smile on his lips gave him away. “Fuck off, you idiot. Get off me, I need a shower.” “Can’t… move…” He croaked. I gathered as much strength as I could and practically kicked him off me, rushing to my bathroom to jump in the shower and get to the shop floor as soon as possible. I really hoped that Louis wasn’t too suspicious. I was a morning person, I always had been! It wasn’t like me to be running so late, to have slept in and not even heard him knocking. I knew it wasn’t likely that would lead him to suspicions and to predict the scenario between me and Harry, but I was slightly paranoid. I showered quickly, the tips of my hair getting a little damp in the process no matter how I’d tried to avoid it, and then I was done, drying myself in seconds before leaving to get dressed. Harry was still laying on my bed when I practically fell out of my bathroom, tying my hair into a tight bun, rushing to get out of there as soon as possible. “You wanna come round to mine tonight?” He asked, slouched right down in my bed like he had no plans of moving, resting his head against the palms of his hands which were pressed against the back of his head. “Uh… Sure, yeah. I’m uh….” I was frantically looking some suitable clothes. “I’m not opening the shop up tomorrow either. Shall I stay?” “Sure.” “Good. Okay, are you gunna get up and get dressed? I’m in a rush.” “I’ll let myself out, don’t worry about me.” “Not a chance.” I sniggered. “Don’t want you snooping around my flat whilst I’m not here.” “Don’t you trust me?” One of his brows tweaked, just slightly. “You got something to hide?” I stopped what I was doing, stood at the foot of my bed watching him with my hands on my hips and a sneer on my lips. “Would you trust me wandering about in your house on my own?” “Touché.” I knew for a fact that Harry had something to hide, whether he would vocally admit that or not. My nose hadn’t gotten the better of me, meaning I hadn’t asked nor gone routing around his home when he was none the wiser, but there was a part of me that as quietly aware of the hidden rooms of his home. It was the one downstairs he seemed more sensitive about from what I’d gathered; around a week earlier, he’d asked specifically that I not go into that room, whatever it was. I figured it was an extension, maybe a conservatory, but other than that I was none the wiser. Thankfully, I had no intentions or temptations when it came to breaking his trust just to find out what a simple room was, it didn’t interest me enough. I was just aware of it. There was definitely nothing in my place I thought he could stumble across that I wouldn’t want him to, and it certainly wasn’t that I didn’t trust him, but we weren’t quite at that stage. “C’mon, get up, let’s go!” Whilst groaning, he complied, getting up off my bed and getting dressed with quite some speed. It wasn’t long before we were out the door, darting down the stairs with Harry just behind me. “Time do you reckon you’ll get to mine?” “Dunno. Hopefully not late, we won’t stay open too long today.” “Gimme a rough idea.” “Like… five?” “Sick.” The winds were alarmingly cold when we got outside, but other than that the weather was exceptionally uninteresting, blank skies that hung lifeless above our heads. I locked the door, Harry lingering by my side. “Since when did you have a car?” He asked, looking at the battered blue beetle that was back on the gravel driveway behind my home.  “Since forever, but she always breaks down so, she’s been missing for a while. She’s as good as new now though!” “And when’s new for her? Nineteen-sixty-six?” He mocked. “Something like that.” I smiled. “Now fuck off. Don’t let anyone see you. Be smart. Be vigilant.” I began edging my way towards the road, only to be stopped a second later, Harry grabbing my hand and yanking me back to him, kissing me hard for just a few heavenly seconds. “I’ll see you tonight.” He whispered, pressing his forehead to mine. “You will.” I whispered back. We shared one final, brisk kiss, and then I was edging around to the front of my shop, checking over my shoulder as I went, looking down the road to make sure no one had seen us. The second I’d walked onto the main road, still not looking where I was going, I smacked right into Louis. “ARGH, FUCK! What the fuck, Louis?” “Watch where you’re walking!” He laughed. “I thought you were at PJ’s?” “I got a bacon butty to go.” He lifted it up proudly. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” “I’m not the one walking forward but looking backwards, to be fair.” “Let’s get inside, c’mon!” Whilst unlocking the door, I checked over my shoulder again, making sure that Harry hadn’t been following me around the corner, but I couldn’t see him. I figured we were safe. We let ourselves inside, turning the lights on and beginning the minor bits of prep work needed before we could open to the public, with me occasionally and manically glancing out of the window to make sure Harry wasn’t in sight. Once I felt relaxed, I went around the counter, checking over the till, watching Louis reorganising the shelves. “Sorry I slept in.” My apology sounded genuine enough, probably because I was feeling guilty for running so late. “No worries. Weird though, you’re usually really good in the morning.” “Mm.” I watched him working as I flicked through the money we had made the day before, suddenly feeling pretty low. I didn’t like lying to Louis, or rather withholding the truth. It wasn’t about the Harry thing, but more the other things that had been going on that I’d decided not to share. I finally felt like I was ready to talk, and Louis was the person I wanted to talk to. “Before we open, can I talk to you for a second?” I requested. “Of course. Is everything alright?” I instantaneously had his attention, abandoning the wine he’d been shelving and walking straight to me, immediate proof of how much he cared about me. “It… It’s about Sam. About why he left.” “Okay…” “A few days before he went… he came around to see me. Well, he turned up, drunk out of his mind in the middle of the night.” “Right?” I could tell from the look on Louis’ face that he had no idea what I was about to say, what had happened between us, and I couldn’t blame him because I’d have never said before that night that Sam would be capable of what he’d done, that he’d be violent at all. He’d lost his temper before, yelled, but nothing like that night. He’d never even been in a fight before. It was so out of character for the boy that we’d both known for so many years, that even with my low tone as I began the tale, my rigid aura, Louis couldn’t sense what was about to come. “He was banging on my door and… as soon as I opened, he just pushed in and started kissing me. But I didn’t want that! I didn’t wanna kiss him, I didn’t want him there! So I pushed him away and I asked him to stop but he just got so angry.” “Are you joking?” His face was low, clearly unable to comprehend what he was hearing. “What happened? Did he stop? What happened?” I had tears in my eyes, wanting to rush to the end of the story so Louis didn’t have to spend any time thinking the worst, which he clearly was then. It was only in that moment that I realised that it was possible Harry thought things might have escalated more than they actually had. It seemed I needed to speak to him too. “He got so aggressive. It was so strange, it was like… Like I didn’t even know him. He backed me up against the wall, grabbed my face. I hate even admitting it, but he hurt me. Scared me. He blatantly wasn’t in his right mind, but he snapped out of it pretty quickly. He was clearly shook up… kinda startled by what he’d done. I asked him to leave and eventually, he did. But… I didn’t think he’d leave here altogether, but I know that’s why he’s gone. That’s why he left Rosebury.” “Fuck. What the fuck? Are you okay?” “I’m fine, it wasn’t too bad. Just scary. Upsetting.” “Have you told anyone?” “No.” “Alfie-” “It’s fine! Harry… kinda knows, and he’s giving me extra lessons. He doesn’t know the full details but he has a good idea. I didn’t wanna say anything though because it’s Sam, y’know? I know our relationship had been shit for a while, but I still trusted him! It’s harder… to come to terms with it, when someone you love hurts you. It’s stupid, but it’s like… I still wanted to protect him. I couldn’t stand the thought of everyone hating him. I think he hates himself enough.” He grabbed hold of my hand, squeezing tightly, nodding, and showing that he understood even if it did seem completely unreasonable that I’d have sympathy for him after everything. He bit his lips, trying to find the words. “I don’t think he’s a nice man, is he?” He mumbled. “Not deep down. I didn’t expect that but… I dunno. I don’t think he's a good human being, at his core.” “I don’t either.” I agreed. “I… understand you not wanting to talk about it, and I get the empathy. But don’t have any sympathy for that prick, he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve you. Let him throw a fit and fuck off. Y’know he probably only did that thinking you’d miss him? That’s what we all think anyway.” “Really?” “Yeah! He’ll have done it thinking he’ll come back one day and you’ll have missed him so much that you’ll forgive him and he'll get you back. He’s actively seeking your sympathy. Don’t give it to him. He can pretend he’s off somewhere reflecting and becoming this better person, but don’t let him fool you.” He squeezed my hand even tighter, confident and vehement in the way he spoke his following words. “Don’t let him bully you into feeling the way he thinks you should, because he did that for too fucking long.”

