#I want to get a leather bound journal and write a whole book of poems for them

[littlest-bugz]

Can't wait for the day I can write poems for a partner <3

[writingforfunsies]

The Demon Brothers: Creative Outlets Headcanons

they are all immortals and when you've lived longer than you can remember, you're bound to find a creative outlet to destress, alleviate boredom, or you know, to just have fun!

Lucifer

He’s a busy demon. If he’s not working, he's sleeping, or cleaning up one of his brother’s messes, so he doesn't have that much time to just relax and explore his creative sides. 

That said though, it doesn’t mean he has no hobbies at all.

He plays the piano. He used to play it every morning, back when he’s still in the Celestial Realm, when he’d taught Lilith how to play the piano every morning and she’d sat besides him as his fingers moved across the keys slower so she could copy him. 

Nowadays, playing the piano feels very nostalgic and bittersweet, but you’ll hear soft, bittersweet melodies drift from the music room once in a while.

He also composes his own music, but that's an even rarer occurrence. The last time he created a new music piece was centuries ago. 

(Ever since MC came to Devildom though, he's been itching to write music for them.)

Practices calligraphy for fun. He has a whole set of brushes and ink and lettering pens. His handwriting is already beautiful but his calligraphy is even more amazing.

Another thing he does is gardening. He's got a great eye for landscape architecture, he's the reason why the house's backyard is pretty. 

He plants decorative plants and likes to cross breed flowers so the House of Lamentation's backyard is full of pretty shrubs and unfamiliar flowers. 

He is usually joined by Beel as he is the other brother that finds gardening very relaxing.

Mammon

He definitely shows his creativity by coming up with the most absurdly brilliant, out-of-the-box, original schemes to make money.

Mammon can draw, like really good. His drawings are very realistic. He prefers to use traditional media: charcoal pencils, graphite sticks, blenders, erasers, drawing pens, brushes, and maybe some watercolors.

He usually does architecture sketches.

But if you check his drawers, you’ll find several sketchbooks of his brothers in different candid poses. MC alone has taken up three whole sketchbooks. Mammon makes sure MC doesn’t see those sketches though.

Crashes Asmo’s Art Day regularly, claiming that if Levi’s invited then the Great Mammon should be too. Asmo and Levi always complains but they let him stay anyway.

Mammon also has a natural talent on jewelry making and metalwork. He makes jewelry from buttons, beads, pearls, diamonds, and crystals. From small pendants to elaborate neckpieces, simple anklets to ornate hairpins. 

Mammon has made metal bookmarks for Satan because the book lover always misplaces his bookmarks or destroys them in fits of rage when he doesn't like a book's ending.

He sculpts wood. It takes him months to finish one small piece because he only does it when he's really, really bored, he prefers to make his much more profitable jewelry. 

He keeps all of his sculptures in his room, small and detailed pieces of wood engraving of Devildom native animals lining up on one of the shelves.

Leviathan

This is canon but he draws! He doesn't think he's very good at it, but he really enjoys it. 

Unlike Mammon who likes to draw with his charcoal pencils and drawing pens, Levi prefers to draw digitally. He still switch to traditional media now and then though.

Has a monthly scheduled “Art Day” where he and Asmo hang out together, Levi draws with his sketchbook or his drawing tablet and Asmo paints. They basically just gossip and hype each other’s art.

Dabbles in making short animations but feels like it’s just not something for him. He makes short comics though.

He wants to be able to make his own video game someday though. Maybe after he learns programming.

He makes the most detailed cosplay outfits for his own cosplays. He sews really good and patches his brothers clothes when they ask. Where do you think Asmo learns how to sew his own clothes from?

Really good at dancing and he really likes it too. He's a natural at it. From the most intricate traditional Devildom dances to freestyle dancing. He can make new moves on the spot and can copy any moves from one look.

He’s a shy baby though, you’ll rarely see him dance when he’s sober.

Except when he’s playing DDR (Demons Dance Revolution). Then, it’s like he’s the most confident demon in Devildom.

Satan

Satan writes poetry when inspiration strikes him. He has also written short stories but he always comes back to creating beautiful poems. He’s got a way with words.

Photography is something he has only recently taken interest in but he has a great eye for taking breathtaking shots. 

Has become the family’s go-to photographer.

“Satan, take a picture of me and Mammon!” “Satan, take our picture, quick!” “Satan, help me get a picture for my Devilgram!”

He’s the reason Asmo’s Devilgram pictures always look like they’re taken professionally in a photo studio or something.

Satan loves art, likes to stroll through museums and stare at paintings for hours, but has little talent in creating them. Even so, he still likes to paint even if he's not good at it. 

