#Affordable White Kitchen towel

[grannyandgrandpascreations]

You Bet Your Sweet Dupa I'm Polish Flou Sack Kitchen Dish Towel

Add a touch of Polish heritage to your kitchen with this traditional You Bet Your Sweet Dupa I’m Polish Flour Sack Kitchen Dish Towel. This traditional white cotton Polish flour sack tea towel belongs in every Polish kitchen! Perfect Polish gift!

Flour sack dish towels are called “flour sack” because they are modeled after the thin cotton bags that flour and grain used to be packed in, which were re-used as towels. The thin cotton yarn and the looser weave make for a towel that’s extra absorbent. You can even air dry your salad greens; the super absorbent nature of flour sack towels makes them great for drying delicate greens. Also, flour sack towels are lint free! Which means no more fuzzies on your wine glasses when you wipe them dry!

Flour sack towels are also softer and significantly larger than a standard kitchen towel….and more towel is always a good thing! You can use these towels for drying, wiping, cleaning, or dusting and they can be used for fun decorations.

Each flour sack kitchen towel measures 28 in. x 29 inches (Product dimensions L x W x H – 28 x 29 x 29 inches). They are 100% cotton, durable and absorbent. These are flat woven towels; they are perfect for cooking or baking and can safely be used around food such as covering dough for rising or as a food strainer. These towels also double as a kind of strainer or cheese cloth; the fine weave means you can strain sauces and broths through a flour sack towel to clarify them. Flour sack kitchen towels are sturdy, highly absorbent, dry quickly, and are designed to stand up to most any cleaning job. The towels easily withstand frequent washings and are made for repeated daily use.

The flour sack kitchen towel is a quality item with versatility and utility, we offer everyday designs and special occasion designs. Our flour sack towels are a great gift idea and very inexpensive!

Care instructions: Machine wash cold, no bleach, no softener. Do not dry clean. Do not iron. Tumble dry low. Due to different light settings the actual color might vary a bit from the pictures. Thank you for visiting Granny & Grandpa's Custom Creations, we truly appreciate your support of small businesses. We also personalize our products, please reach out to us with any personalizing any of our products, additional fee's may apply.

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You Bet Your Sweet Dupa I’m Polish Kitchen Towel. A perfect unique gift for someone who is Polish.

Flour sack dish towels are called “flour sack” because they are modeled after the thin cotton bags that flour and grain used to be packed in, which were re-used as towels. The thin cotton yarn and the looser weave make for a towel that’s extra absorbent. You can even air dry your salad greens; the super absorbent nature of flour sack towels makes them great for drying delicate greens. Also, flour sack towels are lint free! Which means no more fuzzies on your wine glasses when you wipe them dry!

Flour sack towels are also softer and significantly larger than a standard kitchen towel….and more towel is always a good thing! You can use these towels for drying, wiping, cleaning, or dusting and they can be used for fun decorations.

Each flour sack kitchen towel measures 28 in. x 29 inches (Product dimensions L x W x H – 28 x 29 x 29 inches). They are 100% cotton, durable and absorbent. These are flat woven towels; they are perfect for cooking or baking and can safely be used around food such as covering dough for rising or as a food strainer. These towels also double as a kind of strainer or cheese cloth; the fine weave means you can strain sauces and broths through a flour sack towel to clarify them. Flour sack kitchen towels are sturdy, highly absorbent, dry quickly, and are designed to stand up to most any cleaning job. The towels easily withstand frequent washings and are made for repeated daily use.

The flour sack kitchen towel is a quality item with versatility and utility, we offer everyday designs and special occasion designs. Our flour sack towels are a great gift idea and very inexpensive!

Care instructions: Machine wash cold, no bleach, no softener. Do not dry clean. Do not iron. Tumble dry low. Due to different light settings the actual color might vary a bit from the pictures.

[najia-cooks]

[ID: One puffy circle of bread, and three which have been halved to show an internal pocket, on a striped blue and white kitchen towel. End ID]

خبز الكماج / Khubiz al-kmaj (Palestinian flatbread)

Khubiz al-kmaj is a thin flatbread with an internal pocket. It is commonly eaten with breakfast to scoop up dips such as hummus, used to eat stews, served alongside main dishes, and used to make sandwiches and to wrap falafel. "خُبْز," pronounced "khubz" or (in Levantine varieties of Arabic) "khubiz," comes from the root خ ب ز (kh-b-z), which also produces the word "خَبَزَ" "khabaza" (Levantine: "خَبَز" "khabaz"), "to bake."‎

This bread is eaten across the Levant and in Greece, with slight differences in terminology and style. It is variously called "خُبْز العَرَبِيّ" (khubz al-'arabiyy; Arabian bread), "خُبْز "البَلَدِيّ (khubz al-baladiyy; bread from my country), or (occasionally) "خُبْز البيتة" or "البيتا" (khubz al-bita), a borrowing from "pita." ("Pita" itself is perhaps from Greek "πίτα" "pita," or the modern Hebrew "פיתה.") The bread is referred to as "khubiz al-kmaj" in Palestine, from the Turkic "kömeç" / كُمَجْ‎ ("bread baked in ashes"). The collective term for the bread in general is كماج (kmāj); each individual piece of bread is referred to with the singulative "كماجة‎" (kmāja).

Today, kmaj is frequently made with white flour; some people add olive oil or milk powder to ensure a very soft dough. Leila el-Haddad writes that a more traditional method omits milk and uses whole white spring wheat, a whiteish wheat grain harvested in late spring and ground without removing the bran.

Since the late 20th century, many Palestinian households have used an electric cooker (طنجرة الكهرباء; ṭanjara al-kahrabā') to cook kmaj, placing one kmaja inside of the chamber and one on top and allowing both to bake at the same time. These aluminum and tin cookers, which were invented in Gaza and became popular there during the first intifada in the late 1980s, are designed to route electricity through a metal pipe or spiral wire on the underside of their lids, heating both the top and the inside of the cooker simultaneously.

The cookers' popularity can be attributed in part to a curfew that Israel imposed on Gazan refugee camps during the intifada, supposedly in an attempt to restrict the movements of resistance fighters. Refugees in the Jabalia camp in the north, for example, unable to afford home stoves, and without the necessary outdoor space to make familial clay ovens, would have to wait in line for hours every day to get bread from shared ovens, risking curfew violations; household electric cookers were far more convenient. The success of local industry and innovation in the form of Gazan-manufactured technology was also symbolically and strategically important during the first intifada, in which Palestinians employed strikes and boycotts (largely organized by women) of Israeli companies and goods as a strategy of resistance to occupation.

An electric cooker is still today considered a very important tool, as it spares families the need to purchase kmaj (the price of which was soaring compared to the cost of flour in the 2010s, and which was often of inferior quality compared to what could be made at home). They are frequently given as wedding or housewarming presents. Lack of access to electricity, though, imposes a limiting condition on the usage of these cookers, as Israel has for over a decade strangled the flow of power to Gaza: Abier Almasri wrote in 2017 that tasks such as cooking and laundry had to be rushed during the four or so hours a day when electricity was available. In this environment, electric cookers are useful in that they can prepare a lot of bread in a short period of time. Fathia Radwan said in 2022 that she would wake up early, after the nightly power outage, to prepare more than 100 loaves of bread at a time for her family of nine.

Today, the taxes that Israel levies on imports of raw materials into Gaza makes the cost of new electric cookers, which sometimes exceeds 120 shekels (37 USD), too expensive for some families to afford. The difficulty and expense of importing materials, and the impossibility of exporting goods to foreign markets with the advent of the 2007 siege, also limit the number of factories in Gaza that are able to manufacture these cooking pots. The aluminum industry, introduced to Gaza in the 1960s and once the basis of a manufacturing and economic renaissance in the region, deteriorated as a result of the siege, as factories were no longer able to export goods to the West Bank and were newly reliant on imports of raw materials from Egypt. Even parts to repair electric cookers are expensive, due to a tax levied on items judged by Israel to have a "dual," i.e. a possible civilian and military, use.

Still, repairman Iyad Faraj estimates that over half the homes in Gaza have and use an electric cooker, as maintaining, repairing, and operating one is cheaper than having a gas pipe installed (at 68 shekels, 20 USD) and purchasing gas. Electric pots thus stand in many homes as both a utilitarian item, and a symbol of Palestinian ingenuity and resistance to Israel's attempts at impoverishment and starvation.

Support Palestinian resistance by contributing to Palestine Action’s bail fund or to Palestine Legal’s defence fund, by attending court or making a sign to support the Elbit Eight, or by buying an e-sim for distribution in Gaza.

Ingredients:

500g (4 cups + 3 Tbsp) white whole wheat (spring) flour

1/2 Tbsp (5g) active dry yeast

1/2 Tbsp (6.25g) vegetarian granulated sugar

1/2 Tbsp (7.25g) kosher salt

About 2 1/4 cups (530mL) room-temperature water, divided

Olive oil

White whole wheat flour is flour that has a white color once ground, despite the fact that it includes both the bran and the germ of the wheatberry. It is milled from white spring wheat (so named because it is harvested in late spring).

You may instead mix white all-purpose flour and brown whole wheat flour in your desired proportion. Keep in mind that whole wheat flour will need more water and more kneading than white flour. If you’re using all white flour, you will need about 1 1/4 cup (300mL) water.

Instructions:

1. Mix flour, yeast, sugar, and salt in a large mixing bowl. Add water gradually until dry ingredients come together into a sticky dough.

2. Knead the dough on the countertop or in a wide, shallow bowl until smooth, about 5 minutes. (If using whole wheat or white whole wheat flour) continue incorporating water into the dough as you knead to maintain a tacky texture.

3. Fold the dough into a ball and return to the bowl, seam-side down. Pat the top of the dough with some olive oil, cover the bowl, and let rise for an hour.

4. Pinch the dough into about 8 balls of equal size (about 110g each). Cover and let rest for 10 minutes.

5. On a lightly floured surface, roll out each ball of dough into a circle about 1/4" (1/2cm) in thickness. Set dough circles on a surface prepared with parchment paper and cover closely with a kitchen towel or plastic wrap. Let rest and ferment for at least 1 and up to 10 hours.

An overnight rest is traditional in Palestine and will create a more complex flavor in the bread (see note below).

6. Remove each circle of dough from its resting place with a metal spatula and roll it out to a 1/4” thickness again. Preheat a baking stone or sheet in the top third of an oven at 500 °F (260 °C), and then cook breads in the oven for three minutes, until large bubbles have begun to form.

7. Flip bread over and cook for another 3 minutes on the other side, until golden brown and puffed up completely.

8. Wrap breads in a kitchen towel or tea towel and allow to steam for a few minutes while the others cook.

Notes

The climate where I live is dry enough that I have discovered a risk of my breads becoming crackers if I leave them out overnight. The dried-out flatbread does puff up in the oven, but the resulting product is not as nice and fluffy as it should be.

Through experimentation, I have found the best method of both preventing drying out and guaranteeing that the flatbreads will puff up during cooking the next day is:

1. Roll out the dough and place dough circles on a lightly oiled surface. Cover them closely with lightly oiled plastic wrap.

2. The next day, fold dough circles back into balls. Place seam-side down and roll out again on a lightly floured surface.

3. Bake as described above.

If you live in a humid environment, the first instructions given in the recipe above should work for you.

[harrygoeswest]

Infatuation On A Mutual Level

You and Harry are housemates and are both secretly quite fond of one another.

A/N: Woooo she’s here!!! I loved writing this one shot a lot and I really hope it shows. I haven’t had motivation to write for ages and this year I’ve really come back to it and I’m so happy. I hope you all love it as much as I do. She’s special to me. Special mention to the only person who ever wants to read for me @all-things-fic​ <3 Please come tell me what you think afterwards!! Katie x

Trigger Warnings: sexual content, brief mentions of loss, nightmares

Word Count: 18,777

~.~.~.~.~

Now

Every morning was the same.

The creak from the only bed on the first floor began the day. Then the gush of the tap in the shared bathroom. The kettle in the kitchen on the ground floor. The door closing when George left for the day. Then again 15 minutes later when Rhys did. Abbie starting the shower immediately afterwards now her boyfriend was gone. And then the only thing that ever made your skin prickle:

Harry’s door opening.

Every morning you would roll over at the sound, away from it. God forbid the man who defined ‘sex on legs’ ever pinned you with that warm, green-eyed stare first thing in the morning through the open gap of your own bedroom door. No, you might never be able to survive such a thing.

Living in a shared house was hard. Not least because you felt responsible for the place itself; owned by your single dad who would do anything to bring in what income he could, including taking more rent off his eldest child than he’d like. An argument arose regularly over your living situation but it was hard enough filling the fourth bedroom with a tenant. Living in the third was the least you felt you could do. The building was in dire need of some TLC but it wasn’t exactly an affordable fete. Sometimes the ceiling leaked on the second floor when it rained thanks to some shabby scaffolding work a few years back; the main reason why it was so hard to let the fourth bedroom. Part of you didn’t want to.

It was also hard in a house share because people were messy and you had a horrendous phobia of general mess. If you could quit your job and play full-time housekeeper you absolutely would. But your dad wouldn’t allow that. “Not in my lifetime,” He’d say with the gentlest scowl.

But the hardest part, by far, was being in such close proximity to the man who rented the bedroom across the hall. You weren’t sure why you were so terrified of him. Scarred by your original encounter with him, perhaps, but he wasn’t actually scary. He was, rather annoyingly, the nicest person in the house. Constantly aloof, yes, but still the poster boy for gentlemen everywhere.

Maybe if you spoke to him you’d learn he’s just a normal bloke, your inner voice trilled.

“Shut the fuck up.” You hissed into your pillow.

You waited for the inevitable sputter of the shower starting up again, and then rolled out of bed, threw on the clothes you’d hung up on the wardrobe door the night before - clean white shirt and grey trousers, ironed within an inch of their life - and scurried downstairs to arrange your usual to-go breakfast. Coffee in a reusable cup and a cereal bar. Hair and makeup could be fixed at work. You were always thirty minutes early anyway.

~

Harry wasn’t sure how you managed it. How every day you managed to evade him to avoid a puffy-eyed “good morning” or a potentially awkward conversation over breakfast.

As he stood in the hallway between your bedrooms towelling his hair dry in nothing but a pair of boxers and a damp t-shirt, he stared into your bedroom and marvelled yet again at how you seemed to have managed to keep it tidied to a borderline compulsive degree.

A large king bed sat against the left wall with ironed white linens and a plush sunflower yellow throw draped across the foot. One lone bedside table tucked against the right side with a tasselled muted green 60s velvet lamp and a book resting atop. A picture hung above the headboard - some vibrant canvas of abstract art. Every morning he wondered if you’d painted it yourself. Against the opposite wall stood a tall regal-looking cherrywood wardrobe next to a matching dresser with a sleek TV on top. It was the most modern thing about the room. In the window overlooking the garden a dream catcher hung in the dead centre. It was the only nicknack you seemed to have, and part of him hated that it seemed like something negative. Something to catch nightmares, to ward off evil.

Did you have bad dreams? And if so, why?

As always, the window had been opened two inches to let in fresh air. You never closed your door, not even at night. You never had clothes left out. Clutter didn’t exist in your vocabulary. Dust wasn’t permitted in your room. Or the bathroom, or kitchen, or living room, he’d deduced. You took Wednesdays off in the week and cleaned when no one else was home to bother you. He doubted the others had picked up on these things about you, but he’d noticed.

Harry had noticed a lot about you.

Especially that in the mornings, you waited until he took his bathroom time to get ready for work and leave without having to run into him. Some chaotic part of him wanted to change his routine so you’d have to. He wanted to know what you looked like straight out of bed with puffy eyes and linen marks on your cheeks and hair in disarray. The other part of him, the gentleman, told him not to. Who knew what might happen if he threw your routine off kilter.

Distress, probably?

No. He wouldn’t be having that.

Shaking his head, he wandered into his own room and shut the door behind him. One day the puzzle of you would finally form a complete picture. Today, he settled for the tethered, jumbled segments he’d managed to collect this far.

~

You stared at your phone, face a picture of bewilderment. Deciphering text messages from the housemates was starting to get increasingly difficult, no thanks to the fact that you were shit at it and everyone else seemed to excel.

Blackpool Tower

🌚 👰🏼❌🧽🍽️🔄

🌝 🙈🖕🏼

👰🏼 😕

Translation: Abbie George didn’t wash his dishes again.

Rhys Oh for fuck’s sake.

George Whoops.

You were on a roll with the emojis. It had started as a joke because George had said he hated people who only used emojis to text each other rather than actual words, so for a week the four of you had sent every text using only emojis. Then it had turned into a bet: how long could all of you go without using words, and who would be the first one to crack. You all knew that, without a doubt, Rhys would crack first, even though he was the one who’d proposed the bet in the first place. It had been two weeks and no one had cracked yet.

🍉 🤔👰🏼🥄🥄🍱🔄

👰🏼 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣😠

🌝 😒🙄

🌚 🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️🏃🏻‍♀️

👑 ❌❌❌❌❌❌❌

Translation:

Harry Maybe George should cook dinner again…

George HAHAHAHAHAHAHA no.

Rhys Yeah right.

Abbie No thank you.

You Absolutely fucking not.

Why did all of you have such ridiculous headers?

Abbie and Rhys were the twin moons because that was the look they always gave each other when they thought something was cute, funny, interesting, or otherwise. They’d moved into the house as a couple and had remained in said couple for 3 years. Sharing a room was their way of saving money to buy a house. It made sense.

George was a blonde bride because he was the most outwardly gay man any of you had ever known and often acted like an utter madam. Madam was actually George’s nickname to his friends now thanks to the house’s light ribbing. He had also chosen his own emoji.

Harry was the watermelon because we were never without it thanks to a frankly concerning obsession. If there wasn’t a watermelon in the fridge, or slices, or packaged chunks, something was very wrong.

And you were the crown because you’d refused to pick an emoji and the house had affectionately bestowed the title of Tower Queen to you. You’d pretended to hate it, but they all knew you viewed it as the highest compliment.

Oh, and the group chat was called Blackpool Tower because you lived together in a tall, two-rooms-to-a-floor townhouse at the top of town. The Eiffel Tower had been suggested but George immediately pointed out that we were not a classy enough bunch to live in such a fine establishment. I’d told him to speak for himself.

The talk of food made you hungry, and it hit you like a landslide that you hadn’t had any dinner. You rolled off your bed and sent a text to Blackpool Tower, then shoved your phone away.

~

Multiple things happened at once. The shower turned on in the bathroom; your bedroom door opened with a quiet creak (which would not happen again since you went through WD40 like a bee in pollen); Harry’s phone vibrated with another text.

Blackpool Tower

👑 👩‍🍳🍝 … 🌚🍝🌝🍝🍉🍝➡️🧊 … ❌🍝👰🏼

Harry snickered.

Translation: You Making dinner. Leftovers in the fridge. None for George.

It wasn’t unusual you’d make enough food for everyone. Harry had learned that you’d picked that trait up from your dad. Sometimes no one would stop you, especially since there was never anything wrong with a meal you’d cooked. In fact, if there were a restaurant with food cooked by you, Harry would dine there every night. But he also knew that letting you cook for all the other housemates all the time wasn’t fair.

🌚 🍉➡️🍉❌🍉➡️🍉❌👑

👰🏼 🚫🚫🚫🚫

“For fuck’s sake.” He muttered.

Rhys must have been in the shower. If George or Abbie were home they’d have rugby tackled you to the floor given the chance.

Harry abandoned his phone and lurched out of his room, down the stairs to the kitchen. He nearly stacked it twice but he made it, with panting breaths to accompany him.

You turned your gaze on him with a startled look, giving him a once over. “What are you doing…?”

“Don’t you dare cook for everyone else.”

You blinked twice and then rolled your eyes. “It’s fine - I’ve got plenty.”

“It’s not fair.”

“If I don’t cook it today it’ll go off. So might as well.”

Harry looked at the produce you’d piled on the counter and back at you, then back again. “Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You bought enough for everyone.” He straightened and folded his arms across his chest.

You spluttered and scoffed for far too long. “No.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t stop me.” You scowled at him.

It was the most emotions he’d ever seen on you. If he’d known all this time that all he needed to do to get a conversation out of you was wind you up a bit, he’d have done it much sooner.

“Yes I can.”

You put a hand on your hip. Christ. “How?”

He stared at you, statuesque and cursing himself for challenging a bet he couldn’t win. You were right. How would he stop you? He wasn’t going to drag you away from the kitchen and up the stairs without your permission. Hell, he didn’t want to do anything without your permission, threats begotten. He hadn’t thought this through.

You let out a breath, a mocking one, and turned away from him and picked up a knife to start chopping. “Didn’t think so.”

“You can’t do this forever.”

Chop.

“Do what?” You challenged, refusing to look at him again.

Chop chop.

“Look after every person that comes in here because you feel like you owe people something. The world will take advantage of you. Is that what you want?”

Your shoulders visibly tensed over the words that tumbled out of his mouth. They weren’t even spoken with malice. They were soft and cautious.

CHOP.

“This feels like a very deep conversation to be having on a Tuesday evening.”

He growled, frustrated. “Stop babying everyone.”

Chopchopchop.

“If they didn’t want me to baby them they simply wouldn’t let me. And maybe I like babying people. Sometimes it’s nice to have a responsibility.”

“That’s just it, though. They’re not your responsibility.”

You smacked the knife down on the chopping board and turned to face him, an unfamiliar anger in your eyes that muddled with something else murky and grey. Hurt. “Will you just let me cook my fucking dinner in peace?”

Harry stood, tense, staring at you with his fists clenching and unclenching. Finally, he said, “Fine. But you’ve got to let me help you.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Harry.” Your head lolled back.

“Two different people, but I appreciate why you might get confused.”

You stared at him for an indecipherable length of time. Or gawked might have been a better descriptor. And then you snatched the tea towel off the side and smacked it in a whip-like movement against his arm. “Git.”

~

Two weeks later and you and Harry had begun a sort of ritual; you would cook with each other every other night. The distinct difference was that when you bought food, you bought enough for everyone. When Harry did it he only bought enough for the two of you.

You hadn’t quite figured out yet if being in this new… friendship with Harry was better or worse. Cooking together four nights a week versus blissful ignorance towards him and his attractiveness? The now near-constant proximity to him was making your head spin for stupid reasons. Namely said attractiveness.

His biceps for one. No one should be allowed arms that had the ability to make one’s mouth water. Pair his strong muscles with the litter of tattoos that were drawn down his right arm and you’d found yourself sweating even on the coldest day. A man’s body should not have such a strong effect on a person, yet here you were - a swoon personified.

Then there was his face, which was worse. Eyes mouth jaw. Those three things individually on a man were the first thing that always drew you in, but Harry had a triple threat. Seaglass green, blush pink and the perfect 100 degree angle. Not too square. And to top it all off, a wispy mop of chestnut waves atop his big head.

The perfect man?

“Aye,” Harry took the knife off you before you started chopping an onion, “thought we established that needed sharpening. A blunt knife is more dangerous than a sharp one.”

A man who cared about your wellbeing?

His bedside manner could use some work.

“Fuck off.” You whispered to your inner voice.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You shook your head, cheeks burning. Great, he probably thought you were crazy.

You silently passed Harry the stone out of the drawer. He could sharpen it if he was going to make such a big deal out of it.

“Thank you.” He mumbled, and started swiping the edge of the knife along the full length of the stone.

Chalky noises. Sharp noises. Furrowed brow. Biceps flexing. Obscenely attractive. Abort abort abort.

You busied yourself by turning on the hob and drizzling oil into a pan. Basically looking anywhere but at Harry and his arms. Sexy arms.

Sex on legs.

Your legs were wobbling. A flame of burdened heat licked its way between your thighs and you had to lean against the counter to stop from buckling. It had been a long time since a man had touched you.

Yeah. This was worse. Definitely worse. Hyper-awareness of everything going on around you wasn’t unusual, but being hyper-aware of everything Harry did was like some unfound form of torture. There was being attracted to someone and then there was whatever this situation was.

Ridiculous?

It was ridiculous, but at least you could suffer knowing that your inner voice had been wrong. Harry was not a normal bloke. He was some kind of enigma.

~

For the past couple of nights Harry had kept his door open. He’d learned that you did indeed have nightmares regularly so the dreamcatcher you kept in your bedroom window was doing little for your unconscious mind. He’d debated buying a bigger one for you but wasn’t entirely sure how appropriate that would be.

You weren’t loud. In fact, if he hadn’t kept his door open he never would’ve known, because the ajar-ness of his door had come prompted for completely different reasons - that unusual urge to see you first thing in the morning. Now two nights in a row he had been woken up by your little yelp, followed with a hissed string of curses while shifting around your bedsheets to get comfortable again. As soon as he knew you were asleep, he wasn’t too far along after you.

He still hadn’t been able to decide if cooking with you nearly every night was a good thing or a bad thing. While he never failed to enjoy himself during your bi-nightly kitchen sessions, he hated separating from you afterwards. It wasn’t enough. The persistent nearness of you for an hour or so only to be followed by a later severance was almost painful. The bedroom door being left open was just another attempt at trying to get closer to you.

He knew it was you in the bathroom because you took longer than everyone else. Not because you were using up all the hot water but because you used it as an excuse to give it a thorough clean. Being able to hear everything going on in the house was both a gift and a curse, but Harry wasn’t attuned to all the tenants. Only you.

Five minutes later the bathroom door opened, and you plodded up the two flights of stairs. He knew the way all the stairs creaked, and you were going at nothing more than a leisurely pace. He caught a glimpse of you as you passed, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. The scent of strawberries and jasmine wafted through the gap in his door after you.

Harry’s phone vibrated.

Blackpool Tower

🌝 Friends coming over tomorrow night for drinks 🍻 we’ll behave

👰🏼 You idiot

🌚 RHYS

🌝 NOOOOOOOOOO

🍉 Pay up dipshit

🌝 😭😭😭

A few minutes later Harry got a notification to say he’d received a £10 payment into his bank account.

~

Then

The cold had crept in again. Not from the weather - it was warm at night. This was a different kind of cold. The sweaty kind that kept you up at night. Medication had kept the nightmares away for some time but now you were locked in the house for the foreseeable future you couldn’t bear the idea of being constantly dimmed down by it in front of your housemates.

Last night was the first time you’d had a nightmare in close to a year and it was just as terrifying as it used to be. Some traumas just wouldn’t leave you be. You’d taken a couple of painkillers to numb your headache and they’d graciously knocked you out for another few hours and brought you right on through to 8am. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d slept that late. With everyone at home all the time now, it seemed no one wanted to get out of bed.

You had a job to do today, anyway. The room next to yours had finally been rented, so you’d been tasked with giving it a proper clean before the new tenant arrived this evening.

You did need to eat, but before that you wanted to get the window open in there to coax some fresh air in.

Hauling yourself out of bed, you meticulously tidied your room the same you did with every morning, dressed in clothes appropriate for cleaning, and took the short step across the hall to the other room.

The door was closed which was unusual. You always left the doors to the empty rooms open with a wedge so they wouldn’t get stuffy from disuse. Maybe you’d opened the window yesterday and forgot? Had the wind closed it for you?

Shrugging to yourself, you opened it anyway.

“Oh,” your eyes widened, “fuck, shit, sorry.”

Inside, collapsed face down on the bed dressed with only a sheet was a man, near-naked in only a pair of boxers. You couldn’t see much of his features bar a mop of chocolate curls, a heavily tattooed arm, and a particularly nice arse beneath his pants.

He lifted his head, complete with a gorgeous profile, and peeled open an eye. A very green, beautiful eye. He made a confused, questioning noise.

The room was full of belongings, so this must be the new tenant and not some homeless person who’d managed to sneak in without anyone realising. At least you hoped.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were moving in later today. Sorry.”

“Friday.” He managed. A sleep-coated, groggy and somewhat delirious voice. It was delicious. You wanted to taste it.

“What?”

“Friday was moving day.”

“Yes. Today.”

“No. Yesterday.”

You looked at your phone. “Christ. I’m sorry. Isolation is getting to me. You don’t care. I’m sorry. I’m interrupting your sleep. I’ll go. Sorry.”

You pulled the door closed before you could embarrass yourself any further, and then hid yourself in the bathroom out of sheer embarrassment.

If you never saw that marvellous-looking man again it would be too soon.

~

Now

Harry often thought about that first day.

Morning. Just after dawn. Early summer sun casting you in gold. Tiny shorts. Faded creaseless t-shirt. Sleepy face messy hair.

He hadn’t seen you anything of the sort since and he craved it like an addict did cocaine.

A pandemic had ruined many things for many people, and the most recent ruin back then had been Harry’s longest relationship. That’s what had brought him to a double bedroom in a shared house rather than a flat and his own fucking space. He couldn’t afford the latter.

It had been hot that night, moving into a new home in the darkness. He’d picked up the key from the owner, your dad it had turned out, and transferred his possessions from one place to another in the late night simply to avoid having to discuss his situation with people he didn’t know.

But yes, the heat is what had caused him to strip down to his underwear before passing out. The startled look on your face at the sight of him had absolutely been worth it. The sight of you had been worth it. Such a strong attraction to someone fresh after a breakup should be wildly inappropriate, but there you suddenly were, bare-legged and dangling yourself in front of him like a piece of string to a kitten. Still, the fact remained that Harry liked to think himself a gentleman. He tried to be a gentleman, and after living so close to you for so long, it didn’t take long to learn that you liked to keep to yourself. So he had done the same.