Harry had text me letting me know his door was open, but that didn’t make it feel any less strange just letting myself into his home like I owned the damn place. I heard the sounds of the TV, which dragged me right into the living room, a place I hadn’t spent much time at all, seeing Harry sat there topless, flicking through channels, the log fire glowing low in the corner. “Here she is!” He practically cheered once he’d spotted me. “Hey.” I greeted, walking straight over to him. “I brought food!” “You fucking legend!” He sat up, making grabby hands. “What’re we on?” “I got Chinese. A mix of things.” “What a woman.” He leapt to his feet. “I’ll go get some plates.” I sat myself down on the sofa Harry hadn’t occupied, unloading the mountains of food I had purchased out of the weak plastic bag I believed had only been seconds away from snapping, Harry appearing again in no time with plates and cutlery. “Thanks.” I said, grabbing them off him and passing him some food. “How was work?” “Uh, yeah, good! Busy, like we thought, so that’s good.” “It’s impressive, you owning a shop like that at your age. It’s sick.” He sat down with a thud, beginning to tuck into his meal. “Well… it was passed down to me by my parents so… Yeah. It’s not really impressive, it was given to me.” “But you run it.” He shrugged, a dumpling in his hand. “You own it and you run it, pretty much by yourself. It is impressive.” “Mm. Well, thanks.” I wanted to move the conversation along quickly. It was strange enough that we were doing that, sitting down and eating together and just talking, never mind that the topic of my parents had come up so bloody quickly. I didn’t want to get upset and emotional, because our current scenario was already a little more personal than I was used to. But I liked it. I liked that I hadn’t arrived and gone straight up to his bedroom, like we usually did. It had been easy to forget how well the two of us had got on since our arrangement was agreed, so it was nice to just sit with him and talk one on one for the first time in weeks without sex being the main focus. “How’s your day been?” I asked. “Pretty uninteresting, to be honest.” “Do you get bored? Only working like… one evening a week?” “I keep myself occupied.” He answered after swallowing. We sat watching tele for a while, talking freely, playful and mundane. For a while, I simply existed within his space rather than within a reality we’d evolved around one another. I was in his environment, watching him exist in a way he would even if I wasn’t there. It was interesting, in a way. It was new. Once we’d finished our food, we still didn’t seem to be in any rush to get upstairs, which I was thankful for, to be honest. I figured it was a good time to talk. “I spoke with Louis today.” I began rather unnervingly, Harry turning his head to see me clearly. “About… what happened with Sam.” He took a deep breath in before hutching himself upwards just a little, turning the volume on the TV down slightly. “That’s a good thing, right?” “Yeah, I think so. It is, I mean… It felt good to finally talk about it. You were kinda… the only person who really knew about it, before today. And I just wanted to let you know that… what I told you and… what we did in your class that day… re-enacting it… that was the extent of it. I didn’t want you thinking it was worse than that, because it wasn’t.” “Okay. That’s good to know. I kinda thought it might have been the extent, just from how you dealt with it and how you were afterwards, but I’m glad I know for sure. And, for the record, I still think he’s fucking scum.” “Yeah,” I chuckled. “Me too. I’m glad you didn’t think it was worse. How… How could you tell?” “You seemed really… open, even if you were quiet. Like you told me everything without… really having to say anything. I dunno if that even makes sense.” I made myself comfortable, laying down with my arm on the rest, propping my head up with my hand, and he soon mirrored my actions, the two of us staring right at each other. “I think it does.” My voice was quiet. “You had the guts to be honest with me, in your way. In a way that made you comfortable. It didn’t feel like you were… lying, or… withholding anything. Just felt like you were telling me in your own way. I understood that. I heard you.” I smiled, nodding, realising once again that Harry was rather wonderful. I believed it was something he’d seen before, probably numerous times. He’d been running classes for women for a long time, as far as I’d gathered, and I imagined he’d experienced similar before, women talking to him in riddles and wrecked sentences that he had to disentangle himself. But I acknowledged then, for the first time, the possibility that there was a connection between us, one that was quite obviously sexual, but maybe delved a little deeper than we’d been able to initially apprehend. Because those kinds of connections do usually come at a price, or with additional bonds that are hidden at first, but lethal. When you connect with someone, it’s rare that it’s limited to one feeling. That was why I’d been worried about our situation. Looking into his eyes then, I didn’t feel like I had any reason to worry.