Sometimes he just wants to slap paint on a canvas and make a colorful mess. It's fun. 

He joins Art Day every other month.

Another thing he does is knitting! It relaxes him. It gives him something to focus at when he's angry (um, angrier than usual), just to give his hands something to do that doesn't involve breaking anything. The simple patterns he makes are easy enough that they don't frustrate him. 

Rarely ever finishes his knitting though, you'll just find this 5 meters long knitted fabric in one corner of his room with the ends coming undone because he calms himself down enough to stop knitting.

Asmodeus

Regularly designs, cut, and sew his own clothes. 

Has a lot of sketchbooks full of drawings of flowy dresses and stylish coats and many aesthetically pleasing shirts. 

He has started his own clothing line and sometimes collaborate with Majolish. 

But for the most part, he designs clothes for himself and himself only, he doesn't want anyone else to wear clothes as fabolous as his.

Nail art? Nail art. 

Asmo paints all of the brothers nails and sometimes he'll persuade one of them to let him do a complete manicure, with glitter polish and shiny studs and all. 

Yes, even Lucifer. You just never see the results because Lucifer wears his gloves almost all the time.

Asmo creates beautiful makeup art. He doesn't really like a lot of makeup on his own face though, so his brothers' faces are his canvases.

He also has a great eye for interior decorating and flower arranging. He restyles his room every month.

Not many people know it but he paints. And he's very good at it. He has done a painting of each brother, the paintings can be seen on the walls of the House of Lamentation's hallways. 

Art Day with Levi (and sometimes Satan or Belphie) is spent with him in front of canvases, chatting with his brothers, paint splatters on his hands. It's the only day that he doesn't mind looking a little messy.

Beelzebub

He cooks, of course!  And bakes too!

It's one of the times he’s willing to wait to eat because cooking the ingredients first rather than just straight up eating them will make the foods taste better. 

Half of the food in the kitchen are his creations. Anything he can make on his own from scratch, he will; jams, ice cream, sauces, juices, bread, chips, etc. 

Likes to experiment and always do something different than the original recipes. 

He garnishes his cooking like it’s something you order from a five star restaurant.

Beel is another demon who has a green thumb. He likes taking care of plants and doesn't mind getting a bit dirty doing it so gardening is another hobby of his. 

If Lucifer plants ornamental plants, Beel grows useful plants like herbs and vegetables and small fruits. He's also good at topiary.

Always has an idea for a DIY project. 

His creations is scattered all over the House of Lamentation. Belphie's drawer divider is made out of yogurt cups. Broken drawer knobs recycled into Asmo's jewelry organizer. The coat rack. The bathroom towel holder. 

Even Lucifer's hanging Demonus rack is handmade by Beel when he's bored one weekend, with Mammon's help for the engraving decorations along the sides of the rack. Beel's got a bit of Bob the Builder in him.

He is very good at singing. His voice is clear and he has a broad vocal range. Has been caught unconsciously humming in class many times.

Has definitely sang Belphie to sleep.

Belphegor

Does his pranks counts as a creative outlet though?😂 Between him and Satan, Belphie's ideas are the most creative and out of the box, resulting on some of the best pranks they did.

Belphie does origami. It's relaxing, easy enough to learn, and doesn't take much effort and energy to do it. 

Has stacks of origami papers in his room: standard origami paper, foil paper, traditional Washi ones, the leather-like Momigami paper, all kinds of paper. 

He especially loves to make little origami stars and keeps them in glass jars in his room.

Belphie also has adult coloring books. 

And kids coloring books.

Coloring is relaxing to him. It's very calming to just lay down and fills a page with pretty colors for a while. It's not a tiring way to destress, he can color without moving from his bed, and it feels satisfying when he finishes a whole page. 

He sometimes joins Art Day if he's not too lazy to move. Still prefers to color alone where it's quiet though.

He also journals. It's another thing he can do that is inexpensive and not energy consuming. He writes about anything that comes to his mind, his thoughts, his ideas, memories. 

Definitely keeps a dream journal.

Also I headcanon that as the Avatar of Sloth, sleep and dreams are some of the things he can manipulate. He enjoys creating dreams; the worldbuilding, the story, the details. He can be really creative when it comes to making them, spinning the most vivid and imaginative dreams. 

They’re not necessarily good dreams though. After all, he is still a demon, his dreams will most likely mess up your mind than make you smile in your sleep.

[mc-i-r]

The poem

Summary: Roman finds an unusual notebook on a certain sides desk. What he finds inside is... surprising.

