#Boucher Trail

[dopescissorscashwagon]

Reaching this Grand Canyon location requires a rugged 10-mile hike on the Hermit Trail and Boucher Trail, built by "The Hermit" himself — Louis Boucher — in the late 1800s.

📸 by Jake Case - Mountain Tripper

Boucher lived in the Canyon before it became a national park, operating mostly unsuccessful mine claims and eventually leading tourists down his trails as a guide.At this location just past the end of the what we now call the Boucher Trail, he built a small cabin, the ruins of which can still be found to this day. On the topographic map of the area a small mining prospect is marked, which I assume was Boucher's purpose for setting up a camp here.

Regardless of the fascinating bits of history, this slice of Grand Canyon is stunningly beautiful. Marsh Butte towers majestically overhead, Boucher Creek's spring-fed waters bubble through the canyon bottom, and brittlebush bloom on perfect spring days like the one I captured here. If you choose to venture down the Boucher Trail, you'll need to secure an overnight backpacking permit from the Grand Canyon backcountry office. The trail is steep, rocky, and sometimes completely washed out from storms. Self-reliance is a must for modern hikers traversing this remote stretch of Grand Canyon, but well worth a visit for those willing to rough it.

[effemimaniac]

what did grimes say about SOPHIE? not surprised but also grimes SOPHIE is the reason for so much of what you pull inspiration from lmao hello???

this interview https://www.theguardian.com/music/2015/oct/31/claire-boucher-grimes-art-angels

Of PC Music, the London collective whose uncanny valley take on the top 40 of their childhoods provides a contextual touchstone for Art Angels, she says, “It’s really fucked up to call yourself Sophie and pretend you’re a girl when you’re a male producer [and] there are so few female producers,” she begins, before trailing off again. “I think it’s really good music. I probably shouldn’t have said that…”

it's funny that even the article mentions that inspiration in the same paragraph lol

[pannacottafart]

Idv oc info!

I just wanted to share info about odette! And her mechanics.

Name: Odette Boucher

Alias: “The aristocrat”

Difficulty: 1.2-2/3

Age: 23

Nationality: French

Class: Contain

External Traits

Tea time: Odette has three tea cups per round which she can share with her teammates. After drinking them the player’s trail will be eliminated for 5 seconds, also making peepers ineffective. Cooldown is 15 seconds

Exhaust: Due to being an aristocrat, she isn’t used to doing labor herself, decoding is decreased by 10%

Special brew: Odette will spend more time focused on herself, the tea effects for her are extended by one second and a slight speed boost

Summed up Lore:

In her community, Odette was the most popular lady, the world was her oyster. She did however had a problem for spreading rumors, telling them to maintain her place at the top of the hypothetical food chain. Her family was relatively well revered, she had always had a close bond with her brother

One day, a new family moved near Odette’s family’s estates. She was beautiful, and instantly grabbed the community’s attention instantly, Odette was very jealous.

Odette plotted every day for ways to get rid of this woman, deciding to invite her over for tea and poisoning her.

As the meeting began, Odette found she had more in common with the woman than she thought, but alas it was too late, the woman had drank the tea.

With the revelation of what she had did finally sinking in, in a state of panic ,she buried her body in her family’s rose garden. she fled the city for a week, when she returned, her family was in disarray. While away, the police had arrived and found the body. Her brother had taken the blame for her, not wanting anything bad to happen to her. He was then exicuted for said crimes he had taken the blame for

Looking for what to do, she decided it was best to flee the city. She never returned.

[smokeys-house]

Travel Log 12 + Reciprocal Lacuna

Passage from Puukko's Travel Log

And just like that, she's gone again. Part o’ me feels like I been shot, but another part o’ me feels like I've met with fate once more. I had a reason t’ live before, sure. Had a couple. But the biggest one felt more like a debt than a life. I been a ghost fer far too long. Now I got a new reason t’ keep kickin’, so’s I can have some new stories fer to tell Marion when I see her next.

I'm headin’ home soon. Got Arturo his money back and then some, but not without some explainin’ needed doin’. I asked Marion if she'd sail me home, but she said “I'm afraid that were I to take you home, just as soon as I'd lay eyes upon it, it would become mine as well.” She always fancied herself a poet, so she talks real pretty. Now she's a playwright, actor, director, restaurant owner, sailor and captain, all sorts o’ things. A driven woman, she is. I told her before she skips out the Adriatic t’ head back on down to Mestre and look up the man playing Baptiste Boucher. She said she needn't actors what can't fight nor sail. I told her he were a mercenary and an actor, an’ that he knew her already. I asked her t’ spook him real good fer me. We'll see what she cooks up someday, I'm sure.

She got me set up with someone what was sailing down near Moominvalley. Following that, I'm gonna hoof it over the mountain and straight back into me home. Won't have t’ see no one till I'm good ‘n ready. Midsummer’s comin’ up. I reckon I would've been asleep by now fer the season, but somehow I fear as though hibernation will evade me when I get back.

I plan on staring out at the sea the whole way home

Signed Puukko

Reciprocal Lacuna

Puukko's trip home from Italy was short-lived. The journey to Venice took her quite a lot longer than she'd anticipated, and throughout it she'd struggled and changed much. For all she'd seen and done since the Snork dropped her off, she'd only seen waves on the way home. She spent most of it silently thinking of Marion. She'd managed to replace the sinking feeling from her past with the fond memories she'd made on the Italian coast.

The constant thrum of ocean waves gave way to chirps and chitters from all of summer's creatures after she made landfall. She began the trek home in the same fashion as she had the voyage by sea, beset by thoughts. Summer's heat was abated only by the crisp mountain air as she climbed ever higher, and ever nearer her abode. With each passing familiarity, trees, plants and animals, scents and sights, her heart grew heavier. She was determined to make it home before she could carry it no longer. The wide paths that cut up the mountains narrowed and widened again. She could see the top of the tower of her house, not far off. She forced down the lump in her throat several times as she closed in.

The relative silence of the lonely mountains were ill suited to distraction for a tired mind, its peaceful nature seemed only to collude with her sorrows. To Puukko, the short distance remaining between her and her front door was an endless and terrifying path. The closer she got, the more she felt like she was being chased. She began to walk faster, feeling guilt and pain creep up within her. She felt a sharp pain in her chest, and an ache in her head. Her vision began to narrow as her breath rapidly increased pace, and her paws began to go numb. The sunny summer day seemed all but gone, fading into tunnel vision focused solely on her front porch. She stumbled as she clawed her way to her door, slamming it behind her and slumping to the ground as she caught her breath.

She sat on the ground, recovering. She took in her surroundings to calm herself. Her home was as she left it. She thought it odd that there wasn't dust, nor cobwebs, just a tidy home filled with memories and knick knacks. The familiarity was both a comfort and a curse. She shook the trail dust and panic from her fur, steadied herself, and set her things aside as she headed into her parlor for a seat. Everything was in its place, and clean. Upon the table, placed tastefully off center, was a basket. It was plain and dark in color, with all manner of shapes and colors spilling out the top. Cheeses, bottles, odds and ends, seashells, ribbons, and all things nice. Tented just before the basket was a note, and beneath it, another.

–

Dear Puukko

We all miss you dearly, and hope to see you soon. We hope you had fun on your adventure.

With love, your friends in the valley.

–

The first note was crammed full on the underside with signatures, scribbles, and doodles featuring names that she knew, and some that she didn't. The thought that she might've left it all behind for good tortured her. Puukko coughed as she held back tears, quickly moving on to the second note.

–

To Miss Puukko

I hope you don't mind, but I'm writing you a note all to myself, as well. I've taken the liberty of keeping the place clean in your absence. As of writing this, this is the third time I've stopped in. The first time was just before we went to sleep for the winter. We left you a lovely basket of things with a little inspiration from everybody. The second was just as we woke in spring, and I had to replace a few of the perishables in the basket. Pappa insisted I not go alone, and that the mountains were far too snowy to go by oneself. Moomintroll came with us, as well. He's not one to be left out, as I'm sure you know. I managed to keep the two of them away from anything sharp or shooty as you would put it. We spent a night or two here, sprucing things up for you and waiting for the snow to thaw. Now, summer has just begun.

I've reassured everyone that you'll be returning. Truth be told, for a while, I wasn't sure myself. The valley feels different without you. Though your visits were sparse, it was reassuring to know that you were up here in your cozy little home, safe. I was worried for you. But when I remember the stories you told me, and I look at all the things that tell your tale in your home, I feel a little more reassured. Whatever you found out there, or whatever found you, you are always welcome in Moominvalley. Marion, too, if she pleases.

Do stop by for a visit on your return

Moominmamma

P.S. Not that I mind the trek, but you might think about installing a post box in the valley. The postman isn't much interested in mountain climbing. Pappa could make one for you, or Too Tikki if you've met with her, she's interested in everything.

–

Tears began to spill upon the page. Just as they hit, Puukko panicked a small bit as she wiped them away, attempting to preserve the letter. For a brief moment, confusion struck her as she lifted her paw up to her eyes. It had been decades since she'd cried last. The sensation was new, and awful, but relieving. The lump in her throat that she'd continued to beat away seemed to burst as she struggled in vain to hold back the deluge of tears. She cried loud, and horribly, as the emotions she struggled to parse escaped through her eyes and into the air. She threw herself onto her couch. She was tired of being strong, and she was tired of being tired. The boiling pot of sorrow and regret fused itself with the warm feeling that made itself a home in her chest, and she smiled. For the first time since she'd been in Moominvalley, she felt not like a legend, nor a criminal, nor the stories she'd been a part of, but like a moomin. She felt, at last, at home.

[mythologypaintings]

Sleeping Bacchantes

Artist: After François Boucher, Jacques Charlier

Date: 18th century

Medium: Gouache on vellum

Collection: National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC, United States

Description

In Greek Mythology, Bacchantes were women who worshipped Dionysus, the God of Wine. Upon drinking the nectar, they would become frenzied, trailing behind the god in dance and song wearing animal skins and waving ivy ­wreathed wands.

[wutbju]

Philip Jonathan Owens, BJU Class of 1958.

Philip (Phil) Jonathan Owens, beloved husband, father, grandfather, and friend, passed away peacefully at his home in Georgetown, Texas, on July 31, 2024, due to complications from Parkinsonism. He was 86 years old.

Phil is survived by his devoted wife of nearly 56 years, Barbara (Boucher) Owens; his daughters Gwyneth Owens Butera and her husband Robert Butera of Eastham, Massachusetts, and Susannah Owens Rivera and her husband Luis Rivera, Jr. of St. Paul, Minnesota; and four cherished grandchildren: Camille Butera, Chloe Butera, Leo Rivera and Miles Rivera.

Born on August 16, 1937, in Middleborough, Massachusetts, Phil was the third child of Madeleine (Duncklee) Owens and Bernard J. Owens. He was preceded in death by his parents and his siblings, Mabel (Owens) Wilson and Wayne Owens.

Phil began his primary education in Halifax, Massachusetts. After his family relocated to Carver, Massachusetts, he completed elementary school there. He graduated from Plymouth High School in 1958 and went on to earn a bachelor’s degree in Education with a major in Mathematics from Bob Jones University in 1962 1958.

After receiving a master’s degree in math from Florida State University, he went to work for General Dynamics in San Diego before beginning his career at IBM Research in Yorktown Heights, New York, where he met his wife, Barbara. IBM moved them to Los Gatos, California, where they both continued to work for IBM.

Following a hiatus to earn his PhD in Computer Science from NYU, Phil returned to IBM in New York, eventually relocating to Georgetown, Texas, where he continued his work in the Austin research division until his retirement in 1992. During his years at IBM and at NYU, he worked alongside three Turing Awardees (the computer science equivalent of a Nobel Prize).

After retiring, he began a second career as an adjunct professor of both mathematics and of computer science at Austin Community College, the University of Texas at Austin, St. Edward’s University, and Southwestern University in Georgetown.

Phil’s life was characterized by his dedication and passion for his many pursuits. From being a devoted father and husband to restoring homes and developing hiking trails behind his Georgia mountain cabin, his enthusiasm was evident in everything he did. He was a talented native plant gardener, a faithful member of church choirs and gospel groups, and a skilled handyman who took pride in each project he undertook.

In his later years, Phil and Barbara enjoyed spending time on Cape Cod, where they lived near their daughter Gwyneth in Eastham. He was an active member of the Orleans (MA) UMC choir and the Eastham Senior Center, where he took ukulele lessons and participated in community activities. Phil cherished his family deeply and loved their travels and beach vacations, always finding joy in the time spent together.

In May 2024, Phil traveled with Barbara to Alameda, California, where he delighted in watching his grandsons’ performances and enjoying family activities. His passing came as he fondly reflected on the joy of those moments.

He entered into his heavenly rest surrounded by the comforting sounds of old-time gospel music and the sight of deer in the backyard of his Sun City home. Phil will be remembered for his love, dedication and the countless ways he touched the lives of those around him.

A celebration of Phil’s life will be held at a later date on Cape Cod. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the American Parkinson Disease Association, The Caring Place, The Outer Cape Outreach Council or a charity of your choice.

[redflagshipwriter]

Ch 2 (Robin begins the investigation)

Robin was lucky enough to be on the patrol schedule that night. He scowled at the roster and weighed his options.

It was impossible to go with Batman. He would require an extensive briefing and would not be satisfied until he has uncovered why Damian had even been in that dismal mall with Todd. He understood that despite a birthday being a yearly event, it was customary to conceal related preparations until the target could not escape the celebration.

Todd was useless, by dint of both personality and his habitual route.

Red Robin was on the roster, but he was ….terrible.

Unfortunately, Grayson and Cain were both unavailable for the night. That left-

“Brown,” Damian greeted, before anyone could claim him as a partner.

She froze on the second to last step down. “...Yes, Damian?” Brown’s entire expression brightened. She shot a quick smirk at Drake.

Everyone else was looking at him. Father had a strange look on his face. Todd’s eyebrows were raised up into his e-girl bangs. Pennyworth was impossible to read. Drake appeared to be choking on air.

Hm. He did not dislike that.

“Would you patrol with me tonight?” Damian asked. His tone was just barely polite enough to keep it from being an order.

She blinked at him and then cast a strangely victorious look at Drake. “Sure,” Brown agreed. “Let me get suited up and we can get out of here.”

Todd immediately started texting, a foolish grin plastered to his face. Damian loftily ignored it. When his phone buzzed, undoubtedly from Grayson, he ignored that even more pointedly.