November 12th Even November couldn’t stop the sun from pouring into Harry’s bedroom, as bright as a summers day, drowning the room with shadows that bounced off his plants and rays that seemed to be sinking into the walls. Harry didn’t have curtains in his room, meaning the bright morning would always wake me at a reasonable time, and that morning was no different. I opened my eyes rather slowly, instantly seeing that Harry was still fast asleep at my side, mouth open just a touch, one hand on his chest, his breathing heavy. I was growing strangely accustom to waking up next to him. He always seemed so peaceful, like at each moment he was in the deepest stage if sleep possible, dragged so far away from reality that all he knew was the harmony that sleep offered. I’d woke up to worse. I got up rather quickly, scrambling about the floor to find my clothes which had been stripped carelessly off my body the night before, gradually locating most things bar my top. I found the shirt Harry had on, throwing it on to cover me slightly so I could go downstairs feeling somewhat shielded. It still felt a little odd, manoeuvring around his house so freely, but there was no way I was going to wake him up just to see if I was okay to go downstairs and make a cup of tea. What continued to surprise me about his home was that it seemed like it had been designed to show off. It was a beautiful place, the interior now perfect, not a single thing seeming out of place other than the plants in his room and the black paint on his white kitchen wall. Everything had its place, there was even a grand piano in his dining room. The whole place was so gorgeous, like he had every intention of inviting people in and allowing them to revel in the home he’d created. I couldn’t figure out what it was that made him so private. I had to believe it was something beyond the house itself, deeper, more personal. Or maybe I was overthinking the whole thing. Despite the sun, as I stood waiting for the kettle to boil I was cold, already eager to get back upstairs, under the sheets, cup of tea, and likely a workout with Harry that was bound to warm me up. Not bad for a Monday morning. A few minutes later, I was back upstairs, happy to see Harry was slightly awake when I walked back into his room. “Mornin’.” I greeted. “Mornin’.” His morning voice was shattered and low. “Made you a brew.” “You did?” “I did.” I grinned as he sat upright. “This arrangement… that we have going on right now…” He put his back against the wall, taking the mug from my hand. “Is fucking beautiful. I’m so glad we’re doing this. Holy shit, thank you.” “You’re welcome.” I was giggling as I sat down on what had seemed to become my designated side of the bed. “How’d you sleep?” “Yeah, good. You?” “Really good. I think I’m a bit obsessed with your bed.” “It’s sick, innit?” “So good.” “Paid good money for this mattress, and it was worth every penny.” “Do you afford all this just from running classes?” I asked. It happened again. He sort of seized up, the topic at hand clearly making him uncomfortable, yet another thing that Harry didn’t want to discuss. “Um… I have… other sources of income. Don’t really wanna talk about it.” “Sorry.” “Don’t be.” He shook his head, brows low, eyes ahead of him. “I just don’t like… talking about money and stuff. It’s fake. It’s bullshit. Doesn’t mean anything.” I’d now known him since August and yet I still felt like I didn’t really know him at all. Every time a conversation came up where it could reveal something, anything, he cowered. I didn’t know about his family, I knew next to nothing about his life before moving to Rosebury, why he’d moved, what made him tick. There were small parts of his character that I knew, simply from being around him, picking up on things and seeing his habits, basic likes and dislikes, his kindness, but there was a depth to him I was sure I’d never see. It was probably a good thing, though it didn’t often feel that way. “I’m sorry.” I apologised again. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It was stupid to ask about that kinda thing, I’m sorry.” “Honestly, Alf, don’t worry. It’s fine, I promise.” Placing my cup of tea on the ground, I flopped down, sprawling my body across his lap, looking up to him and seeing the way he smiled down to me. I could tell within the sweet look on his face that he wasn’t mad at me. I wanted something from him, something small, something trivial, but something to give me an insight. “What’s your favourite song?” I asked. “What?” He sniggered. “Your favourite song.” I replied innocently, tilting my head a little. “Why?” “Just intrigued. I wanna know.” “You’re cute. Fucking weird, but cute.” “C’mon.” I poked his stomach. “Enlighten me.” “Just one?” He was still smiling, stroking his fingers through my hair. “I know, it’s a shit question. But… A stand out song. If you can.” He went quiet, but I didn’t think he was contemplating, simply running his fingers through my hair and breathing in and back out steadily, already well aware of his answer. “I always liked Up the Junction by Squeeze.” “Interesting.” I grinned, squinting my eyes. “A bit of a depressing one.” “Yeah. Reminds me of growing up though, so… Yeah. I love it. How about you?” “Couldn’t possibly say.” “That’s not fair.” He then poked my stomach. “C’mon. Tell me.” “Don’t have one, sorry.” “You’re a dick.” He sniggered. But I didn’t care. I was just happy to know something, the smallest thing. Suddenly I knew his favourite song was linked to childhood, something he maybe listened to with his family. That was an insight, whether he realised it or not. It was tiny, but it was something. It was enough.

#HBS14 #I'm excited to hear your thoughts on this one #Happy Blood Sunday #HBS #also CAN WE EVEN DISCUSS THE ARTWORK??? #I saw it and felt it had a look of him so edited the tattoos on and died inside #ANYWAY HAPPY READING

[brightingales]

hi 👋 my prompt is jarry has broken up and romeo schemes a way to get them back together because he sees how miserable they are apart

Oh wow, this has been sitting in my inbox for ages… sorry! Hope you like it!

Posted for @happyjarryholidays Day 5: Alone – “Lonely this Christmas”

“I thought big, important, ‘hot-shot’ lawyers were meant tohave their lives together,” Romeo says, looking at the state of the flat with aderisive curl of his lip, “but I can see that you are just as pathetic as therest of us mere mortals.”

It’s clear from his joking tone of voice that Romeo doesn’tmean it as a slight against him. Still, James almost certainly would have takenan insult like that completely the wrong way just a short while ago. But now,after a few weeks and a lot of emotional work, he can recognize Romeo’s acerbicsense of humour for what it is – Romeo hides his own faults by pointing outother people’s and expresses his affection through gentle teasing just in casehis feelings are not reciprocated.