Until now, apparently.

“That housemate of yours here?”

Harry’s ears pricked up at the question like a cat’s would if it heard something interesting. He recognised the voice and hated the speaker. He always had. Today was no exception.

“Which one? I’ve got three of ‘em if we don’t include Abbie.” Rhys’s oblivious laughter filtered up the stairs to the sanctuary of the top floor.

“Well I ain’t talkin’ about the lads, am I?”

Harry shivered. He imagined if you could hear them then you would too.

“She’s here”, “Don’t bother,” came simultaneously from Rhys and Abbie. Abbie sounded almost defensive, and that pleased Harry to no end.

“Why not?”

“Because she isn’t interested.”

“Maybe you should let her decide that for herself.”

Unconsciously, Harry rose from the desk in his room and made his way across the hall to yours. The door was open, obviously.

You were sitting up with a book but you had earplugs in. Whether it was playing music or just to block out the noise from downstairs he wasn’t sure. As soon as you spotted him a small smile curved on your lips, and you pulled an earplug out. It was playing music.

Harry had never met anyone who could listen to music and read at the same time. There were surely plenty, but this put you in the Elite Tier in his head.

“What’s up?”

Footsteps began on the stairs, and Harry threw a cautionary glance over his shoulder before he slipped inside and closed the door behind him, sliding the lock across.

You were leaning forward now, a crease in your brow. “What’s going on?”

“Rhys’s friends are here.”

You blinked. “I know.”

“Yes but his idiot friends are here.”

You tipped your head. “I’m not following.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know… Gaz? The one with the teeth.”

“Oh. Right. Why not? He’s harmless, no?”

“Is he? I’m not so sure.”

Your name suddenly trilled from the floor below. “You home?”

You looked at the door as Harry moved to the side, dumbfounded. Harry shook his head at you when you began to move.

Why not? You mouthed.

Harry pretended to drink from an invisible glass and grimaced.

The idiot called your name again and knocked on the door. “Come on, come say hi.”

Harry was really scowling now. You flashed glances between him and the door multiple times.

“She’s probably asleep, mate!” Rhys hissed from outside the door. “She works early some Saturdays.”

That was not true. You’d never worked weekends, not even as a teen. It was Rhys’s smart ruse to get him to back off.

The door handle jostled. Harry suddenly looked more threatening than a mafia boss, and your jaw fell slack from shock.

“Oi,” smack, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What? Worth a shot.”

“No it fuckin’ weren’t, go downstairs.”

Some heated muttering commenced, but neither you nor Harry moved or spoke until you were satisfied they wouldn’t hear anything.

“Did he seriously just try and get in here?”

“While you were ‘sleeping’?” Harry air-quoted around the word. “Yes. He did. Hence the distrust.”

“What the fuck…”

He watched you for a moment and the look on your face said it all. You were upset, in a confused sort of way. Your mind was somewhere else, no longer in this room. Eyes glassy and breathing shallow.

Someone had tried to come into your personal space while they had the impression you were sleeping. If that had been the case there was no telling what would’ve happened. If Harry hadn’t come in you probably wouldn’t be any the wiser to Rhys’s friend’s real character, and that was what scared him. You had a tendency to put too much faith in people as just people. If someone was being nice to you that must mean that they are nice.

“What are you reading?” He asked into the silence, not only to break the quiet but to pull you out of the trance you’d been in.

“Oh, er,” you looked down at the book in your lap and turned it upwards, flashing the cover to him, “some daft romance.”

You put it aside after slotting the bookmark inside to keep your place. He smirked to himself. God forbid you dogear a page.

“Happy ending?”

You nodded, playing with your loose earbud. “Yeah. Has to be.”

“They’re my favourite.”

You gawked at him then. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Is that so shocking?”

You laughed musically. “I don’t know… I kind of assumed a guaranteed happy ending would irritate you or something.”

“Not at all. Sad endings are rubbish.”

“Aren’t they?” You patted the bed by your lap, suddenly animated. “I hate them.”

“Me too.”

“What are they for? No one wins, everyone is miserable, and someone has almost always died in the middle.”

He folded his arms, brows furrowed in a mock defence. “Now who hurt you? Tell me. Who do I need to beat up?”

“John Green.”

Harry scoffed. “He’s the worst.”

“Paper Towns? What the fuck was that all about?”

“Load of shit.”

“Exactly!”

He grinned, relaxing his posture. A commotion began downstairs, and he turned over his shoulder towards the door. Two phones dinged inside the room.

Blackpool Tower

🌝 🍻🍻➡️🌃➕👰🏼

You were being left alone. Thank God.

Harry met your gaze with a passive smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “I’ll let you get back to your reading.”

“Wait…”

He raised a single brow at you. “Yes?”

“Why don’t we watch a movie? If they’re pissing off out…”

He was both surprised and elated by your suggestion. All he’d be doing otherwise was looking for flats to move into alone and listening to some murder podcast before passing out. Friday nights were raucous in one’s late twenties.

“Two movies.” He bargained. “One we can bitch about first, and then one we like to make ourselves feel better.”

Your returning smile was prizewinning. Priceless. “And… takeaway? I really don’t want to cook.”

He clicked and pointed a finger at you. “You’ve got yourself a deal, madam.”

~

This was a new low for you. Or perhaps it was a high - you hadn’t decided yet. Using the newfound common ground over a love of happy endings off the back of the fear of a mad man trying to let himself into your room to coax Harry into a movie night with you. In your room, no less. The house was empty yet you chose to suffer the shitty WiFi signal in your tower room because your bed was more comfortable than the communal sofa in the living room on the ground floor. The cold ground floor.

Now, after a shared pizza that was delivered in record speed, you and Harry lay parallel to one another as you batted bitchy comments between one another about the infuriatingly devastating plot of Atonement.

“I wanna smash her face into a wall.”

You nearly choked on your wine, and wiped a pre-existing tear off your cheek. “Harry,”

“What?” He whined. “Every time I get to the end and she tells the real story I see red. Why get people’s hopes up like that?”

His eyes were red around the rims.

You sat forward as the credits began to roll and looked at him with a timid smile. “Opinionated, aren’t you?”

He was draped across the left side of your bed closest to the door, legs crossed at the ankle and hands tucked behind his head against the headboard. He was close to slouched, but he looked so impossibly at ease you wanted to just nestle right into him.

You could do it. Nothing is stopping you.

You repressed a growl.

“Coming from you?” He retorted, amused.

Childishly, you stuck your tongue out at him. “What’s next?”

He pursed his lips and gave a thoughtful look towards the ceiling. “Notting Hill?”

You gasped. “Fuck yes. Do you fancy dessert?”

“Always. What have you got?”

“I picked up a chocolate trifle on the way home from work.”

“That sounds dirty as fuck.”

“It is dirty as fuck.” You agreed and stood from your bed. “I picked it up on the way home with the intention of eating it all by myself, but… I’m willing to share.”

“How kind.” Harry chuckled. You felt his gaze on you leaving the room.

Two minutes later you returned with an unwrapped trifle and two spoons. Harry had already found Notting Hill on one of the many subscription sites you paid for and had it paused right at the start. He sat up straighter as you settled back down, pressed play, and then the two of you sunk into cake and gooey chocolate layered beneath sweet cream.

“Is Hugh Grant too posh?” Harry asked between mouthfuls.

“Yes, but it suits him?” Your question pondered. “Like, I couldn’t imagine him with a Scouse or Georgie accent.”

Harry’s returning laughter was delighted, magical. “This would be a very different film if he did.”

You gave a gutterall, mischievous laugh. “I would like to see it.”

Once you’d spoiled yourselves with trifle you settled back down, two parallel figures unmoving in the dim room, except to drink wine.

Harry was an ominous presence beside you. Warmth radiated off him in languid rolls, beckoning to you like an evil sea siren. Your hands fisted on your stomach, muscles tense. It really was taking everything in you not to lean into him and inhale his scent. Let it lull you to sleep like a safety blanket.

Occasionally you peeked glances at him. If he’d noticed you he never said anything, and it made you brave. After so long the film became background noise and Harry was the real star. A black t-shirt across a flat, muscular chest, steady breaths causing a rise and fall. Black jogging bottoms that rose higher up his legs with each slight movement, showing more scrumptious leg hair per inch. Big, boney, veiny feet with heinously long toes. Hair taken off his face with a tiny claw grip, a little greasy around the ears.

The overwhelming need to shove your face into his armpit finally gave motive to look away. Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts meant nothing anymore. There was a sexy man sprawled across your bed who ate your trifle and wanted to watch stupid rom-coms with you.

You fell asleep before the end.

~

Harry was sure he was dreaming. It wasn’t possible, the situation he found himself in. It was what he wanted, what he had really wanted for a while now, but the actual possibility of it coming to fruition had been next to none. Zero. Impossible.

He’d woken up in your room. That was the first tell that he was still dreaming. Then he found a warm body curled around him, and him around them in return. Your warm body. Leg draped over his thigh, arm slung across his torso, head tucked under his chin, his arms around your shoulders and inhaling your strawberry shampoo.

You were both still on top of the covers, neither able to finish the movie without passing out. He’d even noticed you had nodded off first but he didn’t want to leave you without making sure you’d lock the door behind you again in case Rhys and his idiot friends returned.

Huh. Maybe it wasn’t a dream. That was too accurate and not nearly lucid enough for an unconscious mind.

He didn’t want to move in case he stirred you, but he was desperate to see your face. Your beautiful, sleeping face. He refused to believe you’d cuddled up to him while conscious. Because it had been that way around - you were parked up on his side of the bed. His lips pricked upwards at the corners with that knowledge.

It was raining heavily outside. It fell against the window in loud smatters, the room cast in a dull grey tone. It made him want to squeeze you tighter, to keep you from any harm. He still refrained.

Eventually you woke. He could tell from the way your body tensed and your breath caught in your throat.

“Don’t freak out.” He mumbled, voice thick from lack of use.

You took in a deep, obvious breath. “No? Why not?”

“You don’t need to.”

“I think I do.”

“Explain, please.”

You hesitated, wetting your lips, and took in another deep breath. “I’ve embarrassed myself.”

“How?”

“I’ve put myself into your personal space without your permission.”

“You were unconscious.” He argued.

“Doesn’t make it any better. You should’ve run for the hills the second my foot touched your lovely hairy leg.”

Harry chuckled. He tightened his arm around you and brushed his nose through your messy hair. “Maybe I don’t mind you in my personal space. Maybe… I like it.”

“Do you?”

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

He laughed again. “You’ve nothing to worry about.”

You sat up and faced him.

Gah. There you were. Puffy eyes, cracked lips, scruffy hair. His stomach did a backflip at the sight of you - a dream he had nightly. In equal measure, he missed having the warmth and weight of your body against him.

“Don’t think about it too much.” He gave you a gentle smile. “Nothing needs to be complicated.”

You remained silent, either awestruck or dumbfounded. He wasn’t sure.

He stood, reluctantly, and pinched your cheek. “You’re cute when you’re in shock.”

That sorted you out. Your face rearranged itself into a scowl, gaze following him as he left the room. He hadn’t wanted to leave, but such a conversation felt too poignant for 8 o’clock in the morning. You needed space to let your thoughts take over.

~

Cooking dinner and movie nights. That had become yours and Harry’s thing. After he’d dropped what you considered a bombshell that he didn’t mind you in his personal space you’d had the longest shower of your life - accidentally using all the hot water - and then spent the morning face down on your bed trying not to scream into your pillow.

Since then you’d been obsessively cleaning, more so than usual by way of distraction from the man living across the hall. The house was spotless. You’d even cleaned the windows at one point, outside, with help from your dad and looked at a way to fix the leaking problem in the empty bedroom.

It still didn’t stop your mind from constantly drifting back to the other morning. Waking up curled around Harry like that had been both terrifying and utterly perfect. For a man with such a hard physique he’d been incredibly comfortable. Too comfortable. Then he’d said a number of things that threw your somewhat orderly brain into complete disarray and chaos.

“You’re cute when you’re in shock.”

Harry hadn’t seemed to take his own words lightly, either. He’d been more comfortable in closer proximity with you since that morning, in the little things like light touches to your arms and back while you cooked together, or a kiss on the top of your head before you disappeared into your room for the night. Some nights you would share a bed after a movie because it was just easier - you were already settled, and you always woke up cuddled against him like a fucking creep.

“This,” Harry said as he pulled the oven door open, a waft of heat filling the cold room, “is gonna be fuckin’ banging.”

“Mhm.” You quipped, shoving a tortilla chip into some salsa, and then into your gob.

It was a Saturday night. By a freak stroke of luck, all the other housemates had gone away for the weekend - George to his parents’ and Rhys and Abbie on a weekend break to Amsterdam. So, a dinner and movie night had been a given, but you’d stuck a portable heater in the communal living room downstairs, found as many blankets as you could and piled them onto the sofa, then queued up enough movies to last all night.

Harry’s carefully crafted pizza sat atop the stove, cooked to perfection with your favourite ingredients on one half and his on the other. Your mouth watered.

You carried everything into the lounge, set it all up on the coffee table, and pressed play on your first movie of the night.

It was civil while you ate, and you were admittedly starving. To Harry’s credit the pizza was delicious and you wished it was bigger because you could’ve eaten another. You filled the hole in your stomach with tortillas and salsa instead. He graciously took all the dirty plates back into the kitchen when you were done, and returned with two bowls of strawberries, raspberries, and of course, watermelon. It was a very healthy dessert but the watermelon looked seriously out of place.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me eat your watermelon.” You joked. “Feels like a sacred honour.”

He snorted but remained silent.

Eventually, after all the food and a couple of glasses of wine, you were horizontal, your feet in Harry’s lap. He had his hands locked around your ankle after you accidentally kicked him in the thigh.

“If you were in a rom-com, who would you want to play your love interest?”

Harry pursed his lips. “Hugh Grant.”

You giggled, turning your face into the sofa cushion. “90s or current Hugh Grant?”

“90s. Current Hugh Grant is into much more sophisticated roles that I don’t care for. Even if they are generally great films.”

“I see…” you mused.

He squeezed your ankle, a smile flirting on his lips. “No, I don’t know. Who’s queen of romantic comedies? Reese Witherspoon? J-Lo?”

“Oh my God, I love J-Lo.” Your voice was a dreamy, breathy sound.

“A fine woman indeed.”

“I love it when you talk like it’s the 1800s.”

He laughed so loudly it was almost a bark. “Noted. Who would you want to play opposite?”

“Sam Claflin.”

“The king of rom-coms.”

“Exactly. Very easy on the eye.”

Harry was smirking again. His hands were moving now, smoothing up and down your leg in easy strokes.

Thank fuck you shaved, you little scruffy bear.

You mentally flicked your inner tormentor behind her ear.

The film played on and held your attention for some time. You were possibly the most relaxed you’d been for a very long time. Not one muscle in your body felt tight.

Harry’s lackadaisical caressing continued, which you were still half-conscious of. It was nice to be touched that way - you don’t think you ever had been. You didn’t panic until you realised he’d been venturing just a touch further up your leg with every stroke; until his fingers tickled your thigh.

You gasped, grabbing his wrist, wrenched yourself upright.

Heat flooded your centre, slick and warm. It was so instantaneous it took you by surprise, and your cheeks burned, the tips of your ears warm.

His eyes were on you, wider than usual. “Sorry,” he tried to speak but it only came out in a whisper.

What is wrong with you, woman? You wanted this.

The inner tormentor was right. You had wanted it, and for quite some time. But the advance of it had taken you so completely off-guard that your body had reacted before your brain did.

“Shouldn’t have done that.” Harry muttered, a furrow between his brow. He was angry with himself.

Finally you managed to shake your head. You managed to manoeuvre yourself by taking one leg - the leg he still had his hand on because you were keeping it there - off his lap and tucked it under itself. You pressed his palm flat against your skin, smoothing over each of his long fingers in turn, and met his intense gaze.

You were much closer now, faces and bodies mere inches from each other. You could feel his breath against your face, and you knew he could feel yours too from the way his eyelids fluttered with each exhale. Shiny eyelids, you noted.

He slowly closed the space to brush his nose upwards against yours, and your next exhale was much shakier.

“What are we doing?” You asked.

“Whatever you want.”

You wanted many, many things. And 99% of them involved him.

You licked your lips, and his gaze dropped to them at the action. Your stomach squirmed and your inner voice squealed with nerves.

Harry placed his other hand firmly on your hip and tugged, and you spilled over his lap, straddling him with your hands using his shoulders for balance. Another gasp fell out of you at the feeling of a certain something between your legs. A certain hard something.

“Is this okay?” He asked, both hands tentative on your thighs.

“Mhm.” You managed.

His hands spread wider, and you grew wetter, breathing heavier

He swallowed thickly. “Can I kiss you?”

All you could do was nod.

You noticed the beginning of a smile before his mouth was on yours. That mouth you’d thought of many times, at all hours, on all days of the week. And it was finally on yours, and perfect too. Soft, big, spongy. It felt like heaven against your own.

He took his time, leisurely testing the waters with you. What you would allow and what you wouldn’t. What you liked and what you didn’t.

You liked all of it.

His tongue was reverent as it eased your lips open, but thorough once you’d granted him access to you. He tasted like strawberry and watermelon, a delicious combination. A lethal combination.

His hands still smoothed over your thighs, reaching for your arse but never quite making it there. He didn’t want a repeat of the previous reaction from you.

You held onto him tightly, hands squeezing over his shoulders in an accidental but welcomed massage. You wanted to touch him everywhere but weren’t sure if he was okay with it.

“I never thought I’d be able to do this with you.” Harry’s voice was gruff, strained. He spoke against your lips.

“Neither did I.” You said breathily.

“Thought about it a lot.”

“Me too.”

He groaned into your mouth, hands rising to your hips and waist, tugging on your loose t-shirt.

You continued kissing, mouths bruising with lust, skirting around the removal of clothes. His arousal only got harder between your legs and it made you wriggle. Your wriggling caused friction, and the friction caused whimpers.

“I won’t last if you make noises like that.”

This information gave you immense satisfaction. He practically ate the smile off your face, and you wriggled again over the top of him. More whimpers, more movement. Back and forth, back and forth until you were utterly soaked inside your pyjama shorts.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed.

“Harry,” you moaned, fisting his t-shirt at the chest.

“Keep going.” He practically begged.

You gave a frustrated noise and did as he said, rolling your hips over the length of his clothed shaft. Over and over and over again. Tits began to bounce. Back began to sweat. Toes began to curl.

Harry stripped you of your top and buried his face in your chest. Kissing, licking, sucking, bruising. A canvas of vivid colour. He dragged his lips across any inch he could, leaning forward, arching you backwards, just to access more. More more more.

Rolling, dragging, rolling and dragging your dampness against his erection. It was your sole focus. You needed it - the release you hadn’t felt for some time. You were always too nervous to masturbate with only two walls and doors separating you and Harry. You needed this more than anything else.

He held onto your back with one strong arm, hand gripping your waist while his other cupped your breast, and he took your nipple into his mouth without any further hesitation. Lick, suck, lick.

You squealed at the sensation, grabbed his face and brought his mouth back to yours. Faster faster faster you moved your hips and devoured his mouth until-

“Harry!”

Heat burst through your body, crashing through every cell, corner and crevice. You were tense as you came, clinging to Harry as tightly as possible. Then, as breath left you, you fell limp against him.

Harry stroked your hair and kissed your temple. His nose drew circles on your cheek.

When you pulled back, thoughts catching up to you, you looked confused.

“What?” He asked, head tipped to one side.

“This doesn’t make sense to me.”

“What doesn’t?”

“This,” you pointed between him and you.

“Why doesn’t it?”

“Because,” you gestured at him and then dropped your hands to your lap, “have you seen you?”

“Many times.”

You gave an exasperated sigh. “I’m serious, Harry. People that look like you aren’t interested in people who look like me.”

“What a horrifically outdated cliche.” He said in a flinchingly bored tone. “For the record, I think you’re bloody gorgeous. Have done since the day I met you.”

“Why?”

“Because I do! Life is too fucking short to let society dictate who is attractive enough to date who.”

You made a face, one where your eyebrows and your mouth stretched. “Yes, but-,”

“-No buts. I fancy the pants off you and that’s all you need to know.”

“Are you sure?”

He laughed. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t have let you do what you just did if I wasn’t sure. Would I?”

“I don’t know… some men are pigs.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Look,” he took your face in his hands, “some men are indeed pigs. But I like you. A lot. And I’ve had fantasies a hell of a lot like what we just did together for a damn embarrassing amount of time. About you. That’s all you need to know. Ever since I met you, I’ve been all about you.”

You pulled your lips between your teeth and stared at his chest, unseeing. Giddiness filled your tummy and white noise flooded your ears.

Harry picked up your hand and pressed a kiss to the palm. He watched you closely as he peppered kisses to your skin. “You’re thinking too hard, but I get it.”

“I think too hard about everything.” You mumbled. “Especially when it comes to you.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“I don’t know but I’ve always thought about you more than I’d like to.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’re very distracting.”

“Sounds like a compliment to me.” He said, and pecked your nose. “Shall we finish our movies and go to bed?”

Involuntarily, and as if prompted by the suggestion, you yawned. “Probably a good idea.”

Harry smiled, wrapped his arms around your middle and squeezed you tightly to his solid frame. “Let’s do it.”

~

Harry worked late a lot over the next week or so. He hated it mostly because it meant less time with you. Less conscious time, anyway. For the first few nights he’d come home to find you asleep and couldn’t bear the idea of accidentally waking you up, but after sharing a bed with you for so many nights now, it had been a hard drug to quit.

It was late now, well past midnight and you’d probably fallen asleep hours ago. But seeing you curled up and facing the window, sheets bunched up to your chin and face buried in your pillow, he couldn’t help himself.

He quietly stripped out of his clothes, save for his boxers, shut the door behind him and slid into bed beside you. He surrounded you with his warmth - arms around your middle and his face pressed between your shoulder blades. He tugged you backwards until your bodies were flush together, chest to back, and sponged a wet kiss into your shoulder.

You did rouse a little, giving out a soft, sleep-filled squeak. “Hi.”

He smiled, leaving another kiss closer to your neck. “Hi.”

“Wondered when you’d be back.” You said around a content sigh.

“And me.”

You giggled. You took a hand that clasped around your chest and brought it up to your lips. “Tried to stay awake for you but failed.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to.”

He littered more kisses against your skin, because he could just never get enough of you. “Thank you.”

“Pleasure.”

“Now go back to sleep.”

“Yes sir.”

~

“You look different.”

You frowned, meeting your sister’s scrutinous eyes between washing a saucepan clean. You were washing, she was drying, like you always did. You didn’t trust her enough to actually clean the dirty tableware. Sometimes she didn’t properly dry things either, but you’d make the most of what you could.

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno.” She shrugged. “You’ve got a kind of… air about you.”

“Right…”

“Hey,” your dad appeared, nudging your sister’s arm, “maybe she’s got a boyfriend.”

Embarrassed heat filled your body.

“No, that’s not it.” Your sister shook her head. “Anyway, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.”

“I don’t…” you didn’t know how to finish that.

Perhaps your many nights sharing a bed with Harry had been what she was talking about, but the label of boyfriend/girlfriend definitely hadn’t come up yet. You just liked each other. A lot. Add that to the fact that any night you shared a bed with him you didn’t wake up in cold sweats or choked screaming fits, it wasn’t exactly something you planned to stop doing any time soon.

“Oh my God, don’t overthink it like you do everything else. It’s a compliment. Take it.” She rolled her eyes.

“Aye, don’t be snotty.” Dad swatted your sister’s arm.

“I’m not!”

Your sister was younger than you, and for all eternity most definitely cooler. She was in school and that hadn’t changed into adulthood. It didn’t particularly bother you. Generally you got on very well, she just didn’t have a problem opening her mouth when she had an opinion.

“Anyway, don’t forget family dinner night. Next Friday?” Dad reminded you.

Ah yes. Family dinner night was not here at Dad’s house with just you and your sister. It was at the house with Dad, your sister, and all the housemates. George proclaimed it his favourite time of the month, because Dad, an ex-chef, always cooked. Harry, because of his often awkward shift work, was almost always absent.

“Okay.” You nodded.

After finishing your last dirty dish, you pulled your phone out.

Blackpool Tower

👑 ❌😃

Sometimes a text simply couldn’t be written exclusively in emojis, so you’d come up with a rule whereby if you needed to write one, you’d send a ❌😃 to alert them.

👑 Family dinner night next Friday. Be there or be square 💘

👰🏼 🤯🤩🤯🤩🤯

🌚 🎉🎉🎉

“You’re still doing the emoji thing?” Your sister asked with a narrowed gaze.

“We have another bet running to see who’ll crack first.”

“Right… will everyone come?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“That’s me asking if Harry will be there, by the way.” She said with a smirk, nudging your arm.

If you didn’t know any better you’d be hot under the collar thinking she was onto you. The mention of his name got you flustered anyway, but you did know better. As any sensible woman would, your sister had a little thing for Harry that she’d never shied away from.

“I don’t know.” You repeated, somewhat irritated.

“Well, find out! Do I need to make an effort or not, you know?”

“I mean… he doesn’t usually come. So probably not.”

“Double check. To be safe. Or give me his number.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Bore.” She scoffed, and swished away.

~

Sundays were laundry day. Harry knew this, which is why he’d never do his on the same day. Everyone in the house knew that first thing on a Sunday morning you would head down to the basement with a book and a basket full and sit there until everything had been through the tumble dryer (unless it was delicate in which case you’d air it in your window for the day).

Today, though, Harry travelled from the top of the house to the very bottom and slipped inside the utility room, closing the door behind him before any of the other housemates could hear him.

“What are you doing?” You asked, voice light with laughter.

Harry’s gaze rested on you, full of some kind of infatuation. You were sitting atop the industrial-size tumble dryer in the far corner of the room, back against the wall and knees up, book held against your thighs.

He shrugged. “Wanted to come irritate you a bit.”

“You never irritate me.”

He grinned and put himself in your personal space. He found your bookmark and placed it between the pages, and then took it away, abandoning it. “Are you sure?”

You let him manoeuvre you; pulled you forward a little and spread your knees apart. Your legs fell over the side, resting either side of his hips, and your breathing quickened. He placed one hand on your thigh and the other stroked over your cheek.

“Feel free to interrupt laundry day any time you want.”

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You laughed at his mock genuine tone and brushed your fingertips against his lips. “You know, my sister has a massive thing for you.”

He stood quietly for a fraction of time, gaze assessing. “I would tease you about it but I just can’t. I kind of already guessed.”

“Did you?”

“Mhm. She’s not exactly subtle.”

“No, she’s not. She asked me for your number.”

“Did you give it to her?”

“What do you think?” You rolled your eyes.

He smirked. “You getting possessive of me?”

“Maybe. But she’s too self-absorbed to realise. She thinks I’m doing it because giving out your number willy nilly is morally wrong. Which it is. But yeah, I also just don’t want her to have it.”

His lips tightened, nose flared, eyes light - batting away a smile. “I think I like this side of you.”

You gave an uncharacteristic grunt, but your eyes never left him. “You look like a frog when you make that face.”

His face neutralised and he sucked in a breath. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

This visibly delighted you. “Maybe I’ll start calling you Froggy.”

“Too far.” He pinched your waist

You giggled, hands pressed against his chest. Your palms felt warm over his t-shirt and he never wanted you to take them away.

“How long left on your cycle?”

“Er…” your gaze dipped downwards to the screen on the washing machine. “Like, 20 minutes probably.”

“And then it’s going in the tumble dryer?”

“Yes… why?”

“Because,” he pecked your lips once, “I think I know,” he kissed your left cheek, “something we can do,” then your right cheek, “while we wait.”

Your gaze was curious and intense as he started sponging his lips down your front, from neck to chest to stomach. You reclined some, breathing heavy, and he pulled your legs up by the ankle and planted your feet back on top of the dryer.

“Oh,” you spoke, voice caught.

“You okay with this?” He asked hesitantly.

Even though you’d been sleeping side by side something close to 5 nights a week, your little dry humping session last weekend was as far as you’d gone in the sexual intimacy department.

You made a strangled noise. “Christ, yes.”

Grin fully spread across his face, he smoothed his palms up your thighs to your hips and tucked his fingers into the silky waistband of your pyjama bottoms.

“Can we take these off?”

You hummed an affirmed noise, and lifted your arse off the surface. In one smooth pull he had the garment off your legs and over his shoulder, probably in the same vicinity of the book he’d taken off you.

He met your gaze with a lifted brow. “Not a fan of knickers?”

“Not in my jim-jams, no.”

His smile blossomed like daffodils in spring. “That’s either the cutest or sexiest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Can we go with sexy considering what I hope you’re about to do?”

“Sure thing, cutie.”

You squealed a little at the name, but he couldn’t tell if you loved it or hated it. Regardless, he kept a firm grip on your legs and lowered his lips to your knee. In a slow, measured movement, he kissed his way up the inside of your legs with his hot, wet mouth.

Your breath was laboured as you watched him, eyes wide when he met your gaze again but so incredibly keen. To prove it, you pushed a hand through his curls and massaged his scalp, coaxing him forward.

“I’ve wanted to taste you for so fucking long.” He admitted, mouth dragging over the softest part of your thigh.