This family was ridiculous. He endured them with a scowl until he managed to get out into the night air with his temporary partner.

They started off with their approved route. Damian had managed to pick one of the two that came near the mall. He only needed to broach the subject before too long.

“I'm surprised you picked me as your patrol partner,” chattered the least observant Bat affiliate in existence. “I was starting to think you don't like me, Baby Bat!”

Damian did not sigh at the demeaning sobriquet. He was going to be unbothered, patient, and unbendable.

He reminded himself that Brown possessed one significant advantage over the other rodeo clowns: she would allow him to choose patrol diversions. Brown enjoyed keeping secrets from Father.

He waited until there was quiet to start the talk. “I had an ulterior motivation in selecting you as my patrol partner,” he announced.

Brown gave him her full attention. “I assumed so.” She cocked her head to the side. “What can I do ya for?”

He resisted the urge to wrinkle his brows at her. Now was not the time to correct her English. “Earlier today in my civilian identity, I witnessed something strange. However, no one else reacted as if they could perceive it.”

Her eyebrows shot up and she let out a low whistle. “And they should have?” Brown checked. “This wasn't just civilian incompetence?”

He shook his head in disgust. “I directly pointed at the suspicious individual and yet Todd did not see.” He scowled at the memory. “People should have stared. The man wore very odd clothes and carried a bow and single arrow in public.”

Brown snorted like a pig. “In the mall?” She asked, disbelieving but amused.

“Indeed.” Damian confirmed it gravely. “So you see why I wish to investigate. However, I would describe the incident as further bizarre. The man…” he trailed off. It sounded foolish. “He shot his arrow, and it hit a woman, yet she remained unharmed.”

“She what now?” Brown appeared disturbed. “What did he look like?” She leaned in close.

“He appeared-” Damian struggled for words. “He was well formed, dreamy and dark despite being clad in light fabric with an inherent glow to his appearance, as if some sort of François Boucher nightmare-”

“Whoa whoa there little man,” Brown interrupted. “I don't know that reference.”

He stared at her. “Philistine,” he said, because she should know this was a deficiency to correct.

Brown simply shrugged, unwounded.

Well. It was good that she knew her shortcomings and could accept them with grace.

“A painter,” Damian allowed. “The suspect was dressed in the manner characteristic of Boucher's subject matter.”

Brown hummed and typed away at her phone. She frowned. He waited impatiently. She looked at him sideways, without moving her face at all. “How do you spell that?”

Damian spelled it for her, unsurprised. He waited a few moments for the reaction. It did not disappoint.

Brown's hand spasmed. “A man who looked like this shot an invisible arrow in public at a woman?” She demanded, shoving her phone in his face.

He scoffed and shoved it away without looking. He deigned to check when she shook it at him with a serious expression. “Yes, that's correct.” He frowned, interested in her reaction. “Do you have a lead?”

Brown laced both hands in her hair, phone pressed up against her curls. “I think you saw Cupid, from mythology,” she said.

“... Conventionally depicted as a cherub?” He said, confused. “Is he not a fat baby? Boucher often depicted Cupid as a flying baby.”

She nodded.

Damian paused. He did not want to outright ask if Cupid was a real historical figure. Was that not a candy spokesman or something or the sort? No- western religious iconography! He recalled it now.

“Young Justice murdered Santa Claus, you know,” Brown said. Her eyes sparkled and she clenched a hand into a fist. “Now, it's my turn.”

“They what?” Damian demanded, outraged. He wasn't allowed to kill anyone but Drake's infantile little club had murdered a Saint? That was unfair! Then he blinked. “...You wish to kill Cupid?” He eyed her up and down. “This is outside of your usual modus operandi.” Damian frowned.

Did he have to agree with that? Would Father discover the indiscretion? Normally of course he would, but if the perpetrator was invisible, then perhaps he could allow this in exchange for Brown’s cooperation-

She waved that away with a laugh. “I don't want to kill him, I just want to prove I met him.”

Ah.

He mentally returned to his earlier, simpler plan. “I wish to review the footage from the food court to see if there are any signs on the recording,” he explained, brusque. “I suspect not. My secondary motivation is to identify the victim.”

Brown's lips twitched. “We should track her down,” she agreed. “If she's recently begun a romantic relationship, that would indicate this is the real Cupid as opposed to a copycat.”

Damian's eyebrows rose. He hadn't yet considered that this might be some strange crime of magically impersonating a magical figure. “Good work,” he told Brown, because it was true. “Shall we?”

Young lovers are shot by Cupid (he is now wanted for questioning)

“Suspicious?” Todd paused mid-pull on his smoothie. He lifted his face, surveyed the mall, and frowned slightly. “Who?”

Damian tried to physically point Todd's face at the incredibly suspicious man lugging an unconcealed weapon in public. “How did you fail to see him?” Damian demanded. The man was very nearly flouting public decency laws and wearing extremely unseasonable sandals.

“Whoa, squirt.” Todd tried to ruffle his hair. “What are you talking about?”

“Cease!” Damian dodged with a scowl. “How could you fail to notice such a person? Open your eyes and look!”

Todd sighed. “Who are you talking about?”

Damian pointed.

Todd's eyes glanced over the man without any recognition.

But the man looked over to make eye contact. His eyes widened. He looked delighted.

“Brat?”

Damian watched with narrowed eyes as the strange man gave him a mischievous smile, pressed a finger to his lips, and gestured for secrecy. Then he took the bow and arrow off his back, pointed in the crowd, and fired in one smooth motion.

The arrow hit a woman in the back, in the center of her chest. It flashed out of sight in the same instant.

Damian shouted and stood straight up. Food flew as he jarred the table. Heads turned to look at him.

The woman was one of them.

He stood, processing. There was no blood on her body at all. She was unwounded. He had watched the suspect fire an arrow in public into a woman's heart and she was unharmed.

When he did nothing, people turned back to their food. He stared in disbelief. The woman who had been hit leaned into her friend and said something close to their ear.

No one looked at the archer. The arrow- the arrow that he had fired was back in his hand. How?

He nodded at Damian and then he disappeared.

Damian blinked.

Clearly, this villain was supernatural or magical. What had been his purpose? Damian would have to track that woman down and see if anything unusual happened to her. As he watched, she laced her fingers together with her friend and walked away, laughing. His lips curled. Foolish. She had no concept of the danger she was in!

“The hell is up with you?” Todd demanded, sounding unnerved. “Hey!” He tapped the table rapidly with a hand.

Reluctantly, Damian sat. His brain was churning.

“Are you-”

“I'm fine,” Damian cut Todd off. He crossed his arms, as if to protect his own heart. “I was…. Mistaken.”

Todd leaned back. “If you say so,” he said, dubious.

He was missing something. He had to do research. As soon as Todd released him from the purgatory of shopping for a birthday present for Father, he went to the batcave and started researching villains who used a bow and arrow.

Unsatisfactory. He widened his search. Hits were few and easily discarded. “It was not Oliver Queen,” he muttered to the monitor with a sneer. It kept pinging helpfully that Queen was the most famous archer at the moment. “The man I saw escaped from a different off-Broadway musical than Queen.”

He needed to change his approach. He attempted to access the Mall's security footage.

…It was on a closed connection. Damian felt his lips thin.

Very well. Robin would go retrieve the footage, locate the victim, and see if the attacker appeared on camera.

[livefreeordrive]

We’re calling this the “Outlaw Cowgirl Loop" and it makes corridor trail running at Grand Canyon look like a casual lap around the track (OK that’s hyperbole to the max, but dang!)

[vintagerpg]

Out of Time (2011) is the first of a loose trilogy of scenario collections for Trail of Cthulhu. Of the three, this is probably my favorite.

Adam Gauntlett delivers an investigation at a World War I field hospital where dark doings are afoot (this set-up is never not going to remind me of the videogame Eternal Darkness). It’s a solid one and focuses on a lesser known Clark Ashton Smith entity, which I like. Fiasco’s Jason Morningstar offers up a nice cult-centric scenario set in a desolate antarctic island that forces some dark moral calculus. Bill White’s got two. The second is a fun little jaunt in the South Pacific, investigating some strangeness following atomic tests that might involve some cone-shaped aliens.

White’s other scenario is something special, though: it casts the players as science fiction writer Robert Heinlein, his wife Virgina, editor Tony Boucher and a young Phil Dick investigating the supernatural cause of rocket scientist and occultist Jack Parson’s death (a real-life figure who was involved with L. Ron Hubbard and Aleister Crowley). This is a truly audacious and delightful set up for a scenario. White acknowledges that only a small slice of players are going to be into it, but that those who do will be over the moon for it. He’s right, I can see the moon below me.

[youcouldmakealife]

Superlative Awards Results (Rd 1)

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate! 

The results are in, and here are your Hall of Famers (and the Hall of Shame)

Results for Round Two are up tomorrow!

You’ll see asterisks behind some names. This means the winner received a ton of votes, and the asterisks denote the following:

* a consensus has been reached (40% and up)

** canonical fact, clearly (50% and up)

*** why did I even bother asking this (70% and up) 

If a second place character trailed the winner by 10 or fewer votes, they’ll get an honorary (or shameful) mention.

Best to be stuck with on a desert island: Gabe Markson (*)

Worst to be stuck with on a desert island: Harry Chalmers

Best locker room DJ: Kiro Volkov (*)

No longer allowed to be locker room DJ: Marc Lapointe

Most likely to get a speeding ticket: Bryce Marcus (*)

(Seb Boucher close second. And also *)

Most likely to drive EXACTLY the speed limit: David Chapman  (*)

Most likely to be the one in the middle of locker room nonsense: Liam Fitzgerald

Least likely to get involved in locker room nonsense: Mike Brouwer (*)

(Made for one another, clearly)

Most likely to venmo you $1.67 If they owe you $1.67: David Chapman(**)

Most likely to forget they owe you ANYTHING: Liam Fitzgerald

Best Chirper: Kiro Volkov (*)

Worst Chirper: David Chapman (*)

(BEST FRIENDS)

Most likely to use a dozen hair and skin products: Bryce Marcus (**)

Most likely to use 2 in 1 shampoo and a bar of soap: Mike Brouwer (**)

Most likely to win an Olympic medal in another sport: Tate Williams (*)

Most uncoordinated off the ice: Andy Bowman (*)

Most ‘ums’ in a single media availability: Evan Connelly (*)

Most likely to get through an interview without a single filler word: 

Marc Lapointe (**)

Refs' Favourite: Jordan Davies😉 (*)

Refs' worst nightmare: Brandon 'Shithead' Simcoe (*)

Most likely pair to rock a couples Halloween costume: 

ScratchnMoney (**)

Most likely pair not to bother with costumes at all: David and Jake 

(second place tie: Gabe/Stephen & Mike/Liam, both a mere 4 votes behind the winners)

Would be your favourite player IRL: David Chapman

Would be your least favourite player IRL: Brandon 'Shithead' Simcoe (*)

Most likely to survive a zombie apocalypse: Mike Brouwer (**)

Least likely to survive a zombie apocalypse: Bryce Marcus (*)

Most likely to call their mom if they have so much as a runny nose: Bryce Marcus (***!)

Least likely to admit they're sick even if they're running a temperature of 101 (38.3c):  Tate 'Willy' Williams (*)

Best choice for your pub trivia team: Owen Thomson

Worst choice for your pub trivia team: Bryce Marcus (*)

Let us all take a moment to congratulate Bryce Marcus for being the most vain about his hair and skincare routine, the worst choice for a pub trivia team unless there’s a dedicated Hockey And Jared Matheson category, the most likely to get a speeding ticket, most likely to call his mom when sick (he was gonna call her anyway!!), AND the least likely to survive a zombie apocalypse. He is a Bear of Very Little Brain and I love him.

[goalhofer]

2022-23 Belleville Senators Roster

Winters

#10 Philippe Daoust (Barrie, Ontario)

#13 Egor Sokolov (Yekaterinburg, Russia)

#16 Matthew Boucher (Quebec, Quebec)**

#18 Jarid Lukosevicius (Squamish-Lillooet District, British Columbia)*

#19 John Quenneville (Edmonton, Alberta)*

#23 Cole Reinhardt (Calgary, Alberta)

#26 Brennan Saulnier (Halifax, Nova Scotia)*

#34 Roby Järventie (Tampere, Finland)

#36 Angus Crookshank (North Vancouver, British Columbia)

#49 Scott Sabourin (Ottawa, Ontario)

Centers

#7 Viktor Lodin (Leksand Stad, Sweden)

#8 Jayce Hawryluk (Roblin Municipality, Manitoba) A

#9 Jake Lucchini (Trail, British Columbia) A

#11 Kyle Betts (Grey Highlands, Ontario)**

#12 Cole Cassels (Dublin, Ohio)*

#14 Rourke Chartier (Saskatoon, Saskatchewan) A

#20 Matthew Wedman (Edmonton, Alberta)

#47 Mark Kastelic (Phoenix, Arizona)

Defensemen

#3 Dillon Heatherington (Calgary, Alberta) C

#4 Jacob Larsson (Ljungby Stad, Sweden)*

#5 Xavier Bernard (Mercier, Quebec)

#21 Max Guénette (Quebec, Quebec)

#24 Jacob Bernard-Docker (Canmore, Alberta)

#27 Jack Dougherty (Cottage Grove, Minnesota)

#33 Lassi Thomson (Tampere, Finland)

#44 Kristiāns Rubīns (Riga, Latvia)

#48 Jonathan Aspirot (Mascouche, Quebec)

Goalies

#31 Kevin Mandolese (Saint-Jacques, Quebec)

#35 Antoine Bibeau (Victoriaville, Quebec)*

[bordeleaubeau]

idk you yet - luke hughes (part one)

wc: 2830

warnings: probably a few curses, i honestly can’t really remember:)

inspired by idk you yet by alexander 23.

---

how can you miss someone you’ve never met?

the words forming on luke’s arm startle him at first. there’s a tingling tickle-like feeling as each letter appears, but luke can barely believe his eyes. he was just about to turn seventeen and until that moment he had no sign of his soulmate whatsoever. but now? now he had proof on his arm that his soulmate was out there somewhere. that meant the boys could finally stop teasing him in the locker room about possibly not having a soulmate. 

it felt like everyone around luke knew their soulmate was out there. it was such a rare possibility that someone didn’t have a soulmate - if their soulmate passed away, chances are they would too due to the pain from the loss. and, well, luke hadn’t died yet, so that was his only hope of his soulmate being out there.

the initial shock is soon replaced by pure adrenaline. luke can barely pay attention to what ever mrs. clemmens is writing on the board; all he can focus on is writing back to his soulmate. whoever she might be. 

i don’t know you yet, but i need you. do you know how long i’ve waited to hear from you?

you’re smiling down at your arm - it was always a game whenever you’d finally be able to contact your soulmate. some were able to as soon as their fifteenth birthday, some couldn’t until their eighteenth. and well, if you hadn’t contacted them by then, there was some bad news to be delivered. but it was all a waiting game. the day you were able to contact them was supposed to be one of the happiest days of your life, but there was only one catch: your soulmate could be thousands of miles from you.

and what about me with you?