Christ, James is even starting to sound like his son and hiscod-psychology now…

“Are you here to say anything useful or did you just come totake the mick out of your poor old Dad?” James says, giving as good as he gets.He wraps his silk dressing gown tighter around himself, throws himself onto thesofa (with perhaps a little too much ‘dramatic effect’) and goes back to thecoffee he was drinking before Romeo showed up at his door.

He pretends not to notice the fact that the mug is dirty.Everything is, really. There is a pile of dishes in the sink and dust liningthe bookshelves. A stack of newspapers lies discarded on the living room floorand his curtains haven’t been drawn for a week.

Romeo steps around the mess and sits down on the arm of thesofa, fixing James with a look halfway between pity and exasperation.

“Look, I know this Christmas didn’t exactly turn out the wayyou wanted it too…”

An understatement; James had once foolishly entertaineddreams of spending Christmas curled up on this same sofa with Harry safe andwarm in his arms. Instead, he had spentthe whole day utterly alone, looking at the empty four walls of his flat, his fingershovering over Harry’s number in his phone as he warred with himself aboutwhether to call his former lover or not.

“… but you can’t just sit here and mope forever,” Romeocontinues. “It’s starting to get a bit ridiculous. You’ve become the livingembodiment of the most depressing Christmas song ever.” Romeo’s smile issympathetic, but there is also a hint of concern behind his eyes. It’s that,more than anything else, that makes James finally sit up and take note.

“Things really are dire if I’m being told off for beinglovelorn by a teenager,” James says. It’s surprising but bantering with his sonhas come fairly naturally to him. “A teenager named Romeo, no less…”

James pulls himself off the sofa and downs the coffee in hismug, grimacing as he finds that it has gone cold.

“What do you propose I do?” James asks.

“We should clean up, first. Then coffee. And then, you’regoing to come to the New Year’s party that Prince and Lilly are hosting at TheDog…”

James opens his mouth to protest but Romeo doesn’t let himget a word in.

“…I’m not taking no for an answer. You need to get out thereand show the village that you’ve not been totally crushed. You’re JamesNightingale! You’re better than this,” Romeo finishes with a sigh, gesturing atthe state of both the flat and James.  

He knows Romeo is right, but that still doesn’t mean thatJames wants to hang out with a bunch of adolescents.

Still, it’s not like he has anything better to do.

“Since it’s your idea you can get started while I take ashower,” James tells Romeo. “Cleaning stuff is under the sink. I’m sure you canfigure it out.”

“Fine, but I’m putting some music on and I’m choosing the playlist!”

…

It takes them nearly the whole afternoon. James had brieflyworried that being trapped in his flat with Romeo with nothing to do but cleanand talk would be torture but it’s actually been very nice to sort his life outwhile not being totally alone. Romeo’s playlist is full of classic and indierock, and while James would never have picked the songs himself the thrum ofguitars and beat of the drums motivates him to finish the work.

His mind is pleasantly occupied in a way that it hasn’t beenfor weeks. Even when his thoughts inevitably drift towards Harry his heartturns to fondness rather than to bitterness, as it has done ever since Harryleft. He can’t help but wonder where Harry is, what he’s doing, who he is with.And he will always worry that Harry is safe.

But while these thoughts had previously been tinged withresentment, now they taste like guilt and longing. It’s not better. It’s noteasier. But it’s not worse. And every time James is at risk of spiralling downinto morose thoughts, Romeo is there to distract him with something new toclean or a level of small talk just the right side of tolerable.  

The conversation ebbs and flows between them, unforced and natural as if he and Romeo have known eachother for far longer than they actually have. They talk about Romeo’sChristmas, his plans for the new year, what sort of job he would like. Until a moment when the subject turns to Romeo’slove life and Romeo shuts down. Clearly, it’s a sensitive topic. James filesthe knowledge away for later use, already planning to return the favour andhelp Romeo out if and when he needs it.

After all, they’re family.

…

They reward themselves with coffee from The Bean, thethought of something caffeinated and sweet having motivated them both throughthe worst tasks of the day. When James returns to the flat, he has to concedethat the effort was worth it. The place is cleaner than it has been for months.He’d even taken on some tasks he thought he would never get around to; his filing cabinet has been reorganised, he’s hungsome new art on the wall, and even moved some furniture around.

A new place for a new year.

He wonders if Harry would notice the changes…

Yes, the cleaning helped, but he still can’t escape thoughtsof Harry sneaking up on him. With this realisation, James decides that he hasto keep his word to Rome and go to the party. Clearly, he still needs to bedistracted.

He makes himself a promise – if he can get through the night without losing his senses to thoughts of blonde hairand tanned skin then he’ll finally let Harry go. The countdown to midnight willbe his self-imposed deadline and he’llstart the new year without the weight of lost love pressing down on his shoulders.

It’s as good a plan as any he has come up with lately…

…

The party is not as awful as he had expected. It’s stillpretty dire – any party organised by the McQueens is – but even James has toadmit that it’s better than staying in.

Mercedes hands him a glassof bubbly as he gravitates to where all the adults are congregated at the bar,out of the way of the flailing limbs on the makeshift dance floor in thecorner. He makes small talk and, for a while, things seem almost normal. Or atleast, as normal as they can be with everyone treating him with the sort ofgentleness and concern normally reserved for people the villagers actuallylike.

Romeo bounds over at one point, cheeks flushed with drinkand face split with a wide grin. James just about manages to stop his son fromdragging him on to the dancefloor:

“Look, I’m making friends, I’m playing nice. No one heredeserves to be traumatised by the sight of me ‘dancing’!”

“I bet Harry wouldn’t say that!” Romeo says.

He immediately clasps his hand over his mouth. James triesto school his face into an expression that isn’t one of absolute devastation asRomeo starts to apologise.

“It’s fine. It’s ok,” James reassures his son. “I’m going tohave to go through life with people mentioning him. I can’t run away from thisforever.”

“Still, I’m sorry.”

It must be the drink – because the next thing either of themknows James has reached out and wrapped Romeo up in the world’s most awkwardone-armed hug.

They stand there, neither of them really sure what to do.