His hot breath fanned against your waiting lips and you visibly clenched.

“I’ve wanted you to, believe me.” Your voice was but a rasp.

“Yeah?” He sighed happily, left hand moving closer to your centre. He extended his thumb out, “Are you wet for me?” He pulled your lips apart, and the noise he made at the sight of you was practically carnal.

“Harry,” you whimpered, tugging on his hair.

He hummed again, face inching closer to your dripping lips. He licked between you, wetness collecting on his tongue. The taste of you was something better than he could’ve ever imagined and he growled because of it. He gripped your legs tighter, hesitant no more, and buried his face right between your soft thighs.

“Oh, God,” you whined. Your head lolled backwards and both fists found purchase in his beautiful hair, twisting and tugging.

He grunted in response to you, spurred on. He collected as much of your juice as he could, firm stroke after firm stroke of his perfectly capable tongue.

He played with your clit in a way that made you squirm and squeal, eliciting the most delectable little noises out of your hoarse throat. Harry didn’t hold back - he never had in that department. He went for it completely and utterly.

The washing machine launched into rapid spinning, filling the room with wheezing, screaming noises.

“Harry, don’t stop.” You begged, body rigid with desperate tension.

He obeyed your every word. He spread your legs further and further with his digging grip. He burrowed his face into your cunt, tongue plunging inside of you and spading inside your heat like a desperate gardener.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you panted as you lifted your head again to watch him.

His eyes were already on you, dark and hooded and filled with keen lust. His head moved with an eager precision like his mouth did. He wanted you this way. He’d wanted it for so long he couldn’t quite believe he was getting it. You were a goddess, ethereal and perfect.

The washing machine’s cycle reached its peak, vibrating harshly beside the two of you. It was deafening yet the least bit distracting.

Harry pursued his advances on your cunt relentlessly and without breath until your body went rigid and then shuddered. You screamed his name, withholding nothing, any cries drowned out by the washing machine. Your body visibly vibrated like the machine beside you, and eventually your limbs weakened to jelly.

Harry stood straight and helped you sit up again, wrapping his arms around your middle. He tucked your head into his neck and twisted his face into your hair.

“You’re right, that was incredibly sexy.” He mumbled.

He revelled in your returning laughter, the sound light and airy. You showed no shame in clinging onto him, fingers raking through the curls at the back of his neck.

“Maybe you can do it again later.” You suggested, lips sponging against the skin on his neck.

“Any time you like.”

After another minute or so you pulled away, eyes scouring his face. “You’re a mess, sir.” You commented as you wiped your thumb around his shiny mouth.

He made a wordless noise, held your wrist, and took your thumb in his mouth. “I’ll be a mess for you.”

“Perhaps I’ll be a mess for you, too.”

His brows shot up and it made you laugh. “It’s cruel to joke about that.”

“I’m not joking.”

He gave you a challenging look.

“Want me to prove it?” You offered.

Was it even worth the question? “Always.”

You grinned. “Let me put my washing in the dryer and I will.”

He took a step back and bent at the waist, arms extending like he was bowing. “M’lady.”

You hopped down from where you’d been sitting and pulled him in for a kiss.

“Sir.”

~

The kitchen was a hive. And a mess. There was shit everywhere and your anxiety was through the roof just looking at it. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight because any kitchen your dad found himself in nowadays ended up looking like a pig sty but it didn’t settle the tightness in your chest.

He moved around the room with chaotic precision while you trailed after him tidying up any unnecessary mess, and your sister sat at the dining table Rhys and George had brought up from the basement an hour ago, scrolling through her phone.

“What about him?” Your sister flashed her screen to the two of you, the next Tinder profile filling it.

Your dad leaned over and squinted. “His eyes are too far apart.”

“Ugh. Knew you were gonna say that.” She grumbled.

This was a game you played regularly. Your sister would showcase potential Tinder matches either for her or for you (which you always declined to comment on), and your dad would garner his unfiltered opinion. It was probably a big part of the reason you were both still (technically) single. No one was ever good enough. That, and you didn’t have a Tinder account. Or any dating app account, actually.

“Him?” She flashed the next profile to you both.

Cute. But…

Not Harry.

Your inner tormentor smirked.

“What’s his anthem?” Dad knew all the terminologies now for the dating app world. He liked to call Hinge ‘UnHinged’, because that’s what the suitors on there usually were.

“Um… Wonderwall.”

You gagged, and Dad scoffed. “Next.”

You carried on for a little while, joining in when you felt like it but mostly just trying to keep the kitchen at an acceptable level of clean.

Rhys, Abbie and George were upstairs getting themselves ready for dinner as if it was some kind of gala they were about to attend. They did it everytime; dinner with Dad felt like an occasion. Harry wasn’t home and you hadn’t worked up the nerve to ask if he was going to be. He left at such a weird time this morning you couldn’t figure out what shift he was on and how that would affect his ‘home time’.

“Lay the table please, poppet?” Your dad asked of your sister, because he knew it was the only task she’d willingly do.

She leapt to her feet in a dramatic flurry and made for the cutlery draw. “Have we got enough for matching sets?”

“Very unlikely.” You muttered. You hadn’t eaten dinner with matching cutlery since you moved in.

The front door opened, cold air blustering in and mixing with the heat of the kitchen. Harry stepped in, bundled up in a big coat and rucksack slung over one shoulder.

“Hope I’m not late.” He said in a gravelly voice, smile sheepish.

“Harry!” Dad greeted him with complete joy. “Wasn’t expecting you, what a nice surprise.”

Your sister looked flustered all of a sudden. She’d convinced herself he wasn’t coming. Part of you had, too.

“I’ll just change and be back down.”

“Sure, we’ve got a bit of time yet.” Dad waved him away.

You’d pretended to busy yourself, but you watched as he headed for the stairs and caught the subtle wink he gave you.

Ah shit.

“What am I going to do?” Your sister panicked. “I'm a disaster - I look hideous.”

“No you don’t.” You grumbled. She’d never looked hideous in her life.

“Can I borrow some makeup?”

It was easier to just give her what she wanted rather than fighting her on it. “Sure - what do you need?”

She listed off a bunch of makeup items, most of which sounded completely foreign so you were sure you didn’t have them. You’d just give her your entire makeup bag and let her do what she wanted.

You knocked on Harry’s door before you went back down, makeup bag in hand. He opened in just his jeans, a light straight-leg pair with gaping holes at the knees.

“Hey,” he smiled, and rested an arm against the doorframe.

“Hi… I thought you’d be working late?”

He shook his head. “I was supposed to be. Swapped my shift ‘cause I always miss family dinner.”

“I see… well, you’ve successfully panicked my sister.”

“That was my plan all along, actually.”

“Mhm, sure.” You bit away a smirk. You liked this playful side of him a lot. “If you need half an hour to mentally prepare… I’d take it.”

“Noted, thank you.”

You left him to change and made your way back downstairs. Your sister eagerly took your makeup from you and dashed to the bathroom on the first floor.

Neither she nor Harry, or anyone else for that matter, came down until it was time to sit down.

Your dad sat at the head of the table as he always did, spread laid out in front of you in the middle. You sat to your dad’s right on the corner, and your sister to the left. You knew she was going to try and save the seat on her other side for Harry, but George ended up taking it instead, which visibly irritated her. She did have a particular ‘gay man’s best friend’ vibe about her - they flocked to her like sheep. Abbie sat at the other head, Rhys on her left, and then Harry sandwiched between Rhys and you.

He squeezed your thigh under the table, and you tried to pretend like it didn’t have some obscene effect on your intimate places. You lightly kicked his shin and started piling food onto your plate.

Like some kind of mafia father, your dad went around the table and asked all of the housemates for an update on their lives. He liked to do this, and fortunately your housemates liked pleasing him. He was a good landlord, and that showed by the way they gravitated towards him. He probably wouldn’t do this sort of thing if you weren’t living there, but he had a responsibility to them as tenants as well as you, his eldest daughter.

When you were done eating you sat back in your chair and put your hands in your lap. Harry didn’t hesitate to take one in his own and link your fingers. You peeked up at him as subtly as possible, unable to fight the giddy warmth that spread through you. He didn’t meet your gaze for the sake of keeping everyone else out of your business, but he did squeeze your hand, which only made the airy, slightly delirious feeling inside of you that much stronger.

Your sister spent 20 minutes talking about herself without breath, and as self-absorbed as she was, she was harmless, really. Not to mention entertaining. You never laughed as much as you did when she had her mouth open.

“Harry, you should come to these more often.” She said to him, batting her eyelashes.

You were about to walk her and your dad to the car and send them on their way. Harry was trying his absolute hardest to escape.

He cleared his throat. “I probably should, yeah.”

“It was good having an extra nice body.”

You gave her a look, brow raised. She shrugged. “I think it’s home time, no?” You prompted, gripping her arms and nudging her away.

“Fine.” She huffed, and began walking towards the street. “Bye team!”

Most people had already disappeared to their rooms but you had to admire her spirit. Dad was already gone, eager to go to bed.

You were halfway to the car when your sister asked, “So are you gonna tell me or what?”

You met her gaze with another raised brow. “Tell you what, exactly?”

“Mate,” she swatted my arm, “I am not an idiot. I know when I’m not wanted, because it’s not often.” She could not get any more vain if she tried. “I always did wonder what I had to do to get Harry’s attention better, and today I finally figured it out. I need to be you.”

Ah. Not as ignorant as she appears, then.

You pressed your mouth closed, looking away. “Er,”

“Don’t ‘er’ me. I saw that wink he gave you when he got home, but I thought he was just trying to wind me up. And then he sat next to you, not by choice it seemed, but there was barely an inch of space between you and practically a metre between him and Rhys. Then he just didn’t stop looking at you, even though he pretended he wasn’t. Let me tell you, that boy has not learned the art of subtlety.”

She turned to you then, a searing gaze heavy. “Look, I don’t know if you’re aware of it, or if you’re already shaggin’ him and lying to me about it-,”

“-We’re not having sex.” Yet.

“Okay, fine. Whatever. Just do something about it, please. If I can’t have him you should. Don’t let a man that beautiful go to waste. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good.” She huffed, and then pulled you in for a tight hug. “Fed up of seeing you alone and underselling yourself. You’re hot shit! I know it, and Harry clearly knows it.” She suddenly takes your face in her grasp. “So do something about it.”

~

You appeared in the doorway of Harry’s room around 20 minutes later, fresh-faced and in your PJs. He was reading in bed, having stolen a book out of your cupboard.

“Is he secretly in love with her?” He asked without taking his eyes off the pages, his long finger brushing the spine.

You squinted at the title as you moved closer to him. “Yes. What made you pick that one?”

“Because it’s obviously your favourite.”

“How’d you work that one out?”

“The spine is cracked beyond belief. It’s nearly falling apart.”

“I might’ve bought it from a charity shop.”

He lifted a brow. “Did you?”

“No.”

He put the book aside, focussing all of his attention on you. You’d sat down cross-legged on top of the covers, and you wore a calm yet unreadable expression. There was a hint of something in your eyes. Infatuation, maybe?

“What’s going on?”

You shook your head, smiling. “Nothing. I’m just… happy.”

“Me too.”

You remained quiet for a moment, gazing at one another in a comfortable silence. Eventually, Harry opened his arms in request of your embrace, and you gave it to him without hesitation. You settled against him, head tucked under his chin.

“I like this, Harry. Us.”

“So do I.” He nodded, pressing his lips into your hair. “A lot.”

“You make it easier.”

“Make what easier?” He asked, and then held his breath.

A beat passed. “Life. Sleeping. Consciousness. Cooking. Just… being.”

“That’s a very big compliment.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

When you peered up at him, he lowered his mouth to yours for a slow and tender kiss. It wasn’t abrasive or demanding; it was perfect. Full of an understanding that neither of you expected to find in another person.

“Tell me about your nightmares.”

“I don’t have them when I’m with you.” You admitted, as if he hadn’t already worked it out. When he didn’t respond to you, you reluctantly continued. “They’re about my mum. She died in a car accident a few years ago and I dream about it sometimes.”

Harry’s heart found its way into his mouth. “You were there?”

“No. My sister was. I was with dad - it was a weekend. Me and dad at his work cooking, mum and my sister shopping in town. Were on their way back and someone just ploughed into the side of the car, driver’s side. She died on impact and my sister was in hospital for a week.”

Harry held onto you tighter, his lips against your temple. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“It’s okay…” you swallowed, body tensed in stillness. “I dream about that day a lot. Mostly the part where Dad broke the news to me. Seeing my sister in the hospital plugged in and drugged up. The funeral; the look on Dad’s face. I wake up crying more than screaming, usually.”

He took a deep breath, and he clung to you like you might disappear. “I’m really sorry. Sorry that happened to you and your family, and that you have to relive it most nights. That’s not fair.”

You met his gaze, cupping his cheek. “Ever since we started doing… this, I haven’t had a single one. Not even on the nights we don’t share a bed. I don’t know why, I guess my conscience has decided it’s safe with you. And I do feel safe with you.”

“Then I will stay with you every night to make sure you never have a bad dream again.” He vowed, turning his head enough to kiss your palm. “I like knowing that you feel safe with me. S’a pretty big compliment.”

“I’m full of those when it comes to you.”

His chest swelled, a helpless smile on his face. “Even when you tell me I look like a frog.”

You snorted and hid your face in his chest. “You do, though.”

“Okay, thank you.” He huffed, feigning offence, but he didn’t let you go; didn’t loosen his hold on you.

You talked late into the night until you fell asleep, wrapped around one another and bundled under his bedclothes. Having you so close and being so open gave Harry a sense of clarity. He’d had an attraction to you since the day he met you, but this was turning into something more. Feelings were now coming up to bat, and he had a pretty solid idea of where they were heading.

~

“You are filthy.”

You wiped your brow, meeting Abbie’s gaze with indifference. “I am not letting this garden turn into a jungle again like it did last year.”

“I know, but I’ve never seen you so dirty. You’re the cleanest person I know.”

“Believe me, I’ll be jumping straight in the shower once I’m done.”

It was the warmest day of spring so far, and for once it wasn’t raining, so you’d taken the opportunity the second you had it to get outside and sort the garden out. The winter had turned it into a tangled overgrown mass of green mess, and you’d been desperate to get it sorted.

Abbie had offered to help but had realised very quickly that she was out of her depth, and eventually offered moral support in lieu of the physical kind. You didn’t mind the company - it beat waiting inside for Harry to come home, alone all day.

You chopped away at the forest that had grown, turned the soil over when you found it, and potted some new plants to give it some life. By the time Harry came home your legs were covered in dirt, cuts and fresh bruises, nail beds black, hair full of dead foliage, and just downright sweaty.

Abbie had surrendered to the house to be entertained by Rhys, and George wasn’t home. He was never home much anymore, you were all under the impression he had a boyfriend.

Harry helped you to your feet where you were kneeling in the soil, eyes giving you a thorough once over. “You look…”

“Filthy. Yes, I know.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I like it.”

“Really?”

He followed you as you collected your gardening tools and hid them in the shed tucked against the side of the house. “Absolutely. You’re so clean and put together all the time, it’s kinda nice seeing you a bit roughed up.”

You hummed out a laugh. “Interesting.”

Harry boxed you up against the wall, out of sight of any of your nosey housemates. His hips trapped yours, hands holding your sides at the ribs. Without a hint of hesitation, he pressed his mouth to yours, eagerness overpowering tenderness.

You simply let him, never one to deny the most handsome man you knew a hot and heavy kiss. You enjoyed being wanted by him. Who the fuck wouldn’t?

“I’ll let you go shower.”

“Okay.” You murmured, delirious.

He pulled away, giving your hip one last squeeze before he vanished into the house. You spent five more minutes in the garden making sure you’d tidied up after yourself, and took some pictures to send to your dad.

Your shower was longer than you’d have liked thanks to the state of you, and in turn it took you longer to clean the bathroom down than usual. You were starving by the time you got back to the top floor.

Harry was at his desk when you slipped inside his room, browsing something on his laptop.

His room and yours were polar opposites of one another. Where you hid all your belongings, made your bed and kept things as minimal as possible, Harry had more shit than necessary. A bulging wardrobe, unmade bed, things everywhere. He was a man with stuff, and lots of it. Sometimes it made you itch. But he wasn’t dirty in any capacity. It smelled of fresh linen and clean air all the time.

“Do you feel better?” He asked, closing the lid on his laptop again.

“Mm. Loads better.” You gave him a warm smile as you perched on the edge of his bed.

He rolled over to you but abandoned the chair halfway to stand up. Then he crawled over you, forcing you to lie backwards and caged you against the bed.

“You smell amazing.” He said with a voice like gravel.

You ran a hand down his front and slipped it under his t-shirt, trailing your fingertips over his chest. “Thank you,”

He lowered onto his forearm, face an inch from yours and groin against your pelvis. You inhaled sharply, noticing the very obvious stiffness coming from Harry’s midsection. His hand smoothed the length of your side, down your thigh to your knee and then back up again to your arse.

He met your mouth with a kiss, deep and hungry. Dizzying. He led and he was all over you, tongue devouring yours.

“It was a lot harder than it should’ve been to not follow you into the shower.” He admitted.

You let out a soft whine and fisted his t-shirt, pulling him flush against your chest. You wanted to feel the weight of him on you. “You should’ve.”

He returned that with a growl, and his hand on your arse gripped tighter. Your name tumbled off his lips in a husky plea, “I want you so fuckin’ bad.”

Hooking your legs around his hips and pushing his centre against yours, you gave him the silent go-ahead. You looped your arms around his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair.

“I’m right here, and you can have me.”

Something inside Harry snapped. Any reservations about your desire for him vanished. His kisses became punishing and carnal. His hands on you a little rougher than before, than ever. Possessive.

You helped him out of his top and in turn he helped you out of yours. You scooched backwards up the bed as he drank you in. It wasn’t lost on you that this was the first time he’d seen your top half naked. Somehow, amongst all the nights of bed-sharing, you’d never been fully naked.

His eyes were dark, hooded. He looked at you like you were his last meal, and honestly you lived for it. You wanted to die under that gaze.

“You’re so sexy.”

You bit away a timid, flustered smile. Bashfulness wasn’t sexy.

He stalked you like a wild cat as you lay back. His mouth and hands descended on you again, searching and exploring every inch of you, searing hot and wet kisses into your skin.

His hands slipped into your pyjama bottoms, feeling around your arse again before he tugged them down your legs, leaving you completely stark under his burning gaze. A strangled moan fell out of him while he regarded your naked form, hands smoothing and squeezing your hips, your waist, your boobs.

“You’re so fucking soft.” He said the words like praise.

You laid your hands on his as they travelled over you, and he pushed his mouth back to yours in that same eager dance as before. He ground himself against you, hard as a rock underneath his joggers, and it was doing all sorts to your core. Your heartbeat fell down and down again to your middle, slick heat flourishing between your legs.

“Please, Harry,” you begged him, pushing his hand down.

“What do you need?” He asked, a little cruelly, as if he didn’t know exactly what you needed.

“Touch me.”

The man gargled at you. He was fucking strangled. He traced between your thighs delicately to the point it tickled, and swiped a finger easily in a stripe up your folds, wetness collecting.

“Like that?”

“Yes.” You wriggled under him, desperate for more. “More.”

He played with your clit teasingly, enjoying the way you squirmed. “More?” He asked as he slid a finger into your waiting heat.

A small cry left you. It wasn’t enough and he knew it. “More.”

“Bossy, aren’t you?”

You whined. Now you were the one being carnal. You gripped his head tightly and kept your mouth to his, tongue abrasive and lashing.

While he wound you up in the most irritating way, you found your own ways to move him on. Your feet dug into the backs of his thighs and pushed downwards at an attempt to budge his joggers off. You didn’t want to wait anymore. You wanted him in all his solid glory, right now.

“Are you trying to take my bottoms off with your feet?”

“Yes.” You grunted.

“Oh,” he gave you a dark laugh as his kisses trailed back down your front, “that’s gonna cost you.”

He licked around your belly button, the warmth of his hands vanishing from your body to push his joggers down. He gave your cunt the shortest, most mind-blowing piece of attention with his mouth, dragging noises out of you that you weren’t even aware you could make. Then he turned you over without warning, on your front, and tugged your arse up to rest against his crotch.

You gasped, excited by the somewhat aggressive nature he’d taken on. Your Harry - soft and gentle as they got - man-handling you. You peered at him over your shoulder as he produced a square foil wrapper from somewhere and ripped it open with his teeth. He watched you watching him as he rolled it down his shaft, drawing your attention to it - visually, anyway - for the first time. You had to swallow the lump in your throat.

“This what you wanted, darlin’?” He asked as he smoothed his hand over your arse, but his gaze never left you. “You want me to fill you up with my cock?”

“God yes.” You said without a hint of a waver.

“You want it like this?” He lined himself up, fisting himself at the base, and glided the head of him through your wet, parted, waiting folds.

“Yes.” You whimpered. “Please. Please please please.”

He made that noise again, his large fist grabbing your hip as he hovered at your entrance, and then he thrust himself inside you.

A ripping, searing pain had you wanting to scream so loudly you had to shove your face into the mattress to muffle it. An ache blossomed in place of the initial pain, one that was all too familiar and yet quite unfamiliar. It had been absent, like a friend who lived too far away. Now it homed itself inside of you like it belonged there. Perhaps it did, and the only way to quell it was to entertain it.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you feel good.” He hissed, his hands squeezing your hips and your bum in turn.

Harry pulled out, enough that only his head remained inside you, and then he gave another powerful thrust until he completely filled you. “So fucking good, my God.”

He started moving, in steady, sharp movements. He didn’t want slow. Hell, you didn’t want slow. You wanted fast and hot and sweaty, and that’s exactly what he gave you.

Harry started fucking into you so viciously you could feel it in every part of your body, from the jiggle of your tits to the shake of your arse to the rock of your hips. Oh, and the stretch of his cock as he buried deeper and deeper inside you. Every part of your body was aflame with need, a desire, a craving to be fucked into oblivion.

His hands were on your hips again, fingertips digging into your skin. He rocked you back and forth in time with his thrusts, not that you needed him to. You were doing that all on your own.

He grunted and hissed through every single powerful drive of his cock into your cunt, your name tumbling out of his mouth over and over again.

“Harry,” you whimpered, “harder.”

He growled and obeyed, pistoning inside of you.

“Yes, oh fuck yes.” You cried, head burrowing again.

You felt him on you, all over you then, his chest against your back, lips kissing your shoulders and his arms with a vice grip around your middle. His skin was tacky, as was yours. You were surrounded by a cloud of packed heat, like a humid summer day.

“You are…” Harry began to say, panting in your ear, and his head shook against you, “fuck, I can’t even think straight.”

You moaned, lifting up and twisting your head in search of him. He caught your chin and brought your lips to his in another deep, claiming kiss. You wanted every kiss to be like that from then on - owning, possessing, asserting. You were his and you wanted him to know it.

He gave another round of punishing thrusts before he made a winded noise, “Turn over,” he pleaded, “I want to see your face.”

A whimper fell out of your mouth when his thickness disappeared from inside you, and he helped you onto your back before he got straight back in there. He was low over you, chest on your chest, hand on the back of your thigh, and his eyes roamed your face while it contorted with pleasure.

He hooked your leg over his hip and went harder. Harder, faster, harder, faster. Your head lolled back and a string of curse words fell out of your mouth. His lips danced across your chest and you tangled your fingers in his hair to keep him there. There was nothing better than being worshipped by a mouth. Especially Harry’s mouth.

He licked and sucked over your skin until your boobs and sternum were littered with little purple spots of lust, and honestly you didn’t care. You wanted them all over you. You wanted yours all over him.

His hips never stopped moving - pushing, pushing, pushing you towards a beautiful, glorious high like a high-speed train ploughing towards a dangerous cliff edge. God, you wanted that edge and you wanted it now. You wanted to be flung off it whilst securely attached to the man currently pushing you there.

You pulled Harry’s mouth back to yours, holding your body to him as you clenched, milking him towards his end and yours. You needed it. Your head was about to explode with rampant thoughts and you needed to wash them away.

“Fuck, Harry,” you whispered, neck and shoulders spiked with heat. It radiated off you.

“I know.” He groused and bit your lower lip. “I’m fucking close. So fucking close, and I’m gonna blow if you keep doing that.”

“Please do it,” you begged, clenching again to feel his growl in your mouth, “come, Harry.”

And boy did he fucking come.

His body wracked with a shudder, movements ceasing as you wrapped yourself tightly around him. His muscles rippled beneath your fingertips while he came, oblivious to your own masterful undoing.

You calmed together, lips moving in tender kisses until your breath was caught again and your limbs were sore. You deflated when Harry abandoned you to clean himself up, and you dipped into your bedroom to do the same when you found the strength.

When he came back you snuggled up to him in his bed, between his legs with your head on his chest. His lips grazed through your hair, breathing light and content.

“I am… fucking obsessed with you.” He mumbled.

You traced your fingers over the hair and the swallows on his chest, a warmth filling you, like an acceptance. Being wanted hadn’t mattered to you until now. Until Harry.

“I… am also quite infatuated with you. And I have been for some time. Just… quietly.”

“You been sniffin’ my bed sheets while I’m at work?”

You giggled and nuzzled closer to him. “No. Not recently, anyway.”

“Not recently?”

“I’ve never sniffed your bed sheets, Harry.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“I’m weird, but I’m not that weird.”

“But you’ve been infatuated with me for ages.”

“Not enough to go into your room and sniff your bed sheets.”

“Did you do anything a bit weird?”

“No.”

“Really? Not even… a little… you know?”

You gave him a bewildered look, and he waggled his eyebrows at you.

Haha. You totally did that, you creep.

“Maybe.” You murmured, hiding your face again.

He chuckled and held onto you tightly. “I did, too. Feeling’s always been mutual, darlin’.”

You heaved a content sigh. “I’m glad it was. I really do like this. Us.”

“Me too.”

~

Harry had been living life with a permanent spring in his step. He had you, living in the same house and sharing a bed, cooking at dinner time, shagging at night time, and just generally being wonderful, fantastic, gorgeous, brilliant you.

Tonight you were at your dad’s house with your sister so he was cooking alone, but George was in the living room watching one of those daft culinary competition programs on Channel 4, the commentary filtering out with an occasional expletive. Abbie and Rhys were out but would likely be home soon. You’d be back eventually, too, and he liked knowing that nowadays you came home to him.

Rhys and Abbie came back first. Harry had decided to join George in the living room, too intrigued by the shouty drama on Come Dine With Me to ignore it.

Abbie gasped at the TV. “This is the one!” She squealed.

“What one?” Rhys demanded. “Oh, yes!”

“What am I missing?” Harry asked, a little bewildered.

George shushed everyone with a finger to his lips. “I’ve been talking him through it but I want him to see.” He flailed a hand in the couple’s direction.

All four pairs of eyes glued to the TV, a vetted interest in the argument unfolding. The contestants from that week’s episodes were gathering in the final host's living room, bank notes spread in a circle atop a silver tray and holding up a scroll wrapped in red ribbon.

The front door of the house opened again, and in you waltzed, a baffled look on your face. Very rarely did you come home to find everyone in the living room.

Abbie squeaked your name, begging you to join before it kicked off on the telly. “Come on, quick.” She patted the space between her and Harry, conveniently.

His eyes were no longer interested in the TV drama, only in you.

“In fourth place is… me.”

“Ah,” you said in recognition of the scene on the telly as you sat down. Your arm brushed against Harry’s as you tucked your right foot under your left thigh, and caught yourself before you settled into his side like you normally would.

A chorus of patronising oohs filled the room from the contestants on the screen. The host was shaking his head.

“Wait, is this the-,”

“You won, Jane.”

Barking laughter filled the room from the housemates, including Harry, but the host didn’t stop there.

“Dear Lord, what a sad little life, Jane.”

“You’ve got that on a T-shirt!” Harry swatted George’s arm.

“Damn right I do.” He grinned. “Cultural icon.”

“You, or the bloke having an aneurysm?”

“Both.”

“... grace of a reversing dump truck.”

More squeals filled the room, as if the entire scene hadn’t been a meme for years now.

Abbie patted your shoulder. “Did you see the video of Penn Badgley doing this?”

“Obviously.”

“Wait, I wanna see.” Rhys frowned.

Episode forgotten, Abbie found the clip on her phone and showed it to everyone.

“Oh my God, I think I’m going to hear it in that voice forever now.” George muttered, a wistful look in his eyes.

“Shall we watch a movie or something?” Abbie suggested, a hopeful look in her eye. “We never do anything all together… it would be nice.”

“I’m up for that.” Rhys grinned, because why would he ever turn down one of his girlfriend’s ideas?

“Yeah, me too.” George nodded.

All eyes turned to you and Harry. You couldn’t very well say no now, it would look odd. Especially if you both did, which is what you both wanted to do. There were two perfectly good beds upstairs, one of which needed to be destroyed. That wasn’t very well going to happen if you both sat on the couch and watched a film with your housemates.

“Yeah, sure.” You finally said, because you hated the way everyone was looking at you.

“Go for it.” Harry managed, much worse at hiding his disapproval than you were.

“How are we going to decide, then? ‘Cause I don’t really watch the horror films you two are into,” George pointed between Abbie and Rhys, “and Harry probably only watches underground indie movies or something.”

Harry had no idea what gave him that impression, but the laugh that came out of your mouth - hearty, loud and delighted - was worth the assumption.