“mr. hughes!” 

luke’s attention snaps to the front of the classroom, where the middle aged woman now has her hands on her hips staring at one of her best pupils. luke’s eyes are wide, the color draining from his face as each head of his classmates turn to look at him.

“care to share what’s gotten you so smiley, luke? or will you pay attention to my lesson for at least three seconds?” luke sputters for a few seconds, causing the woman’s eyebrows to spike up in question. “out with it.”

“i’ll, i’ll pay attention, mrs. clemmens.” the brunette finally manages to get out, sinking back in his seat. the color returns to his face, but this time it’s the same shade of red as the apple on mrs. clemmen’s desk. he didn’t want to leave her hanging, but he wasn’t going to risk getting in trouble again. he wasn’t going to out himself for finally finding his soulmate - and being one of the last in his grade to do so.

luke feels his phone vibrate in his sweatshirt pocket, and upon just the right moment he pulls his phone out to see tyler had messaged him.

tyler b: were you finally able to talk to her? 

luke isn’t able to respond to tyler in fear that mrs. clemmens will have a few words for him, and surely enough he didn’t need to get into any more trouble with one of his teachers. one more write up and he was going to be benched for an entire month. so against his better judgement, he sticks his hands in his pockets and pays attention to the lesson going on. all while trying to ignore the tickle feeling on his hand.

“i can’t believe you were finally able to talk to him!” mal gushes, her eyes glued to your arm that had a mix of jet black and purple ink scrawled on it. there was game @7 written on your hand in purple ink, along with a star next to it. “how do you think tyler is going to react?” 

your heart nearly drops in your chest. tyler. your boyfriend - of almost a year, in fact. in the midst of it all you seemed to of forgotten about him, your mind elsewhere, and it was on your soulmate. your soulmate that wasn’t him. 

“i have to tell him, don’t i?” you look up at your best friend, eyes glossier than they had been seconds before. “mal, i dunno, i dunno if i can do that. tyler is- he’s so sweet. he’s gonna be crushed.”

“who’s gonna be crushed?” 

speak of the devil. 

tyler drops his bag on the floor, sitting down in the seat next to you like he always did in english class. mal notices the slight tension, turning back to face forward in her seat as she waits for class to begin. you take a quick breath, turning to your boyfriend, you grasp both of his hands in yours. “ty, i have to tell you something.”

tyler’s eyes glance down to your wrist, and only the slightest bit is showing from the sleeves of your sweater riding up, but he sees it. the black ink. “anything, y/n.” he clears his throat, pretending like he hadn’t seen anything at all.

“you’re not my soulmate.”

“i know.”

your eyes widen ever so slightly, and you watch as tyler slides up the sleeve of his hoodie. there are a few little sentences scrawled on his skin, ones that were clearly not on yours. you can’t quite find the words to say. your mouth opens and closes a few times before finally, you’re stumped, and you sit back in your seat with your eyebrows furrowed. you let go of his hands, your own falling into your lap. 

“how long?” you finally manage to muster out, meeting his regretful eyes. he had reassured you multiple times that he hadn’t heard from his soulmate yet, but you should’ve gone against your better judgement when he was suddenly wearing long sleeves all the time. and it wasn't just for the winter, you now realized. 

“about, about three months.” he notices the look on your face, and just like moments before he takes your hands in his. “y/n, just because you aren’t my soulmate doesn’t mean i never loved you. i still do love you. i just-”

“it’s okay, i get it.” you cut him off, pulling your hands away from his. “it’s okay, ty. i just wish you would have told me sooner, that’s all.” your voice trails off to a whisper. tyler grabs your hand once more, and he presses a kiss to the back of it. 

“friends?” he asks, and when you nod your head, he presses another kiss to your skin before releasing his hold on your hand. you have to swallow the lump that’s forming in your throat. of course you were upset - you had every reason to be. but you weren’t expecting to be this upset, and you also weren’t expecting tyler to say he already knew the two of you weren’t soulmates.

the english period seems to drag on and on, and after what feels like two hours the bell rings. “walk with me to lunch?” you hear the brunette next to you speak, and you find yourself nodding. “y/n/n, please, talk to me. i hate when you’re mad a me.”

“i’m not mad at you, ty. i promise you that. i just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.” tyler gives you a tight lipped smile, and before the two of you can start to walk to the cafeteria, tyler pulls his hoodie off, revealing his inked arm. it’s a pang to the heart, but you know that you’ll get over it eventually. “what’s she like?” you ask quietly, the two of you starting the few minute trek across the school.

“she’s, she’s really nice. she’s pretty, too. i follow her on instagram, actually. her name is gabby.” tyler glances over at you a few times as he speaks, and you can only find yourself to be nodding along to his words. “i know she’s my soulmate and all, y/n, but she isn’t you.”

you stop in your tracks, causing tyler to turn around to look at you. “don’t. don’t say that. she’s your soulmate, and i’m not, for a reason, tyler boucher. don’t say that about her. i’m sure she’s lovely, and she’s everything that i can’t be for you.”

“i’m sorry i just-” tyler cuts himself off with a sigh, going to reach for your hand but he stops halfway. “i wanted it to be you. i thought it was you. and then one day, i had writing on my wrist, and i looked at yours and it wasn’t there. i know that’s supposed to be one of the happiest days of our life, but it was one of the worst for me. because i wanted it to be you, y/n. so bad.”

to say the least, the two of you were pretty much the ‘it’ couple. your entire friend group adored you both, and you were the first girl that the boys allowed over when they all hung out - but only occasionally. it was never an all the time thing, which you understood. but still, you and tyler had been through a lot together for not even being together a year. 

“it all happens for a reason,” you say, tears welling up in your eyes as your feet start moving again, and tyler is following after you, quickly matching your pace. “i just, i don’t know, tyler. there’s not much we can do about it and that’s fine.”

“you’re right.” the brunette mumbles, head hanging in despair as you walked down the steps to go into the cafeteria. the rest of the walk between the two of you is silent, but a comfortable one.

the lunch table you, tyler, all of the boys, mal, and a few other girls came into view. and as soon as they realized tyler wasn’t wearing his sweatshirt and his arms were fully exposed, along with the pen ink and the looks on your faces, they all knew. they knew that you finally knew.

the conversations going on didn’t completely stop, but they quieted down for a few brief moments when you and tyler took your usual seats. you try to avoid the eyes of your friends, but it’s nearly impossible. your eyes catch luke’s, and he’s giving you the puppy dog eyes from the other side of the table.

“are you okay?” he asks quietly, and all you can do is shake your head ever so slightly. “oh, y/n.”

luke wants to reach across the table and grab your hands, but he wants to save himself from the teasing he’s sure he would get from the boys if they saw the girly handwriting on the back of his hand. “i’ll be alright, lu. promise.” you give him a reassuring smile, but of course he doesn’t believe it. not in the slightest.

“are you still gonna come to our game tonight?” tyler asks quietly from your right side, and when you turn to look at him he’s already looking down at you. if this was yesterday, you would’ve leaned up the three inches and kissed him.

“of course i’m gonna.” you say, eyes glancing down to his lips but you quickly turn away to look down at your hands. “there’s no where else i’d rather be, ty. besides, luke is still my best friend and i still have to support him.”

luke sends you a smile from across the table, one that makes you smile right back at him. for majority of the lunch period, everyone leaves you alone to wallow in your own sadness. even luke couldn’t cheer you up, and that was something. you know you shouldn’t be this upset - this happened to like, every couple that dated before finding their soulmate. but for some reason you thought you and tyler were the exception. 

another period drags on, and after what feels like forever you find yourself getting up from your designated lunch spot. luke stands, waiting for you to walk to the other side of the table so the two of you can go to art class together. “see you boys tonight,” you call over your shoulder, tearing your eyes away from tyler, and walking away hearing the boys responding saying they’ll see you later that night. 

“rant. cry. do whatever you have to do.” luke says, glancing over at his best friend that looks like she could burst into tears at any moment. luke had been waiting all day to tell you that he had finally heard from his soulmate - but as soon as he saw the look on your face he held back. he didn’t want to rub it in when you had just found out about tyler. the biggest secret he had ever kept from you.

“i just,” you purse your lips, eyes locked straight forward to avoid looking at him. “i just wish he would’ve told me. the last few months of our relationship feel like a complete lie.”

“y/n, tyler absolutely adored you. he still adores you. he never even stopped. and i can tell you for a fact that he still loves you. he’s always talking about you - he was talking about you when we were in second period today!” luke exclaims, and finally you look over at him. “i can promise you, y/n, it was not a lie, it never was.”

you can only shake your head, bottom lip between your teeth as the tears well up in your eyes. “it was supposed to be him, lu. ty and i have talked about our entire future together because we swore we were gonna end up being soulmates.”

“maybe you are soulmates,” luke says, holding open the door of the art room for you. “it’s just, not in the way you’d prefer. ty and you are soulmates, but just not romantically. do you get what i’m saying?”

“i guess.” you sigh, luke following into the classroom after you walk in. his heart yearns for you - he wants to lift up his sleeve and show you the purple ink, but he can’t bring himself to do that. 

later that night you find yourself getting ready for tyler and luke’s game, trying to decide between the 13 or the 6 jersey - jerseys the two boys had fought numerous times over which one you would wear. once tyler found out luke had given you one of his old jerseys he had outgrown, he was immediately giving you one of his as well. that was even before you and tyler were dating - he always had the biggest crush on you.

which was why he was sitting in his stall, head in his hands wondering where he had went wrong.

“ty, buddy, what’s going on?” dylan asks, noticing the brunette that has his head hung. immediately, tyler lifts his head and dylan’s eyes widen. “you look like shit, dude.”

“i feel like shit,” tyler grumbles, slowly moving to tie the laces of his skates that he always saved until the very end of gearing up. he catches a glimpse of the ink on his arm and he grimaces, wishing he could just wiped away at his skin and everything would disappear. that everything would be okay.

luke catches the eyes of his best friend and he frowns seeing the hurt in his eyes. “are you still upset about y/n?” he asks cautiously, fingers working at his laces, eyes barely glancing back up to tyler.

“yeah, i am actually. i know i don’t really have a right to be upset and all, but it still feels wrong. we went through a lot together, it just doesn’t feel real that we aren’t really soulmates. that the .  girl i was practically in love with since i got here isn’t my soulmate.” tyler shakes his head as he spills his feelings for the day out. he couldn’t wait until he got to step onto the ice and forget about the day’s events.

until he saw you sitting in your normal seat, and instead of the number 13 jersey, you were wearing the one with the 6, and the seven letter last name on the back was now one letter shorter. 

“oh fuck me,” tyler grumbles, and you’d be lying if you said your heart strings didn’t tug seeing him step out onto the ice. if the two of you had only been dating for two months rather than almost a year, maybe you would’ve felt different about the situation. but that was tyler. your tyler. or rather, gabby’s tyler now.

“y/n?” bella asks from besides you, trying to tear your sad eyes away from the brunette. when you finally do and look over at one of your best friends, she sees your teary eyes and her face softens. “oh, y/n/n. you’re taking this hard, aren’t you?”

“i don’t want my soulmate if it isn’t tyler.”

[allegra-writes]

"Cherry"

Peter Parker x SHIELD Agent! Reader

NSFW

Warnings: Smut. Dom!Peter, jealous, Possesive!Peter, rough sex.

Weeks after the island, Peter finally sees you again. But you aren't alone...

Part of the "Fine Line" series but you don't need to have read that first.

Series Masterlist

Peter couldn't breath. His clothes felt stiff and restrictive, the bowtie, suffocating. This was a bad, bad idea. He wasn't cut for this. He was just a Parker, not a Stark, he had spent most his life trying to be invisible, not even getting superpowers had changed that. He had never wanted to stand out. He didn't want to be seen, to be recognized. 

Even Quentin Beck had realized that. That's why he had done what he had, because he knew it would be the best way to ruin Peter's life. It had been almost a month since his return from Eroda, since Pepper and Fury had managed to clear his name and expose Quentin Beck as the fraud he was, trying to frame Peter for his murder with an adulterated video out of jealousy and envy. The greedy, insane employee gone mad after being overlooked in favor of the young intern, chosen by Tony Stark himself to be his successor. Spider-Man had just been doing his job as Peter's bodyguard when the incident at the bridge happened.

That was the official story, and the press had bought it with gusto, plastering the wide eyed boy's face on every cover, every paper, every magazine, every news site. A few weeks later, he was pretty much America's new sweetheart. Everybody knew his name. Everybody knew his face. His anonymity was gone.

Quentin Beck had won. 

And now, there he was, being blinded by flashing lights, walking the red carpet of his first gala as the official heir of Stark Industries… two seconds away from throwing up.

"Breathe, Peter" Pepper whispered to him, voice calm and reassuring, "Just focus on a point above their heads, and keep your head high" 

She took a step forward and Peter couldn't help but stare: she looked like a queen in her white gown, complete with cape and everything. She was an elegant woman but it wasn't just about her beauty, it was about the power, the authority she commanded, every eye in that red carpet had no choice but to focus on her. 

Tony had been like that too, albeit in a different way: charismatic and bigger than life. Peter wondered how anybody could look at him, awkward and pasty, and think he was related to the man. Because he knew what people were saying...

"Parker, how are you holding up, mate?" A tall, blond boy patted his back, pulling him out of his thoughts. Harry Osborn, the only person there to introduce himself to Peter and actually take the time to try and make him feel comfortable. At first Peter had thought it had something to do with his family being the one hosting the gala but the youngest Osborn wasn't exactly famous for his good manners or decorum. 

"I think I'm about to have a panic attack" more like sensory overload, but Peter wasn't sure how could he explain something like that to his new friend.

"Well, you are not hungover and puking on the photographers" The blond flashed him a brilliant smile, "so you're already doing better than me on my first red carpet"

Peter couldn't help the burst of laughter, but far from offended, Harry's grin turned even brighter. The flashes went wild.