“Okay?” Romeo asks quietly, muffling his voice in James’sshoulder.

“Yep,” James replies. “I should let go now right?”

He means the hug.

Definitely. That’s what he means.

When he and Romeo part, James goes back to the bar andavoids making eye contact with anyone. But when he does find it within himselfto finally look up, Nancy is watching him out of the corner of her eye as ifshe is amazed that the great James Nightingale is actually capable of feelinghuman emotion.

He does so love proving people wrong. But right now, he regretsthat he can’t hold on to his usual façade.  

…

Romeo disappears off for a while and for some strange reasonJames can’t bring himself to leave the party without saying goodbye to himfirst. By the time that he does the countdown to midnight is only a few minutesaway. Romeo tries to persuade him to stay, but James demurs. Something withinhim knows that he needs to see in this new year on his own; to grieve the yearlast past in his own private way.

Romeo seems to understand. James is honestly so grateful tohave a family member so perceptive. And he is grateful that he waited to saygoodbye because Romeo tells him that James had dropped his keys and he hadfound them outside. He doesn’t ask what Romeo was doing leaving the party. Hecan guess that it has something to do with that disastrous love life of his andJames doesn’t want to push him on that front. Romeo will tell him all about it whenhe’s ready.

When James returns to the flat the lights are on. He andRomeo must have left them like that by accident. The wasted electricity is apain, but it’s strangely nice to return to a palace that’s not completelyshrouded in darkness.

He enjoys the work he and Romeo have done for a little while, looking at all the changes they hadmade together. Now that his flat has been organised James feels a little moreprepared to organise his life – to recalibrate himself so that he is back atthe centre of his own universe, rather than Harry forming the axis on which hisworld turns.

He should toast the new year with the bottle of champagne hekeeps in the fridge for emergencies.

In the kitchen, there is an unwashed mug in the sink thatwasn’t there when he and Romeo left.

“James…”

The voice comes from behind him. He doesn’t even have towonder who it is. No one else has a voice that can touch his soul so acutely.

He turns.

Harry looks good. Of course, he does. But it’s not just aphysical thing – though the tan and the haircut are definitely working for him– it’s something about the way he cries himself. There is a confidence in himnow that is so far away from the scared and uncertain boy James had last seenin this flat.

The Harry before him now is a man.

“James. I’m…”

James crosses the space between them in two large strides,grips Harry by the shoulders, and pulls him close so that they can finally,after so many weeks of longing, kiss.

Harry’s shocked into stillness for a few seconds and Jamespresses against him. But then he melts, wonderfully, deliciously, into James’stouch. It’s been too long, but their bodies remember each other.

It’s Harry who breaks the kiss.

“James…”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts.

Harry’s face crinkles adorably in confusion. “That’s myline.”

“I don’t care. You’re back. Never leave me again.” Eachsentence is punctuated with a kiss.

“You threw me out.”

“I’m an idiot. I was wrong. I’m so sorry, Harry.”

There is more kissing as James pushes Harry towards the sofa.He feels dizzy and weak at the knees. He needs something solid to lean against orhe might faint. But more than that – he has a desperate and unshakable need tofeel all of Harry pressed up against him. Harry apparently feels the same way,if his awkward attempts to wrestle James out of his jumper are anything to goby.

They pull apart for a moment so that they can move theiroffending clothes.

“How did you get here?” James suddenly remembers to ask.

“Romeo,” Harry admits. “He stole my number from your phone.Took your keys out of your pocket and let me in. Don’t be mad at him.”

“I’m not,” James says sincerely, “he gave you back to me.Best Christmas present ever.”

“It’s New Year’s,” Harry points out. “I wanted to come backsooner. I just… I needed time… I wasn’t sure…”

“And are you sure now?”

“More than I’ve everbeen of anything in my life. I love you, James.”

James presses his own ‘I love you’ to Harry’s lips. And asthey fall to kissing once more, in the distance a bell begins to chime.

“Kissing at midnight on New Year,” James points out. “Youknow what this means? We have to stay together now, for the whole year.”

“I think I can managethat,” Harry replies with a grin.

#jarry #happyjarryholidays #late fic is late #day five #parryglasspools

[besidemethewholedamntime]

it was always me and you ch. 3

Summary:

"There had always been something about Fitz’s fiancée that she had never really admired, something off about the way she smiled with too much teeth and how she rarely blinked."

When Fitz’s fiancée runs off in the middle of the night leaving Fitz and their 4 year old daughter behind, Jemma is there immediately because she’s his best-friend and she’s been there through it all.

But as Fitz navigates single parenthood with Jemma every step on the way, maybe it’s something different than being a best-friend. Maybe it’s something more.

{Entire work}

{Read on Ao3}

In the coming weeks, Jemma finds herself almost seamlessly transitioning to a new way of life that doesn’t feel like a new way of life at all.

She goes to work, devoting her everything in the hours that she’s there in order to keep afloat of everything new coming in. After work she’ll usually go to Fitz’s house, spend time with Orla, help with anything she can help with in order to make the absence of a wife and mother seem less glaring. Sometimes, after Orla’s gone to bed, her and Fitz will stay up so late, like they’ve forgotten that they aren’t nineteen again, that she’ll fall asleep on the sofa and will wake up at five-thirty in a mad panic, rushing back to her flat for a shower and a change of clothes before the cycle starts over again.

The thing is, she doesn’t even realise she’s fallen into a cycle, it comes that naturally to her. And she’s enjoying it all (perhaps not the mad rush through the city at five thirty in the morning – it’s the utter opposite of preparation). She enjoys going to work and having to sift through in-tray – finding it exciting to know what new things she’ll get to work on, checking the results of her ongoing projects like they’re a prize and being ridiculously happy when it’s all worked out. There’s something so relaxing about going to Fitz’s house after, getting to help Orla with her homework or let her niece ‘teach’ her about how addition works, or the new words she’s learning in school. And she enjoys telling Fitz about her days when they’re sitting together on the sofa watching mind-numbing late-night television because it reminds her of a time when they were both young and they shared a flat and there wasn’t all of this heartbreak and they could just be ‘them’.