“Why don’t we all write a movie name down on a piece of paper that we’ll all like - a comedy or something - and do a raffle.”

“Okay, but who’s choosing?”

Harry rolled his eyes and waited for the inevitable to happen. George and Abbie fought for five minutes, both arguing that one of them should choose, and then the decision was given to you as the honorary house mediator. Everyone wrote their choices down on a scrap of paper and dropped them all into one of Rhys’s beanies. Then you closed your eyes, body screaming reluctance at having to be the decision-maker, and plucked a folded square out.

Your mouth lifted at the corners. “Shrek 2.”

Snacks were brought in, beers were shared out, and someone pressed play on the film where it had been queued up.

“Wait!” George screamed.

You all looked at him, bewildered by his dramatics. He’d even stood up.

“What?” Rhys gave him a baffled look.

“I wanna sit in the armchair.” George pointed to the very one Rhys sat in. “I don’t wanna sit in a couple sandwich. A third wheel is bad enough, but a fifth wheel is a disaster.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, laughter nervous and the ultimate giveaway.

“Oh fuck off if you two think we don’t all know you’re a thing.”

Your body tensed. Harry could feel it, the way you went from soft to rigid in a split second. “What?”

“We’ve known for ages.” Abbie said with a sweet smile.

“Yeah, like, the second Harry moved in.” George rolled his eyes.

“But we haven’t been-,”

“-Maybe not the whole time, but definitely recently. I can hear the floorboards creak, you know.” George gave you an accusatory glance. Curse him living directly beneath you. “Amongst other things.”

Harry wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or whether he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. His cheeks and the tips of his ears had turned pink, and you looked like you were in shock. “Right…”

“I am slightly offended that you didn’t want us to know.” Rhys folded his arms. “What did you think was gonna happen?”

He had a point. What did you think was going to happen? Mild ribbing and inappropriate jokes? It wasn’t exactly any of their business what the two of you were doing on the top floor, but that didn’t mean you’d needed to hide everything from them. Why had you stopped yourselves from being affectionate when around them? They were your friends. You all had inside jokes and a group chat and emoji code names. They were like a second family in a way. Even though you all enjoyed your own company, you liked each other too.

“I think… for a while we didn’t really know what was happening.” Harry finally spoke, twisting in his place. “We just started hanging out and it kinda grew from there.”

“I called this on day one, by the way.” George said smugly.

“It’s true, he did.” Abbie nodded, still smiling. “Two good-looking people at the top of the house? Recipe for heaven.”

“We’re happy it finally happened. Just… don’t hide shit like that from us. We’re all friends.” George was back to scowling.

“Friends.” Rhys cooed, like Jay from The Inbetweeners.

“Anyway, now that’s all out there, can we start the film please? Or it’s gonna be my bedtime.” Abbie flailed her hand around.

The movie started, everyone settled into their places, and you managed to find a comfortable position against Harry’s side.

Even though you chatted along with conversations and laughed at the telly, Harry knew something was off. You were still tense, and you didn’t touch him like you normally would. He wanted you in his arms, not pushed awkwardly against his side. He wasn’t sure if it was because you were uncomfortable displaying affection in front of other people, but whatever it was he wanted to make it go away.

He shifted at one point in an attempt to wrap an arm around your middle, but instead you moved further away. That utterly terrified him.

As the movie credits rolled, everyone started to move, ready to get to bed for the night. Except you.

“Guys,” You said, quiet as a mouse, but everyone heard you. Because you never stopped anyone for anything, “can we all have a chat?”

Dread nestled itself into Harry’s stomach. A chat? About what? Everyone? Why did everyone have to be present? What was going on?

The housemates sat back down, if a little tentatively, gazes wary. You finally gave Harry your attention, if only fleetingly with a worried smile.

“Are you alright?” Abbie asked and pulled your hand into hers.

Harry leaned forwards.

“You’ll all be getting an email tomorrow, but I wanted to tell you in person.” You licked your lips, stare heavy on the stone floor of the living room. “Dad is selling the house.”

~

A little piece of your heart broke that evening when your dad told you his plans to sell. It was a place that you had such an odd relationship with, because while it cost a lot of money and caused a lot of financial problems, it also brought you a family you never asked for and a man you never dreamed of having.

You knew your dad would try and hold onto it as long as he possibly could because it had become your home, and he’d been in bits over dinner as he broke the news. He cried, so you cried, and then your sister cried, too. Everyone had been a mess.

“What?” George said, dumbfounded. Hell, everyone was dumbfounded.

“It’s the last thing he wanted to do, but it’s kind of burning a hole in his pocket and we can’t afford it anymore. Between the leaking second floor and dodgy plumbing there’s also woodworm and stone repairs and all sorts of other crap I don’t want to bore you with.”

“You found this out today?” Abbie asked, bottom lip trembling.

“Yeah, an hour or so ago. I’m really sorry, guys.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Rhys frowned.

Abbie crawled across the small gap between her and you and wrapped her arms around you. “We get it. It’s old, it’s a bit rickety and it needs a lot of TLC. We all know your dad gave it all the care he could afford and it’s okay that he can’t afford it anymore.”

“How long do we have to find new places?” George asked, biting his lip.

“As long as it takes to sell. Given the condition of the place it could be fuckin’ ages.” You managed a laugh.

“If your dad needs us to do anything, he just needs to let us know. And we’ll make sure it’s tidy as fuck for viewings and shit.”

“Thanks, Rhys.”

The housemates starting shifting again, collecting up their bits and leaving with softly spoken good nights. You still didn’t move, and neither did Harry. After a quiet minute or so, he slipped his hand into yours and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“What are you thinking?” He asked in a gravelly whisper.

You took a deep breath, nibbling away at your lower lip. “That I’m scared.”

“Scared?”

“Mhm.”

“Scared about what?”

You turned to face him, cataloguing every crease of worry on his handsome face. “Us. What this means for us.”

He gently cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “What do you think it means for us?”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m scared it means the end, when I don’t want it to. I’m scared that what we’ve been doing is just… convenient? And now that we have to leave it won’t be so convenient anymore and it will be over.”

“You don’t want it to be over.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. Not even a little bit. I… I don’t want a night without you ever again. I can sleep with you around. I can breathe. I need to breathe, and I can’t do that without you. And part of me hates that I need you, but I do, and the rest of me that doesn’t hate it tells me to fuck everything to the wind. Because it’s not just need, it’s also a want. I just want you around, like you have been. Presence is such a funny thing when it comes from different people, but yours… I like yours. A lot.”

Harry spoke your name in a low voice, gaze on your mouth as he smoothed his thumb across your lower lip, “I don’t want it to be over, either.” He meets your gaze again, cool, calm and collected. “I really hoped it wouldn’t be at any stage ever, least not because we have to leave the house and find another one. I’ve been living with you for three fucking years and I also don’t want to have to spend a night where you don’t live with me. Hell, it’s not even a fucking option. I know you love this place because it’s your family’s, but I don’t care where we live as long as we do it together. I’ve been looking at other places since the day I moved in, and the only reason I haven’t bothered to leave is because you kept me here, whether you meant to or not. And now we have to leave, and I’m sure as shit gonna take you with me, because I can’t live without you.”

You stared at him for a moment, and then launched into his arms, tackling him into the sofa. You peppered his face with kisses until he caught your lips and held you there, happy in the knowledge that you needed each other and that was absolutely fucking okay.

“You’re special to a lot of people, but especially to me.” Harry mumbled into your lips. “I’m selfish enough to not let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Good.”

You remained in the lounge for a little while longer, wrapped up in one another, until movement began upstairs and you decided it was probably time to head upstairs to bed. Before you made it to the stairs, Rhys and George appeared in front of you. Rhys looked apprehensive and George looked irritated he’d been dragged out of his room again.

“What’s going on?” You asked, cocking your head.

“Abbie’s in the loo so I’m gonna make this real quick before she comes back.” Rhys threw a wary glance over his shoulder. “I need your help.”

~

Every morning was the same.

This week it had been, anyway. You woke up with the sunrise, wrapped in Harry’s arms, and you listened to his heartbeat and his unconscious breathing for a blissful twenty minutes before his alarm went off. Then he’d fall out of bed with a reluctant yawn, mooch his way around the room and disappear into the bathroom to get ready for work.

Upon reappearing he’d head to the kitchen to make a coffee and leave a cup of tea on your bedside table, then a kiss on your lips, and then you’d watch the man who defined ‘sex on legs’ leave your apartment from the comfiest spot in the bedroom.

Today was the same, but different. He wasn’t going to work today, and neither were you. It meant longer in bed, with enough time for sexy shenanigans, then he’d make for the bathroom, bring you tea afterwards and breakfast.

You spent the day in bed, right up until 5 o’clock when you had to get up and go out to give your keys back.

Yes, your dad had managed to sell the house. It had taken a while, but it got there. The new owners were moving in tomorrow, and you’d all arranged to meet your dad and your sister there to do a final ‘handover’.

George had moved into a studio flat in the centre of town but spent most of his nights at his boyfriend’s place. Rhys and Abbie had finally bought that house they always wanted, out of town but easy to travel into. And you and Harry also had your own place, still renting and in the city, but it was yours together, and that was all you wanted.

“Are you nervous?” Harry asked as you walked up to the front of old Blackpool Tower.

“I’m not the one that needs to be nervous.” You shrugged, even if you had been the one to help Rhys with most of the planning.

He’d been a lot of work over the past few weeks. After he initially asked for your help he spent so long searching for the damn jewellery he forgot about the rest of it. You had reminded him on many occasions that it didn’t need a big song and dance, but he insisted, because he wanted it in the house you’d all shared with her favourite people to witness it.

The garden was lit up in the early evening with fairy lights and candles. George, your sister and your dad were already at the far end waiting for Rhys and Abbie to arrive. You gave over your keys - dad had the house professionally cleaned even though you had offered, because it was too big a task for one person.

Blackpool Illuminations

Rhys We’re nearly there…

Yes, Rhys had really named the group chat for the planning committee ‘Blackpool Illuminations’.

You stood next to your sister who wrapped herself around your middle, and Harry kept hold of your free hand.

“I hope she says no.” Your sister said, and Harry snorted. “Just for a laugh.”

“I don’t think Abbie has it in her to say no to Rhys.” You mused.

Five minutes later the couple in question turned up. Abbie had no idea what was going on, obviously. She’d been told they were going for dinner and then for a walk. The walk was always supposed to end here, at the old house.

Abbie gasped at the sight before her, hands on her mouth as she moved through the garden. “What’s going on?”

Behind her, Rhys swiftly dropped to one knee and presented the ring he’d spent months agonising over. “Abbie,”

You all watched and listened as Rhys spent five minutes talking about how perfect his girl was for him. It was very typical Rhys - overboard and unnecessarily long. Most things maybe could’ve been kept for his wedding vows.

Just as your sister was about to explode from restlessness, Rhys finally asked, “Will you marry me?”

“I would’ve said yes five minutes ago.” Abbie giggled, nodding, and held her left hand out.

George and your sister started hollering, your dad was pretending not to cry, and you fell into Harry’s hold again, watching the happy couple with a warm smile.

“I hope to God they don’t ask me to help plan the actual wedding.”

Harry chuckled and pressed his lips into your temple. “I’ll make sure they don’t.”

Your sister presented herself in front of you with an assured look on her face. “When are you two getting engaged, then?”

Harry choked behind you, and you gave your sister a bewildered look. “Reel it in, please.”

“What?” She shrugged. “Being in love suits you. A wedding would really suit you.”

“A wedding isn’t something you arrange for an aesthetic, sis.” You reminded her.

“Speak for yourself, but I do recommend heavily considering it.”

After she turned away, Harry lowered his mouth to the shell of your ear. “I wouldn’t mind marrying you.”

You tightened his arms around you. “One day.” You said with a kiss to his palm.

His smile imprinted on your cheek. “One day.”

~.~.~.~.~

Thank you so v much for reading if you make it this far. It’s a long one, I know. The longest one shot I’ve actually ever done. Much love to you <3

[dearestaussiechannie]

☆ They Were Roommates ☆ — Han Jisung

Word count: 2.1k

Paring: Jisung x afab!reader

Genre: fluff

Warnings: afab!reader, friends to lovers, , Roommate!Jisung, some cursing(Damn, hell), kissing, if I left anything out tell me, kind of proof-read

Authors Notes: Not my best work but I liked the concept and kind of like how it turned out.. if you enjoy, thank you :)

You and Jisung had known each other for quite some time as you guys had met through mutual friends and recently the two of you had starting living together due to you not wanting to renew your lease at your old apartment complex and him wanting a new roommate so that he could afford the place he’d recently moved into.

The first few months had gone surprisingly well, never being in the other's way, keeping the place clean and sometimes you guys would have a movie night together where you would either cook dinner or you would order take out. As these events kept happening, you had developed the smallest crush on Jisung… okay maybe it wasn’t small, but were you ever gonna tell him that? No.

Today was just another normal day of you both being home, vibing in your own space when your stomach suddenly started to growl. Remembering that you had some leftovers from lunch earlier, you make your way to the kitchen while continuing the video on your phone, unaware of what was heading your way. 

Your phone is suddenly knocked out of your hand, watching it fall to the floor as you click your tongue not noticing the slight splash of water on your face. “Damn it, Jisung. Watch where you’re going.” You say, crouching down to pick up your phone as you look up at him, eyes immediately widening.

Standing in front of you was Jisung, wearing nothing but a towel hung low on his hips. You quickly cover your eyes and turn your back towards him as you hear him start to speak. “Oh, hey Y/n I didn't know you were home.” He says, voice echoing in the small space of the hallway.

“Um- Why the hell are you naked in the hallway?!” You ask him, debating if you should just run back to your room and never come back out for the rest of the day. “Oh, I’m not naked but if that's what you want, I could be.” He replies to you as he fights down a laugh. Hearing this makes your entire body burn, your face and neck turning bright red.

He leans closer to you, his breath tickling the hairs on your neck making you shiver as he whispers. “I was actually getting ready to go get dinner. Would you care to join me, my favorite tomato?” He asks you, chuckling softly to your reaction of him being so close to you in this state. He had to admit, watching you get all worked up like this does something to him but what exactly that is, he couldn’t tell.

“Ah, yeah I’d like to go with you since the only reason I came out of my room was for something to eat anyway.” You reply as you start to walk to your room before he softly grabs your arm, instinctively looking at him before your eyes shut tightly when you see his bare chest again. “What is it, Ji?” You ask, head turned up to the ceiling, if only he knew what he was doing to you right now.

“What’re you gonna wear?” He asks you, looking at your expression with a heavy gaze, does he suddenly wanna match? “I’m not sure. You’ll find out when I’m done getting ready. Now get dressed, I don't wanna stand here anymore!” You say before running to your room. Once inside, slamming the door shut you lean against it, trying to catch your breath and get your heart to stop racing.

After about 45 minutes, you both emerge from your rooms and into the living room. Jisung is wearing a plain white shirt paired with a pair of black jeans with ripped up knees, combat boots and a black jacket. It looks like he blow-dried his hair, parted in the middle but quite fluffy. You look him up and down, taking notice of the fact that you managed to match so well by accident. 

Jisung looks up from where he’s leaning against the couch and scrolling through his phone. He does the same thing you did, noticing that you’ve done your hair, put on a white knee length dress paired with your black combat boots as well, white socks barely peeking over your boots. How he wishes he could take a picture to remember how pretty you look right now.

 You shift on your feet since he’s been staring at you for quite some time now, making you feel a bit worried about how you look and as he could read your mind he quickly stands up and moves closer to you. “You look amazing, get those thoughts outta your head right now.” He says as he walks over to you, smiling as he grabs your hand softly, pulling you towards the door.

“Wait, will I need a jacket?” You ask as you look back at the shared apartment seeing if you have one laying anywhere close. “Nah, but if you get cold you can always wear mine if you want. After you.” He replies, opening the door for you with a bright smile.

Time passes quickly as the two of you hurry to the place he’d picked to eat. Once you make it, you notice that you’ve been to this side of town before but never noticed this place. You both take a deep breath through your noses, exhaling at the same time making you look at each other and laugh. You walk inside, staying closer to him without realizing it until he puts his arm around your shoulder.

You're seated quite quickly, taking mental notes of all the plants hanging from the roof and the smell, the mood lighting and the rustic looking walls. While you’re doing this, Jisung is admiring you silently. The way you have your hair pulled over your shoulders, how your skin looks so soft, the way he can smell your perfume slightly, how the light bounces through your eyes and off of your lip gloss. How’d he never notice how pretty you were? Your lips started moving but he wasn’t listening.

“Jisung? Are you listening?” You say, making him blink a few times before he slightly laughs. “Uhhh.. no. What'd you say?” He replies, rubbing the back of his neck. “I said when did you find this place? I’ve never noticed it before.” You say, looking over his expression. Was he nervous?

“Well I was walking on this side of town with Chris and he pointed it out, saying he wanted to try it but he didn’t have anyone to go with and if I tried it before him, let him know if it was good.” He said, looking over the menu for a moment. So the two of you came here to try a restaurant just so he can  let your shared friend know if it’s good? Why didn’t he just bring him? Your mind begins to race but it’s quickly cut off again when he taps your hand with his menu. How did he always know when you're lost in negative thoughts?

“Get outta that head of yours, be here with me. Not in there.” Jisung whispers, hand grazing over yours when the waiter finally comes to get your orders. You bump his boots with yours as you look down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with your fingers.

Dinner goes smoothly while the two of you talk, sharing laughs and stories about your shared friends. Your laugh makes it hard for him not to do the same, adoring the way your eyes practically close when you're laughing a bit hard. 

Once the two of you are done with dinner, you pay your equal parts of your bill before slowly standing up and walking outside when he suddenly stops you in front of the restaurant, making you look at him confused. “Ji? What’re you doing?” You ask him, laughing slightly as he steps back, reaching into his pocket trying to find his phone. “I just wanna take your picture. Is that a crime? You look nice and what better way to remember today than a picture?” He says, getting his phone and opening the camera. 

“Fine but you owe me dessert after this.” Your words come out as a laugh, blushing slightly before you pose for him to take the picture. Jisung takes a couple in each pose, smiling at his phone at the way you look so pretty. He puts his away, reaching his hand out to you with a heart shaped smile. “Let’s go get you something sweet as you, yeah?” He says, grabbing your hand and pulling you in the direction of a sweet shop up the way.

Fast forward to after dessert and the two of you are wandering the city together, just keeping conversation and telling jokes, talking about going to the places that you pass on a later date when they’re open since it’s already gotten so late. Suddenly there’s a loud noise behind the two of you, making you jump as you move closer to him. He instantly wrapped his arm around your shoulders as he looked back, noticing that someone had dropped whatever they were carrying. 

The two of you walk like this for a moment before you realize his arm is still wrapped around you quite tightly. “Ji.. you can let go now if you want, you don’t have to keep holding onto me.” You say as you start to pull away from him only for him to hold onto you tighter. “No no, when I wrapped my arm around you I noticed that your skin felt cold so you’re gonna either stay right here or you’re gonna put my jacket on.” He replied, staying close to you. 

“I think.. um.. I’ll stay like this since I don’t want you to get cold either..” You answer, moving closer to him while putting your arm around him under his jacket. 

The walk back to your shared apartment doesn’t take long, quickly walking back in the door and looking at him. “Movie?” He asks you, stretching slightly as he watches your reaction to his question, smiling as your face lights up. How could you say no to a movie, what better way is there to wind down and relax. 

While watching the movie, the two of you were sitting quite close to each other on your small living room couch when Jisung felt the faintest pressure against his shoulder. He looks over and finds your head resting there, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. Have you always been this pretty? How did he never notice how you looked when the two of you were always together. He leaned down and gently pressed his lips to your forehead, letting out a sigh before mumbling. “How didn’t I notice your beauty until now?” He whispered before sitting up straight again, noticing your cheeks were bright red. Had you heard him?

Your eyes fluttered open when you felt JIsung leaning closer to you, feeling his lips on your head. Why was he kissing your forehead? When did you fall asleep? While your mind was racing, it's quickly cut off when he spoke. His words made your cheeks turn a bright red, eyes shutting tightly when he leaned away again. After a few minutes, your heart had stopped beating so harshly before you quickly looked up at him, kissed his cheek and put your head back down against his shoulder. “You know… you’re very handsome, Sung..” You say, fiddling with your fingers. You look up, noticing his smile, eyes going wide as his lips brushed against yours.

“You think so? Think you could look at me forever?” He whispered, eyes looking deeply into yours. You nodded your head very quickly, nose brushing his as you did until you felt his hand on your cheek, pulling you just a bit closer as he pressed his lips against yours. Your eyes closed slowly, your lips moving in motion with his. This went on for quite some time before you both pulled away, breathing heavily with his hand still against your cheek.

“Be with me.. Be mine..” Jisung whispers as he looks at you, eyes looking all over your face for any kind of discomfort. Instead, he’s met by your bright smile as you pull him in for another kiss and a tight hug. 

“Umm duh! How could I say no?” You reply, leaving you both full of smiles.

©️ dearestaussiechannie, all rights reserved.

Taglist: (to be added, comment or message me♡)

@bangchansbae @laylasbunbunny

[graceful-starker]

Tony the Friendly Ghost

Summary: Peter's house is haunted by a very friendly, very horny ghost.

Warnings: mild dub-con for a second there, Tony is a ghost, mild come inflation, mostly just an excuse to write ghost porn ngl.