"There you go, that should make for better photographs than the deer-in-the-headlights look you were sporting"

Peter offered him a grateful smile,

"Thanks dude, really"

"Don't mention it" Harry shook his head, "You're actually doing me a favor, letting me hang out with you. You're saving me from looking all lonely and pathetic in front of these vultures, since apparently I have been stood up..."

Peter stared at the blond in surprise. With those sharp cheekbones and icy blue eyes, it was hard to believe any girl could resist him. He suddenly felt a lot less bad about showing up dateless. 

"Alright, we've spent about fifteen minutes out here, we can go in now" Harry instructed, already a pro at this kind of event, gesturing for Peter to follow. 

He noticed the whispers as they walked into the massive lobby together, Oscorp and Stark Industries were rivals, just as Norman Osborn and Tony Stark used to be. His mentor used to find the other billionaire shady and his experiments, unethical. Even now, Pepper's and Norman's relationship was strained, at best, so seeing both heirs so friendly with each other was a little shocking. But if Harry didn't care about that, neither would Peter. Whatever sins the father had committed, he wasn't going to hold them against the son. That wasn't Peter's style. 

"So, what do you think of your first gala, so far?" Harry sauntered in front of him, stealing two champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handling one to Peter.

"Oh, I- I don't drink, thank you"

"Good, that's a wise choice, don't change it" Harry praised, taking the glass back and downing that one too. Peter shook his head.

"I like it," He replied, looking around at the huge salon decked in lavished green and silver banners, the tables gilded with intricate floral arrangements, the huge shiny dance floor in the middle. "Stark Industries' is having one for Christmas, but it's going to be held at a hotel…"

Harry made a face,

"Yeah, that would be the norm, actually. But my father wanted to have it here this year, to prove the facilities are safe, you know?"

Peter thought back to that fatidical field trip all those years ago, to this very same building, when he was bitten by a stray radioactive spider that had escaped one of the labs. He hummed noncommittally. He seriously hoped mister Osborn was right, for the good of everyone attending the party, Harry included. Because truth was he really liked his new friend, he made everything easier just by offering Peter his company, by giving him someone his age to talk too, amongst all those old, stuck up gazillionaires that stared at him with curiosity at best, and open contempt at worst. 

But of course all good things had to come to an end, such was the Parker luck. Harry took his vibrating cell phone out of his pocket.

"Would you look at that! It seems my date has finally arrived" He announced, eyes glued to the screen, smitten smile on his face, "One would think an influencer would jump at the chance of being photographed by the press at a red carpet… But not her, of course. No, she arrives an hour late… I'll go find her, be right back, Parker"

That was when he saw you. Entering the ballroom, a siren in your long golden dress, scanning the crowd. You looked stunning, hair longer, lighter, done in elegant waves cascading down your back.   Your smile was dazzling as you found what you were looking for, and Peter didn't see his new friend make his way to you, entranced as he was by your mere presence.

Until he reached your side, and kissed your lips. 

Harry Osborn offered you his arm, and you took it graciously, and he walked you through the room, proud swag on his steps as he introduced you to practically everyone in the party, Peter's heart breaking a little more with every step you took towards him.

He hadn't heard from you since the island, and now he knew why: You had already found someone new. Someone better, more handsome, and classier than Peter. Than the awkward boy you had been sent to protect. 

Because underneath the Stark's money and his spider powers, that was all Peter was: some orphan kid from Queens who didn't belong. Harry could take you on dates to fancy restaurants without mispronouncing the names of the dishes, he could take you walking around his mother's art gallery in the upper east. He, with his aristocratic features, his british boarding school accent, his old family money, was a much better fit for a princess like you. You wanting Peter had never made much sense anyway. 

And you looked good on Harry's arm, better than ever, actually. You looked happy. Peter hated it, and he hated himself for it. 

"Parker! I want you to meet my date, Sixtine Boucher, influencer, it girl, philanthropist..." Harry was saying, suddenly in front of him, but Peter wasn't listening. You were there, close enough to touch, in the flesh. He could hear your heartbeat, smell you, sunshine and sweetness under the chemical tang of your expensive perfume for the first time after so long and it was almost overwhelming.

"S-Sixteen?"

"Sixtine" You corrected him, sighing as if it was something you did all the time and you were tired of it, "Bonsoir, Peter."

You sounded… funny. 

"You know each other?" Harry's voice asked, politely curious.

"We met during vacation, at the…" You trailed off, eyes meeting Peter in a silent request to play along, disguised as a struggle to find the right words, “... Comment dis-tu ‘plage’ en anglais?”

"Beach" Provided Peter, his brain catching up at last "Yeah, at the beach… when I was on vacation… a-at the french riviera"

"What a small world!" Harry chuckled but it sounded nervous, uncertain. No doubt he could feel the tension between the two of you, growing with every passing second. Along with Peter's understanding. The hair, the dress, the french accent? It was a costume, you were a spy after all. You weren't there for leisure, you were there for work. This was a mission. Harry was your target, or maybe your cover. Whatever it was, it wasn't you. It wasn't real. 

But then again, had Peter really met the real you? After all, not that long ago he had been your mission too…

When the next waiter passed in front of him, Peter stopped him. It probably would no nothing to his spider metabolism, but alcohol was looking more and more like a good idea. He had a feeling he was going to need all the help possible to get through the night. Harry arched a brow but luckily didn't comment, as he was beginning to get a clearer idea about how you and the brown eyed boy knew each other.

A glint on your cleavage caught Peter's eyes and he frowned. There, hanging from a long gold chain, nested between your breasts and almost completely hidden by the, admittedly low cut, neckline of your dress, rested a familiar crystal sunflower. The cheap jewel didn't match your cover, or your outfit, the only reason why you could be wearing it, was him. 

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, letting you know he understood, and you let out the breath you were holding. 

But awareness didn't make watching you, plastered to Harry's side all night any easier. It didn't stop him from seeing red every time you called Harry "baby", the endearment close enough to the "baby boy" you used for Peter to feel like a betrayal. It definitely didn't save the glass of wine he was holding from shattering under his grip as he saw you sneak outside of the room with him in the middle of dinner.

"Peter! Are you alright?" Pepper fussed over his hand, looking for cuts, and motioning to a waiter to help clean the shards of glass from the table.

"Yeah" He murmured, distractedly, eyes never leaving the doorway you had disappeared through, "I-I'm sorry, you'll have to excuse me"

He didn't even wait for Mrs. Stark's reply as he got up from the table, giving chase to you and your date through corridors and elevators, following your giggles and the faint trace of your perfume. His persecution led him to the upmost floor of the building, where a single mahogany awaited him, but the fingertip scanner on the lock told him he wasn't going to be able to open it. 

He cursed, barely catching himself from making a dent on the wall with a punch. You were doing your job, that was all, he repeated, like a mantra. Whatever was happening behind that door meant nothing. You were wearing his sunflower, that had to mean something, it had to.

After a few minutes, that felt like hours to him, the door opened.

"Peter! Shit, I was hoping you would be smarter than to follow me!" You hissed, as he pushed you back, stepping inside the room and closing the door behind him.

"Where is Harry?" 

"Knocked out in the bathroom" You pointed at a door by the side. Peter took a look around the room, by far the biggest, most luxurious office he had ever seen in his entire life. And he had been inside Pepper's so that was saying something. The view of the Manhattan skyline through the floor to ceiling window was nothing short of breath taking. "I just needed him to get in here"

"Right. Of course. I knew that" 

You squinted in suspicion at his flat tone,

"Pete, are you… jealous?" You smirked, amused. But Peter wasn't in the mood for your teasing, his patience finally reaching its limit.

He was on you in a heartbeat, pushing you back against the wall, caging you with his body. There was a dangerous, possessive spark in his eyes that you had never seen before. One that promised trouble for you. 

"So what if I am?" He challenged, bracing himself on one hand on the wall next to your head, the other one slipping through the high slit on the skirt of your dress, fingertips digging on the sensitive skin at the inside of your thighs, "So what if every time I saw him put his hands on you tonight, I wanted to break his fingers? What if every time he kissed you, I felt like dying?" 

The pain was evident in his voice, breaking your heart a little. But this was you, you were a special agent, this was what you did. Peter had said he wanted you, wanted to get to know the real you. Well, this was it. 

"I'm not going to apologise for doing my job…" 

"I'm not asking you to" He interrupted

"Then what are you asking of me?" 

Peter pinned you with a long, considering look and you did your best not to squirm under its intensity.

"I'm not asking anymore, mon chérie " he finally spoke, "I'm taking"

He crushed his mouth, and his body, to yours, trapping you under his familiar weight and, for the first time since returning from the island, you felt home. He tasted like wine, and the cherries from dessert and heat. You had almost forgotten how his warmth felt like sunlight against your skin, until every starved pore opened to soak him up. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, making you moan. God, how you had missed him on your lips! 

You must have said it out loud, because you felt his smile against your jaw as he broke the kiss to let you breathe. 

"Did you, now?" He inquired, nuzzling down your neck, "Where else did you miss me, cherry?" 

You felt his long, talented fingers find their goal, tugging your underwear to the side, slipping into you with no warning once he realized how ready you already were for him.

"Did you miss me here? Did you miss me inside you?" 

There was a buzzing in your coms and the reality of what was about to happen, andwhere it was about to happen hit you like a bucket of cold water. 

"Peter, wait, not here!" Peter ignored you, lips latching onto the spot just under your ear that Peter knew made you see stars. He couldn't wait, couldn't tear himself away from you, from your body. You were already breathing hard and he knew your halfhearted resistance wasn't going to last much longer. He speeded up the movement of his fingers inside you, tearing an involuntary cry out of your mouth. He was working you expertely, wave after wave of wetness bathing his hand, undeniable proof of your pleasure. 

"Gonna leave so many pretty marks on you..." He promised, puncturing his words by biting down, hard, on the column of your neck, "Everybody's going to know who you really belong to..."

"Peter, please!" You sobbed, implored.

"Want me to stop baby girl? Really?"

You shook your head no. You didn't, you couldn't. Fuck the mission, fuck Oscorp, you only wanted to feel him. It had been too long, way too long. You took your coms out of your ear and smashed it under your hill. You'd deal with Hill later. 

Peter slid the straps of your dress down your shoulders, lowering his face to your exposed chest, all wet lips and hot tongue as you hurriedly undid his button and zipper, finally freeing his angry, hard member. You pumped him once, and he bit on your nipple with enough strength to draw a single, sweet drop of blood. 

"Oh god… feels so good" Peter's words were muffled against your collar bone, as he stretched you, burying himself deep inside you, as far as he would go, "being one with you again…"

"I missed you" You confessed, "so much, baby boy!"

Peter leaned back, stormy eyes capturing yours, holding you hostage,

"Oh no, my cherry, after your little stunt calling Harry baby all night?" He tsked, "No, you don't get to call me that anymore… now, you're gonna call me 'daddy'"

With that, he started thrusting up into you roughly, hips almost cruel in their onslaught as they slammed into you, truly railing you against the wall, unyielding, unrelenting. You wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding on for dear life, taking what he gave you like a good girl cause that was what Peter needed from you. 

But god, did it feel good! His large thick cock, hard as vibranium, stretching you to your limits, a fit so tight you could feel every bump, every vein, as he hit all the secret spots inside you, tearing the pleasure out of you. Your orgasm was building fast, so fast it made you dizzy with the way all your blood rushed to your center. As your walls began to quiver around him, and you met Peter's fierce, furious face, you knew he wasn't going to be satisfied with just the one. Oh, no, he was going to rip out at least one more orgasm from your ravished body before releasing you. Undoubtedly not before marking you from the inside with his own release, you had long ago learned Peter was animalistic like that, all higher reasoning disappearing when it came to making you his. 

"Tell me you're mine" he breathed, demanding, against your cheek, hand sneaking between your bodies to tease your pearl, making you explode in sensation, and prolonging your climax, keeping you there where he wanted you, right on your peak until you were at the edge of sanity, your brain unable to process that much pleasure so suddenly and for so long.

You tried, but you couldn't remember how to form words, the only sound leaving your lips a delirious,

"Peter!"

"Say it, my cherry" he insisted, feeling his own release approach much quicker than he would like, but it just had been so long, and he had missed you so much and you just felt so fucking good  "let me hear you say you're mine as I make you come again…"

"Yes!" You cried, finally finding your voice, "I'm yours, Peter… only yours!"

"Damn right… all mine… only mine…"

He was almost there, and judging from the way your muscles were tensing and locking around him again, Peter knew you were too. But something was going on outside, his super hearing catching the sound of the elevator doors, and footsteps on the hallway. Still, he couldn't stop. He was so close, so fucking close… He had to come, had to make you come, before they did. There were voices outside, one of them he even recognized, telling the others to stop, to listen. Peter sneaked an arm around your waist, getting you away from the wall, moving you up and down his cock at inhuman speed, and he finally felt you fall apart. He came with a final cry of triumph… right as the doorknob started to turn. 

Faster than any human could, he ran behind the door, with you still in his arms, to buy himself a couple of seconds as he slipped out of you, fixing your dress so you were completely covered before even thinking about tucking himself back inside his pants. 

"Oh, for fucks sake!" Norman Osborn's exasperated voice was the first thing your pleasure addled brain was able to process as you stood on shaky legs, Peter's frame still hiding you from view. He took of his suit jacket, helping you put your hands through the sleeves and fastening it close.

"Put down your weapons, you goons! High security breach?.. Horny teenagers are not a menace, I should know!" Norman was still yelling at his guards. Peter turned around to face the old man, and you muffled your histerical laugh against his sweaty back, breathing him in. 

"S-sir… sorry, we-we we-were just" Peter babbled, trying to catch his breath.

"Oh, save it, boy! I know exactly what you were doing, this whole place stinks of sex!" 

You snorted and Norman finally seemed to notice who you were,

"I'm sorry, weren't you my son's date?"

You could only laugh harder.

"He passed out" provided Peter, as innocently as he managed, "in the bathroom"

"He's in the…" the billionaire's eyes widened, "Wait, you… you three were…"

"He really liked Peter" You announced, unhelpfully, fake accent restored. 

"Ignore her, please" Peter sounded apologetic, not wanting the blonde boy that had so kindly offered his friendship to him to face unjust consequences for his own fuck up "Harry has nothing to do with this. My girlfriend was just trying to make me jealous. It worked. Harry's only mistake was to get drunk"

Norman rolled his blue eyes, so alike his son's,

"A common mistake for him. Trust me, boy, you don't need to make excuses for him… God knows I got tired of making them myself a long time ago." He sighed, gesturing to his guards to check on Harry inside the bathroom.