Of course, it means some things in her life have suffered, things that she doesn’t even realise she has neglected. She hasn’t stayed in her flat properly for a while, and only notices when the pile of post collecting on her hallway table is in danger of collapse, and there’s a thin layer of dust on her kitchen worktops. She spends a rare day off cleaning it, vowing to spend more time in her own house, reorganise her own life, that the last few weeks have just been a phase she needed to help her best-friend and his daughter pass through.

Except that vow lasts as long as she unknowingly stays in the lab working until well past midnight and, too tired to drive all the way across the city to go home, on autopilot she texts Fitz to ask if she can stay at his because he lives only five minutes away and there’s a toothbrush that literally has her name on it.

They used to live together five years ago and it doesn’t seem like it was half a decade ago when she’s laughing with him over dinner or they’re arguing about what movie to watch. They used to do this all the time, still regularly did it on and off throughout the past five years, and even though maybe she should be there for him in a different way, even though maybe she should be a little more distant when offering her support, it doesn’t feel wrong and so much of her enjoys having her best friend back that she purposefully forgets to think about the implications of it all.

She sits at Fitz’s kitchen table, a cup of tea in front of her, Fitz making dinner at the cooker, an image that has become so very representative of her life in these past few weeks. They’re bickering over the scientific accuracy in the Jurassic Park franchise when something catches Jemma’s eye. An envelope in the middle of the coffee table – a brown padded one bearing Fitz’s name and address in a handwriting that’s unfamiliar, the blue second-class stamp glaring from the top right-hand corner.

“What’s this?” She murmurs to herself, reaching out to bring it closer, the overwhelming curiosity not even allowing room to think that this isn’t actually her post.

She slides it across the table not harshly, but the action is enough to make the item inside dislodge and a ring falls onto the table with a clink.

Jemma picks it up between her thumb and forefinger. It should be familiar to her, something in her brain tells her, but for the life of her she can’t place it and no logical conclusion comes to her in that moment.

“Fitz? What’s this?”

He turns around, eyes widening in surprise then dropping in resignation. There isn’t even anything indicating indignation at his post being opened by someone else.

“Eh…” he scratches the back of his neck, looks down at the floor where Jemma’s imagining he’s scuffing his shoes against the tile. “That’s her ring… Annie’s ring.” He looks back up at her, sees how she’s still confused. “Her engagement ring.”

Jemma feels her skin begin to get rather hot, her eyebrows raise all on their own. The disbelief is overwhelming, and the utter audacity of this woman is quite frankly disgusting for Jemma. To send an engagement ring back in the post, a ring that’s meant to symbolise love and commitment and being there, with no note to be seen and weeks later, is abhorrent. Of course there’s no proper etiquette on how to return an engagement ring, Jemma realises this quite well, but some ways are more proper than others and if you’re going to do something like this, then at least do it right.

She bites back a remark about Well at least she’s definitely not coming back now (partly because it’s not helpful at all, and partly because she doesn’t want to be seen to be that woman) and instead says something else that’s been bothering her ever since she picked the ring up.

“It doesn’t look like your grandmother’s engagement ring.”

For that was the ring she thought Fitz was going to use. He’d shown it to her, the day he’d told her he was going to propose to the mother of his child and Jemma remembers the simple gold band and pear-drop diamond quite fondly. She remembers how his face had lit up when he’d told her it used to belong to his grandmother, who had given it to his mother to give to him.

“She was married to my grandad for sixty-seven years,” he’d told her, wide-eyed with hope. “Said it was good luck.”

“Well then,” Jemma had replied, voice light, trying to make herself mean it, “it’s good that Annie’s getting such a wonderful ring, isn’t it?”

Fitz shakes his head (maybe remembering that conversation, too). “That’s ‘cause it’s not.” He hesitates, as if deciding whether or not to say something before just going for it. “She didn’t like it. Wanted something new and her own. Thought that was fair, you know?”

It would be fair and reasonable but knowing how much family means to Fitz, how much courage it would have taken him to share this with her, brings another pool of resentment into Jemma’s heart. She doesn’t say anything about Annie, keeps her thoughts to herself.

“I’ll bet your mum was disappointed then,” she tries to joke, but it sounds flat. Unable to look at him, she keeps her eyes on the ring.

She hears Fitz chuckle. “She never thought I’d actually give Annie any ring, to be honest. Never mind hers. She uh- when I told her, she said she thought the ring was for…” he trails off, and Jemma looks up. There’s a millisecond where she finds him giving her an odd sort of look before he drops his gaze. “She didn’t think the ring was for her anyway, so I don’t expect she was that heartbroken.”

“That’s not so bad then,” she says lightly, setting the ring down a little more carelessly than she intended to. It makes a harsh clunk on the table and the sound bounces around her head for the rest of the evening.

-x-

Jemma’s having dinner with Jack when she receives a phone call from Fitz. It’s not an important phone call, nothing like the earth-shattering one he made only weeks ago. He asks if she’s able to take Orla for a few nights next week. He’s having to go away for work, tried to get out of it but couldn’t. Apologises over and over. She says ‘of course’ and ‘it’s really no problem’ and hangs up.

Jack looks at her suspiciously as she goes back to eating her pasta with no further comment. “What was that?” He asks.

His tone makes Jemma sit up, take notice. Surely he can’t be annoyed about her using her phone at the dinner table? Yes, it’s rude but it doesn’t warrant such a tone, surely? It’s not an important dinner, not an anniversary or a memorable event. Just the two of them eating dinner as they have done before.

“Fitz has to go away for a few nights next week,” she says slowly, waiting for a reaction. “He asked me if I would have Orla to stay, which I told him of course I would.”

Jack takes a sip of his wine, She watches as he decides what to say. His next words sound airy but she can read between the lines. “Can his mum not take her?”

“I don’t know. I never asked.”

“Huh. That’s going to cause some issues for you at the lab, won’t it?”

In another tone, Jemma might concede this to be a fair point. Lately she has been working non-stop days that start at eight and finish around midnight and she doesn’t even realise that the rest of the university has been shut up until she takes a rare glance out the window and notices the complete darkness where there should be light. Leaving anytime before the middle of the night is frowned upon and yes, the rational mind in her can agree that it’s not the most ideal time for Jemma to have a child in her charge.