Notes: Blame @the-mad-starker for this one, ngl lol. I might add more to this AU, but I wanted to get the first installment out on Halloween. Happy Halloween!

~~~

Peter isn’t crazy, okay? His apartment is just haunted. He doesn’t care that MJ rolls her eyes in disbelief or that Ned laughs at him for believing in ghosts. There’s definitely, 100%, for sure a ghost in his apartment. 

Peter winces as his ghost moves his couch loudly, the legs screeching horribly against the floor and thudding into the wall. “Okay, that’s really unnecessary!” Peter yells, walking into the living room and putting his hands on his hips. “I can’t afford to leave, you’re stuck with me, okay? You don’t have to rearrange all my furniture in protest.”

He doesn’t get a response; he isn’t sure his ghost even can. He’s never seen it, never heard it. He can only see what it does to his home. So far, at least. The couch is pulled back from the wall and slammed back into it again.

Peter sighs in annoyance, cocking his head to the side and staring at the couch. “Whatever, it looks better there anyway.”

The couch skirts across the floor, back to its original position, and Peter rolls his eyes as hard as he can. “Oh, fuck you. You’re just being annoying for the sake of it now.”

There’s no response, and Peter puffs out another sigh. “Stop rearranging my furniture, we’re going to get a noise complaint.”

There’s no response yet again, and Peter hums and turns to go back to his room. “Thank you,” he mumbles softly. He opens his door and gasps. “You asshole!” he yells, looking at his clothes flying out of his dresser. “Stop that!”

His ghost doesn’t, so he angrily grabs a towel and slams the bedroom door behind him to leave his ghost to their temper tantrum. 

He locks the door to the bathroom as if that will stop the ghost from coming in and turns the shower to be extra hot. He strips and puts his clothes in the hamper, grumbling to himself under his breath. 

He takes perhaps the angriest shower of his life, scrubbing furiously at his body and aggressively lathering his hair. “I should have known the rent was too good to be true,” he mumbles to himself, getting out of the shower and grabbing his towel. He’s calmed down a bit, has resigned himself to his fate of refolding all his clothes. 

He finishes drying off his hair and wraps it around his hips, looking up at the vanity. He blinks, cocking his head to the side. In big blocky letters, drawn out in the steam on his mirror, is TONY. 

“Tony?” he asks, and watches it be underlined. “Oh, your name is Tony,” he mumbles. “That’s a nice name.”

He doesn’t get a response, and Peter hums in thought. “I’m Peter,” he offers, feeling a bit silly. But Tony started it. “This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, you know. We can get along.”

YES appears on his mirror, and Peter smiles at it. “See? This’ll be great.”

~

Tony likes to talk to him, Peter has discovered. He likes leaving messages on the mirror whenever Peter showers, likes to ask questions and get Peter talking for long periods of time. 

It got to the point where Peter decided: why limit this? He buys three white boards, sticks them to the walls in his kitchen, livingroom, and bedroom. Tony is very happy with these purchases, and has a preference for the red marker. 

Peter has decided that Tony is an asshole, but he isn’t all that bad really. He’s kind of sweet too, and a good listener. He cares about Peter’s life, asks questions about it and encourages him to talk about it to Tony. 

As far as ghosts go, Peter is sure he’s lucked out. 

Peter laughs as he reads the question left for him in the bedroom, shaking his head fondly. “No, MJ isn’t my girlfriend. And she doesn’t even believe me when I tell her about you, she’s a real asshole like that. She’s not coming over any time soon.”

MJ IS NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND?

“No, I don’t have one,” Peter says, shrugging. “I was dating Wade for a while, but we decided to just be friends instead.”

BOYFRIEND?

Peter frowns. “Oh, god, what time period are you from? I didn’t think to ask. People can do that now, it’s fine to be gay or whatever else now.”

NOT AN ISSUE.

“Oh, good,” Peter says, grinning at the board. “Because you’ve really grown on me, it would be a shame to find out my favorite ghost is homophobic.”

YOU KNOW OTHER GHOSTS?

Peter snorts, rolling his eyes fondly. He sits on the bed, crossing his legs. “Jealous?” There’s no response, and Peter giggles softly. “I don’t know any other ghosts, it was just a joke.”

I’M ALONE.

Peter frowns, taking in the words slowly. Tony must have been terribly lonely, before Peter came around. “Well, I’m here now. And you aren’t getting rid of me any time soon, we’ve already established this.” He tries to joke, but it sounds sad. 

It’s quiet for a long time after that, the marker hovering in the air as if Tony is holding it limp at his side. Then the marker is placed down, and the door to Peter’s room shuts. 

Peter sighs sadly, deciding to use the privacy while he has it; since Tony is invisible, he never knows for sure if he’s watching. He only knows if Tony does something like that; closes his door, or moves stuff around in another room. 

~

Peter hums to himself as he gets out of the shower, drying off and wrapping his towel around his waist. His toothbrush is knocked over, and he looks at the mirror with a frown. 

WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

“No where,” Peter says, turning and opening the door. “I just wanted to get clean.” He makes his way to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He opens a drawer in his dresser, before he looks over his shoulder at an insistent tapping noise. The marker is tapping against the whiteboard, and Peter sighs and walks over. 

NO PLANS?

“Nope,” Peter says, turning back around. “Let me get dressed, we can talk-hey!” 

Tony has ripped his towel away, throwing it across the room and leaving him naked. The marker is back on the white board, so Peter doesn’t know for certain where Tony is. 

“Asshole,” he mumbles starting to walk towards his towel again. “You don’t-hey!”

Tony’s never touched him before this; it’s a little unsettling. Everywhere Tony touches him is extremely cold, and it sends a rush of adrenaline through him. One hand is wrapped around Peter’s wrist, twisting his arm behind his back and the other is on Peter’s hip. He’s bent over the bed, and the position brings a blush to Peter’s face. 

“Hey!” Peter says, trying to wriggle free. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

Tony doesn’t. Instead, he moves his hand from Peter’s hip to his ass, petting at the flesh a couple times before spreading Peter’s cheeks apart. 

Peter gasps and shivers at the feeling, trying to close his legs. “Tony! What are you doing?!”

Tony’s leg must go in between his, kicking his feet apart. Peter gasps and shivers, his legs shaking. Tony’s finger pets over his hole, and Peter whimpers. 

“Tony, you can’t-you can’t! What are you-let me go, Tony!” Peter whines, trying to push off of the bed. Tony has never tried to hurt him before, not even when they weren’t talking yet and Tony was still trying to get rid of him. He’s more confused than scared. 

Tony pushes his knee in between Peter’s thighs again, pushing up until his own thigh is pressing against Peter’s cock and rubbing back and forth. 

Peter chokes and gasps, his hand clenching the sheets. “O-oh,” Peter chokes out, grinding down against Tony’s thigh. It feels so fucking wierd, so very cold but still so very good at the same time. Tony’s thigh rubs against him for a few minutes, and Peter continues to grind against it until he’s fully hard.

Tony pushes his finger in to the first knuckle, and Peter gasps. “Wait, don’t-oh god, oh,” Peter groans and pushes back into it, his cock leaking on Tony’s thigh. He can feel Tony’s cock hardening against his hip, and it’s so weird. This is so weird, he can’t even see Tony and Tony is about to-

Tony’s finger pushes deeper, and Peter whimpers. He can’t decide if he’s scared or not, can’t decide if he wants Tony to stop. He wants to tell Tony to wait, at least, to use lube. But then he realizes-

There is no friction. His hole is just stretching around nothing, there’s nothing really there. 

“Oh, fuck,” Peter gasps, hanging his head and arching his back. “Oh, please, more. Tony, please.” 

Tony pulls his finger out and Peter whines, but then he’s pushing two in. Peter’s head throws back, and he gasps loudly. Tony’s fingers start moving in and out of him quickly, already scissoring him apart. 

Peter wonders if Tony can see himself, or there’s nothing there for him as well. If he just has a view of Peter’s hole being stretched around nothing, or if it looks normal for him. “Oh, fuck, Tony. Please Tony, please, more, I need-oh fuck, please!”

Tony lets go of his wrist for the first time since this started, pulling his fingers out abruptly. Peter whines at the loss, scared that Tony’s going to leave now. He worries himself for nothing; Tony simply picks him up and turns him around, and Peter lands on his back halfway up the bed. 

He doesn’t like this position as much; he can see that no one is there. It’s freaking him out, making him think too much. “Tony,” he chokes, chest heaving. He gets up on his elbows, digging his heels into the bed.

Invisible hands push his thighs far apart, and Tony’s cock presses bluntly against Peter’s hole. It pushes and pushes, until it slips past and slides up Peter’s balls. 

Peter gasps loudly, closing his eyes and throwing his head back. It feels so weird but so good, and if he closes his eyes he can just pretend it’s fine. “Oh, fuck, Tony. Please, please fuck me, please get inside me, I want-oh my god!”

Tony had pulled his cock back to try again, pressing insistantly until the head finally popped past Peter’s rim. 

Peter’s mouth falls open, and he has to fist the sheets to stop himself from screaming. It feels so fucking good inside of him, so incredibly strange but in a pleasant way. “Oh, fuck,” Peter gasps, sucking in a desperate breath. 

Tony starts to slowly push forward, and forward and forward until Peter feels like he can feel it in the back of his fucking throat. 

“Oh god, Tony, oh fuck, how fucking big are you?” He can’t see it, can’t know how much there is left to go. “Oh, stop, it won’t fit!” Peter cries. 

Tony doesn’t listen, continues pushing in until his hips finally slap into Peter’s ass with an audible slap. 

Peter groans loudly, his legs shaking, his chest heaving. “Oh god, Tony,” he gasps, opening his eyes and regretting it immediately. There’s no one there, there’s no body attached to the cock currently splitting him in half, no hands keeping his thighs apart. He’s just being filled up by nothing, his stomach is protruding with a cock that isn’t there. 

Tony starts to slowly pull back out, and Peter watches in fascination as Tony’s head visibly moves down his torso. “Oh,” Peter moans.

Tony only pulls halfway out before pushing back in, his hips slapping hard against Peter’s. 

“Oh, fuck,” Peter gasps, throwing his head back again as Tony sets up a brutal pace. He feels like he might actuall die, like Tony is actively fucking him to death. He’s so fucking big, and the pace is brutal, and he’s fucking Peter so hard he’s being pushed up the bed.

Tony’s left hand leaves his thigh, after moving Peter’s leg around to grip around his waist. Instead it presses down harshly against Peter’s stomach where his head reaches when he goes as deep as possible. 

Peter moans, almost screams, watching his torso with dark eyes. It’s the only visible proof he has, the only thing proving that he isn’t batshit crazy. He’s being fucked by a ghost; a ghost hung like a horse besides. “Tony!”

Tony somehow speeds up, slapping his hips so hard against Peter’s that it hurts, and he knows he’s going to be feeling this for days. 

“Please,” Peter moans, moving one hand to wrap around his cock. “Oh god, please, I want it. Please! Please Tony, please come inside me, I want it so bad!”

Tony’s right hand tightens on his thigh, enough that the skin goes white and he’s sure it’s going to leave a mark. His hips stutter, and he fucks into Peter a few more times before burying himself balls deep and grinding there. 

It feels so fucking weird. It’s still cold, but it’s definetly real and wet inside of him. Peter’s eyes go lidded and he strokes himself quickly, enjoying the feeling of being stretched, of how deep Tony is, of being filled up.

Peter almost doesn’t notice at first, but Tony hasn’t stopped grinding into him and filling up for longer than a human would have. His eyes widen as it hits him, his hand stilling on his cock. “Oh, god, Tony?” 

Tony pulls half out and slaps his hips back in, grinding again. The hand on Peter’s stomach leaves to start stroking Peter instead. 

Peter’s stomach starts to distend, and his jaw drops as he realizes just how much Tony is filling him up. “Oh, fuck, Tony! Tony, it’s too much!” 

Tony speeds his hand up on Peter’s cock, and Peter whines loudly. He finishes to the strange feelings, hands gripping the sheets desperately and head thrown back. He comes so hard that it hits his chin, and Tony wrings every last drop out of him. 

Peter pants heavily once it’s over, groaning at the sight of his come painting Tony’s fist white. He can kind of see it now, see the outline. He already knew from the way they felt inside of him, but Tony’s fingers are thick. 

He’s still buried to the hilt inside of Peter, and Peter whines as his stomach continues to grow. He feels some being fucked out of him as Tony grinds, and he’s so overstimulated at this point. “Tony, ‘s too much!”

Tony finally finishes filling Peter up minutes later, when Peter’s stomach is pudged and he looks like he has a small baby bump. Oh, and isn’t that a new idea? He grinds into Peter once more, keeping him plugged up apparently. He really wishes that Tony could talk to him.

“I’m too full,” Peter complains, nudging at Tony’s torso with his knee. “Get out of me.”

Tony pets at Peter’s stomach, and maybe he’s just as turned on by the sight as Peter is. Peter’s spent sock twitches, but it’s way too soon for him to go again. 

“Tony,” Peter whines, clenching around him. “Out.”

Tony hesitates once more, but finally pulls out slowly. He leaves his head insides, teasing Peter’s rim with the widest part.

Peter moans at the feeling, before whimpering again. “Tony, please, it’s too much!”

Tony finally takes mercy on him, popping his head out but keeping Peter’s thighs spread open. 

Peter whimpers, face red with embarrassment, knowing that Tony is staring at his hole. He wonders what it looks like right now; wonders how much of Tony’s come is leaking out of him, how gaped open he is. 

He reaches around himself, ignoring Tony squeezing his thighs, and stuffs a few fingers into himself. Tony squeezes tighter, before finally letting him go. 

Peter pulls his fingers out, eyes lighting up when he realizes he can see Tony’s come on his fingers. Physical proof of what Tony did to him. 

He clenches around nothing, winces when he feels some more of Tony’s come slide out of him and onto the bed. “Fuck, Tony,” he whispers, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking curiously. It tastes about the same as normal, it’s just cold. A little gross. 

Peter pulls his fingers away and gasps when Tony’s hand cups his cheeks, and he thnks Tony is kissing him because his lips are cold. He tries to kiss back, closes his eyes so he doesn’t feel like he’s kissing air. It’s much easier when his eyes are closed for his mind to accept this. 

Tony finally pulls away, and Peter falls back on the bed with a final pant. “Fuck,” he whispers to the room. 

Peter looks when at the tapping noise against the board, snorting when he sees it. “Now you ask?” he snarks, rolling his eyes. 

CAN WE DO THAT AGAIN? Stays on his board, unerased, even the next time they do this.

[theelizamanelli]

Tengoku

Reina Iyashi wants a normal, mundane existence until Satoru Gojo takes a special interest in her uncanny ability to bring people back to life (or so Itadori says) and offers her a job as his assistant at Jujutsu High. Tags: 18+, satoru gojo x female oc, boss x assistant, golden retriever x black cat, forced proximity, slow burn, eventual smut, romance, blood and violence, implied/referenced suicide and child death link to all chapters link to ao3

——————————————————————————————————

Chapter Four

——————————————————————————————————

The gray carpet extended through the open concept living room, giving way to a wall of windows overlooking Tokyo. Reina ran her hand along the marble of the kitchen, admiring the stainless steel appliances. She hadn’t realized that Jujutsu High freely provided their employees with such lucrative benefits.

The flat screen television sat untouched in the corner, the plush couch taunting her to lay down. Her day consisted of unpacking her office and chastising Satoru Gojo, the latter she had determined would soon become a regular occurrence. 

Exhaustion had seeped into her bones and threatened to burst from her. Reina was in desperate need of a shower and a long sleep. She would freely admit that though he continued to irritate her, Gojo had relieved a great deal of anxiety. She no longer worried about how she would be able to afford rent or groceries. 

The keys had sat neatly on her office desk when she had returned from her earlier outburst. A note, in what she had assumed was Gojo’s handwriting, with the address and a “Welcome home! (* ^ ω ^)” - met with a sigh and a roll of her eyes.

Carrying the one remaining box through the apartment, Reina had noticed two rooms across the hall from one another. One was noticeably decorated with a masculine aesthetic in mind. The secondary area appeared more neutral therefore she placed her stuff on its desk. 

Unpacking her things neatly, it took her little time to finish the job. Setting out her clothes post shower, she slowly made her way to the attached bathroom.

The hot water cascaded down her back and massaged out knots she hadn’t realized were there. Relishing in the warmth, she spent extra care on the rest of her body. She had neglected parts of her routine over the last few weeks from stress, not realizing to what extent until it took her a few passes with her razor to get the skin smooth. 

Washing out the conditioner from her hair before using a rose scented body wash, she finally stepped out of the shower. Wrapping herself in a towel she proceeded to open the door into the hallway. Embarking on a short journey to the kitchen for a drink.

The idea of dancing naked in the living room in front of the windows sprinted through Reina’s mind before she shook it off. It would be her luck that someone in a building diagonal would have the perfect view into the apartment, effectively ruining all privileges the lonely lodging gave her.

The sound of the refrigerator opening forced Reina to stop in the shadow of the hallway, creeping softly to peer around the corner. She didn’t have her kaiken but the vase sitting on the end table nearest to her would have to do. Slowly slipping it off the table, she held it up in preparation and sprung forward with a cry.

A deep laugh rumbled from the dark kitchen, the light from the fridge illuminated white hair and reflected off familiar glasses.

“What an unexpected greeting, Iyashi. Should I return the favor? I did get quite dirty today.” He chuckled softly as he placed the juice carton back into the fridge.

“What are you doing here?” Reina asked sternly, still holding the vase in the air prepared to strike. 

“This is my apartment.” He said, turning slowly towards her. Gojo’s eyes dropped quickly to the edge of the towel where it barely covered her thighs.

Reina, too angry to pay attention, barked “No, it’s my apartment. It was part of the agreement.” 

“I am away on business a lot, Iyashi. I need someone to take care of the place while I’m not here. Seemed the perfect fit. You need a place to live. I need a roommate.” He picked up his belongings from the counter and began to walk towards Reina.

She quickly lifted the vase higher, implying she intended to hit him if he got any closer.

“You can put the vase down, you’re safe.” He said before attempting to go around her.

“Am I?” She muttered to herself, placing the vase back down on the end table in defeat. 

Gojo pushed the door to his room open, placing his belongings on the desk before walking to his closet. 

Without thought, Reina barged in after him shouting, “Hey, I’m not done talking to you, pretty boy!”

“I’m listening,” mused Gojo as he slid his jacket off and placed it in the bin.

Reina faltered momentarily before continuing, “I told you I’m not your maid. I’m not your slave.”

“I never asked you to be, though the thought of you in that outfit will surely keep me up at night.” He chuckled and pulled his shirt off, leaving his abs on display.

Her slight intake of breath kept her from replying immediately, she couldn’t deny that his back was mesmerizing - distracting at the very least. 

“Well, good, I won’t be mistreated by a narcissist who thinks everyone will bend to his will.” She nodded her head with conviction.

“I wouldn’t expect any less.” Gojo straightened up and turned towards her, hands on his belt as he proceeded to loosen it. “Now, Iyashi, could you please put on something a little less distracting before I get carried away?” 

A blush spread from the back of her neck, kissing her cheeks. She had forgotten that she was still in the towel, standing in his bedroom as he was undressing.

Reina squeaked a curt goodbye and fled the room. 

She had expected to be angrier with him that he hadn’t been honest about her living arrangements but couldn't find it in herself. She was unsure if it was due to how exhausted she was or if she had grown to expect it from Gojo - even though she’d only known him for a few days.

The idea of living with someone had ignited a portion of Reina’s heart that she had forgotten existed - the desire for companionship. She grimaced at the thought of enjoying cohabitating with Gojo, of all people. 

Reina dried her hair and finished her night time routine, falling back onto her bed with a soft plop. She could hear the light footsteps of Gojo from the kitchen back to the bedroom, it paused outside of her door.

“Goodnight, Iyashi! Sweet dreams!” He shouted through the door.

Reina found herself smiling before whispering “Goodnight, Gojo.”

——————————————————————————————————

Managing Gojo’s life proved rather difficult in the weeks to come. Pleadings from all over the country flooded her desk in search of his help. Reina had to weigh them in order of severity and urgency before delivering them. 

He was consistently complimentary of how easily she had acclimated to the job. Though she continued to claim it was rather straightforward, he could have hired anyone. 

The typically lighthearted man continued his studies with his students, in his free time exorcizing the curses within the area. Playing the part of confident and fun loving Gojo-sensei, never taking his hands from his pockets as he finishes off deadly curses within minutes of arrival.

There was a side of Gojo that bubbled to the surface in the moments where she delivered new cases, a quiet and contemplative one. He reviewed the information, treating each with a seriousness she had not yet grown accustomed to.  

It had become abundantly apparent that the world relied on Gojo in a way that one could only assume was devastatingly heavy. 

Yet he carried himself as if he expected no less.

In a few rare moments, Reina found herself feeling both sorry for and proud of Satoru Gojo. 

——————————————————————————————————

Reina ripped open the envelope sitting on her desk to reveal its contents, the compelling recount of a curse that had plagued a family on the outskirts of Tokyo. A father, mother, five year old daughter, and sixteen-month old son. The letter revealed that the little girl had perished by the hands of the curse the day prior, they were begging for their lives.

She was unfortunately overly familiar with death. It was a natural consequence of this line of work and she read letters daily of families that were haunted by monsters. 

This would not be the first or last family to perish at the hands of a curse.

Gojo was out of town on another case rendering him unavailable, there was a part of Reina that felt the familiar twinge of disappointment realizing she would have to draft a condolences letter. 

She grabbed her bag from the desk, the images of a little girl splattered in blood flashed across her vision. She gripped the edge of the chair for balance, gritting her teeth.

Reaching for the two kaikens attached to her thighs - ensuring their location had not changed - Reina headed out the doors and in the opposite direction of the apartment, towards the train station. 

Verifying the address upon arrival, she reached for the door and knocked lightly. A young woman answered, keeping the space between the frame and the wood small. 

With barely an eye visible through the opening the woman whispered, “How can I help you?”

“My name is Reina Iyashi, I’m here to help you with your problem.” she answered softly with a small smile. 

The woman’s eyes widened as she closed the door, the sounds of locks unclasping slipping through the cracks. She pulled the door open wide and Reina noted her pregnant belly.

“Oh, God. Thank you!” The woman cried and wrapped both arms around her. Reina had never been good at accepting public displays of affection. Her body stiffened in her arms and she lightly patted the woman’s side with her free arm. 

“Where does it stay?” She asked quietly, her eyes darting around for any signs of the curse.

The young woman pointed to the top of the hill, the building sitting in its wake appeared overrun and unkempt. “When we moved here they said a woman drowned her two kids in that building and then slit her wrists in the tub. We were warned that a lot of strange things happened in the neighborhood but we thought…” She sniffled. “Well, we thought it was just talk…we never…”

Reina placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, keeping an appropriate distance between them in hopes she wouldn’t hug her again, “You didn’t know. Take solace in the fact that she is safe and not in pain. You did everything you could.”

Without waiting for a response, Reina turned and headed up the hill.

——————————————————————————————————

chapter five

[50calmadeuce]

Ch. 16: To San Diego

Warning: Mention of miscarriage. Some chapters have sex.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know. :)

Gradually awakening, you found yourself in an unfamiliar queen-size bed, the sound of a shower running nearby gently rousing you. You wore an olive green tank top and light weight olive green and black sleeping pants. As you slowly sat up, you took in the surroundings. The room had white walls adorned with a few pictures resting on a well-worn dresser. The only items that seemed new in the space were the bedding and pillows on the bed.

You let out a sigh, realizing this simple setting was reflective of how your husband had been living for years as a pilot. In stark contrast, your own living conditions could be considered luxurious. With a sense of newfound appreciation and a bit of guilt, you tossed the duvet aside, swung your legs over the side of the bed, and placed your feet on the floor, just as the sound of the shower ceased.

Moments later, the bathroom door swung open, and Jake stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist, his dog tags dangling over his muscular chest. Steam billowed out behind him, enveloping him like a cloud, creating an almost ethereal sight. You found yourself looking at him with fresh eyes, seeing him in a new light that melded the familiarity of your husband with the stark realities of his profession and lifestyle.

"Morning," Jake greeted, his voice warm. "I didn't wake you, did I?" he asked, concern tinting his words as he made his way toward the closet.

You shook your head in response. "No, it was the unfamiliarity that did," you answered, your gaze following him as he reached for his flight suit hanging among the other items in the closet.

He turned to face you, his green eyes sparkling with a lively intensity. Even in his disheveled state, he had an undeniable allure that could send shivers down your spine.

"Good. We did get in pretty late, and you looked so peaceful sleeping that I didn't want to disturb you," he explained, moving towards his dresser to fetch his underwear, T-shirt, and socks. As he spoke, he let the towel around his waist drop to the floor.

Feeling an unexpected wave of embarrassment, you turned away to afford him some privacy. The reason behind this sudden modesty with your own husband puzzled you, yet you could hear him getting dressed behind you.

"I'm going to go make some coffee," you announced, seeking an escape to compose yourself. With that, you headed out the door towards the kitchen.

The kitchen and living area were compact, resembling a modest kitchenette. There was a small couch, a TV, and a petite dining table accompanied by two chairs, all arranged to fit within the limited space efficiently.

You started opening up cabinets to look for some coffee, but there wasn't much.

A few minutes later, Jake emerged from the bedroom, his hair neatly combed and dressed in his flight suit, perfectly embodying the image of a pilot.

"Don't worry. I'll grab some at the base," he said initially, then paused, reconsidering his words. Realizing the coffee was meant for both of you, he added, "I'm sorry. I don't have much here."

You turned to face him, offering a reassuring smile. "It's no problem. I'll get a rental car and tour the city today."

He closed the distance between you, concern evident in his eyes. "You sure?"

You nodded affirmatively. "Yeah, I'll be fine." Your gaze swept across the confines of the small apartment.

"I know it's not like the lodge," he began, acknowledging the stark difference in your accommodations.

You reached up, gently cupping his face with your hand, a tender gesture that sought to bridge any distance between you. "Has it always been like this? Why didn't you say something?" Your voice carried a mix of concern and curiosity, wanting to understand his experiences and the choices he made to live this way.

He leaned slightly into your touch, his expression softening with a hint of resignation. "I'm a Naval Aviator. I'm not here much. And when I get deployed, it's less for me to worry about," he explained, his words revealing a pragmatic acceptance of his lifestyle, dictated by the demands of his profession.

Just then, a knock sounded at the door. He gave you a quick kiss on the lips before he turned to answer it, moving with a sense of purpose towards the door to see who was on the other side.

He opened the door, revealing a tall African American gentleman on the other side. "It's about time you came back," the man greeted, his voice carrying a warm, familiar tone. They exchanged a brief, hearty "man" hug, a gesture that spoke volumes of their close relationship. After the greeting, the man's gaze shifted towards you, his eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and friendliness.

The man approached you with his hand extended, a friendly smile on his face. "So, you're the famous Doctor Seresin that I knew nothing about. I'm your husband's best friend, Javy 'Coyote' Machado. You can just call me Coyote." His introduction was warm and inviting, clearly indicating the close bond he shared with your husband.

You took Coyote's hand, his grip firm and reassuring, the kind that spoke volumes of his character without the need for many words. "If it makes you feel any better, Jake has never mentioned you either," you said, returning his smile with one of your own, your curiosity about the man before you piqued by the familiarity in his demeanor.

Coyote's laughter was hearty and genuine, the sound filling the space between you with an ease that spoke of his good nature. "Well, I suppose that makes us even then," he said, his smile broadening. "Jake's always been more of the strong, silent type, but don't let that fool you. There's a lot more to him beneath the surface, as I'm sure you're well aware."

His observation struck a chord with you, acknowledging the depth you had come to know and love in Jake. "Absolutely. Every day with him brings something new," you agreed, your thoughts momentarily drifting to the complex layers of your husband's character.

Coyote nodded, his expression turning thoughtful, as if reminiscing about past experiences shared with Jake. "He's one of the best men I've had the honor to serve with, and trust me, I don't say that lightly. Jake's saved my hide more times than I care to admit, and I'd do the same for him in a heartbeat."

The sincerity in Coyote's voice added weight to his words, offering you a glimpse into the unbreakable bond formed in the crucible of their shared service. It was a world apart from your own experiences, yet in that moment, you felt a profound connection to it through Jake and now, Coyote.

"Sounds like you two have been through a lot together," you commented, appreciating the depth of their friendship even more.

Coyote looked at his watch and then at Jake. "We've got to get going."

Jake nodded in agreement with Coyote's reminder of their schedule. He then made his way to the coffee table, where a notebook lay open. After jotting down a note, he carefully tore out the page and handed it to you. "If you need anything or get bored, just go here," he said, ensuring you had a point of reference or a suggestion for how to spend your day while he was away.

"The Hard Deck?" you questioned, looking at the note with curiosity.

"Yes, the owner's name is Penny Benjamin. I texted her and let her know you were here. She's my Captain's girlfriend," Jake explained, providing you with a bit of context and ensuring you'd have a friendly contact in the area. It seemed like a thoughtful gesture, connecting you with someone who could offer both company and assistance during your stay.

With a casual shrug, you accepted the plan. Jake then leaned in for a kiss, a tender moment shared between the two of you. "I love you, and I'll let you know what's going on," he assured you, his words wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

"Love you too," you responded, the affection in your voice clear and unwavering. Watching Jake and Coyote leave, you turned your attention back to the piece of paper he'd given you. After a brief moment of contemplation, you placed it on the small table, a symbol of potential adventures or solace for the day ahead. With a deep breath, you then headed to the bathroom to prepare for whatever the day might bring.

You managed to arrange for a rental car to be delivered to Jake's apartment. Once it was there, you took it to do some grocery shopping, ensuring his apartment had food during your stay. After stocking up, you glanced at your watch and noticed it was only noon. With a sigh, you slumped onto his couch, feeling a bit lost in a city unfamiliar to you, wondering what to do with your time while Jake was busy at work.

You turned your gaze to the piece of paper resting on the small table behind you. Recalling the name written on it, you swiftly entered it into your phone, eager to find out what it was and where it could be found.

After reading the details, you pressed the directions button and discovered it was just a ten-minute drive away—and even better, it was located on the beach. Shrugging to yourself with a "why not?" attitude, you picked up the rental car keys and made your way out the door.

You pushed open the door to the Hard Deck and cautiously stepped inside. Behind the bar, an older man looked up.

"We're actually closed right now," he informed you kindly, his voice carrying a hint of an Irish accent. "We don't open until three."

"I understand, I'm sorry for the intrusion. My husband mentioned that if I ever needed anything, I should come here," you replied.

He looked at you with piercing blue eyes. "You must be Jake's wife."

With a slight nod, you tucked your hands into the back pockets of your shorts. "Yes, I am."

"Alright then, I'll fetch Penny for you. She's currently in the cooler taking stock of our inventory." With that, he turned and made his way toward a set of double doors.

Left by yourself, you wandered closer to the bar, taking the opportunity to admire the establishment's decor. Near the bar, a piano was positioned, its presence suggesting nights filled with music. Not too far from it, a jukebox stood, ready to fill the room with selected tunes. Hanging above the bar, model planes dangled, adding a unique touch of character to the ambiance.

The sound of the double doors opening caught your attention, and a slender brunette emerged, clad in an olive green button-up shirt and black jeans.

"Hi there! You must be Y/N?" she inquired with a welcoming tone.

"I am," you confirmed.

Pausing, she scrutinized you for a moment. "Well, I guess it all makes sense now," she remarked.

Puzzled, you inquired, "What does?"

"Why Hangman never seemed attracted to any other woman."

A smile crossed your face.

"Have a seat, please," she motioned towards a barstool. "My name's Penny," she introduced herself, extending her hand across the bar.