"Now, get out of here, both of you, so I can call the cleaning crew… not Tony's son my ass, this is the exact same shit your father used to pull at all my parties!"

Peter opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but you tugged on his arm, it was pointless to try and deny it, Osborn senior was never going to believe him. 

Peter took your hand,

"Right. Of course… we'll be… going, then"

You chuckles at his cute, nervous babbling became a full on belly splitting laugh as you ran out of the office and locked yourselves inside the elevator. 

"Oh my god, his face!" You clutched at your stomach, doubled over, "that was… the best alibi in history! They didn't even search me!!" You showed Peter the tiny pendrive with S.H.I.E.L.D's logo where you had copied all the information inside Norman Osborn's computer. Peter tilted his head in confusion,

"Six, where were you even keeping that?!" Osborn's security might ot have searched you, but his own had been… pretty thorough. 

You merely winked, 

"Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?"

This time, it was Peter's turn of barking a laugh. He pulled you to him, kissing your forehead.

"Come on, let's find Happy and tell him to get the car. I want to get out of here…"

And he was taking you home with him. 

To be continued...

[vanillann]

aphrodite and her son cupid (spencer reid x f.reader)

finally got to part two, also if you asked for a part two i tagged you!!

word count: 1.6k

aphrodite and her son cupid mastlist

“Spence, just call.”

Spencer, JJ, and Morgan sat around Spencer's desk in the bullpen with Spencer's phone in the middle of the desk. The lockscreen of the Doctor Who cast that Penelope had picked out forever ago was one but the screen was clear of notifications.

“I can’t.”

“You can Pretty Ricky,” Morgan clapped down on Spencer's shoulder, giving a pearly white smile while trying to get him to pick up the phone.

“I can’t, it’s been three week since she gave it to me and statically-”

“No static, just call,” JJ pushed the phone slightly, giving a sweet smile that would have worked if Spencer nerves weren’t so highl.

“I-I can’t JJ,” he voice switched, saddened from the fact of everything slowly getting to him.

JJ looked to Morgan, her plan was falling apart and all she had left was Henry's plan, which she knew wouldn’t work but it’s all she had left.

“Okay Spence the topic is dropped, how about you come to dinner tonight with Will, Henry, and I?”

Spencer would never pass up dinner with Henry, never in a million years.

“Sure, where are we eating,” Spencer dared looked at his phone one last time before he looked back at JJ.

“It’s a nice Thai food restaurant about 20 from my place.”

*

The lighting was beautiful, dimmed down and little lights hung everywhere. Spencer definitely had never been in a Thai food restaurant this nice before, but he didn’t eat out much anyways.

“Jareau,” JJ smiled at the host, looking to Spencer to make sure he wasn’t looking, before leaning over to whisper to the woman's ear.

Henry was about to jump out his shoes out of excitement, this was his plan after all. He was hoping his Uncle Spencer would make it easy for him, I mean come on who doesn’t call the pretty lady, but he was prepared for this.

“Right this way,” the sweet lady, who couldn’t stop smiling at JJ, carried them to the back room with the extra seats. Once they pulled back the beautiful golden curtain, Spencer felt he was going to be sick.

There sat Ms. (L/N), her hair in the perfect arrangement, a beautiful black sweater sat on her shoulder with a black and pink floral skirt at her waist.

Spencer Reid didn’t get speechless often, Will knew that.

Suddenly a small stack of menus fell to the floor, Spencer wasn’t paying good attention as we see. This bought all eyes, yes I mean all, to Spencer as he nervously tried to pick up the menus that covered the floor now.

Two delicate hands reached for a stray menu, smiling as she handed it back to the good doctor. Henry was jumping in his seat, a bright smile on his face as Spence nervously looked up at the sweet teacher.

“Ms. (L/N),” Spencer was shocked his voice was clear.

“Doctor Reid,” she smiled down at the ground, itching behind her ear as if she was embarrassed.

Will thought he was better at profilings her than Spencer was at this point.

“W-what uhm, what are you doing here?”

“I come here everyone on the first Saturday of the month,” he spoke gently, the two slowly standing up full once the menus were back in their rightful places.

“Oh,” his words trailed off, looking over at JJ who sat with her family, at a completely full table. The only other empty table in the backroom was the extra seat across from Ms. (L/N).

He was going to cry, like sob cry from embarrassment at this rate.

“I-uhm, I think JJ must have forgotten I was joining them tonight, I suppose I should head out,” time to make a run for it.

“You can eat with me.”

Why did Spencer have to like incredibly nice people?

It was almost annoying how he felt he could never say no to her. It got so bad Spencer hasn’t come within 100 miles of the school since parent day.

“Are you sure?”

When (Y/N) nodded her head, JJ and Will fist bumped under the table. Henry boucher in his seat as Spencer made his way across from Ms. (L/N).

His plan was going just how he wanted it.

“How have you’ve been Doc?”

Spencer smiled at the nickname, one he missed more than on thought possible. It was odd, attaching the nickname to her but it felt weird when Garcia called him that last week.

“I’ve been busy, nothing new I suppose, You?”

He didn’t lie, he would never lie to her if he could help it, he just overplayed how busy he was.

“Good, the kids keep young,” she looked down to her menu, looking up at Spencer before frowning.

“You didn’t grab a menu for yourself?”

Spencer looked at his placement, everything but a menu was in his sight. How does one forget the very thing he knocked down? Maybe it was other things to be focused on, but Spencer wasn’t spilling that yet.

“Here,” Ms. (L/N) picked up her chair, moving it to the other side of the round table beside Spence and held the menu out for both to read.

She could have called for a waiter, sure, but it was just nicer to offer. Yeah that was the only reason. She definitely wasn’t making a move on the sweet attractive Doctor that has ignored her very sad attempt at flirting.

Spencer smiled, looking over the menu held in her multi-color painted nails, ones the kid must have paint with how sloppy they look.

“What do you normally get?”

“The Mango Salad, it’s a personal favorite,” she looked to her right,smiling at Spencer as he himself quickly looked over the menu. She liked the way when he read his jaw locked slightly, he was so focused he didn’t even think to move it.

“Are you both ready to order?”

The two looked up, eyes wide as the waitress stood with a sweet smile as a notepad waiting for the order.

“I believe so.”

*

(Y/N) let her napkin fall to her plate, little giggles falling from her lips and she laughed at Spencer's sour face.

“Definitely don’t mix them too,” Spencer took a sip of his water, ignoring the way her laugh made him want to do it again just for her.

“I told you so.”

It was true, she made very clear the two wouldn’t mix but he thought best to try it before you brush it off.

He’d definitely brush it off next time.

JJ and Will kept a close eye on the two, enjoying the family dinner and the smile Spencer had tattooed to his face.

“I wish he could’ve just called her, it’d been so much easier,” JJ spoke to Will as she ate the last bit of her soup. She was pretty sure Spencer forgot he even came in with them.

“Yeah, me too doll.”

Will was proud of how well JJ and Henry were doing with this plan, almost scary how good they worked together.

Henry jumped in his seat, prepared to get in the car and hear his favorite profiler, next to his mom, talk about the crush he has on his teacher.

It wasn’t so much to ask, Spencer to be happy, but the universe apparently decided against it. Henry was mad at the universe for that, he knew his Godfather didn’t deserve that.

Meanwhile back to the small table across the room, Spencer was preparing to leave the sweet lady, watching JJ slowly pick up her coat from across the room.

“I’m glad I could speak with you again.”

This was (Y/N) sad way of telling him to call, please God for him to just call her.

“Me too, sorry about not calling,” he did feel bad, but he wasn’t as confident as Morgan with this stuff, he didn’t think he could handle her voice that close to his ear in honesty.

“It’s fine, you’re busy I get it.”

She smiled as he stood up, slowly placing his coat back over his shoulder as Henry came skipping over to the table, smiling at his favorite teacher.

“Hiya Henry,” Ms. (L/N) reached out and fixed Henry's button on his shirt, something that made Spencer panic. She was perfect, he was sure of that.

“HI Ms. (L/N),” his voice was high and excited, as usual when things went as planned.

Spencer didn’t waste time, waving at (Y/N) and goofy smile on his face as he slowly exited the restaurant after JJ and Will, Henry never leaving his side, The boy bouncing on his feet until he was buckled in the backseat beside Spencer.

“So...” JJ trailed off, turning to look at Spencer from the passenger seat of the car.

“So?”

Spencer couldn’t stop smiling as he imagined the look on your face when you found it.

“How was it?”

“Nice, I suppose.”

Suddenly the plan was falling through.

“Are you going to call?”

“Maybe, but I have a feeling she’ll call first.”

*

(Y/N) unlocked the door to her apartment, tired as she let her bag fall on the light blue kitchen counter.

She slipped her flats off, turning back to her bag to find her phone so she could call her mother. A small slip of paper looked to be almost tapped to the front, folded with god knows what.

(Y/N) slowly removed the paper, un-folding the paper to the note that was left.

I’m sorry I didn’t call, but maybe you could keep me in check

(703)-555-9816

She felt her teeth run over her bottom lip, unlocking her phone and opening the text message app. She punched in the numbers, smiling as she typed out the text.

*

Spencer was about to get out of JJ car when his phone dung, Without thinking he fished it out and smiled at the contact pop up.

I’m not calling first, but maybe a text couldn’t hurt.

JJ, Will, and Henry didn’t need to ask who the text was from.

how do we feel about this story??

criminal minds tag list:

@itsarayofsunshine​ @m-n-m @aquarius-pisces-rose @victomizedbyreginageorge @avaxreid​ @erinxneil​

spencer reid tag list:

@writtenbywolfie​

aphrodite and her son cupid tag list:

@hypotheticalforest​ @bobo-bush @eternalharry​ @friendlyweirdobaby​

[vanchlo]

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes / Green Eyes 4

Read all 3 previous parts here! 

Blurb Synopsis: With final exams approaching, you find yourself coming to rely on Harry more, whether for help with teaching, emotional support, help packing your apartment, or to complain about your students wanting to set the two of you up together. The saying goes that ‘stress makes you stronger,’ and that will be the true test during this season in your lives, and relationship. 

Genre: Teacher Harry, soooooo much fluff, some angst, a little sad, and lots of romance.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 10k words, whoops

Pairing: Harry x Reader

Music Inspo: Changes by David Bowie & Butterfly Boucher (click to listen; yes the Shrek version, YES FROM THIS VERY PART) 

I also wanted to thank my pals @sunflwrnarry​ and @bfharry​ who’ve helped me with this story with their support, ideas, and love for it. I love freaking out with you two over this story  ❤️ ❤️ ❤️ 

*

As you bring your fist to the blue door, you suddenly pause. Thoughts dance inside of your head and tie themselves to your heart. Happiness comes over you in another wave as Harry’s voice interrupts the thoughts, his voice telling you that he loves you from earlier. A content sigh meets the air in front of you in a white cloud. You had forgotten how cold you were, but the playful barking coming from the other side of the door brings you back to reality. 

“C’min!” Harry replies once you knock. 

Slowly opening the door, the warmth of Harry’s house greets you, along with the musky cinnamon smell that accompanies it. What surprises you is the little bundle of golden fur barking at you, but with the cutest bark, you’ve ever heard. 

“Ya, you get ‘er, Gatsby! Go get mummy, go say hullo t’ her!” Harry giggles, and soon you are too as you fall to a crouch as he approaches you. With that tail dancing in the air, you only laugh harder as he slips and falls in front of you. “My goodness, yer a clutz li’l boy. ‘Bout third time ya’ve fallen down and we’ve only been home fer a few minutes, jus’ beat mummy by a tick.”

“Hi, bud. How was your ride home with daddy? What do you think of your new home?” you coo to the puppy, rubbing the top of his furry head. He continues to yip at you for a few seconds until his sniffer takes over. 

“I see how good o’ guard dog, you are, pup. Ya smell any food on ‘em and they’re yer friend,” Harry sighs with a titter, carding a hand through his hair when you glance over to him. 

“No, you’re a good guard dog, Gatsby. You just have to get used to mummy and daddy, don’t you?” you croon, rubbing both hands along his chubby face as he sniffs the air. “Come on, let’s go sit by daddy,” you suggest, unable to hide your laugh as you observe him struggling to walk on the hardwood floor. 

“Looks like I might need t’ get su’more rugs or else he’s gonna be fallin’ e’rywhere.”

“Yeah, it’ll be easier to clean up his accidents on the wood flooring, though,” you note aloud, sliding off your slushy winter boots onto the mat by the door. After hanging up your coat on one of the hooks, you turn right into Harry’s living room to take a seat by him on the long red rug. “Did you take him potty yet?”

“Ya, I did befo’ we went in tha school and afta, and a few minutes ‘go. He went befo’ we went in but not since. ‘m not too worried tho’, I knew when I got him that he’d be peein’ on e’rythin’,” Harry notes, his eyes stuck to the waddling furball. Quickly, they dart to you and his strong arms come around your middle, pulling you into him. “C’mere, love, and have a cuddle wit’ me.”

Gatsby turns and begins to bark at the both of you as Harry pulls you over to sit in his lap, the both of you laughing loudly. He tottles over and proceeds to sniff the both of you. 

“How does she smell, Gats’? Does mummy pass yer sniffer check?” he mumbles, against your cheek where his words tickle your skin. You contribute to the conversation with a laugh at the both of them, sinking into Harry’s arms. Contentment washes over you when your back meets his chest and you feel him press a kiss to your temple. 

“Come here, Gatsby!” you say, patting your lap excitedly. 

“Nah, he’s too busy sniffin’. I swear ‘s all he did when he was in me car, even tho’ I was holdin’ him tha whole time.”

“It sounds like you should’ve named him Scooby-Doo instead,” you remark, earning a soft laugh from Harry. You squirm when you feel his breath tickle your neck. Sighing, you relax against him, his arms resting on your soft tummy and sometimes rubbing his knuckles against it. 

“Perhaps,” he comments, the feeling of his smooth cheek against yours an absence now, his stubble already prickling your skin. “Fit right into me arms, tha both o’ you,” he continues, swaying the both of you back and forth in his arms now clad in a long-sleeved Rolling Stones crewneck. 

You hope he can see the smile adorning your face and being all the reply he needs. You’re uncertain the last time you felt this content and happy all rolled into one, but it’s hard to pinpoint because Harry always seems to have that effect on you. 