But it’s not just any child, now. It’s Orla Fitz. Her pseudo-niece. Who she wouldn’t even have to look after in the first place if her mother hadn’t done a runner. So for a few days she can endure the not-so-subtle looks from her lab manager and the over-the-top sighs from the project leader as she stars at nine and leaves at quarter to three. Besides, she’s naturally ahead in her assigned work anyway, and she hasn’t taken holidays over a year, so there’s really no reason it should matter.

She explains all of this to her boyfriend, who just nods his head like he doesn’t agree and goes back to eating his pasta. She waits for him to eventually speak his piece, which he does in around thirty seconds.

“Do you not think that maybe Fitz needs to learn to do this by himself?”

The words make her pause, look at someone she’s meant to love as if he’s a stranger. “What?”

“I just think that he’s relying on you a little too much. Maybe he needs to learn how to do this whole parenting thing without you there?”

“But why?”

Because, truly, she doesn’t see why he must. Parenting should never be a solo task, it should always be a two parent endeavour. It’s unfair for him to be alone, especially when it wasn’t his choice to be.

“Because, Jemma.” Jack’s fork clatters to the plate as he spreads his hands in emphasis. “Because you might not always be here for him. You have such great things going for you at work – I’ve seen the job offers lying on the table. Places from all over the world want you. You could go so far. But I know you. I know you’ll hold yourself back, hold yourself here for him and that’s not fair to either of you.”

Jemma feels like she can’t breathe, betrayal making her chest tight. “So you’re telling me that, what? I should just leave him to do it alone?” She shakes her head. “No. That’s not fair.”

Jack exhales deeply. “No, I’m not saying that.” He reaches his hands for hers but Jemma pulls them back, out of his reach. He hangs his head briefly before continuing. “All I’m saying it, maybe he shouldn’t be so dependant on you, maybe he should be able to experience things alone every so often.”

She stands up from the table, pushing her chair back so hard that it wobbles precariously for a few seconds. Embarrassed to find tears in her eyes, she ignores all of the dinner etiquette her parents have ever taught her and walks over to the sink, grabbing a tissue and trying to discreetly wipe her eyes. Once she feels a bit calmer, she moves over to the door because it’s impossible to carry on with dinner, now. She looks back to Jack, who looks t her imploringly, begging her to understand.

She can’t.

“We’ve always been there for each other,” she tells him, voice quiet but strong. “I don’t intend to change that.”

Because they’ve been by each other’s side for the whole damn time, and there is no way in hell that she begins to back away now.

-x-

Orla comes to stay the next again week, toting her blue spotty suitcase and her grin that lights up the world.

Jemma resolves to make it fun for her, to make her forget why she’s having to stay in the fun place. On the first night, for dinner, breaking all of her self-imposed rules, they order in a pizza and have ice-cream for dessert. For breakfast, Jemma puts banana in the shape of a smiley face on Orla’s cereal and packs her lunch with different colours of the electromagnetic spectrum. After she picks her up from school they go to the park, play on the swings and the slides for a ridiculously long time and after dinner and homework is done, Jemma shows her basic kitchen science experiments like magic milk and the vinegar volcano.

It’s a little bit exhausting, because she’s never had to care for a child before and although Jemma’s tried, it’s not exactly something one can prepare for. But she loves it, that’s what she finds strange. Despite her lack of experience, lack of preparation, lack of the ability to relate to children that she’s struggled with all of her life, she enjoys taking care – but more importantly spending time – with this little human who isn’t hers.

On the last night, after the swings and experiments and all the homework is done, Jemma tucks Orla into her guest bed that’s far too big for such a small child. She tells her stories of brilliant female scientists, ones who had to fight to get even the chance to be heard, in absence of the more traditional bedtime stories that she’s never had much admiration for anyway.

“Wow.” Orla blinks up at her, owl-eyed in her pyjamas in a too-big bed. “That’s amazing.”

“Isn’t it just,” Jemma agrees, tucking the duvet further around the four-year-old. “Now, it’s quite late considering you have school tomorrow.”

“Awwww. Can I not just stay up with you a little bit later? Please?”

“It’s already past your bedtime,” Jemma says, although she would quite like to stay up with her niece and watch cartoons huddled together on the sofa. But it is a school night, after all.

“I like spending time with you, though,” Orla huffs.

“I like spending time with you, too,” Jemma replies, kissing her on the nose making Orla giggle.

“Daddy likes spending time with you. He smiles more when you’re there.”

It shouldn’t mean so much, the word of a four year old who thinks fairies are responsible for lighting up the streetlights at night. Yet Jemma’s heartbeat begins to take on an irregular rhythm of its own accord.

“Does he now?” She asks lightly, watching as Orla’s brow furrows and she puts on her comical ‘thinking face’.

“Yeah, he does,” she decides, very firm in her opinion.

“I like spending time with your daddy, too,” she tells her, but the voice is remarkably different to the one she used before. She doesn’t even thin she recognises it.

Orla looks mildly offended. “But not more than me?” She asks suspiciously.

“Oh, no,” Jemma laughs, heartbeat restored. She kisses her on the forehead once more. “Never more than you.”

-x-

The next time Jemma ends up spending the night at the Fitz household is only a few weeks later.

She’s been at the lab later and later, for there is no reason to really go home. Her and Jack still aren’t quite right, and going home only reminds her of the fact. Besides, her home doesn’t really feel like a home anymore. Not now, when she knows the vibrancy of family.

It’s late, well into the wee hours of the morning. Soon it will be time to get up for work. She really should get to sleep. There’s a film playing on the television, it’s light the only light, casting those ghostly shadows around the room.

They’re sitting together on the sofa, curled into each corner with their legs intermingled in the middle. Fitz is asleep, snoring softly. She should go to bed, to the guest room, to sleep, but somehow she finds that she can’t.

He smiles more when you’re there.

Orla’s words from years ago ring in her ears. It’s something she can’t shake ever since. She keeps stealing glances at Fitz, wondering if maybe he doesn’t always look the way he does to her. Jemma looks at him now – the way he’s asleep on the couch. Mouth relaxed, no lines around his eyes. He looks at peace. And, selfishly, for she knows she shouldn’t, she wonders if he doesn’t sleep peacefully when she’s not around.