You took the offered hand, noting the warmth and firmness of Penny's grip—a welcoming gesture that made you feel instantly at ease. "Nice to meet you, Penny."

"Finding out Hangman was married really took me by surprise. He was always so reserved about his personal life."

"That seems to be the consensus."

"You're a doctor, aren't you?"

"Yes, I'm a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine. I specialize as a veterinarian for large animals."

"That's really impressive! How did you decide to pursue that field?"

You shrugged. "I've always been drawn to larger animals. Don't get me wrong, I am still trained for dogs and cats."

Penny glanced in your direction. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Just water for me, thanks."

Acknowledging your request, Penny reached behind the bar, selected a glass, then filled it with ice and water before setting it down in front of you, ensuring a coaster was beneath it.

"If you don't mind sharing, how did you come across Hangman?"

You took a sip of your water. "We actually met in a bar while I was attending a class in Austin, Texas. He had just completed his time at the Naval Academy and was back home for a few weeks. We connected instantly and ended up getting married after just a week and a half."

"I'd say I never saw Hangman as a quick decision maker, but that would be incorrect. He saved my boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend is the plane he saved. He told me about that."

"So, why didn't he tell us about you?"

You met her gaze and inhaled deeply. "Not long after we married, I discovered I was pregnant. But three months in, a horse kicked me in the stomach, and I miscarried. He urged me to give up my veterinary practice, leading to a major argument between us. We drifted apart after that, each of us burying ourselves in our work. Just last week, he suddenly decided he wanted to return to Wisconsin. I'm not sure what prompted the change."

Penny expressed her condolences with a sorrowful tone. "I'm sorry to hear about your loss."

"Thank you. It's something we've been working through together over the past week."

"The idea of divorce or separation never crossed your mind?"

"I can't say the thought of divorce never entered my mind, but whenever it did, I would glance at our wedding photo and remember the joyful moments. I had seen Jake at his happiest, yet I had never witnessed him in pain. I suppose the loss of our baby was that moment of pain for him. I couldn't blame him for feeling that way. I was dealing with it too."

Penny nodded, showing a sign of understanding. "He's quite fortunate, indeed. And here I was, thinking he was untamable by anyone."

You couldn't help but chuckle at Penny's comment, recognizing the mix of admiration and jest in her voice. "Well, I guess we all meet our match at some point, right?" you said, taking another sip of your water, the crispness of the drink a perfect match for the warmth of the conversation.

Penny laughed in agreement, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "That's very true. It's always the ones you least expect that end up surprising you the most," she added, her gaze briefly drifting as if reflecting on personal experiences.

The conversation flowed easily from there, with Penny sharing tidbits about the local area and you offering snippets of your own life and career. Despite the differences in your backgrounds, you found common ground in shared values and the occasional challenges of dealing with strong personalities, whether in a professional setting or personal relationships.

Penny glanced at her watch. "Wow, time really does fly when you're enjoying yourself. I need to go pick up my daughter from school. Feel free to stay as long as you like. Jake gave me your number, so I'll text you mine just in case you decide to head out." She swiftly pulled out her phone and sent a text, with your phone chiming shortly after. "If you need anything at all, just let me know."

You checked your phone, saving her contact details. "Thanks, Penny."

"I'll see you later," she said, rushing out the door.

After Penny left, your phone rang. You glanced at the caller ID and saw it was Jake. "Hey," you answered, a hint of surprise in your voice.

"Hey, darlin'. Where are you?" Jake's voice came through, sounding eager.

"I'm perched on a stool at The Hard Deck," you informed him, the background noise of the bar faintly audible.

"Great. I'll be there in a few minutes, so stay put," he replied, a tone of anticipation in his voice.

"I might head down to the beach," you mentioned, gazing out towards the sea visible from your vantage point.

"Alright. I'll find you there in a few," he assured.

The line went dead as you processed the swift exchange, pondering the imminent reunion.

Tags: @buckysteveloki-me @bellyliveslife @tgmreader @callsign-barbell @86laura11 @dizzybee03 @kmc1989 @guacam011y @nerdgirljen @hookslove1592 @dempy @djs8891

[journey-to-the-attic]

Okay yes third kitchen rant from the hater of the floating microwave

I just looked at it again and it is so plain

Like stainless steel counters, fine, they’re messy and want something that’s easy to clean and can take a lot of abuse in-between being a sanitary surface.

But they paired it with just cream walls. No. That is not a good contrast. Yes some people will do white against steel but cream has undertones that don’t work as well. They can afford a darker wood or paint. Heck, look at all the empty space on the wall—-they can afford a backsplash. I’m biased towards tile as a blacksplash — keeps with the easy to clean theme if they’re going with a subway or herringbone style rather than a decorative glass — but they could also do things like hang pans or spices or a towel rack. Basil plant. Anything. Make your kitchen inviting.

And by golly do something about that microwave

it's all just so ugly..... i feel like cooking in here daily would actively depress me. it's like those celeb house tours where everything is just so white and polished and soulless...

i mean the hol kitchen is weird if you look into the details but goddamn she had a beautiful AESTHETIC. the serenity manor kitchen is giving us absolutely nothing

it's night and day. you vs the guy she tells you not to worry about. never mind the ~20 copper frying pans of varying size in the back there. or the big fucking cauldron they cook with, apparently

[use-your-delusion]

𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐂𝐫𝐲 | 𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡

𝐒𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.2K

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You don't cry, you never cry. You've always been the rock for the people around you, and now one night on your cold kitchen floor it's all coming crashing down around you. You thought you could have your breakdown in peace, but as he walks through the front door you realize you've never felt more relieved and embarrassed at the same time before.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Angsty! Mentions of reader being hit by boyfriends in the past, mentions of blood.

•·················•·················•

The smallest slivers of moonlight shone in through the cracks of your kitchen blinds, bathing the tiled floor.

The tiles were cool against your bare skin, hot and sweaty from your crying. You weren't sure how long you'd been sitting there, back pressed against the fridge and your head tilted back at an impossible angle, whilst you bit your lip and choked in your sobs.

Your shoulders were shaking and heaving as your hands tightened around your shoulders, hugging yourself in a desperate attempt to send the hot, heavy tears away. You tore your eyes away from the white blanket of the ceiling and read time on the digital clock in your hallway.

The blinking red numbers stared back you, reading 2:34 AM.

That meant you'd been here at least an hour. You remembered stumbling in through your door at 1 o'clock this morning, still giggling from your night out. You'd stubbed your toe, and very dramatically hopped around your cramped hallway, sending things flying.

A vase had been knocked to the ground and shattered into fragments of which you'd somehow managed to cut your foot on, and as you'd been trying to find some paper towel in the kitchen to clean it up, your wave of emotion had hit you and you'd sunk to your floor, unable to stop the tears by the time you realized they'd arrived.

You weren't quite sure why you were crying. Maybe it was because at 24 years old, all you had to show for yourself was this shitty shoe box apartment and your termination letter sitting right in the middle of your coffee table.

You hadn't cried when you were fired last week, if anything you were relieved that you were no longer being groped by strange men in one of the dodgiest clubs in LA. You weren't exactly completely unemployed either, you'd been casually making some money the past couple of weeks dancing in the early hours of the morning for unmarried men who still lived in their mothers basements.

You were still being groped by strange men as a stripper, but it certainly paid far better to compensate for it than serving drinks ever did.

That couldn't be the only reason you were crying though. You were stronger than this, and you hadn't cried in years. Surely this wasn't what it took to send you over the edge?

Hopelessly, you reached out to a piece of paper towel, not caring it was the one you had cleaned your foot with in your drunken state, and blew your nose on a white patch of it.

Your shoulders had stopped shaking and your sniffles had quietened down now, letting you think more clearly without being clouded by emotion.

Your watery eyes drifted to your kitchen counter where a photo of a man sat, a little girl balanced on his knee with a huge smile on his face. Maybe that's why you were crying.

What would your father think to see his baby girl like this? He had told you before he passed that he'd be proud of you no matter where you ended up, but how could he be proud of this? A mess of a young woman, barely able to afford her crappy apartment by stripping? Girls your age were married, and yet all you had were past boyfriends who'd all thought it ok to lay their hands on you?

That's something no father could be proud of.

Your head met your knees as a loud wail left your mouth, taking you by surprise. It felt like an iron fist had taken your heart in both hands and crushed what was left of it, as your father's death hit you harder than it ever had since you'd moved to the city.

You felt the loneliness when you'd moved here, with no friends or family around in a new city, and now, even though you had friends who felt just like family, you'd never felt lonelier than you did in this moment.

Your door swung open, taking you by surprise as you lifted your head from your knees, peaking at the intruder.

It was a tall man with a familiar mop of hair, drunkenly stumbling through your hallway, taking note to hope over the smashed glass on the floor.

"Y/n!"

You heard his voice call out, you could hear the grin on his face as well as he walked through your living room and stuck his head in the bathroom and your bedroom trying to locate you.

You wanted to call out, tell him you were in the kitchen and you needed help, because by god you needed help, but something held you back. Embarrassment perhaps? Some fear to be vulnerable in front of your friends? Maybe it was your selfish need for them to see you as perfect and stronger than you really were?

You didn't quite know, but you still bit your tongue and listened as Slash made his way through the apartment, still calling out your name with growing concern in his voice.

"You can come out now!" He called with a small child-like giggle. His concern dropped as he must've decided you were playing some game. His footsteps grew closer and closer as they rounded your kitchen counter and he saw you, curled up in the corner against your fridge.

"There you are!" He proudly grinned, not noticing the blood that was smeared on your kitchen tiles, the tear tracks stained onto your puffy face, or the way your body instinctively tried to curl further away from him into your corner. "I was-"

He cut himself off, the smile dropping from his face as he seemed to notice something was wrong. It was dark in your kitchen, but it didn't take a genius to work out you weren't ok. Even Slash could do it in the dark.

"Hey..." His voice trailed off as he moved forward to crouch beside you, and you let out a shuddering breath, keeping your eyes from meeting his. Instead you focused on those blaring numbers on the digital clock.

2:39 AM

"What's the matter." He was drunk, but his voice sobered up and softened as he laid a gentle hand to rest on your shoulder. Your body begrudgingly leaned into it. The human contact was grounding, pulling you out of the mess you were climbing through inside your mind. "Have you been crying?"

You sniffled and looked up at him, his big brown eyes holding a sincerity you'd never seen before. "No." You retorted sarcastically, but your choked up voice gave it away.

"Your makeup says otherwise." He pointed out, twisting his body to sit beside you. One of his arms came around your shoulder and pulled you close to him, enveloped into the side of his body. You wanted to pull away, be left to your mess by yourself, but the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beside you was too soothing. You gave in to it, resting your head against his shoulder.

His curls tickled your face, and clung to it from the sweat and tears that had gathered, but it didn't bother you. It was a welcome sensation.

"You're bleeding." He remarked after a few moments of silence, and you nodded against his body.

"I'm sorry." You whispered into the darkness. Your hands were gripping at your shoulders like a lifeline.

"Don't be." He shook his head. "You have to clean it, not me."

"I wasn't talking about the floor, asshole." A tiny chuckle escaped you. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

Now that your sadness had passed, you felt more mortified than anything by his presence. You and Slash weren't friends, per se. More like an occasional fuck-buddy when you had both drank too much. You couldn't remember the name of the girl who you had met him through, but you worked with her and she skipped town a few months ago. She'd started seeing Duff, dragging you and your other colleagues along with her to his shows and parties with them, and that's where you'd met Slash.

You didn't want a relationship, and neither did he, so your arrangement worked out well for the both of you - until now.

Having a close friend see you like this was bad enough, let alone him.

"Why would you be sorry, baby?"

His soft voice brought more tears to your eyes and you shook your head.

"Don't call me that." You pulled away from him, keeping your eyes away from his so you wouldn't have to see his confusion or hurt, if there was any there. You knew what your relationship with him was, and you knew who he was. You weren't a person, you were a pussy. "Look, Slash, we both know you came here to fuck me tonight but clearly that isn't going to be happening, so you don't have to stick around."

"Y/N." He spoke your name softly, sounding more hurt than you'd imagine him to be by your words. His hand tightened it's grip on your shoulders, preventing you from getting up and walking away like you oh so wanted to do. "I like having you around."

His words stopped you from trying to pull away from his grip.

"Not just because of what you can do for me and give to me, but because I like you. As a person, not just someone I can fuck."

His words took you by surprise. Naturally, in the time you'd been together you'd developed some sort of friendship, but in your mind you had always thought it would be sexual for him.

"So I'm going to sit with you on your floor, clean your foot, and your gonna tell me what's running through your head, ok?" He asked, once again pulling you out of your mind.

You nodded before your dry mouth found the words. "O-Ok."

He moved from his position beside you, leaving you aware of the lack of warmth he had been giving you. He discarded your dirty pieces of paper towel and reached for a washcloth, standing up to wet it before he crouched back down in front of you and gently grabbed hold of your bleeding foot, placing it in his lap.

He almost cradled it more lovingly than his guitar, as he ran the cloth over both the dried blood and the somewhat deep cut the glass had left in your foot. It only took a few moments for him to completely clean it up, far better than you'd managed.

Somehow, the drunk man running a wet rag over your bloody foot was the most intimate you'd ever felt with him in all your time together. A small fact that scared the shit out of you.

Of course you'd thought about a relationship with Slash, but it would never work out. He was Slash, and as his band gained more popularity, more and more women through themselves at them. He already had his pick of the litter, and to be completely honest you wondered what he was still doing coming to your door at ungodly hours of the morning. You also couldn't be the only woman he was sleeping with, not by a long shot. You were just one of the many.

And that was just him - you had your own baggage and list of reasons why a relationship would never work. Every man in your past had raised a hand against you, leaving you with a bad taste in your mouth. Not to mention that you were technically unemployed, only being paid cash under the table for your dancing, and living in a home fit for a mouse. You'd been thinking of giving up and moving back home.

"You got any band aids?" Slash asked, his brown eyes peering at you from beneath his mop of curls.

You nodded, mouth dry. "Medicine cabinet."

He squeezed your ankle before standing up, a silent promise that he'd be back soon. It only left your mind reeling more.

You had to end whatever it was that you had going on with him if you didn't want to end up hurt, but the way he came back and tenderly placed a band aid on your foot, eyebrows furrowed like he was performing brain surgery pulled on your heartstrings in a way that you just despised.

"Your not bleeding anywhere else?" He asked gently and you shook your head. The only other physical pain you were in was your massive headache. Your brain was throbbing against your skull from all the crying and it had left you exhausted.

"Just take me to bed please." Your little whisper may as well have broken his heart as he leaned forward to help pull your wobbly frame up.

He couldn't carry you - he was too intoxicated for that, but he could let you lean against his body for support as the two of you made your way into your bedroom, a route he was far too familiar with.

You made a beeline for your bed, not caring you were still in your jeans and tight tank top, you just kicked off your heels and let your body hit the mattress.

Your head found it's way too your pillow, and through your already half closed eyes you watched Slash, the notorious guitar player who went through women like underwear, kick off his boots and climb into the bed beside you, prompting you to roll over. It surprised you - you definitely thought he'd left by now, by you didn't fight it when he lazily wrapped his arms around you.

It was a summer night, so the heat between the two of you was uncomfortable, but his presence was helping you more than you'd like to admit, so you brought your forehead towards his chest, letting it rest against him, moving in sync with his deep breaths.

"You never told me what was wrong." He whispered softly, a hand coming up behind your head to smooth down your messy hair. His chest vibrated as he spoke, comforting you. He was there.

"Everything." You answered him truthfully. He squeezed you a little tighter in response. "I got fired last week. I never told you."

You could feel him still.

"Why wouldn't you tell me?"

"Why would I?" You asked him, honestly. "You aren't my boyfriend. I never thought you'd care this much."

"I care more than you think." He almost sounded hurt by your words.

"I know that now." You leaned into him a little more, if it was even possible. You felt him throw a leg over your own. Normally him doing that would send nervous butterflies through your stomach, but not this time. This time it reassured you and comforted you. There was no reason for you to be nervous with him anymore.

"So what're you gonna do?" He asked quietly, into the darkness of your room and you sighed.

"I've been stripping for some cash under the table. It's enough to get me by until I find something better."

You felt his hands tighten even more around you. Not in the kind, gentle caring way like earlier though - no, this was possessive. It was jealous and almost angry. Not toward you, of course, but toward the fact that you had to entertain men, men who weren't him, to afford to live now.

"I don't mind it, really. The girls are all really sweet there, I was just thinking about how disappointed my dad would be in me."

There it was. Slash knew about your father, a story you hated telling. You hated giving people the sob-story, you always felt like it was a cry for attention, like no one really cared and you were speaking to deaf ears, but tonight it didn't feel that way.

"I doubt he would be. You're surviving. It's more than some people can say. And speaking for myself, I'm so, so proud of you."

You almost snorted. "What for?"

"For moving halfway across the country to a city where you knew nobody. That takes guts." He started, and you could tell he wasn't finished. "You've worked your ass off to make your ends meet, and even though your apartment isn't much, it's more than what most people here can show off."

"Thank you." You said sincerely, your hand snaking around his torso and resting on the small of his back. You traced small circles with your fingertips, and felt goosebumps erupt across his back. Strangely, this was the most intimate thing you'd ever done with him.

"That's not all."

"Mmm." You hummed. "What else?"

"I'm proud of you for letting me be here tonight."

His words held more vulnerability in them than you'd ever heard from him, and it made you open your eyes and peer up at him, to find him already looking down at you.

"You're strong and independent, and you don't want a relationship from what you've been through, and I respect that but fuck I- I just want you to know that I wish we could do this more. I want to come into your bed and hold you and talk to you instead of having a quick fuck and leaving. So I'm proud of you for letting me do this."

"I wish we could do this more too." You whispered silently after a moment, tearing your gaze from his, unable to handle the way he looked at you. "But you're gonna hurt me one day if we do. You won't want to, but you will."

He shook his head no. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Swear on my damn guitar."

You chuckled, unsure of what to say.

"I'm not asking you to date me Y/N." He said gently, this time taking your chin in his hand and raising it so you could look him in the eye. "I'm just asking you to be more than a quick fuck. I don't wanna fuck around with other women, and I don't wanna be out of your door before 5 in the morning. I want people to see you and know who you are to me."

Your heart squeezed in your chest at his words. Not the suffocating squeeze you got when you thought of your father, but the kind of squeeze you got from someone new making their way into your heart, setting up a little space for themselves that you wouldn't be able to get rid of no matter how hard you tried.

"I can do that for you." You nodded, swallowing softly.

He seemed almost surprised by your words at first, before leaning down and taking your lips in a soft kiss, softer than he would normally kiss you. You could tell he wanted to deepen it, to climb on top of you and make love rather than fuck you, but you were tired. You were so, so tired, so you pulled away, giving him the hint.

He allowed you to rest your head against his chest again, one arm wrapped tightly around you to keep you close in the night.

It was a strange feeling knowing that he'd still be here beside you when you woke up, but it was a welcome feeling that left you warm inside and safe as you felt yourself fall asleep.

•·················•·················•

𝐀/𝐍: Welp I really hope you liked it. It got longer than I thought it would be, and I don't love how I ended it but I do really like this! More fics will be coming soon, next up for Duff, and my requests are 100% open for you!

Currently I've been using prompts to help me write these, but if there's anything in particular you wanna see let me know <3

[fleet-off]

Surprise, sneak peek Stable Delusion chapter drop! A big thank you to @imminentinertia and @vegaseatsass for their comments, guidance, and corrections. Prologue here. Mild sexy scene under the cut.

The cloudy sky hovered like an incomplete task over Pete’s free-floating body. Wavelets rippled over him, comfortably cool where he was submerged, goosebump-raising where parts of him poked above the water. A certain stale weight in the air promised storms ahead.

Pete closed his eyes against the eye-straining white clouds and let soft red light filter through his eyelids. The lake rocked him, buoyed into soothing insignificance.

Pete was on the verge of dozing off when a half-blurred voice interrupted, calling his name as if from a long way off. Other, less distinguishable words followed.

The thought of rising made Pete’s mind feel sodden, heavy. He twitched, flicking the sound away. Surely it could wait.

The voice came again, insistent. Pete sighed and lifted his head. “What was that?”

Lake water drained from his ears. Spots crowded his vision as he readjusted to the light--he blinked hard, but a few insistent floaters refused to dissipate.

“Took you long enough. Thought the lake water might have finally soaked through to your brain.”

At the end of the dock stood a familiar shape with features too dim to make out and a hand resting on his hip. Pete smiled at him. “I’m listening now. What is it?”

“I’m heading in to heat up dinner. It’s getting late.”

Dinner already? Pete squinted at the sky. The cloud-cloaked sun offered no hint at the passage of time. Out of stasis, however, he could feel the hollow weight of his stomach. It must be approaching late afternoon.

“Hold up, I’m coming,” he said. He treaded water, gliding towards the outline of Vegas’s figure.

Vegas shifted on his feet. “It’s not dark yet. You can stay out a little longer, if you really want.”

The lake was too quiet without Vegas’s presence, however little they talked while Pete was swimming. In isolation, Pete’s mind was amplified and muffled all at once, thoughts too muddied to hear but too loud to ignore. Sometimes he could feel his own heartbeat, blood sweeping through his veins like an invasion.

Pete shook his head. “I’ve been drifting long enough.”

He covered the remaining distance in a few strokes and braced his palms against the rough-hewn wood of the dock to heave himself up. From the corner of his eye, he could see Vegas watching him. He played along, flexing his arms so the veins in his hands stood out. Cool water sluiced down his back as he drew his knees up and broke away from the water.

The ripples of his passage faded almost at once, leaving only the lake’s placid empty-mirror surface. Pete kept his eyes on Vegas, who was following the path of water down his chest with focus rapidly warming into intent. He licked his lips. Pete shivered and strained for his towel. “Not until I’ve rinsed off,” he said. “Lake water’s dirty, you’ll get typhoid or something.”

Vegas scooped up the towel and bent to settle it around Pete’s shoulders himself. His hand lingered after Pete took hold of the corners, strolling down to his collarbone. He pressed at its peak. Sensitivity made Pete sway--there must be a bruise there. “Shame. After dinner and a shower, hm? Hose yourself down and come keep me company in the kitchen.”

Pete patted his hand in thanks and stood. He trailed after Vegas back towards the house.

***

The shower water beat hot against Pete’s skin that evening after dinner, rapidly steaming up a bathroom not ventilated for the warm showers the tankless water heater afforded them. The unit gleamed beside the water-stained showerhead--Pete assumed Vegas was responsible for its installation. His mind played out an increasingly familiar game: had it happened before they moved in, or should Pete remember the plumber’s visit?

Better the latter--he would have liked to tease Vegas for it. He’d have earned his lecture on accepting nice things, met Vegas’s thin-skinned glare with a smile, and only then let himself be coaxed into the tub to be shown what an excellent idea the hot water was.

It would have made a nice memory.

“Spoiled rich boy, too good for the cold showers the rest of us grew up with,” he mumbled to himself. The shower steam sat heavy in his lungs, sluggish with the appeal of inertia. He scrubbed absently at his chest, skin purpled by stains no water could wash away.

There had been a quieter edge to Vegas, of late--a softening in his volatility, an underlying sadness. Pete didn’t know whether to attribute it to the atmosphere around the lakehouse or a deeper, more secretive grief. It left him uneasy, and the unease fed from his full stomach to that crossed wire in his head that sometimes contorted discomfort into vague, aimless arousal. Messy, that. Pete’s hand dipped into the wiry hair above his groin and gave it a tug; with his other hand, he prodded his neck to find the unseen marks there.

Vegas took such pleasure in leaving the signs of his touch. Bites and fingerprints across Pete’s throat and hips and the insides of his wrists; welts down the backs of his legs, sometimes, clean pink lines he could only catch glimpses of if he craned his neck. Wax burns along the arc of his spine. Traces Pete could follow with his own hands later, just for an echo of the original ache and Vegas’s amused delight.

When the marks were refreshed so regularly, the old ones’ refusal to heal was easier to overlook. Pete could pretend it was natural, that he underwent Vegas’s heavy touch too regularly for his bruises to fade green or yellow.

Pete was good at ignoring what he did not wish to perceive, but surely Vegas in his obsessive attentions had noticed. The fact that he hadn’t brought it up yet meant he didn’t want to.

…Which meant Pete probably should.

Vegas would be in bed waiting for him. Vegas would have his answers. He’d know where to direct the apprehension tugging like desire in Pete’s gut--could spin desire into need, need into pleasure, pleasure into satisfaction. And satisfaction would in turn provide passing refuge from whatever heaviness hounded Vegas. Pete heaved a steam-dense breath and shut off the shower faucet. They’d figure it out. He scrubbed the towel through his hair and secured it around his waist.

Vegas startled when Pete emerged from the bathroom, book jostling in his lap. He flipped reflexively to the next page--narrowed his eyes like his own hands had offended him and returned to the previous.

Pete found boxers and one of Vegas’s silky night shirts in the dresser. He left the shirt unbuttoned; Vegas would strip it off for him soon enough anyway. He skimmed a hand down his chest and glanced over his shoulder.

Vegas’s unblinking gaze had settled back on his book; Pete frowned. “You know,” he said, idling towards the bed, “I’m going to run out of unmarked skin at this rate.” He traced the lurid bruises that streaked his thighs. “I look like I’ve been attacked by a wild dog.”

Vegas’s hand stilled at the corner of his page. The lamplight shadowed his face, rendering his expression briefly unreadable.

Then he snapped his book shut and set it on the nightstand, reaching for Pete with a hum. “Really? C’mere, let me have a look.”

Pete let Vegas tug him onto the bed. His shower-warmed thigh muscles settled into an easy stretch over Vegas’s lap. The momentary impenetrability left no trace on Vegas’s features; his eyes flashed with dark amusement, and a familiar crooked smirk twisted his lips.

Pete swayed towards that smirk, all his strings cut loose. His hands landed on Vegas’s shoulders. Vegas squeezed his hips as if to stabilize him, but his thumbs revealed his true intent--they found his sore spots through his boxers and dug in hard. Pete sighed into the redoubled ache.

Vegas pushed Pete’s shirt over his shoulders and sat back to examine him with the self-assurance and tender calculation of a butcher preparing his knife for the first cut. His eyes and hands traced Pete’s sides and chest--then slowed, lingering over each mark in his flesh. Pete tried to maintain focus in the flood of heat under his skin.

“You’re right,” Vegas said at last, fingering the mass of livid mouth-shaped bruises at the base of Pete’s ribcage. It resembled a mauling, like Vegas had tried to tear open his skin to devour what lay beneath.

This was not so far from the truth.

Vegas tutted. “Look at how messy you are, Pete.”

“Like it’s not your fault,” Pete muttered. Vegas blew warm, damp air against his bruises. Shuddery sensation made Pete squirm, and Vegas’s snicker was a vibration in the hollow under his ribs. Pete arched closer as Vegas’s tongue joined his hands.

“It’s been a while since you gave me those,” Pete said, meaning they probably shouldn’t still be that shade of purple.

Vegas grinned up, sharklike and so lovely that it very nearly hurt. “You hold onto my marks so nicely,” he crooned, and then his thumb pressed in hard and it did hurt. Pete whined. “Oh, you like that?”

Evidence of how much he liked it twitched in his boxers. Pete ground down and received an admonishing rap on the hip.

“Already? I’ve barely started.”

Pete swallowed hard. He should ask about the bruises, before Vegas stole his ability to put words into sentences. He should ask, so that Vegas could choose to respond or not--and that would be that. Out of Pete’s hands.

“Vegas,” he said--tried to say, but Vegas already had his hands and was crossing them behind his back. The name stuck in his throat and died on his lips. Vegas didn’t seem to hear; hungry teeth raked Pete’s freshly exposed chest on a path that ended with the dark bruise just under his nipple and a bite that yanked the air from his lungs in a glorious rush. Pete sank into the arousal pooling in his groin.

The world outside Vegas’s touch lay across muddy, clouded waters. Perhaps it had always been so, and Pete had simply never known any different. But within the vague blur of associations and worries, the truths Pete was meant to care about--in that dim, he could see Vegas with razor clarity.

Maybe Vegas’s hands were, as he sometimes claimed, designed only to deal hurt.

Still, they hurt him so wonderfully well.

The sudden absence of touch arrived as a sluggish afterthought. Pete blinked hard--Vegas sat back on his hands, mouth a smug twist. “Yes?”

Pete flushed. “Asshole.”

“And here I thought you had something to say to me.” Vegas fisted a hand in his hair. Pete resisted just enough to feel the tug on his scalp as Vegas guided his head back and to the side. He fought to keep his eyes on Vegas’s face--surrendered at once when Vegas leaned close, grazing the side of his neck. “Do you, Pete?”

Pete tensed in anticipation of a bite. He choked on air when Vegas instead licked a broad stripe from his collarbone up behind the corner of his jaw. Vegas’s mouth brushed the shell of his ear. “Just gagging for it, aren’t you,” he whispered. Then his lips seized Pete’s, and Pete was lost.

Time failed him. He was the sharp of Vegas’s weight, pressing him into the bed--the hunger of Vegas’s mouth, kissing the air from his lungs--the raw friction of Vegas’s flannels against his cock as he was bared, skin bitten and touched in all the tender places Vegas had marked a hundred times before. Vegas fed him on muscle-deep pressure and too-much-not-enough pain, left him shaking and incoherent.

At some point, he was bound spread-eagle across the bed while Vegas pressed methodically at every bruise he could find. At some point, Vegas mouthed at the darkest mark on Pete’s thigh and whispered, “Fuck, you’re so pretty. These are so pretty,” and Pete’s eyes went damp with a coarse-edged fragility he didn’t know how to release until Vegas kissed him again.

The sex was slow, sweet as drowning, and mingled with some far-off lowing noise--eerily sob-like, yet muffled as if by water. Maybe it was Pete himself, broken by pleasure--maybe Vegas, whose face was buried in Pete’s neck where it could not be read. Perhaps it was simply the wind outside the window. It had begun to rain.

Pete was a receptacle, made of and for need; Vegas spilled into him just so. A few strokes had Pete coming into Vegas’s hand and the soft fabric of his shirt.

Then it was Vegas bent over him, breathing hard through his nose--Vegas finding his mouth to kiss him into spinning beams of light--Vegas smiling at him, the only steady in endless deeps. “So sweet for me,” he murmured, stroking Pete’s face. Pete grinned dazedly up at him.