“Hope ‘s okay I named him, jus’ thought it was perfect when I saw him tha otha day,” he whispers against your temple, the cinnamon from his gum tiptoeing over your face. 

“Yeah of course, it is. I couldn’t imagine him being named anything else. I don’t know how you kept him a secret for a whole week, I would’ve squealed,” you say with a grin, backing up when the puppy gets brave and stands up, his front paws on Harry’s knee. You titter at the feeling of his feathery whiskers on your skin, the sound of his adamant sniffing, and the cold wetness of his nose on your chin. 

“Yeah, I dunno how I didn’t. There were so many times I almost told ya, but I jus’ wanted t’ surprise ya, bird.”

“I’m glad you did. Okay, Gatsby, you go and smell daddy now,” you relent, your hands coming around the chunky puppy. His tummy is warm against your palms and his whine fills your ears as you lift him up to set in your lap. 

“I dunno, I think he likes how ya smell betta. What, did ya eat sumthin’ on tha way here, a Twix or Bit-O-Honey, or sumthin’?” Harry murmurs, his smile felt on your temple. “We’re gonna hafta watch it, he’ll wanna get into e’rythin’.”

“Yeah, he must smell that Twix I found in my car,” you reply, squealing when you feel the puppy’s warm wet tongue on your cheek. 

“Sumbody already loves their mummy, I see,” Harry comments. “Ya, Gats’, le’ss give mummy all tha kisses!” he exclaims before pressing loud smooches all over your face too. 

“Oh no, attacked by kisses, whatever will I do?!” you shout, feeling the energetic puppy in your lap as you close your eyes, chuckling. You wouldn’t change this for the world, no siree. 

*

“Thanks for dinner, it was delicious,” you tell Harry as you set your dishes in the dishwasher. 

“Welcome, love. Would ya like some wine? I should finish off dis bottle already, ‘s gettin’ all flat,” Harry asks, the soft click of the fridge door opening following his words. 

“I don’t know, it’s getting kind of late and I have to drive home . . ,” you answer, conflict showing through in your words.

Your eyes follow Harry’s tall figure as he reaches an arm to a shelf in the cabinet, grabbing two long-stemmed wine glasses. A smile tickles at your lips when his shirt rides up a tad, and his fern tattoos adorning his hips say hi to you, as well as his happy trail you love so much. It amazes you the amount of restraint it takes to not reach over and touch his tummy. Ugh. 

“You could have as much wine as ya’d like and ya wouldn’t hafta drive home if ya stay tha night. Gatsby had wanted me t’ ask ya, anyways. I told him we could make it work - we’ll all pile togetha in me bed, and ya can borrow sum jammies o’ mine,” he hums, turning to face you as he sets down the two empty glasses. The bubbles rising within your chest only worsen when you see the smug look pulling his lips into a smile. “I mean, that’s if ya want t’ sleep ova.” 

The gurgling of the white wine filling a glass occupies the silence between the two of you. Words fleet you as you watch him fill one glass three-quarters of the way full, and when his eyes lift to you they brim with uncertainty and anxiety. 

“Bird?” he inquires softly, raising an eyebrow. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he bites on his lip. “Sorry, nevamind, maybe ‘s a bit early fer that still. Yer not movin’ in fer anotha’ month, so ‘s okay,” he finishes, trying to diffuse the situation with a soft laugh. 

You deliver your answer by grabbing the full wine glass and bringing it to your lips that part with a smile, “I’d love to stay over and steal your ‘jammies’,” you reply softly, the wine surprising your lips with its sweetness and chill. His face collapses into a blushing laugh as he shakes his head. 

“Birdy, you li’l shit,” he remarks, clucking his tongue as he pours the rest of the bottle into the second glass for himself. “Ya can’t scare me like that, thought I jus’ made a proper fool o’ meself.” 

“No, you could never make a fool of yourself in my eyes, Harry,” you mumble, setting down the wine glass on your short walk over to him. Your fingers soon find him, first on his backside where you cup his ass, earning another head shake from him.  

“Ya really fancy me bum, dontcha, love?” he snickers, setting down the bottle with a clud, twirling the metal cap back on quickly. He turns around to face you, but you leave your hand on his bum. 

“Mmmhmm, it’s quite nice,” you try to say seriously, but it comes out accompanied with a laugh. 

“So ‘s yers, y’know,” he winks, slapping your butt as he dips to plant a kiss on your lips. “We betta go find out what that li’l boy ‘s doin’ in there, prolly gettin’ into trouble.” 

“In a second,” you whisper, placing your hand on the back of his neck slowly. 

“Jus’ a second?” 

“Maybe more,” you shrug, feeling the wispy hairs on the back of his neck as the golden glints in his eyes come into focus. 

His rose lips spread into a smile, showing his straight teeth, and disappearing when your lips meet his in a kiss. The remnants of the chocolatey brownies you had for dessert linger on his lips. Wafts of dark smoke from when he started the fire in the fireplace titillate your senses, coming to be a favorite smell you associate with him. 

“You taste and smell so fucking good, like brownies at a bonfire,” you breathe against his lips, your eyes wandering to his that stare at you so adoringly you feel like you’ve already had five glasses of wine. 

“Look at tha potty mouth on you, can’t believe it sumtimes,” he smirks from above you, the smell of cocoa hitting your face. 

“Yeah well, you sure like to kiss it a lot.”

“I do, don’t I?” Harry coos, brushing the pad of his thumb along your lip, adding another theoretical glass of wine to the overflow of your senses. “I’d kiss it bloody all day long, if I could.” 

Your head fills with wishes similar to those as his lips caress yours, but you’re broken apart when you hear a whine from nearby. Parting, you both peer into the other room, finding Gatsby waiting in the doorway. You swear that he stares at the both of you while he lifts a leg and pees onto the dark wooden floor. 

“Well, so much fer that,” Harry giggles, stealing a kiss from your cheek before he lets go of you. “Where’d ya leave those baby wipes we were usin’, love?” 

*

Although Harry’s pajama bottoms swallow your entire bottom, legs, feet, and all, you can’t help but smile at them. The gentle smell of his laundry detergent reminds you of marshmallows for some reason, and you couldn’t be happier as it envelopes you. His Beatles shirt falls over your head and comes down to your thighs, but you’re not complaining. I think these are tha smallest ‘ve got, they should fit, he had murmured a mere minute before as he handed you the folded pile of clothes. Okay, Harry, if you insist, you think silently as you inspect your appearance with a dumbfounded smile. 

With a nervous grin, you set your outfit from today on a shelf in the cabinet and turn off the light. You can hear Harry talking to Gatsby as your socked feet pad down the hallway, easing your nerves quickly. Low and behold, once you push the door open, you find him sitting on Harry’s chest, looking like he’s getting a talking to. Sure enough he is, you find. 

“‘s time t’ go t’ bed now, so we’re all gonna sleep in dis bed. Please try not t’ pee on daddy’s sheets. Ya have a pillow t’ lay on down at tha end o’ tha bed, and yer bed’s on tha floor in tha corner. There’s one o’ those blue plastic sheets down fer ya t’ go pee too, alright? Understood?” he tells the puppy with a toothy smile, wagging a finger at him and twirling one of his floppy ears around another 

“Uh oh, somebody’s in trouble,” you joke, leaning against the doorframe. When Harry’s eyes carry over to you, you self consciously cross your arms over your chest not contained by a bra. “What?” you mumble, narrowing your eyes at him as he stares at you, that toothy grin only growing wider. 

“Nothing,” he confesses, looking back to Gatsby with reddening cheeks, stealing glances at you every now and then. 

“Harry,” you continue with emphasis, dashing around the bed to slide under the cream covers on the right side. “Hi, Gatsby,” you coo excitedly when his tail begins to wag frantically, pulling a giggle from your lips when he turns towards you, hitting Harry in the face. 

“Gosh, kid,” he manages, lifting the puppy up to pass him to you. You’re almost drowned in puppy kisses to the face, sending giggles from your lips. The puppy’s name flies into the air as you try to fight him off. “Guess he likes that taste o’ tha toothpaste.”

“I guess so,” you agree aloud, finally his attack of kisses ending. Soon, he forgets you and wanders around the bed sniffing. He finally lies down and curls up against Harry’s leg towards the end of the bed. 

“I sacrifice one o’ my pillows fer ya t’ lie on, and that’s where ya lay?” Harry huffs, but soon an adoring whine sounds behind his lips as he admires the puppy. “I guess we tired him out runnin’ laps downstairs.”

“Yeah, it’s about time. He has so much energy, I can’t believe it,” you murmur in agreement. When you look over to see the look on his face for the puppy, instead you find his eyes waiting on you. “What? Do I have toothpaste on my face?”

“No, but if ya did Gats’ woulda gott’it,” Harry hums, nevertheless brushing a thumb across your cheek with the sappiest smile you’ve seen him wear in a long time. “Ya jus’ look . . cuter than I thought ya’d look in me clothes, bird.”

“I’m swimming in them, how is that cute?” you ask, pulling on the front of the shirt as proof, eliciting a loud laugh from Harry. 

“‘m sorry, I thought they’d fit betta. But they look great on you, they really do. E’rythin’ does, and sumhow I love me jammies on ya best,” he remarks, his hand coming to cup your cheek. “Yer so beautiful, birdy. ‘m gonna go get ready fer bed too, befo’ I keep blabberin’.”

The smirk painted on his face looks much like the one you’re sure is consuming yours at his words. He folds back the covers and Gatsby moves over as Harry leaves the bed, but you grab hold of his hand at the last second. He turns to you with a questioning look, saying he has to go and brush his teeth. 

“I like it when you blabber, especially to me,” you share, pulling on his arm until he returns to lean over the bed, steadying himself with a hand on the mattress. 

“There’s n’body else ‘d ratha blab t’ than you, love, and ‘m guessin’ we’re in fer a long night with this li’l one,” he smiles, pecking you fast before his hand slips from yours and he leaves the room. 

Yawning, you slide back under the covers and pull them over your shoulders, savoring Harry’s smell they hold. Your head falls onto the satiny pillowcase as the top plush blanket a shade of sage caresses your cheek. A huff tickles at your ears and you find Gatsby’s made his way over to you and settles his head to fall on your calf, his large ears splaying out on the splash of green. Emails and texts on your phone occupy your time as you wait for Harry, listening to Gatsby’s adorable little sounds where he’s curled up beside you. Your sleepy hand finds his furry body, keeping you warm, and you tickle his fur as you turn your phone off to set on the table at your bedside. 

“Look at you two, snug as a bug in a rug, ‘d say,” Harry murmurs out of nowhere, appearing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. For a second, you think you need to do the same because you’re sure the image in front of you is a mirage of some sort. Harry scratches at his bare chest, a yawn leaving his lips while stretching his bare arms into the air. “Oh sorry, I neva sleep with a shirt on, I hope that’s okay. It doesn’t make ya feel weird, does it?” he questions, closing the bedroom door so Gatsby won’t wander around the house, as he said earlier. 

“N-No, it’s okay,” you mumble, trying not to stare as he pads across the room. The closer he gets, the more your heart freaks out in your chest, you’re sure of it. “I like it,” you confess, suddenly wishing you weren’t so good at this blurting out secrets thing. 

“Oh, d’ya now?” he smirks, shutting off the overhead light, leaving his lamp on to carry soft light on his side of the bed. You suffice a response with a shrug of your shoulders, cozying into the bed as he slips under the top sheet, pillowy comforter and blanket. 

“Yer sumthin’, aren’t ya, birdy?” he quips, flicking off his lamp, leaving the soft glow of a few night lights he installed about ten minutes ago for you and Gatsby, his guests. 

“Something special,” you tease with a snicker, hearing his breathy one in return, and soon finding his face lit by the glow. 

“That, ya are, love. My sumthin’ special,” he acknowledges, the squeak of the mattress following his words as he arrives at your side. “If ya need anythin’ tonight, ya can wake me, alright? Figure we might be up a few times with him, anyways.” 

“Thank you, Harry.”

“Welcome, bird, I hope ya have sweet dreams. ‘m glad ya stayed fer a sleepova, thank you,” he hums, a dimple falling into his cheek with his words, leading you to think if you had any they’d already be there in your cheeks. Sometimes you can’t believe your luck. 

“Of course,” you answer, leaning forward to place your lips atop his. He giggles into the kiss as your lips move together, the spearmint in his toothpaste forgotten as it tickles your own tongue too after he gave you a spare toothbrush. His hand comes to rest on your side and it feels peculiar with the absence of his rings, but you savor it and it’s warmth. 

His bottom lip remains between yours, pillowy soft and warm until you begin to hear Gatsby’s snores and your fingers have found the bravery to roam his chest. The cheekiness comes out in you when one wanders to his bum, giving it a good squeeze through the checkered fabric of his ‘jammies’ as he so adorably calls them. A muffled snicker slides into his mouth when the hand on your side drifts to your bottom with a soft slap. You’re grateful for his absence of a shirt, letting your fingers admire the slope of his back warm against your fingers that are cold from washing up. The little hairs all over his body are satiny smooth beneath your fingertips, just like his top lip that you take between yours, your hurried breaths filling the air. 

“‘Kay, bird, time t’ get sum sleep. We can snog in tha mornin’, ‘m beat afta t’day with school and runnin’ after this li’l boy,” Harry sighs after ending the kiss, mirroring your frown but much more dramatically. “Get sum sleep, ‘ll see ya in tha mornin’. We’ll all three go t’ tha shops t’ buy tha rest o’ his stuff and ingredients fer pizza t’morrow,” he yawns, leaving a kiss on your nose afterward. You nod in response and hastily lay a kiss on his cheek. Nervously, you pull away, afraid you’re pushing his buttons, but he just smiles and kisses you on the lips one last time. 

“Goodnight, Harry,” you whisper, arms diving back under the warm covers as you try to get comfortable without moving Gatsby. 

“Night, bird . . and Gatsby.”

“Goodnight, Gatsby,” you murmur, patting his small head softly, his snores continuing against your leg. 

“Oh, I see how it ‘s, yer already becomin’ a mumma’s boy,” Harry tuts, clucking his tongue as he squirms in the bed, finding his sweet spot. You drift off soon next to your two boys, counting down the days until you get to fall asleep with them by your side every night. 

*

Browsing YouTube, you scroll through the videos that appeared from your search request for haikus. Yawning, you rub at your eye as you pause your scrolling and inspect a video before playing it. It doesn’t get a chance to play very far when you’re interrupted by a voice. 