There had been a time, many years ago, before he’d met Annie that she’d wondered… She lets out a small laugh, snuggles deeper into the sofa, feeling her eyes begin to droop. It’s too comfortable here to move anywhere else. Jemma lets herself be lulled to sleep by Fitz’s soft snores, wondering about whatever happened to what was seemingly the inevitable.

#fitzsimmons #aos #fitzsimmons fic #fanfic by moi #i hope you like it!! #sorry it took so so long!

[liamxavierwrites]

In my last post How To Be Productive When You Feel Broken, I spoke about how to deal with being productive after the effects of a breakdown and panic attack. In this post I’m going to be going over some of my tips and own ways of staying organised and productive before a breakdown has time to occur. Staying on top of everything and relatively stress free helps to prevent the vulnerability that makes us so susceptible to breakdowns.

This post was inspired a little by a video by YouTubers Hannah Witton and Lucy Moon, which spoke about how they stayed organised, and their own methods to staying productive. It re-encouraged my excitement (I realise how nerdy that sounds) for organisation, after my brief blip of a creative block. So go ahead and watch that too!:

Place.

To start off with, I always find it really important to understand how different locations affect your ability to work. For example I work best in University surroundings and usually with a study partner. However I can work at home in my room, but in order to do that I need to keep my work space organised and to my own preferences. What I mean by this is the placing of everything. Is it close to hand? Do you have everything you need in a relatively accessible vicinity? And perhaps most importantly, do you feel comfortable?

If not, then mix things up a bit. Reorganise your desk and the area around it. For me, I really struggle to work if my surroundings are messy, so I always try to clean up my room, or the table I’m working at. Less distractions that way. As an example, I’ve come back from Uni to my hometown for a week and this is how I’ve organised my room while I study:

It’s uber simple, but that’s what I wanted, nothing too cluttered, and everything I need right beside me. On one smaller desk I have my laptop and mouse, so that when I’m writing, that’s all I’m doing, and I also have the light from the window. To my immediate left I have a separate desk with a collection of relevant books, my diary, application forms for dissertation approval and of course a mug of coffee. I like to keep a mixture of things near me, in terms of having dissertation resources, different assignment resources and blogging resources near. Some people can’t work like this and can only work on one thing at a time. The best way to find out how you work is just to try both and sort your organisational system around that.

Personal Organisational System

Truthfully speaking it’s one of those terms that seems a little more complicated than it needs to be, but it’s helpful to call it something I find. Essentially, one of the best ways to be organised and to understand what you’re doing one day and what you’re doing the next is to establish a personal system. It comes down to how you work again, if you find it easier to work on multiple things in short periods of time or to work on one singular thing for a longer period of time etc. Once you know this, you can shape your system around that preference.

I’ll give you a brief idea of how I normally shape my system. I ‘m one of those people that enjoys working on multiple assignments and projects in a day. But I will prioritise whichever ones require the most effort or are due in earlier. I usually give myself an hour or half hour between assignments, and a good enough break between each. For example if I write my dissertation for an hour, I will give myself a 15 or half hour break to rest my brain before either continuing another hour, or switching projects. I like to keep it changing. Even when your projects are changing, your timings and system stay pretty similar, which gives you a sense of routine. Routine gives a sense of purpose and naturally allows us to feel as if we are working toward something, and that the effort and productivity is just a part of our day. This will help to get the brain to fall naturally into a state of productivity without the moaning and groaning beforehand because you’re not used to it.

Diaries and Deadlines.

This is one of the things that influenced me quite a bit from Lucy and Hannah’s video. They spoke about different ways to keep organised, but one thing they both mentioned was the existence of diaries. They mentioned iCalendar, Google Calendar, and Bullet Journaling. Again, a lot of this is subjective and personal. For example, I tried Bullet Journaling but I just struggled with the customisation of it, and it just seemed too complex for what I wanted. I do use my Google Calendar quite a bit as a diary, BUT I am one of those writers and bookworms who still adores the physical form of things.

I always, unfortunately, decide to sort out my diary at the worst times though. When I do, the normal diaries start too early leave too much space, and the mid-year calendars start too late.

What I’ve done is bought a blank, lined notebook and created my diary from it. I will leave little customisable doodles at the side to make it a little personal, but generally speaking I’m going to keep it simple. It takes a little while to finish it but the end product looks quite nice, and whats-more is I find you’re less likely to abandon something effort has been put into. If you’ve taken the time to go to each page, split it between days, and write the individual date until you have no pages left, you’re going to be annoyed if you don’t use it. But what do you actually put into it? Well here’s how the benefit of having 2 diaries comes in handy, again as the girls mention in their video. I think what I’m personally doing is keeping my physical diary to professional projects, and blog/poetry related deadlines. I’m also keeping one or two casual events in if it will fit, because it reminds me that in a day it’s important to have moderation between work and rest.

Here’s what my section for today looks like:

 I’m trying to also keep it to the most important deadlines and/or projects for that day. I will then tick each piece that is completely done to the level I’ve put in the diary, just so I can see what is left. It also helps to give a little sense of achievement to tick it off your list.

Diaries like these are great for everything, but I always write all my assignment deadlines into it. I will write the actual deadlines and occasionally reminders a week before, so if for some reason I’ve forgotten I will have reminders in there about what I need to do still. This works for University deadlines and work deadlines alike. Keep a record of what large deadlines are given to  you – mention them in the section for that day that you are told. It just allows you to keep on top of it, without it becoming too scary, or too demonised by your own fears.

And lastly…

Organisation Can Be Fun.

It sounds horrific and weird, but organisation should be a little fun, rewarding or even, in the case of say a producer, thrilling. It is one of those reluctant loves, that as you begin to organise, you find yourself excited at the prospect. Just give yourself time to create the right system for you, and attach enough enjoyable elements to the work so that what you’re doing isn’t boring or completely soul destroying.

Organisation is there to keep things clean and in place, not chuck them out of order, and that is everything you need when it comes to deadlines and assignments.

As Benjamin Franklin once said “For every minute spent in organising, an hour is earned”

  "How do I keep myself organised?" Have a read and see if this helps! :) #blog #organisation In my last post How To Be Productive When You Feel Broken, I spoke about how to deal with being productive 

#advice #blog #Deadlines #diary #Hannah Witton #inspiration #journal #Lucy Moon #organisation #productivity #school #System #writing