He watched Vegas unhitch the ropes from the headboard and used the new slack to cradle his arms to his chest. He was semi-liquid, now. The knots biting into his wrists kept him from melting away.

Sex with Vegas was a delirious thing. It drove Pete from his body. It made him real.

“Be right back,” Vegas whispered, slipping from the bed and into the unshaped void beyond it. Pete made a wordless sound of protest--but he blinked and there again was Vegas, bent over him with a towel to wipe him clean.

He’d removed his come-stained shirt and pajama bottoms. Pete stared at his chest, the lonely taper of his ribs softened by relaxation and lamplight.

I’m in love with you, he thought. Rain pattered against the roof.

A hand lifted Pete’s head for a sip of water that trickled down his throat and tickled the corners of his clumsy lips. “There you go,” Vegas told him. He thumbed away the escaped water droplets and set the half-empty glass on the nightstand. “More of that after.”

Pete blinked at him. The words hovered over his head, just out of reach.

Vegas popped open a tube and tipped some kind of oil onto his hands. Its unfamiliar, vaguely medicinal scent coiled in tendrils around them. It left a gentle menthol tingle where Vegas spread it over his bruises. Pete sighed and arched closer.

“Feels good?”

“Mhm.”

Vegas’s chuckle was a wonder, the most comforting sound. Pete wanted a kiss. He pursed his lips, and Vegas obliged.

“You like being bruised up for me, don’t you? Like being claimed?”

Pete didn’t pause to think before he nodded, mostly because Vegas was smiling at him--and it was the right answer, earned him another kiss, earned him that look of contented adoration and absolute focus.

“Love you like this,” Vegas murmured. “Think you’re so sexy.”

Pete felt his brow furrow. Vegas stroked the tension away with his thumb. “Shh. You don’t have to worry about that, you just feel good. I’m going to roll you over now.”

Pete nodded and made to roll over himself. His weightless limbs pushed too hard, sent him sprawling nearly off the bed. He giggled--heard Vegas snicker as he took his hips and repositioned him.

A thumb traced the rim of his hole almost in passing, casually proprietary--then more oil drizzled across his back and down his thighs. Vegas rubbed the oil into his sorest spots first. He returned for a deeper massage after, working his hands into aching muscles. His touch pulled noises from Pete’s throat, a buzz of low-level arousal. Too far gone to get hard, Pete simply basked in the warmth.

At last Vegas nosed at the back of his shoulder, weight settling atop his back. His chest rose and fell. “Fuck,” he said unsteadily. “Fuck, I love you.”

The wobble of his voice sank into Pete’s skin like a cold current, tugging him down. He nudged back. Vegas gave him room to roll towards him.

Hands weighted by rope, Pete reached for his face. He turned it from side to side, checking his expression--but Vegas’s face revealed only warmth. “Vegas?” he asked. Vegas kissed his hand, and sparks of joy set the world spinning dizzily around them once more. Pete beamed reflexively.

“All good,” Vegas said. “You’re mine, aren’t you?”

He was. Pete nodded, concern dropping away. “Yeah.” His lips curled up. “I get to be yours.”

Vegas’s throat bobbed on a hard swallow, and his mouth returned hot and too demanding. Pete surged into it, delighted; his eagerness nearly tipped him into Vegas’s chest.

Vegas laughed and pushed him back onto the bed--joined him before he could protest, affection brimming over. A peculiar levity rose between them. The rain quickened, lashing the shuttered windows, and in their room they were brief and effervescent as foam upon a cresting wave.

At last Pete’s breath ran short from kisses. Vegas withdrew, and there in his hand was the half-finished glass of water. “A little more before we sleep.”

The water slid down easy, with Vegas’s eyes drinking him in. With Vegas’s hand petting his neck.

“That’s it,” Vegas murmured, and, “All mine.”

“Yours,” Pete repeated, floating in it. His cheeks hurt from smiling.

[deceptive-daydreams]

The Under-Ground

Chapter One - Welcome to The Under-Ground

Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Ch. 4 | Ch. 5 | Ch. 6 | Ch. 7 |

Modern!Barista!Eddie AU - In which you work at the local Hawkins coffee shop where you thought you'd be able to escape the horrors that were high school a few years after graduating. Until one of those horrors lands a job in the closing shift with you...and you have to train him.

Enemies to Lovers, Modern!Barista!Eddie AU, Eddie x Fem Reader

5K Words

Warnings - Eddie is an asshole, eventual smut, I don't think there's anything else but please let me know if I missed anything

Author's Note: I finished this sooner than I thought I would...pls let me know what you think, I am having so much fun writing this so far and I can't wait to keep going

Masterlist

Next ->

The chill Autumn air infiltrated the apartment and left you shivering, the wool blanket atop your comforter did little to aid you in getting warm.  That’s what five hundred dollars a month got you in small town Hawkins, it's what you could afford.  Old striped wallpaper that alternated a faded baby blue and pale yellow that seemed to have been glued to the wall since the 70’s barely clung to the walls, a majority of it peeling and begging to be torn off.  The stained white linoleum throughout the kitchen had seen better days and the carpet in the living room and bedroom was dingy, so dingy that no vacuum could possibly come close to cleaning it.  The lock on the door was on the verge of breaking and almost didn’t work–almost.  And of course the heater was definitely broken, the creepy landlord would take his sweet time to fix it, leaving you with a freezing apartment as the seasons changed and Hawkins welcomed the fall.  A broke college student by day and a barista by night, these are the cards you were dealt for now.  

Classes at the community college had finished for the day, rotating to the night courses.  A few papers were due next week, one for your business class on the effects of product promotion in business growth that happened to be stressing you out extra.  Your fingers tapped away at your laptop from your mattress nestled in the corner on the floor of your tiny bedroom.  4:30PM, the time in the corner of the screen read, just half an hour before your shift at The Under-Ground.  With a groan, you click save on the document and shut the laptop which was certain to be opened later tonight after your shift only to continue the torturous essay.  Begrudgingly you began your pre-work ritual of grabbing whatever snack or meal you had in the fridge, scarfing it down, and then tidying your appearance a bit while listening to your daily playlist named “Eh” on Spotify.  Today’s vibe was set by Dreams by Fleetwood Mac.  

The rusty bathroom faucet sputtered water before allowing a full stream to flow into the sink.  You splashed some water on your face to feel more alive although it may have been a mistake in hindsight since the apartment was already cold and rather than feeling refreshed, you felt like a wet dog.  Dabbing your face with a towel hanging from over the rod where the tie dye shower curtain hung as well, you collected any leftover mascara from the previous night beneath your waterline and around your eyelids.  Moving to the compact closet in the bedroom, a simple outfit of jeans and a maroon knitted sweater you’d ‘claimed’ from the lost and found at the college were chosen and paired with your only signature docs.  Lastly, your apron was tied around your waist in a neat knot.  

Grabbing your keys from the laminate countertop and shoving your laptop in your bag, you make your way through the damaged and scratched up wooden door that was the entrance to your apartment, the number seven nailed to the front of it.  “God dammit.” you jam your key in and out of the lock, twisting and repeating until it finally clicks in place.  The door leads right outside into the biting air and you scurry down the concrete stairs while avoiding touching the nasty railing, Mrs. Harrison’s chubby cat, Raphael is perched right at the bottom like he always is.  His large green irises stare up at you, giving the appearance that he was just a fluffy ball of black fur with eyes.  “Ralphy” you mumble your nickname for him affectionately as you steal a pat from his head on your way out of the apartments, a small meow chiming through the air.  

The Under-Ground wasn’t a far walk but it sure did seem that way the colder it got.  You’d been working there since the Spring and so far had no issues with weather but you knew it would bite you at some point.  The walk through downtown Hawkins is crisp and cloudy, leaves blowing delicately from the trees and laying perfectly in the street, colors varying from red, orange, and brown.  It was mid September.  Patrons wander about the streets attending to their daily errands.  Teenagers mess around at the entrance of The Hideout, no doubt attempting to use their fake IDs only to be turned away by the bouncer, Stan.  

Joyce Byers cleans the storefront window of Melvald’s, taking care to not miss a single streak.  Her face lights up as her son, Will approaches the store.  Max Mayfield skateboards past you down the sidewalk at lightning speed, the only reason you know it's her is a flash of her flaming red hair as well as Lucas Sinclair trying to keep up with her on his own board, a nervous expression written on his features as he carefully maneuvers.  Nancy Wheeler hurriedly gets into her car, wrapping up her workday at The Hawkins Post while Jonathan Byers gives her cheek a kiss and heads over toward Will and Joyce.   

The Under-Ground comes into view as you round the corner, the brick building vacant of customers at the moment from what you can tell through the windows.  The evening rush hasn’t picked up yet, usually kicking in at around six when the college students like yourself would make themselves at home and study over lattes and espresso shots.  The bell chimes above the door as you pull it open, the smell of coffee beans and pastries flooding your nose and some upbeat jazz playing through the speakers.  Robin sits atop the counter much to the boss, Ronnie's dismay but he’s not around to scold her.  Her dirty blonde bob is freshly trimmed, bangs laying just right across her forehead while she has a lollipop sticking out her mouth and she skims through a magazine lazily.  One leg is hitched up onto the counter with her bright yellow converse on display, knee to her chest.  She’s wearing jeans with a few holes and a vintage tee.  Her bright blue eyes glance up and land on you, face lighting up as she greets you.  “Hey, Robin!” you greet back, making your way behind the counter to clock in on the computer.  

“You’re lucky, it’s been dead for hours.” she says while setting aside the magazine.  “Think it’s gonna rain too so it’ll probably stay that way.” she continues.  

“Good, I can probably catch up on some homework then.” you hum, punching in your employee number.

“Oh and some new guy is supposed to close with you tonight, I think you’re training him.” she mentions.

“So, no catching up on homework then.” you sigh.  Training someone new wasn't necessarily difficult however it was draining since you already knew how to do everything like the back of your hand.  Dumbing it all down always took a minute since you had to slow down and give them time to catch on.  

“Did Ronnie say who?” you ask, turning to face Robin.  Hawkins was small which meant that everyone knew everyone.  Which was unfortunate sometimes since that also meant everyone knew everyone's business.

Robin hops off the counter, hair bouncing as she does.  “Nope, I just know that it's some dude.” she crunches down on her lollipop and discards the stick in the garbage a few feet away.  

With a sigh, you head to the back room to put your bag in your locker only to find Steve lounging at the lunch table, his feet crossed on top of it while scrolling through his phone and two legs of the chair he occupies off the ground as he balances.  Today he sports some red corduroy pants and an ivory crewneck sweater finished off with converse, just like Robin’s, only black.  “What’s up?” he greets, not once looking up from his phone.  

“Scrolling through Tinder again, Stevie?” you mock while setting your bag in your locker for safe keeping, hooking the lock around the metal and clicking it into place.

“Actually, it’s Grindr.” he says matter of factly.  

“My bad, you find anyone cute?” you ask, peering over his shoulder, his aftershave smelling subtle and pleasant.   

He lands on a cute blonde guy with green eyes, most likely from a town over.  “Not really.” he exhales, running a hand through his voluminous hair.  

“Well what about him?  He’s pretty cute.” you encourage.  

“Dude, it says he likes to do Karaoke for fun.” he glances behind at you with a raised brow.  You shrug, unaware of why that would deter him.  

“If that's not a red flag, I don’t know what is.” he states, shutting his phone off and shoving it in his pocket while standing, making his way to the vending machine.  “What happened to me, Socks?  I used to pull 'em left and right and now no guy or girl will give me the time of day.”  Socks was your nickname given by Steve and Robin after the dreadful incident where a pipe burst from one of the sinks and you happened to be standing in front of it, the bottom half of your pants along with your socks becoming soaked.  The rest of the evening you worked your shift without shoes, only in your sopping wet socks with your jeans rolled up.  It had been an ongoing joke since, although you always reminded them how horrible it is to go around in wet shoes, the squeaky sound they would make against the floor and the squishiness of the soles.  They always disagreed, insisting that it would be worse to work in only socks and how they’d just opt to continue wearing the drenched shoes.  

“Steve, I think Grindr and Tinder and all the dating apps might be giving you unrealistic expectations.” you tell him truthfully.  

“Okay, but who the hell else am I gonna find in Hawkins?  Been there, done that, this is my only option."  He inserts a dollar into the vending machine and punches in his selection, shortly after a bag of pretzels falls.  

“Pretzels, Steve?  Really?” you taunt.  “How bland of you.” you deadpan.  He pulls open the packaging and tosses a pretzel in his mouth all while giving you his signature pout.  “Maybe that's your issue, you dumb yourself down for these people you don’t even know.” you continue.

“Wow.” he raises his arms in disbelief, a hint of humor evident.  “That…” he flings a pretzel at you, hitting your chest.  “...was mean.” he sasses.  “But probably true.” he finishes.  “Don’t you have a job or something?” his head tilts toward the door.  

“Yeah, and so do you.” you shoot back, grabbing his apron from where it hung over one of the breakroom chairs and throwing it at him.  

Exiting the room, you hear Steve chime in one more time.  “I’m off in like fifteen!”  Your shifts always overlapped with Steve and Robin’s, them usually taking the morning to afternoon shift and you taking over closing.  Ronnie would always hang out in the back office so you didn’t have to close alone but that was pretty much the extent of his labor.  The beans needed to be ground for the next day, chairs stacked on the tables, bathroom tidied, ingredients prepped, counters wiped down, etc.  And you were always the one to do it, not that you minded so much.  Ronnie never micromanaged and you had gotten good at closing so it became somewhat of a meditation time.  The town winded down and the dim lighting provided a relaxing glow, almost as if you were in a spa.  You could at least pretend anyway.

Robin was making herself a latte, carefully pouring the milk over the coffee in an attempt to make a design.  She’d been practicing for weeks with no success.  “Dammit!  Another wasted latte!” she slams the small pitcher of cream onto the counter.  

“That for me?” you question over her shoulder, spotting the blob of white draped over the coffee.  You ended up drinking them most of the time, always looking forward to your daily latte handcrafted by Robin.  

Letting a breath out, she hangs her head in defeat.  “It is now.” 

Steve saunters out from the back, stopping in his tracks right next to Robin.  “Another one?  Seriously?” he mutters before continuing to the espresso machine to make probably his fourth drink of the day.  

“When is the new guy scheduled to come in?” you ask as you pour yourself an iced coffee.  Everyone was allowed one free drink a day however it was never enforced unless the owner, Ronnie’s mom was around.  She owned The Under-Ground while her husband owned The Hideout.

“5:30, I think?” Robin answers.  The clock on the register currently reads 5:20.  Steve glances at you, trying to hide a smirk as he quickly looks in the other direction.  

“What?” you demand.  Shaking his head he continues pouring an espresso shot into paper to go cup.  A tug on his sleeve doesn’t get him to budge.  “Steve, why did you give me that look?!” you hound him.  

“Nothing!” he raises his hands in defense, a shit eating grin on his face.  

“Steve.” you narrow your eyes at him, brows knit in frustration.  

“Yeah, Steve.  What do you know that I don’t?” Robin steps towards him while crossing her arms in offense.  

“Nothing!” He lies, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Steve.” Robin glares at him.

“Y’know, this is already getting to me.” he points to his cup.  “I gotta run to the bathroom.” he rushes to the back once again, holding his stomach and pretending to grimace in pain.

“What’s up with him?” you look at Robin, the two of you left standing there without any idea.  She shrugs, handing you the botched latte she just made.  

Pushing aside your theories, you begin setting up for your shift, restocking the cups and making sure there’s enough whip cream in the canister.  The Under-Ground had a very cozy vibe, dark mahogany woods decorating the interior, little twinkly lights draped above the windows, and a snug book nook tucked away in the back corner with large shelves that took up the whole wall.  Accompanying it are a few tables and chairs, their wood matching the counter and on top of each table sits various houseplants that you’d have to remind yourself to water.  

Robin tops off the pastries as she always does at the end of her shift, adding some chocolate croissants, blueberry muffins, brownies, and a brand new lemon loaf to the case.  She finishes off by wiping off the glass with a rag and then ensures the display of gift cards and bags of coffee beans on the counter is dusted off and pristine.  

You busy yourself by restocking the to-go sandwiches in the open cooler at the front of the counter, making a note to also grab a few more parfaits from the back since those were running low as well.  A few books are scattered among one of the tables so you take it upon yourself to collect them and tuck them neatly back on the book shelf.  Other than that, nothing else is left to do and you should be ready to start training the new hire without any distractions.  You reward yourself by sipping on the latte, the bitter taste gracing your tongue and warmth coating your throat.  Robin disappears to the back briefly, coming back out with her bag while shoving her apron into it, ready to clock out the second it hits 5:30.

The roaring of an engine suddenly echoes in the streets, an obnoxious sputtering filling your ears as you glance up and out of the front window.  It comes to a screeching halt as a motorcycle pulls up into one of the parking spots horizontally rather than vertically like the rest of the vehicles.  Jackass, you think to yourself as the owner kicks the kickstand down.  He wears a standard black motorcycle helmet, a leather jacket, ripped black jeans, and some combat boots, a walking stereotype for some kind of punk ass kid.  

Jim Hopper catches him, his cop car parked a few spaces away while he does his crossword in the driver’s seat.  You can’t quite make out what's being said but as Hopper exits his car in a hurry,  you can tell they have most likely had run-ins like this before.  The jackass looks up in aggravation as he still straddles the bike, the sky reflected in the visor of his helmet.  Hopper appears to be telling him off but not giving him a ticket when he most definitely should.  Jackass reparks the bike correctly, gesturing to it as if he’d performed a magic trick, Hopper with a hand on his hip and a scowl on his face.  He points a finger at him, muttering one last thing before retreating back to his own car, eyes never leaving the guy.  

Steve emerges from the back again, carefully.  “Shit.” he mumbles.

Your gaze moves from the scene outside to behind you at Steve who is also now looking out the window.  This provokes you to look back outside.  Just as you’re about to ask, the jackass removes his helmet, revealing a head of wild brunette curls, his hand adorned in chunky rings as he grips the helmet.  Rolling your eyes, you turn your attention back to inputting some inventory in the computer.  Out of the corner of your eye you can see that he’s making his way toward the door.  “Are you kidding me?” you say under your breath.  

“Thought trendy coffee wasn’t his style.” you say to no one in particular.  Steve inhales as if waiting for some kind of impact.  

“Oh…” Robin says in some kind of realization.  

The bell above the door rings as he swings it open, striding across the shop and in front of the counter, his eyes are a dark abyss as he looks from you to Robin and then to Steve.  

“Munson.” Steve acknowledges him.

“Harrington.” he says back, a tinge of disgust rolling off his tongue.  Robin’s eyes are wide as they shift between you two.

“What do you want, Eddie?” you bite, voice full of malice as you glare up at him.

Bringing his hand to his chest, his face contorting into a mock pout, he sets the helmet on the counter.  “Ouch.  That make you feel better, sweetheart?”  Sarcasm drips from his tone.

You scoff about to tell him to leave but he just continues.  “Make you feel all big and bad?  Get it out of your system yet?” he taunts, a smirk playing on his lips.  

“Oh no.” Robin says quietly, leaning over you to clock out and then subtly making her way around the counter.  

“Why don’t you get the hell out of here and find someone else to dick around with?” you snap, grabbing his helmet and forcing it into his hands. 

A cocky look takes over his features.  “Well what if I’m a paying customer?” 

 “I have the right to refuse service so, I’m refusing.” you can feel anger coursing through your veins, blood running hot.  

“That’s unfortunate.” he frowns, moving to make his way behind the counter.  “For you.” his stare burns into you, two black holes nearly swallowing you up.  

“I don’t have time-” you begin but are cut off when he reaches over you and starts typing away at the computer, clocking in.  His cheap cologne and cigarette smoke flood your nose.

Steve looks at you apologetically as Eddie passes him on his way to the back.  A silence lingers as you process that you’ll be forced to work with the one person in this town you can’t stand.  Eddie Munson was the new hire and of course he had to be scheduled on the closing shift with you.  Life couldn’t get any worse than this, a shitty apartment, and now a shitty job that you used to love combined with mountains of homework.  Your eternal hell.  Work was supposed to be a place you could briefly escape.  Sure it was still work but you didn’t mind.

“Steve!” both you and Robin scold him at the same time.  He squeezes his eyes shut in preparation for more yelling.  

“You knew Ronnie hired him and you just didn’t tell me!” you seethe.  “You could have warned me!  I could have switched shifts or something-or, or–or tell Ronnie he’s a criminal or something!  So he wouldn’t get hired!” your eyes are bulging out of your head as you reprimand the poor guy.  

“Okay, see, the way you're reacting right now doesn’t give me any confidence that you would have reacted any differently if I told you earlier.” Steve explains while clocking out.  

“So you think springing it on her like that was any better!” Robin says loudly.  Steve contemplates for a moment.

“Look, Socks.  I’m sorry.” he apologizes sincerely.  

“Socks?” Eddie stands in the doorway that leads to the back, now free of his leather jacket and wearing a black Metallica tee.  “What kinda fucked up thing did you do for a nickname like that?” he asks, a smug grin on his face.

“Oh, kill me now.” you drag your hands down your face in agony.  Steve and Robin slowly make their way toward the front door, looking at you sympathetically.

“See you tomorrow?” Robin awkwardly points finger guns at you before they speed up and shuffle out the door.

You sigh heavily, dropping your arms limply to your sides.  Turning around, Eddie is about to speak up again but you cut him off. 

“I don’t wanna hear it.  You don’t talk unless it's about work.  I’ll train you today and then I’ll ask Ronnie to move you to mornings or something.” you tell him in one breath.  

He laughs before replying.  “You’d like that wouldn’t you?  Hate to be the bearer of bad news but you’re stuck with me, doll.” he chuckles lowly.  “I only work nights.” he says with that stupid grin.  

“Who did I piss off for this to happen?” you mumble to yourself, rubbing at your temples.  “Put this on.” you shove an apron at his chest.

He grunts at the impact.  “No.” he simply says, refusing to grab it from you.  His expression is blank.

Scoffing, you shove it against him even harder.  “This is work.  We work here.  Stop acting like a damn child.” you say sternly.  

Now taking the apron in his hand, you think he’s finally come to his senses until he bunches it up and tosses it onto one of the counters, eliciting a groan from you.  You were foolish to think he would play nice.

–

Trying to train Eddie was as useful as training a fly.  He didn’t listen and would purposely mess things up claiming he didn’t know any better and he almost charged one of your only customers that night double the actual cost.  It was like watching a toddler, you couldn’t take your eyes away from him or all hell would break loose.  The cherry on top was all the snide comments he would make which led to more bickering.  

When it came to closing time at 9:00, you were exhausted and could practically feel the eyebags hanging off your face.  There was not enough espresso in the world to keep up with Eddie’s antics.  You were counting the money from the register, making sure all was accounted for, Eddie watching as he was supposed to be learning when really he was zoned out.  

“Alright, Socks, are we done here?” he says with a bored tone.  

You glance between him and the cash, still counting under your breath while ignoring him.  Poking your arm, he tries again.  “Socks.  I got things to do.” he continues.  “Hey, I’m talking to you–”

“--Oh my god, just go.” you break, finally completing your counting and setting the money back in the drawer neatly.  

“Fuck yeah.” he whispers, rushing to the back to collect his things.  Pinching the bridge of your nose, you only hope he quits before you have to work another shift with him.  Eddie wasn’t just an asshole, he was the asshole who was partially responsible for your shitty high school experience.  You know it's dumb, there’s no reason to let something keep a hold on you for so long but it just does.  It makes you cringe, it's like the equivalent to peaking in high school but opposite, and yet you can’t seem to look past it.

Nothing but the twinkly lights and the dim overhead lights lit up the shop, a moment of peace taking over you while the town outside laid itself to rest.  Shutting off the music and untying your apron to drape it over your arm, you do one more scan to make sure everything is set for tomorrow.  Satisfied, you head to the back to retrieve your bag.  Eddie passes you, almost running you over on his way out, his stupid helmet in hand.  

“See ya tomorrow, Socks.” he salutes as he clocks out, shortly after you hear the bell chime signaling that he had left.  He was overusing that nickname but you knew it would only please him to call it out.  You had to keep your cool until he figured out he didn’t fit in here and quit.  Exhaling, you unlock your locker, grabbing your bag and tossing your apron in before exiting and heading for the door.  

The door is locked and double checked as you step out onto the sidewalk only to find that it was still raining.  Just my luck.  Eddie’s dumb motorcycle roars to life again a few feet away from you, a nuisance to the tranquil town around you.  Rolling your eyes, you begin your damp journey home.  It’s not until you’re in front of the movie theater that you hear that damn bike behind you.  You think he’s going to speed past you, maybe splash some water on you while he’s at it but the engine rumbles as if right next to you–which it was.  

“Are you lost?” you spit, continuing to walk.  

He rides beside you slowly, irritating you to your core.  “Need a ride home?” he asks, slightly muffled by his helmet.  

You huff before responding.  “No.  I don’t need anything from you.  Get the hell out of here.”  You keep your gaze straight ahead as you walk, him still following behind.

“Sweetheart–”

“--Do NOT call me that.  Ever.  Again.” you scold, taking a moment to point your finger at him, your face displaying disdain toward him.

“Look, I may be an asshole but it's raining.  I can give you a ride.” he coaxes but it doesn’t work.  You keep on, the rain drops collecting on your eyelashes.  

“Get bent, Eddie.” you say, now walking faster, hoping to evade him.

He lifts the visor on the helmet, now showing his eyes as he keeps up with you.  “Get on the damn bike.”

“Fuck you.” you snap at him.

Desperate, you start jogging across the crosswalk and that's when he gives up.  Glancing behind you, he flips the visor down and revs the bike before speeding off.  You weren’t stupid and you weren’t going to play into his little sadist games.  Life was already steamrolling you and you did not need some jackass to factor into it.  After a few minutes of walking, you finally rounded the corner and the faded powder blue apartments came into view, street lights illuminating the way.  The streets were sleek with rain and oil, giving off reflections of the traffic lights and buildings.  You were careful to scurry your way across the parking lot to avoid any of the creeps that hung around late at night.  It wasn’t exactly the best area, being notorious for drug deals and any other illegal side hustles.  

Raphael’s spot on the stairs was vacant due to the downpour which you frowned at, you always looked forward to seeing him upon coming home.  A few skeezy looking men stood nearby however they seemed to be involved in their own drama as they argued and took no interest in you.  Gratefully, you continued quietly up the stairs and hurriedly unlocked the door, jamming the key in the lock until it gave out to you.  

Slipping into your nightly routine, you begin to unwind as much as you can.  A quick shower awaited you since the hot water was limited and you couldn’t wait to munch on one of the sandwiches you snagged from work.  In your defense Ronnie had ordered way too many for the week and the back fridge was overflowing with them.  The local deli they came from, Anderson’s had some fairly good quality meats and cheeses so for that you were thankful as they pretty much kept you fed.  Tonight’s would be turkey and swiss with mayo on sourdough, your favorite.  The lights flickered on as you hit the switch, another quirk that came with the run down apartment.  The living room and entryway were now bathed in a warm and quite dim glow, or in other words if you wanted to read a book, it’d be quite difficult to see.  Shivering from being drenched in rain, you set your bag on the kitchen counter adjacent to the entryway and start taking off your damp clothes, peering into your room to toss them into the hamper and slipping into the bathroom.  It was a tight space, not a whole lot of room to do much but it was home.  

Turning the faucet to ‘hot’, you wait for the water to get warm enough to bear, the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom still bothered you no matter how long you lived there.  You stood on the bath mat feeling the water with your finger until it was to your satisfaction, stepping in and feeling welcomed by the sudden warmth you’d been waiting for all day.  In that moment you feel relief from the pressures of the world, the deadlines, bills, loans, essays, all of it.  Everything melts away for approximately three minutes and that's when the water starts to turn cold again, returning you back to the dreadful reality you wish you could neglect.  

But to your dismay, the cycle just starts all over again, keeping you hostage.

~end~

Next ->

Masterlist

tags - @mmunson86 @haylaansmi

[grannyandgrandpascreations]

Have A Hamm's Day Kitchen Dish Towel

Have a Hamm’s Day Flour Sack white Kitchen tea towel is a perfect unique gift for the Hamm’s Beer Bear Collector or perfect bar towel! This towel is a unique gift for any Hamm’s Beer Lover!

Flour sack dish towels are called “flour sack” because they are modeled after the thin cotton bags that flour and grain used to be packed in, which were re-used as towels. The thin cotton yarn and the looser weave make for a towel that’s extra absorbent. You can even air dry your salad greens; the super absorbent nature of flour sack towels makes them great for drying delicate greens. Also, flour sack towels are lint free! Which means no more fuzzies on your wine glasses when you wipe them dry!

Flour sack towels are also softer and significantly larger than a standard kitchen towel….and more towel is always a good thing! You can use these towels for drying, wiping, cleaning, or dusting and they can be used for fun decorations.

Each flour sack kitchen towel measures 28 in. x 29 inches (Product dimensions L x W x H – 28 x 29 x 29 inches). They are 100% cotton, durable and absorbent. These are flat woven towels; they are perfect for cooking or baking and can safely be used around food such as covering dough for rising or as a food strainer. These towels also double as a kind of strainer or cheese cloth; the fine weave means you can strain sauces and broths through a flour sack towel to clarify them. Flour sack kitchen towels are sturdy, highly absorbent, dry quickly, and are designed to stand up to most any cleaning job. The towels easily withstand frequent washings and are made for repeated daily use.

The flour sack kitchen towel is a quality item with versatility and utility, we offer everyday designs and special occasion designs. Our flour sack towels are a great gift idea and very inexpensive!

Care instructions: Machine wash cold, no bleach, no softener. Do not dry clean. Do not iron. Tumble dry low.

Due to different light settings the actual color might vary a bit from the pictures.

Current Turnaround Time due to upcoming Holidays - 1-5 Business Days. While we always use priority shipping options, once shipped we cannot guarantee delivery due to the backlog current being experienced USPS/UPS/FedEx. If you have a strict deadline, please message me when ordering so that I can note any rush requests. Ownership of packages turned over to USPS transfers to the Buyer. We are not responsible for lost, held, damaged packages or delayed packages, once your package(s) leaves our Shop it is completely out of our control. Thank you for understanding!

Thank you for visiting Granny & Grandpa's Custom Creations, we truly appreciate your support of small businesses. We also personalize our products, please reach out to us with any personalizing any of our products, additional fee's may apply.

Please visit www.grannygrandpascustomcreations.com to view more products.

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Have A Hamm’s Day White Kitchen Towel. Great kitchen décor for the Hamm’s Beer or Hamm’s Bear Collector. This kitchen towel is available in one different writing colors. Granny & Grandpa’s Custom Creations also offers a Monthly Kitchen Towel Subscription Box…..check out our Kitchen Towel Subscription Box.

We are all a little bit of a mess in our own way, especially in the kitchen, which is why you can never have too many kitchen towels! Granny & Grandpa’s Custom Creation kitchen towels are attractive, affordable, update your kitchen décor with Granny & Grandpa’s kitchen towels and they make GREAT gifts! Our kitchen towels only come in white, but our designs are in many different colors.

Each flour sack kitchen towel measures 28 in. x 29 inches (Product dimensions L x W x H – 28 x 29 x 29 inches). They are 100% cotton, durable and absorbent. These are flat woven towels; they are perfect for cooking or baking and can safely be used around food such as covering dough for rising or as a food strainer. You can use these towels for drying, wiping, cleaning, or dusting and they can be used for fun decorations. Flour sack kitchen towels are sturdy, highly absorbent, dry quickly, and are designed to stand up to most any cleaning job. The towels easily withstand frequent washings and are made for repeated daily use. The flour sack kitchen towel is a quality item with versatility and utility, we offer everyday designs and special occasion designs. Our flour sack towels are a great gift idea and very inexpensive!