“Thanks fer tha lunch again, bird. Ya really do spoil me, I always forget t’ make one,” Harry hums, waltzing into your classroom holding the Rolling Stones lunchbox you had bought for him for Christmas last month. He sets it down on a clean corner of your desk, leaning across it to peck you on the cheek. 

“You’re welcome. Did you eat everything?” you ask, dragging it over and undoing the zippers. 

“Ya. I loved tha bagel sandwich you packed tha fixings fer, and tha soup was lovely,” he hums, leaning against your desk, crossing his arms over the soft yellow button-up covered in black flower designs. 

“No, you didn’t,” you disagree smiling, opening one of the small pockets to take out a box. 

“What, how’d I miss those? You musta hid ‘em from me!” Harry exclaims, taking the box of Chocolate Banana Pocky from your grasp. A cocky giggle of his fills the air as he opens the box and rips open the white bag. 

“Harry, you better not eat those all in one sitting!” you warn. He looks you in the eyes as he sticks four of them into his mouth and takes a bite, a smirk playing along his lips. “Harry Styles!” you proclaim, sitting forward and threatening to rip the box from his hand. He only giggles harder and takes another bite, the four pocky gone in a flash as he crunches on the rest of them loudly. 

Shaking your head, you watch him walk away, sticking three more between his rose lips. You sigh with a smile, unsure of just how many times you’ve seen him devour a box of them within an hour, or less. 

“What’s your full name?” you wonder aloud, looking away from the computer screen and to him where he stops in your doorway, turning around. 

“Well ‘m not gonna delight ya with that info afta ya jus’ yelled at me, now am I? ‘m sure ya jus’ wanna use it t’ yell at me su’more,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders as he shoves the rest of the half-eaten pocky into his mouth, winking. You can hear his chewing all the way from here. “And no, yer not gettin’ any o’ me pocky.”

*

The deep breaths just don’t stick, and soon you find yourself out of your chair and pacing your classroom. You busy yourself picking up forgotten pencils and papers on the floor, tidying the messy containers of books, and the disaster that is your desk. 

“Ya ready t’ go?” somebody sings from your doorway where a shuffling sound comes from as well. “Birdy?”

You don’t respond, unfreezing your hands from the sound of his voice. Instead, you flip over a copy of The Tempest and replace it in the bin right side up, because Harry would not allow that to be done to a Shakespeare. His shuffling of feet comes next, tapping along the floor and getting closer. A swallow is met with the lump in your throat, and you brush the back of your hand over your cheek, hoping they’re gone. 

“Hey, anybody home?” Harry laughs, arriving at your side and slinging an arm around your waist. “‘m ready t’ go, if you are, love. ‘m sure Gatsby ‘s waitin’ fer us at my place, all excited. He’s missed you, y’know,” he coos, pecking your cheek. 

“Yeah, sorry I-.”

“Hey, yer phone’s ringin’. Here, ‘ll grab it fer ya,” he volunteers, soon feeling his absence as his footsteps are drowned out by the loud ringtone. “It says ‘s yer mum.” Closing your eyes, you groan quietly or at least try to. Soon, he’s at your side again and places it in your hands where you hit decline. 

“What, why didn’t ya answer?” he questions, probably eyebrows knitted together in the cutest way possible, like he does. You don’t look though, so you’re not sure as you shove it into your pocket, busying your hands with the mess of books before you. Removing a copy of The Christmas Carol that was shoved into the front of another bin backward, you replace it to face forward now. “Birdy, what’s goin’ on?” he continues, a hand settling on your arm, but when you reach to grab another book his hand grabs it. It leaves your fingers to grace your chin, turning your head to look at him. 

“I just don’t want to talk to her right now,” you reply softly, hoping he won’t detect the spent tears that aren’t so invisible on your cheeks. 

“Oh,” he breathes, a dimple falling into his cheek when his mouth quirks into a confused expression under his layer of five-day-old stubble. “Y’know, ya’ve neva talked much ‘bout yer parents, ‘d like t’ meet ‘em. I mean we’re movin’ in togetha soon and ‘m sure they’d like t’ meet Gatsby. Ya met me sista fer tha first time tha otha day.”

This time you’re positive he doesn’t see the tear streaks or how they still cling to your eyelashes coated in mascara. Boys can sometimes be so ugh, you mutter to yourself amongst your thoughts. You knew this was coming the second she called, and well, months ago, but you had hoped you could’ve gotten by longer without it. 

“You don’t want to meet them,” is all you say as you turn away, his hand dropping from your chin now cold from the drought of his touch. You soon arrive back at your desk where you pick up a stack of worksheets from this week’s vocabulary words, looking for a paperclip to fasten them. 

“You can’t decide what I want and don’t want, bird. I don’t like that,” Harry responds, and you can see him looking at you from the corner of your eye. “I mean, ya met my parents already, why can’t I meet yours? I don’t undastand.” 

“I don’t want you to meet them,” you reply, setting the now fastened stack on one of the wire shelves of the little stackable organizer on your desk. You continue to avoid his gaze by gathering together another stack of today’s green root words quizzes. 

“I thought we weren’t keepin’ secrets, bird, but ya can come ova when yer ready t’ tell me. ‘m goin’ home, so take howeva much time ya need,” he grumbles with a loud exhale, almost slamming the door to your classroom on his way out. 

Sinking into your chair, your hands rake through your hair as a defeated sigh joins the air. Another one falls after the next when you spot the neon blue Post-It note stuck to the underside of your desk, just at the edge where you would’ve spotted it, just like you have. The crack along your heart only grows deeper when you begin to read his messy chicken scratch, and all of the love that leaks from its words. 

Birdy, 

Gatsby wanted me to tell you that you are such a greatttttttt mummy already, and that he loves you soooooo much! His daddy loves you too ;) I’m looking forward to making homemade pasta together tonight, you always have the greatest ideas. My students asked me today when I’m going to ask you out on a date, soooo would you like to go out on a date with me this weekend, toooooo pack up your apartment to come and live with me? ;) I’m so excited to wake up to you every morning and fall asleep next to you every night, bird. Only two more weeks! Fourteen more sleeps, it’s not like I’m counting or anything. 

I love you, so much

Harry xoxo

*

“C’min!” a voice drawls when you rap your fist against the door. The warm inviting scent of cinnamon greets you when you walk into Harry’s house an hour later, along with the growing puppy who scurries over to you. 

“Hi, bud,” you murmur with a smile, giving him a good petting as his tail sweeps along the floor. “Is daddy still crabby?” you ask him, closing the door behind you with your foot. 

After toeing off your boots and hanging up your coat, you peek into the kitchen where the smell of onion, garlic, and broccoli waft from. Harry stands at the stove in a shirt and sweatpants, rolling his bottom lip between his fingers. You don’t get much of a chance to figure out what mood he’s in, because Gatsby jumps up onto your lap, licking all over your face. 

You play with the puppy in the living room as Harry cooks in the kitchen until he announces the food is ready, homemade pasta night forgotten apparently. You eat together silently while watching TV, Gatsby begging at your feet. You thought that things were better now when compared to earlier, but for the rest of the night something was off between the two of you. You focused your attention on Gatsby who you swear has grown since the last time you saw him, if only a few days ago. Now, he fills your lap comfortably, and you’re sad to say goodbye to him when you leave early. You just couldn’t take the awkwardness floating in the air anymore, and left after a short peck from Harry. 

*

The next day, a Saturday, Harry showed up with Gatsby and a bunch of cardboard boxes to pack close to the last of your stuff. You tried to make it up to him by cooking him breakfast, which he loved, but you still felt it sticking to every moment that passed. You weren’t sure if you should bring it up or not, and at the same time you were waiting for him to bring it up, readying your defenses. Something was clearly bothering him or on his mind, and as you bubble wrapped things and packed them away, you were curious about why he kept looking at his phone. Then around one in the afternoon, after a few hours of packing, he stepped out to take a call. 

“What’s going on with daddy, Gats’?” you posed to the puppy who ignored you, albeit stealing a look at you, returning to the rawhide he’s been intent on destroying. You swallow nervously, glancing over to the hallway outside your bedroom where you can just make out his voice. Tearing your gaze from it, you try to busy yourself by gently placing the wrapped picture frame in the box, and picking up the next one. 

“Everything okay?” you ask softly when Harry returns, shoving his phone into the back pocket of his blue jeans. 

“Ya, e’rythin’s fine,” he replies casually, pulling at the collar of his charcoal-colored henley shirt. 

“Okay,” you mumble quietly, wishing you could forget about packing and admire the way that shirt hugs him in all of the right places. That will have to wait for another day when he wears it, you agree silently, seeing that he’s not in the mood today for his buttons to be pushed. You don’t want to find out what happens when you push them when he’s in a bad mood. You try to forget about it as he helps you pack up some of the less necessary items in your bedroom, like summer clothes, novels, photo albums, CDs, DVDs, and more. 

*

As you stare at the barren shelves of your fridge, you make a mental note to go grocery shopping soon, something you’ve forgotten recently with finals approaching at school and packing. 

“Do you want to get takeaway or go out for lunch?” you call out to Harry, leaving the kitchen to find him sitting on the sofa in your living room. He’s staring at something intently on his phone, but when he hears your footsteps behind him, he quickly hides his phone in his pocket. 

“Takeaway’s fine,” he answers, clearing his throat, his nervous tic. 

“Harry, is something going on? You’ve been acting weird, like you’re hiding something,” you assert, walking around to face him. You’re unsure of what he’ll say as you’re unable to read his face, and you know that’s when it’s bad. 

“What, so yer tha only one who can keep secrets?” he retorts, his face screwed up in crude disbelief. You’re sure the same emotion painting yours is even worse as you feel the sting of his words. He sighs as you shake your head, beginning to walk away. “Bird, stop, ‘m sorry.” 

“What, Harry?” you ask, stopping your feet, but not turning around to face him. You hear him breathe in deeply among the squeaking of Gatsby’s toy he plays with on the couch beside Harry. 

“I was offa’d a teachin’ job t’day, a few hours north at that Wright Arts Academy, that’s who called me,” he announces solemnly. The only thing you’re grateful for in the moment is the fact that he can’t see the look on your face as you’re positive every breath just left your body. “They’re so focused on enrichin’ tha students in arts, ‘s great. ‘d be teachin’ classes like Mythology, a whole class on Shakespeare, Improv, Rhetoric, Intro to Sci-fi and Fantasy, and jus’ so many great English courses. Tha classes are smaller and so ya get t’ know yer students betta. ‘d get t’ teach ‘bout my favourite, Shakespeare, fer an entire semesta, bird! They’re offerin’ me more money, too . . ,” he continues, and you’re unsure of when you want him to stop, or if you wish he had never begun. Suddenly, you do a three-sixty when your thoughts are consumed by the happiness and excitement in his voice. 

“You should take it,” you say, spinning around to look at him. His eyes are stuck on a random part of the wall, but then he looks to you. 

“But ‘s three hours away, bird? ‘d hafta move away and we’re s’posed t’ move in togetha,” he counters, eyebrows falling and quickly you’re more confused than you were a moment ago. 

“You’ve always wanted to teach those kinds of classes, Harry, you’ve told me so yourself.” 

“But, birdy-.”

“Take the job, Harry, if it’s what you want,” you insist, trying to smile at him, but it doesn’t stay long when you see the look on his face. 

“I dunno if ‘s what I want, yet. I don’ wanna move away from you, I don’ wanna do long distance. Wait, do you? ‘s tha movin’ in with me too soon, are ya gettin’ cold feet?” 

“What are you talking about? Harry, no of course not. Where are you getting this from?” you reply, dumbfounded at the words coming out of his mouth. Apparently, you can only grow more confused. 

“Maybe it has sumthin’ t’ do with not wantin’ me t’ meet yer parents, I dunno, you tell me, bird. D’ya not wanna commit? Why would ya want me t’ take a job that would make us do long distance?” 

“I don’t know, Harry, maybe because I want you to be happy!” you exclaim, feeling telltale signs of incoming tears, and they fly faster than you thought they could have. “You’ve told me that you’ve always wanted to teach classes like those, because you enjoy those topics so much - myths in literature, science fiction and fantasy novels, and even though I don’t understand it, you love Shakespeare! You almost named Gatsby after Romeo or Duncan instead, you love his work so much. Of course, I don’t want you to move away, because things are so perfect right now having a job that means I get to work across the hall from my boyfriend. I can’t believe you think I’d want you to move away and do long distance. I would never- but I want you to be happy, and I’m not going to stop you from taking this job if it brought you that. I’m not going to be selfish and make you stay for my own happiness. A-and my parents are another story, I haven’t spoken to them in years. They’re just not good people. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, I didn’t know how,” you finish, feeling grateful for that blurting talent of yours because sometimes you need it. Harry’s jaw almost hangs off its hinges as you stare back at him through blurry eyes, wishing the last few minutes hadn’t happened. Well, the last day. Quickly, the tears triple and you can’t stand him seeing you cry anymore because of the thoughts bashing against the walls of your head. 

“I’m going to go pick up lunch,” you say softly, defeat evident in your tone as you turn around. After grabbing your keys and coat, you stomp out to your car and start it. You wait for it to warm up as the cold air from the vents slowly turns warm, but really you only waste the time so you can spill your tears in silence. 

It takes all of your strength and willpower to not go back into your apartment and tell him not to leave, because you’re pretty sure it would break you. You can’t imagine a stranger teaching in Harry’s classroom, no shared kisses in the copier room and staff lounge, crossing the hall to ask him a question as soon as it pops into your head, and the fun you both have with your students trying to set the two of you up together albeit it being futile. The doubt of getting a job for yourself at this stupid Academy of Arts to join Harry only makes you feel worse, especially because of the memories your school holds for the both of you. 

Wiping your tears away, you try to take a deep breath that won’t come, and you pull the car away to leave him and hope that he won’t do the same to you. The tears left as you drove to go and pick up fast food, but they returned when Harry texted you while in the drive-thru to not get him anything because he was going home to think. Once you returned to the empty apartment, that’s all you could do was think, and it tore you apart. 

*

You had left Harry be for the rest of the weekend, although it was one of the hardest things you had done. You’d liken the effort to running a triathlon, although you’ve never done one of those, but you feel like you have the strength of a triathlete after giving him space. You relented and texted him once though, but just once. It was to ask for a picture of Gatsby who you missed, and he followed through, sending you a couple of pictures. They made you the happiest you’d been all weekend, even despite the tears that crept up when you saw Harry’s reflection in the mirror in one. Then his ringed hand holding Gatsby in another, a selfie of sorts with your favorite shirt of his on his torso. It all made you doubt your words the more, not wanting to have to suffice for only seeing him and Gatsby through pictures if he took the job. You were reminded of your reasoning for it all - wanting him to be happy, but it still gnawed away at you what that would mean if he moved. You tried not to let yourself get too carried away and at times you almost called him, but you weren’t sure who was the bad guy after your argument. You were the one who exploded on him, and you both kept secrets from the other, something you had recently agreed not to do. A promise that the both of you broke so soon. 

*

You had yet to see Harry the following Monday at school, even though you could hear the Cat Stevens album trickling from his classroom at seven-twenty in the morning. Somehow you avoided a run in on your way to the early morning staff meeting, and you didn’t mean to, but you were roped in to sit by a colleague. You found your first seconds of joy of the day when she showed you pictures of her growing baby, one Harry doted on and hogged during most of the staff Christmas party last month. You tried not to think of that while looking at the baby’s chunky thighs and rolls on her arms, and how much you wanted to tell him about it. The joy didn’t stay long when you spotted him taking a seat next to Julie, the visual arts teacher who has had a thing for him as long as you can remember. The pit in your stomach hardens at the sight of him, messy-haired and unshaven, and yet handsome as ever. Confliction carries your features when you spot him wearing the multi-colored Peter Max inspired pop-art button up you had bought him for Christmas. It all only gets worse when he senses your stare and meets your eyes, showing you the sadness hidden in them before you look back to the pictures of the baby. 

*

“Hey, teach! I have a question!” a tall brunette girl in your classroom whispers to you, glancing over to the librarian nervously. 

“Yes, Sabrina?” you reply, trying to ignore how some of the students call you that, but then again it’s some that you’re the closest to. 

“Um, Mr. Styles is just right over there, aren’t you going to go and talk to him?” she grins, playing with her ponytail, ignoring the computer in front of her. 

“Yeah, he’s looking extra cute today,” the girl beside her comments and you have to hold back your laughter. “But he was all glum when I had Creative Writing with him earlier, I don’t know what his deal is today.”

“Maybe he’d be happier if he had a girlfriend,” Sabrina comments wryly, raising her eyebrows at you. 

“Maybe I’d be happier if you two were doing your review for the final exam, and not trying to set me up with your teacher, when I can manage just fine on my own,” you comment firmly, trying to avert their attention back to their computer screens and review packet. 

“Hey, Mr. Styles, um Ms. Y/N needs some help with something about Shakespeare!” Sabrina calls to Harry two rows of computers to your right. 

“I don’t need help!” is all you say with a sigh, loud enough for him to hear, turning around the second you see his head of tousled curls lift where he’s leaning next to a student he helps. 

“He ignored you!” Sabrina’s friend exclaims in a whisper, inhaling dramatically along with Sabrina. “You’re not just going to let him ignore you, are you, Ms. Y/N?” 

“God, what you’d do to him, he’s usually all over you?” Sabrina sighs.

“Girls, please return to your work. I’m sure Mr. Styles is busy helping a student with their final review, which you’re supposed to be doing right now too. Finals are at the end of the week, we all need as much studying as we can get,” you calmly say although rather curtly, walking away when you see a student with their hand in the air. 

“I wish they’d just confess their love for each other already, they’re perfect for each other,” Sabrina grumbles, clicking her pen annoyingly. 

“Me too, then maybe they’d both stop being so crabby during finals week,” her friend notes aloud with an exasperated sigh. 

Usually you can take the teasing of your students wanting to set you up with Harry, but today you’re not in the mood for entertaining them or carrying a conversation about it. Today, it just hits a little too close to home, you realize silently as you lean against a wall to observe your class, the student no longer needing help. You steal a glance at Harry who stands up straight after helping a student, patting their shoulder with a smile. His attentiveness shines through when he moves on to another student, falling to his knees to get to eye level with him, giving them all of his attention. The way the shirt hugs his torso in every way only makes it all the worse, clinging to his biceps, the slope of his back, and his love handles you love so much before it disappears into the waist of his black slacks. 

“Ms. Y/N, are you okay?” Sabrina asks, her eyes on you when you look over to her. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just got something in my eye,” you answer with a hard swallow, picking up your clipboard and checking your watch. You do anything to try and not think about Harry leaving, and how not only you would suffer, but his students. Also, just how much you’re dying to tell your students, hopefully one day soon, that you’ve been dating all along. Hopefully. 

*

Finals had been wreaking havoc on you and only causing more hell for the day you were having. Luckily, Harry had helped you with the majority of it in the recent weeks and even had given you some of his old tests. The anxiety still overwhelmed you at times wondering if you’re preparing your students enough, if the final review packet was too much or not enough, and if your students would be ready. Finals were going to be the death of you, you were sure, if Harry’s revelation about the job offer wouldn’t kill you before then. You couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking, if he had sought it out and applied, or how it even came about. It drove you even more crazy as the tests neared, knowing that you’d be spending the rest of the week in your classroom from seven-thirty most likely until five pm every day, with him just across the hall.

You craved his voice and his touch, his hugs, and that laugh that could fix anything in seconds. That Monday and Tuesday you didn’t mean to ignore him, but when he walked into the staff room while you were in there, your feet found their way to the door quickly. You’re sure you could have left the bone you bought for Gatsby on his desk or bring it over to his house, but instead you left it in his mailbox with a note. 

Give this to Gatsby, please. Tell him it’s from Mummy xx

It stung when you found it in your mailbox later that day with a note from him. 

You can give it to him yourself the next time you come over :) xo

It was even automatic when you agreed to get lunch with Lola on Tuesday, even though that was the day you and Harry always went and got pizza together. During your prep hour that morning, you lingered in the staff room after he made his appearance. But when Julie the art teacher started to compliment how good he looked wearing the tie you bought for him with Fleetwood Mac song titles covering the fabric, it drove you up the wall. She didn’t stop there, and continued on about how nice he looked and how much she liked his returning beard, making you want to throw up onto your doughnut you had just warmed up. You dropped it into a trash bin in the hallway after deserting the scene, unable to endure her flirting with him and not being able to do anything about it. It pained you to not be able to tell her to stop because he’s your boyfriend, but you and Harry had agreed early on to not share your relationship with colleagues unless necessary. 

It was all becoming too much for you to handle, finals week and kind of fighting with Harry and thinking about him moving away. Too much too quickly. 

*

The hard copy of Creative Writing’s final exam sat in front of you that Tuesday afternoon. The sun already hides beyond the horizon outside the windows hugging the wall to the left of you. This has to be the second or third time you’ve printed a copy to look over, always finding something wrong with it, but this time you think maybe you’ve found a winner. The clicking of your pen meets your ears when you think you find a problem, but it’s whisked away when there’s another click. Your classroom door opens and in walks Harry, playing with the black-tie dotted with song titles of all different colors. 

“Hi,” he rasps, gently closing the door behind him. 

“Hi,” you return, eyes straying to the test in front of you. Your attempt to continue checking it is futile as goosebumps cover your skin and your heart hammers away. 

“Gatsby misses you.”

“I miss him too,” you reply, feeling the tears press at the back of your eyes with warmth, trying not to think about not seeing him for months at a time if Harry moved. 

“I declined tha job yestaday,” he announces gently, but the whiplash you feel from looking to him quickly almost hurts. His bubblegum lips sit in a taut and nervous line, hands bunched into fists in the pockets of his red slacks. They leave your view when the printed words on the test return in your eyes, growing hazy quickly. “Can ya say sumthin’, please, bird?”

“I hope you didn’t do it for me,” is all you say, hoping the true meaning comes out in your honest tone muddled by your waterworks. 

“‘Course I did it fer you. I did it fer us, and Gatsby. I did it coz ‘m ashamed it took me longa than ten minutes t’ figure out that no matta tha luxuries, that’s not my dream job. I already have my dream job, ‘s here teaching across tha hall from you, gettin’ t’ have ya botha me durin’ my prep hour, combine our classrooms t’ play Jeopardy, have our students harass us t’ go onn’a date already, and gettin’ t’ have a snog with you wheneva I want. I don’ care if I don’ get t’ teach all those bloody fancy classes and get paid mo’, coz I lose all o’ that here that already makes me so happy. ‘m sorry I didn’t realize it earlier,” Harry confesses, emotions wavering in his voice that he clears a few times, taking slow steps over to where you sit. 

“You know . . . ,” you begin, listening to the silence that takes your words and probably how much they’re killing him right now, especially when you leave you chair. “I think we’re going to have to tell our students sooner or later, because they’re driving me nuts. So are these tight outfits you keep wearing, they make it really hard not to attack you with kisses whenever I see you.”

A smile explodes on Harry’s lips, the first you’ve seen him wear in days, as you approach him. Your hands sing when they touch his chest, feeling the necklace under the fabric before they wrap around the buttery smooth fabric of his tie. 

“Y’know,” he begins sarcastically, a hand coming to his chin where he strokes his new beard, although not quite as majestic as it’s been before. What a little shit. “I think ya might be right on that one, but I like t’ watch ‘em squirm. ‘s been fun t’ hear ‘em get all frustrated ‘bout us not datin’ yet,” he giggles, his rings finding their home on your back once again. 

“Little do they know, huh?”

“Oh yes, very li’l,” he chuckles, the dimples falling into his cheeks under his patchy facial hair that you love so much. Quickly, they disappear and his cheeks flatten from their prior roundness. “‘m sorry y’know, so sorry, birdy. I was a proper asshole t’ ya, I feel terrible ‘bout it.”

The tears signal their return when his head falls and you spot one escape and fall down his cheek. You catch it with your thumb before it can get very far and lift his chin up to have him look at you. You thought your heart couldn’t hurt after everything he had said moments ago, but it wrenches inside of your chest at the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, tears falling from them. 

“Harry, please don’t cry. It’s okay, we all make mistakes. I just want you to know that I am committed to you, so much so that I can’t wait to move in with you . . and Gatsby.”

“I know, ‘m sorry I ever doubted it, I dunno why I did. ‘m committed too, coz I love ya so much, birdy. I love you,” he weeps, shaky words hitting the air that you pass when you pull him into your arms. “I didn’t know I could miss ya so much ova jus’ four days,” he continues, his hot tears meeting your neck as his beard leaves tickles after brushing it. Your heart breaks even further at the feeling of his chest trembling with a sob against yours.

“I know, Harry, me too,” you coo, raking your fingers through his hair as he holds onto you, his face hiding in your neck. 

“Plus, I couldn’t take tha job coz ‘m not gonna be one o’ those shit parents who makes Gatsby spend a different weekend at each parent’s house. Also I miss you makin’ me lunches, I neva rememba,” he cries against your skin, his subsequent giggle gracing your ears. He’s the first to pull away and your heart aches a little harder at the tears painting his face, ones you try to make quick work of. 

“Good, I don’t think I’d have the heart to tell him, so it’d have to be you.”

“‘Fair is foul and foul is fair’,” he pouts dramatically, quoting a certain William, the pad of your thumb swiping below his left eye, feeling his feathery eyelashes against your skin. “Guess we’ll hafta stay togetha then,” he sighs sarcastically, pursing his lips that soon sing out a bubbly laugh still adorned with the remnants of tears. 

“Oh, I’m sure our students would harass us to get back together if that were ever to happen,” you giggle, adoring his wispy dark eyelashes that clump together with wet tears, his murky green eyes peeking up at you beneath them. 

“Ya, they’re gettin’ ratha rowdy ‘bout that, aren’t they?” he notes aloud, clucking his tongue as if disappointed then sniffling. Your thumb wanders to his forehead to smooth out the crease that’s formed between his eyebrows, pulling his eyes to yours. “‘d love t’ tell ‘em but ‘s fun t’ watch ‘em go crazy right now, but sumday, ya.” 

“Yeah, we have to make it fun first,” you agree, catching the last tear with your finger, hands wandering to his tie the same dark color of his button-up. 

“Right, you are,” he hums, eyes darting to your lips as you slowly yank on the tie, bringing him closer. “I knew I hadd’a smart birdy.”

His smile dissolves against your lips that surround his in the sweetest kiss containing the unsaid words and forgotten kisses from the last few days. Sorry’s pass between your lips as his warm rings press into the small of your back, the tie caught between your hands until you let go, certain he’s not going anywhere anymore. His lips sputter a laugh against yours when both of your hands come to caress his lovely bum that you squeeze greedily. 

“Watch those naughty finga’s o’ yers now,” he warns through hooded eyes, the bitter smell of black coffee dancing across your face. 

“Or what?” you reply with a shrug, the both of you feeling your fingers slowly dive underneath the tight fabric of his pants. 

“Or yer gonna catch me without any briefs on one o’ these times,” he replies, trying to keep a straight face until the words leave his mouth that soon pecks yours. 

“Oooo, I’d like to see that happen,” you tease, wiggling your eyebrows at him until he collapses into laughter above you. 

“I dunno what ‘ll do with ya, bird, with a potty mouth like that.”

“Well, you can’t dump me now, we have a son together,” you shrug dramatically, mouth pressed into a fake line as you watch his eyes roll into the back of his head. 

“Very true, altho’ a crappy joke there. I guess I might hafta kiss that potty mouth outta ya.”

“I’d like to see you try, Mr. Styles,” you counter, happy to see the tears have abated from the both of you, hoping you don’t find them again for months and months. 

“Oh, would you, Ms. Y/N? ‘ll take that bet, and if I win it, ya hafta come ova and make Gatsby and I dinna t’night. And have wine with me and stay tha night, gotta get su’more practice befo’ ya move in with me soon,” Harry continues, a smug expression donning his features. 

“Deal,” you say, squealing when his hands come under your bottom and lift you up to sit you on a nearby desk. The words on your lips disappear when he plants his lips on yours hastily, hands drifting along your waist. “You better get it all out before our field trip next week.”

“‘The lady doth protest too much, me thinks,’” Harry replies, quoting Shakespeare with a funny look on his face, replacing his lips on top of yours. Your tongue scoops up and into his mouth that he parts for you, tasting the Bit-O-Honey he just had that you’re sure his pockets are full of if you checked. You giggle into his mouth when your hands brush against his thighs, sure enough feeling the hard candies in his pockets on your way to explore his bum again. 

“‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep,’” you recite as your nose draws a line across his cheek moments later, leaving him silent. A smile curls upon his cheeks at the sound, astonishment playing with his features. 

“Our students are right, we really should be t’getha, birdy. I love me a Shakespeare girl. ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’ but I think ours ‘s doin’ pretty well, if I do say so meself.” 

[demoniccow]