If your desired writing color is not shown, please reach out to us at grannyscustomcreations@gmail.com, as we would like to be able to accommodate your desired writing color to the design. Our Kitchen Towels are only available in white. Writing colors do vary.

Care instructions: Machine wash cold, no bleach, no softener. Do not dry clean. Do not iron. Tumble dry low.

[triggerlil]

WIP game

Tagged by @johnslittlespoon hehe i love an excuse to post about themmmmmmmm

Rules : make a new post and share some sentences from your recent unposted wip with zero context. Let your followers guess.

He washes his glass in the sink by the light of the hall (he and Marge can’t afford a dishwasher yet). He picks up John’s, still a little cool to the touch at the bottom—wants so desperately to be normal—and presses his mouth against the rim of John’s glass. He closes his eyes to the dim, and feels the envelope burning the  flesh of his thigh. It topples him into a mix of memory and fantasy. His hands on either sides of John’s face, pulling him in and pressing their lips together like an awkward teenager. He stops when the envelope becomes John’s hand travelling up his thigh, grabs the new kitchen towel Marge’s mother gave them. It’s baby blue with white dots. Blue Skies tries to sneak up his throat.

i'll tag @valstarsandgalaxies @alienoresimagines and @q-katerina

[suddenly-stickmin]

It Wasn't My Fault.

A heavy sigh filled the dimly lit kitchen of a shared apartment. A shared apartment that was filled with the bare minimum; a microwave, a worn down welcome mat with its words long since scraped off, a couple of mugs, old towels that hung from the fridge’s handle, the sort of items that should’ve been thrown out long ago, but yet they remained. It wasn’t like the occupants could afford to replace them.

They couldn’t even afford a proper ceiling cap for the lightbulb in the middle of the kitchen. It stuck out from the gray ceiling like a sore thumb. Its occasional flickers and its hum were a tad annoying, but it’s what made the apartment feel like home, unfortunately.

Dave Panpa sat at the round, crooked kitchen table surrounded by his… Friends? Could he call them friends?

He brought his head up, looking away from dark brown wood of the table to the man who sat next him, Johnny Panzer.

He's someone Dave's worked with for a couple of years now. They’ve never done anything too thrilling together, mostly just training sessions where Johnny showed him how to prepare for certain emergencies, and how to defend himself from criminals. Great information that Dave could’ve put to good use had he not lost his job over forgetting to check a prisoner’s box.

Johnny shifted around on the black folding chair he sat on. His posture wasn’t stiff, but it didn’t seem relaxed either. He adjusted his blue police hat, the dim, white light from the bulb bounced off his golden badge and made it shimmer. He then put his focus back on the day old newspaper in his hands.

He’s already read through that paper twice. Surely it couldn’t have been that interesting.

Or maybe it was.

Or maybe it was Johnny’s way of avoiding Dave’s stare.

Dave felt his face get hot. He has been staring for a while, hasn’t he?

He went back to looking at the table again, feet digging into the cold, dusty beige, tiled floor as he listened to the hushed cusses of Rupert Price.

Dave didn’t feel like looking at Rupert.

He never did.

And Rupert didn’t like it when Dave stared at him, so it worked out for the both of them.

Regardless, Dave didn’t need to glance at Rupert to know what he was doing. It was the same thing he did every evening after a long day at work: Make a pot of coffee.

He could never make a pot of coffee normally though, no. He could never just turn on the machine, chat with the two people who lived with him as he waited, then pour himself a cup, no. His ritual consisted of stomping through the kitchen, throwing open the few wooden cabinets they have as he complained about his day at work, then when he’d finally find his bag of coffee, he’d then rant about how dingy their apartment was.

The lights were never bright enough for him, the beige counters were never spacious enough for him, nothing in this apartment was good enough for him.

Dave would be lying if he said he didn’t understand where the hatred for this apartment came from, but it’d be nice to hear something positive from Rupert every now and then, or at the very least, a neutral observation.

“Here.” Rupert’s voice cut Dave’s thoughts off. He sounded exhausted, more so than usual. His voice was a bit more hoarse, and there was an extra ounce of bitterness to it that Dave didn’t like.

Rupert slid a cup of coffee in front of Johnny before walking over to his own seat, the pistol in his black holster clicking with each step he took. When he sat down, Dave gripped onto the edge of the table.

Johnny lowered his newspaper and stared at the white cup before him. He then glanced over to Dave, his eyes lingering on him for a moment before he set the paper down and pushed himself up.

Dave listened to Johnny open a cabinet and rummage through it. He grabbed a cup, filled it with coffee, and placed it by Dave, giving him a small nod of acknowledgement.

Dave nodded back, thankful yet embarrassed.

Rupert grumbled.

“What’s th’matter?” Rupert asked, “Legs broken? Can’t move your arms?”

Dave curled his fingers around the lid of his black security hat and pulled it down, trying to block Rupert from his vision as much as he could, “Sorry, I was gonna get it myself, but John--”

“I know what Johnny did. I know. I’m right here. I saw him.” Rupert scoffed as he flicked up his swamp green army hat, it’s golden badge not nearly as polished as it usually was. “You think that sad face is gonna do you any good? You think that’s gonna constantly get you outta trouble? Just cause it works for Johnny over here, does not--”

Johnny suddenly put his hand in front of Rupert, silencing him.

Dave glanced up to see the stern, disapproving head shake Johnny was giving, all while Rupert wore a look of confusion and annoyance.

Rupert let out a ‘Tch’ and took a sip of his coffee. Johnny finally put his arm down and went back to the paper.

Dave brought his cup to his face and hesitated.

Black coffee.

He couldn’t help but frown.

He didn’t have anything against it, but he missed sugar and cream.

Maybe when they have enough money again, they could buy some.

Dave peered past his cup, and when he locked eyes with Rupert, a spike of fear shot through him.

He forced his head to the left.

He stared at the living room instead, studying every inch of it as if he hadn’t seen it a million times before. He stared at the beaten up red couch that was pushed against the rough, dark gray wall. Its cushions had a couple stains on them from the times Rupert got upset and--

Dave shook his head. Don’t think about Rupert.

He looked over to the TV that sat a couple feet away from the couch.

They didn’t have a coffee table to fill in the space between the TV and the couch, so there wasn’t anything to place cups or snacks on, save for the armrests and the cardboard box on the left side of the couch that Johnny loved to use.

Something was playing on the TV. A show, a movie, who knew, but the quality was fuzzy, and the volume was so low that Dave couldn’t make out a single word. The screen provided just enough light to illuminate the couch and the old black rug under it, but the rest of the room had been shrouded in darkness.

“Had a crappy day at work, by th’way. Thanks for askin’.” He heard Rupert say.

He wasn’t sure if that was directed at him or Johnny, but he felt a twinge of guilt hit him.

“Had to stand around all day in front of some stupid tent. General said he was worried bout intruders, but--” A bitter laugh left Rupert’s throat, “We’re at a secret base—like, it isn’t called a ‘secret’ for nothin’, right?” He gave a playful nudge to Johnny, only to get an unamused glance in return.

Dave just kept staring at the living room, trying desperately to look through one of the two windows on the far back wall, wanting nothing more than a comforting glimpse of the outside world, but it was too dark.

Rupert slumped over and combed his black hair with his fingers before he went on, “I swear, I think they’re givin’ me the easy stuff on purpose. They know I can do more than stand around, they know it, but they won’t let me.” He took another sip of his coffee, “I’m not built to stay in one place—I’m just not! I need to do things. If I see a problem, I wanna take action.” His hands curled to fists, “Johnny, you remember what I was like back when we worked at that prison, don’t ya?”

Johnny just raised his brows before turning a page of his newspaper.

“Do you remember that one big prisoner who escaped? The uh, the--” He snapped his fingers as he tried to remember the prisoner’s name, but he gave up and swatted at the air, “The big guy! He had a big scar across his face and that eyepatch! Do you remember who was the first person to chase after him? Do you remember who fired the first bullet at him? Me.” Rupert brought his cup to his chest, spilling a bit of coffee across the table.

Johnny quickly moved his paper out of the splash zone.

Dave wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak or not, so he took a sip from his cup. His face scrunched when he felt that bitter beverage spread across his tongue and trickle down his throat.

“And it didn’t stop there…” Rupert went on, “Anytime there was a bank robbery, or a hostage situation, or the chief needed someone to patrol a dangerous part of the city, I was always the first one to volunteer. Eventually, I didn’t even need to ask bout any of that, I’d be the first person the chief would turn to for help.” For a brief moment, Dave heard nostalgia weave itself between Rupert’s words instead of frustration, and though he couldn’t see him, he knew there was a smile on his face.

Rupert gently set his cup down, “I had a perfect record.” He said with a pleasant sigh, “I was getting recommended to the best of the best, everyone was relyin’ on me, and I was one of the youngest there, you know.” Despite the lack of response from the other two men, he kept going, “Chief told me I had a bright future, that I was one of the hardest workin’ men he’s ever seen.” His voice dwindled, “And then I got fired. By somethin’ that wasn’t even my fault.”

Dave stiffened.

He didn’t move. Even with the hot coffee burning his lips, he didn’t want to move.

The impatient tapping of fingers started to make him sweat.

The longer the silence went on, the faster his heart got.

There was an uncomfortable rustle of the paper from Johnny.

Dave finally tore the cup away from his face and looked at Rupert.

“Do you remember how I got fired, Dave?” Rupert asked with a scowl, “Because—it’s funny—I’m strugglin’ to remember. I know it was over somethin’ stupid.” He hissed as he leaned closer.

Dave shakily set his cup down, “Yeah, no, I was—It was something stupid. Yeah, it was real stupid.”

He hated how his voice sounded. He hated how much it shook. He hated how it cracked. He hated how Rupert looked at him.

“Right.” Rupert nodded, “Do you remember anythin’ bout that incident either?”

Dave’s throat tightened. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

His eyes darted over to Johnny for help, but Johnny had buried his face deep into the day old paper, bracing himself for the argument he’s heard a thousand times.

“I—” Dave started, “It was so long, you know? And—and I think if—I remember--”

“Hey, you know what, I think some parts are coming back to me.” Rupert forced a grin on his face.

Dave shrunk back. He turned his body towards the kitchen and forced down another sip of coffee.

“I remember workin’ at the West Mesa…” Rupert said.

Dave stared at his warped reflection in his drink.

“...I remember I had a partner with me…”

His gripped on the cup’s handle tighten.

“...And I remember he brought in a box for a certain prisoner…”

His hands started to tremble.

“...And when I asked him if he had checked th--”

Dave immediately got out of his seat, catching both Johnny and Rupert off guard.

“I need to--” He looked over to the two, “I’m… I need a refill.” He plastered on a weak smile as he pointed to his cup. It wasn’t even half empty.

He shuffled over to the kitchen and set his cup down on the counter. He heard Rupert huff.

Dave fiddled with the coffee machine, he kept shifting his cup a few inches back and forth, he did whatever he could to seem ‘busy’ just to avoid sitting back with Rupert.

Rupert wasn’t done though.

“You know what else is funny, Johnny?”

Johnny pressed his lips together and flipped another page.

“It’s funny that—even though it was my partner who brought in that stupid box, and it was my partner who didn’t follow any basic safety procedures, or at least check the dang thing, we were both fired. Isn’t that a knee slapper?”

Dave grabbed the coffee pitcher and ever so carefully refilled his cup.

“It’s also funny that even though I wasn’t the one who forgot to check what was in the box, the chief told me the reason I was getting fired was for being ‘careless’.” He slammed his fist on the table as he let out a cruel laugh.

Dave wrapped his hands around his cup. It was burning.

“Like, c’mon, how was I careless? Was I careless for trusting my partner? For thinking he had half a brain and could actually do his job correctly? should I have ripped the box out of his hands and checked it for him?”

Dave turned to the old, stained microwave that was shoved in the far back left corner of the counter and swung its door open. He slid his cup inside, not caring for the splatters that hit his hand, then he slammed it shut, momentarily blocking out Rupert’s voice. He turned it on for a minute.

“And you know what turns that situation from funny to hilarious?” Rupert leaned close Johnny, a smirk on his face.

Johnny looked back at him with a twinge of worry.

“It was the fact that I had to explain that stupid incident to every place I applied to.”

The hums of the microwave started to merge with Rupert’s words.

“I had a perfect record—I had it. I had the recommendations, I had the training, I had all those missions I excelled at and more…”

The coffee started to bubble.

“But when it came to those interviews—those stupid interviews—you know what they always asked me?” He got even closer to Johnny.

Johnny raised the paper in an attempt to make a barrier between him and Rupert.

“Why aren’t you a part of the police force anymore?”

Dave watched as his cup started to shake. Drops of coffee started to sputter out.

“I mean, no one would wanna leave the West Mesa of all places—especially when they were at such a high rank like me.”

Johnny watched as one of Rupert’s hands slipped underneath the table.

“So I’d tell them. I’d be honest, because that’s what good people do. I’d tell them that my partner and I failed to check a box, and that lead to a prisoner escaping.”

Dave’s breathing got faster. More coffee spilled out.

“Then—then! They’d tell me ‘Oh! I heard about that on the news. Wasn’t Henry Stickmin the prisoner? Didn’t he nearly tear that place apart?’ Then they’d tell me that they couldn’t hire me, because if I can’t check one stupid box, why would they trust me with anything else?”

Johnny heard a click.

“Even though it wasn’t my fault. Even though I wasn’t the one who brought that box in.”

As the microwave reached its last few seconds, Dave grabbed its handle.

“But apparently it doesn’t matter! Apparently, I’m just some incompetent, lowlife idiot who can’t do anything right! Apparently I deserve to have all my hard work and all those amazing opportunities ripped away over something that wasn’t my fault--!”

Right as the microwave beeped, Rupert kicked himself out of his seat and tore his pistol from its holster.

He aimed at Dave, finger curled around the trigger.

And just as he pulled it, Johnny shot up and grabbed Rupert by the arm, throwing him aside just as the gun went off.

A loud BANG filled the air.

Dave covered his head.

Rupert screamed.

The bullet hit the microwave—bright, orange sparks flew.

Then the power went out.

And then it was quiet.

Dave never took his hands away from his face. He just stayed there, hunched body pushed against the counter as he trembled.

The kitchen light started to flicker.

The room was lit again.

Dave peeked through the cracks of his hands, Rupert’s face framed between his fingers.

He was on the floor now, his hat beside him. Johnny kept a foot on his chest as he pried the pistol from his hands. The only sounds coming from Rupert’s mouth were nothing but grunts and quiet curses as he tried to keep a hold on the gun.

Once Johnny tore the pistol away, he stepped off of Rupert and kept it held high into the air.

He unloaded it. He was quick, sloppy, but he didn’t care.

The golden bullets scattered across the floor. Rupert cussed and pushed Johnny aside, scrambling onto his knees and picking up as many as he could.

“You…” Dave finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

Johnny and Rupert looked to him.

“You just—you tried to—” He felt like he was going to throw up.

Rupert tossed the bullets into his hat and held it close, “I didn’t.”

“You were aiming at m—”

“I wasn’t.” Rupert hissed.

Before he could take a step closer, Johnny grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him back.

Rupert didn’t protest.

Johnny adjusted his cap and turned back to Dave, whose eyes were still wide, and his body still shaking.

He reached out to Dave, whether it was to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder or pull him into a hug, neither of them knew, but Dave flinched at the motion and stumbled back more.

His head went from the door then back to the two men.

“I need to…” Dave stared at the ruined microwave, watching as small sparks spilled from the wires and darted across the growing puddle of coffee.

His throat tightened, “I need to pick up some sugar for the…” He pointed to the puddle, “I’m…”

He swallowed.

He hurried over to the door, slipped on his shoes, and left the house.

With nothing more to do, with nothing left to say, Johnny stormed to his room, pistol held firmly in his hand.

Rupert got to his feet and went back to the table.

He sat back down and placed his hat in his lap. He took a sip of his coffee, resentment brewing within him over what Dave made him do.

[faerunsbest]

Rolans 1st love

okay i hurt my own feelings.

here you go.

on ao3

Requited but unlucky

Prior to the grove Rolans love life was sparse,thin and unfortunately shallow. His first introduction to attraction at all had gone sour, but he told himself he was fooled by a pretty face and hadn’t bothered to look deeper. Which was true and left him annoyed every time he thought of it. 

At this time he was half a year from 15 and struggling through both employment and his own education…none of it compared to all the work that needed doing at home. Everything it was everything and it was entirely the most important part of himself. Running out of work every day to hurry several blocks away so he would never be late to pick up his siblings from the school house. Every day they would tumble out the doors and know exactly where he would be waiting for them. Every day he would take their books and bags and carry them for them while they both rambled about their day, through the market where he would stop for a few basic items, flour grains maybe eggs depending on the weight of his wallet.

    No more time could be spent at the library, there just wasn’t time without his mother there, instead on his day off work he would pop over to a local bookstore and look about to see if he could afford anything. Sometimes at the register, the cashier would smile at him in a funny lopsided way. Someone who looked not much older than himself.

 A boy again, with white blonde hair tucked back into a low, short tail. A few loose strands always falling by his pointed ears, a  thin pink line over the right side of his mouth. The scar of cosmetic surgery to fix his cleft palate. Rolan tried not to pay attention to the shades of lavender his cheeks tended to turn when they talked for a while, though it was difficult not to notice.

As always when the place was slow, Rolan stayed to chat a little longer than he should, he couldn’t help himself when he smiled back at the cashier whose name he still hadn’t asked for. Another niche joke and he was sure would fall flat and suddenly, Rolans heart skipped a beat when the cashier snorted in response, immediately putting his hand over his mouth and nose. Face flaring shades of pastel violets as he looked away. 

A cough was heard behind him,  Rolans grimaced realizing someone was now waiting to pay, he waved hurriedly and shuffled out of the store. All the way down to the market Rolan smiled, he smiled so much his cheeks hurt. The smile stayed in place as he shopped about, gathering this and that for dinner. Always a bigger event on his days off and his siblings knew it. They looked forward all week to his full dinners, with a million tiny plates and spoons to serve this and that.

Back at the apartment, small and cramped still but now his mothers old room was his. He lined an entire wall with every book he could get his claws on and still searched for more where it could be afforded. The living room was small and minimally furnished, a simple sofa facing the fireplace, a small wood end table on one side of the sofa. He took the broom through the place from end to end, paying close attention to corners. Gently he took todays book and sat it on the end table, knowing he would read it to Cal and Lia after dinner. For a moment he paused to look at it and could only think of how embarrassed the cashier had been to laugh like that in front of him.

Again he was grinning like an idiot while he plucked an apron off its hook in the kitchen, he found himself humming while he prepared dough. Leaving it off to the side to rise when he began chopping up the market finds, rolling cubed beef in a layer of spices before throwing them into a pot to sear. As he cooked he continually tilted his head counting bells that went off in the distance, now satisfied. He placed lids on pots and a towel over the bread he pulled from the fireplace.  

Another set of bells tolled just as he shut and locked the apartment door, hurrying to the apartment entrance he paused, surprised when he found the cashier pushing the door open. For a moment they just stared at each other, the cashier's soft face shifted in color before he hurried to open the door for Rolan. 

“Um, I’m sorry about earlier.. It was a gross sound…”

Rolan felt his own face turning warm, he shrugged his shoulder as he stepped out.

“No, it was… kind of cute actually.”

He didn’t stop to see how it was received before stepping out and hurting off to collect his siblings at the schools door.

Later on the cashier looked out his door at a familiar noisy rumble coming up the hall, blinking in surprise at Rolan with his sharp smile. He was listening intently as his sibling ran small circles behind while they nattered about the day’s happenings. The cashier watched him hold the door open to let them in and felt his own chest flood with warmth as he realized what was happening.

Rolan was always so rushed and hurried because he was busy taking care of those kids. The cashier couldn't help but grin to himself at the image they made before he closed his own door and thought how that's the man who thought his strange laugh was…cute.

Perfectly unaware of his admirer, Rolan  readied the small dinner table for his sibling. He nodded and cheered for them when Lia announced that she had passed a surprise vocabulary test. Cal shared his own accomplishment  for the day, grinning when he realized his brother didn’t forget. Rolan knew of the test that had been scheduled and planned to celebrate, with a small cake for them. 

With so little good left, Rolan celebrated their every win. 

He tossed them in the bath to wash up while he cleaned the kitchen and brushed their hair when they were out and dry. He didn’t have to , they knew how but it was nice. Even cal sat still and read a page out loud from the day’s newest book while Rolan made sure to dry and brush his hair, trying it into a small tail when done. After everything was finished there, Rolan kicked up his feet on the sofa sitting comfortably across it. As he picked up the book, Cal and Lia scrambled to pile on top of him while he read out loud. It was the same every night and every night made the day feel worth it.

—

The week droned on and despite the cashiers best efforts to catch him alone it seemed that Rolan never did anything alone. He would go out to collect water and wash clothes in a community space, with his siblings tumbling about behind him. They sword fought with sticks much to his dismay. They went with him shopping, they went with him to collect housewares and pay bills. They hung on his arm while he talked with the landlord as he dropped off rent.  

As much as it got in the way of any chance to talk to him, the cashier was also incredibly endeared by it.  By the middle of the week he gave up and hoped to see Rolan on his day off.

Unfortunately when he went in for work he found a sign on the door notifying all customers the place was closed for the day. He grumbled all the way back to the apartment when he stopped out front to find Rolan with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he saw by a washing pool.

For a moment he froze as he watched him hold up a small pair of trousers and grimace at them.

“Hi there.”

Rolan blinked in surprise before turning around to face him, the cashier!

“Oh, hello…” he made a face before adding “I never asked your name…”

He smiled and pushed back that loose strand of hair.

“Kai, I’m kai.. Nice to ‘meet’ you..?”

“Ah, I’m Rolan.”

He said while bunching the pants up into a ball and pressing out as much water as he could. Without thought Rolan simply continued to wash clothes.

“Ah, don’t you usually work today?”

“Mm the store is closed apparently. Do you need any help?”

Rolan blinked again, surprised.

“You have a day off and you're gonna do laundry with me?”

Kai shrugged at him, putting a hand out for the pants while he looked over to a taut clothesline. Rather amiably Kai found ways to fill what could have been a rather awkward silence, he grinned beside himself Rolan laughed, bright and warm about something or another. Kai smiled and blurted out

“Ah you have such a nice laugh…it’s pretty.”

The moment after, they stared rather bashfully at each other before glancing away. Rolan spotted the clothesline and laughed again 

“You don’t do this very much do you?”

“Huh!?” Kai stared in shock realizing … It was the laundry. He never did these things so he’d done it wrong. Rolan laughed bright and cheerful before going and fixing it all. Now it was easy, laughing like this. They waited for the clothes to dry even though there certainly were other things for Rolan to do. The day droned on, bells marking its segments.  

Soon enough Kai was watching Rolan bring Cal and Lia home again, and the day went on and ended though tonight his face hurt from smiling, his gut ached from laughing and sleep was filled with bliss.

Rolan found himself especially playful as he dumped Cal and Lia back in the tub, he took a bowl and dunked it down in to raise up and spill waves of warm water over their heads. Peels of laughter filled the small place, bounced off the walls and left Rolan giddy. The house like this always felt like he was doing something right, all said and done he plopped a towel on their heads and ruffled them dry. 

Dinner today was heavy and filling,letting them doze off quickly for the evening. While they slept peacefully Rolan lay in bed smiling with his arms folded over his head. He tried desperately to stop his heart from racing as he lay there thinking about someone loving his laugh.

A day went by and Rolan waved through the shop window as he passed on his way to work. A new part of his daily routine on his way to work, it made the day bright seeing kai wave back, with that lopsided smile. Every day for the week, until it was his day off and Kai got to see him again. 

Every day, then a week, then another week and a month had gone by. Today Rolan had Kai in his kitchen stirring something or another since he didn’t seem to know how to do much else. Rolan teased him all the way through it, smiling at the way Kai seemed to turn bright at his words. 

He loved it. 

About to say something else, Rolan found himself silenced. Before he could register what happened kai pulled back, shock and terror on his face.

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have done that I-”

Feeling emboldened, Rolan leaned down to return the kiss he’d been so unexpectedly given. They parted to stare at each other breathless and bashful. In the distance a bell tolled, reminding him he had to leave. Another giddy night passed. 

Something new was added rather gleefully to Rolan's routine. Sneaking out at night for just a moment, long enough to be given a kiss goodnight and hurry back. 

A day and a week and month would pass, playfully, romantically and painfully quick.

News became dire, people more harsh and suddenly Kai was looking at him miserably.

“What’s going on? What’s wrong ?!”

Not knowing what else to do he reached out and pulled Kai close, pressing his chin to the top of kais head.

“We’re leaving.”

Rolans eyes went wide, he pulled back just far enough to look at him and see a dam suddenly burst, tears spilling down Kai’s face. He struggled to breathe and held tightly onto Rolan.

“What do you mean- where are you going?!”

“Mum had to quit her job because of what's going on and.. Ap’pa says we have family in the dales so that’s where we might be going. He told us as soon as I got home…they already packed. We’re leaving right now and I- don’t want to!”

Rolan felt his eyes sting before his vision blurred and thick wet tears rolled down him. He thought about it, clenched his eyes hard. So hard it hurt and when he opened them little baubles of color filled his line of sight. He hugged Kai hard, pressed kisses all over his face before setting their foreheads together.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.. You gotta go.”

Kai can hear Rolan’s voice cracking as he speaks, trying to stay calm through the waves of misery threatening to overwhelm him. 

“What?!”

“Kai, your parents see danger… They have a way to keep you safe. I would run if I could.. I can't, so you must go. Go and be safe okay.”

“Rolan I-”

A kiss pressed firmly to his lips, heavy and wet. There wasn’t time he needed to leave and Rolan would be damned if he was the reason Kai didn’t get to run away. Gently he pushed Kai backward, his knees threatened to give out under him. He looked away, instead just pointing with a shaking hand to the place where he knew Kai’s parents were waiting for him..

A day, a week and month and the ache remained as the city began to fall apart. 

All this and there were no more giddy nights.

The quiet of the apartment settle under his ribcage and Rolan looked around, feeling a failure as the saddened expressions on his siblings became so common.

No more giddy nights.

[starfall-spirit]

Renaissance Masterlist

If you were offline yesterday, read Chapter V first.

The chapter title was taken from a Gary Allen song. Spice will arrive in chapter 7, promise.

Word Count: 979

Chapter VI: Every Storm Runs Out of Rain

 The night could not be more of a mess. But if spiraling about her developing feelings wasn’t bad enough, then the sky had to open on them, an unexpected summer storm chasing them into the shelter of the villa. “Ugh, I’m drenched! Rhys, no!”

She squealed, bolting for the other side of the room as he grinned ear to ear, shaking his head to fling water in every direction. That grin held as he ran a hand down his face, shaking more water free of his hand. Her eyes inevitably dipped lower, assessing how his thin button-down clung to the toned muscles she’d ignored well enough before then.

He cleared his throat, a light in his eyes and a smug smirk betraying any offense or irritation her staring may have caused. Proud bastard. She blushed hotly, pointedly turning down the hall and muttering something about dry pajamas. Maybe if she hid in her room she could just pretend nothing happened today. That she wasn’t—

No. She thought she was in love once. Look how that turned out. Tamlin had won her over just as easily. Now she was dealing with him stalking her.

She knew Rhys was arrogant at worst. She knew she’d never have to worry for her safety at the end of all this, but was she really ready to dive into something with another man infamous for sweet talking? How fast was she going to get her heart broken if she gave in? His father had called because Rhys had a reputation, after all. A proper marriage was the one thing Josiah wouldn’t interfere with.This was a long con. A game. She couldn’t get swept away in all of this. She couldn’t afford to. Even if things just ended up being sexual… Well, friends with benefits didn’t work so well for her. 

She took a deep breath. She could just lock herself in her room tonight. Rhys could have his space and she could have hers. They’d start fresh in the morning, acting totally, completely, utterly platonic. Yes, that’s it.

She jumped at the knock on the door. “Hey, I made a late night snack if you care to join me.”

Dammit. She was a little hungry. 

Throwing one of Mor’s oversized tees over her sports bra, she opened the door, finding Rhys on his way back to the kitchen and living area, his plate in hand. He had appeared to towel his hair dry, changing into shorts and an old band shirt she remembered him stealing from Cassian a few weeks ago, after their annual beginning of summer water fight.

She spotted a second plate on the counter that consisted of dried fruit, chips they had packed, and Rhys’ favorite gummy worms, also smuggled in. She suppressed a laugh. “Thank you, Rhys. I’m honored, being dubbed worthy of sharing your gummy worms.”

“As you should be.” She snorted, turning around with every intention of returning to her room. “Movie?”

He’d be the death of her. Because she really, really hated telling people no after they were nice to her. Today had been more than nice, if a bit torturous towards the end. She nodded, curling up in the plush chair adjacent to his seat on the long couch. She turned towards the screen, surprised to find Casablanca of all things playing. It was hardly a film she’d think would interest him.

“This was produced in the forties.”

“Yes.”

“I never imagined you were a black and white type.”

“My tastes are eclectic,” he replied. “We have a handful of VCRs in that cabinet and Mom’s a sucker for the older movies. I took after her there.”

“So astronomy and old movies. Interesting.” 

She turned back to the screen, nibbling at an apricot as the opening cast came on screen. She could handle a movie. Just as she actually started to believe that, relaxing into the chair, the rolling thunder boomed, cracking down with a blast of lightning that rattled the powerlines and left the two of them in the dark. Her plate flew from her lap and she cursed.

“It’s just a little storm, Feyre.” She ignored that comment, scrambling to clean up her mess, only pausing when warm fingers closed around her wrist. “Leave that. C’mere.” He led her to the kitchen, opened the drawer beside the refrigerator, and grabbed a couple of flashlights out of it, clicking both of them on and offering her one. “Okay?”

She nodded, though she didn’t argue when his grip around her wrist slid down, his fingers once again laced through hers. “C’mere,” he repeated, pulling her to the couch he had been seated on, dismissing the mess on the floor in favor of soothing her. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, very much aware of how her face was practically buried in his chest. “I can’t explain it. I’ve just always hated night storms. My sisters—When I was little and we were closer, I’d crawl in my sisters’ beds. Elain would sing to me sometimes. It wasn’t a problem when we… downsized.”

He hummed, making no comment on her phrasing. “Would you like me to sing something?” She raised her head, blinking as she comprehended the offer. Before she could deny it, a soft tenor melody was washing over her. It wasn’t lilting and soft as Elain often favored, but it was beautiful all the same. Deep, rich, soothing in its own somber note. Lulled by both the song and the vibrations of his chest, she wanted to memorize every word passing his lips. 

His voice hitched, and his song trailed to silence as she reached up to stroke the stubble at his jaw. “Thank you.”

And before she could convince herself to do something smart, she raised her hand to tangle her fingers in his silky hair, initiating a kiss she prayed she wouldn’t come to regret.

~~~~~

Sorry. Taglist fixed. Hope you enjoyed!

@goddess-aelin // @shallyne // @the-lonelybarricade // @the-lost-changeling // @faeriequeensuriel // @pandavelaris // @s-uppertime // @reverie-tales // @acourtofwips // @jealousveronya // @darling-archeron // @acotar-fanns