Pairings: platonic Prinxiety

TW: mentions of self-harm, mentions of hospitalization, mentions of blood, angst of course, brief mention of eating disorder, poor self image, major fluff at the end don't worry ;)

Let me know if I missed any triggers!

Word count: 2,172

---

Roman was walking around the Mindpalace when he passed by a door. He stopped, finding the door particularly weird. It's dark colors and purple highlights were not what caused Roman his sudden stop. No, it was the fact that the door was open.

‘That’s weird. Panic! At the Everywhere always leaves his door closed. In fact, he makes sure of it. I better check and see if he’s okay.’ Roman thought to himself.

He looked around him, making sure no one was in sight just in case the lovable emo was having a private crisis. After confirming it was safe to enter, he creaked open the door, sticking his head in only a little bit just in case, not wanting to invade someone's privacy.

“Hello? Virge? Your door was open so I wanted to check if you were okay,” Roman said in a hushed voice, in case the side was sleeping. After receiving no response, Roman opened the door wider, walking fully into the room.

Now, despite common belief, Roman had only been in Virgil’s room once before during Accepting Anxiety and had not returned unless asked; which so far have been the grand total of zero times. Roman looked around the barely-lit room. A lot had changed since he was last in there. The room felt lighter, not by colors but by the overall feeling. He knew that the first time he was in this room the effects were dangerous, affecting them all quickly and severely. But now, there was no feeling. The feeling of doom and nervousness he felt was gone, replaced with a sense of focus and overall awareness. It somehow calmed the Prince, making him feel like he could focus on the tasks at hand and making his dreams reality through achievable means. It was a good feeling, and Roman always growing addicted to it.

He took in the scenery; dark purple walls, fluffy gray carpet, and a single bed in the center of the wall with a black comforter and purple pillows. A nightstand with a single lamp that looked almost never used sat beside the bed with a desk under the window adjacent to the bed, notebooks and art supplies all over it. Two doors stood on the right wall, one to the bathroom and the other to the closet. There were posters all over the walls, most from those emo bands and a few from The Nightmare Before Christmas, which Roman absolutely adored. Despite it not being Romans taste, he liked the room. It was comforting, like you could just snuggle up in a thick blanket and sleep through the winter.

Roman walked over to the desk, curious to what the emo nightmare’s art style is. He found mostly sketches, many of the other sides in relaxed poses. There were some of Patton cooking in the kitchen and others of Logan reading a book on the couch. Others were the Prince himself, writing down ideas in his trusty notebook or singing along to a movie on one of their many movie nights. Roman smiled at the papers.

‘So that's what he’s doing all the time. Aww, the emo really does care,’ Roman thought. He knew Virgil cared about them, he could tell. Virgil had come a long way, they all had. Roman admired Virgil for it, for being able to make that personal growth all on his own. It was something not many could do.

Roman looked over the rest of the desk, noticing an open notebook that he had never seen before. Virgil was always doodling or sketching in his sketchbook but this book was different. It was a black leather-bound book, about an inch in thickness, that had words upon words written on it. The whole page was covered in writing. And Roman was curious.

‘Must be some type of journal. I wonder what’s in it? No, Roman, that's being nosey. But it’s so enticing. Who knows what he has in there! Okay, fine. One page, okay? Only one page and then you put it down, okay?’ Roman argued with himself.

Upon his decision, he picked up the notebook, placing his thumb on the current page to make sure he could put the notebook back without being caught. He flipped back near the beginning of the book, scamming over the titles. Most pages were filled with rants on varying topics, ranging from other sides to whether or not squirrels are real. The other pages, however, caught Roman’s eye. They were writings; short stories, writing prompts, poems, and much more.

Roman saw a title that caught his eye.

“‘Isn’t it funny?’. Hmm, sounds interesting enough,” Roman said aloud to himself. It was a poem and Roman, being the fanciful romantic he was, was intrigued.

He adjusted his grip, holding the book so the page was illuminated by the hallway light that seeped in from the still-open door. Focusing on the page, he began reading.

‘Isn't it funny how nobody cares?

Until you're laying on the floor getting horrified stares

As blood pours out of the cuts that you've made.

Each arm marked by a single razor blade.

The pool of blood slowly grows around you

And the people staring wonder how this is what it's come to.

One leans down to check if you're breathing.

It's steady but slow, slowly leaving.

You wake up later in a hospital bed.

Your arms are sore and you rub your head,

Wondering what the hell happened and where you are now.

And you look at the people in the room and wonder, how?

How could they stand there and look at your face?

How could they stand to give you an embrace?

They act like they care in the hospital room.

But you know-oh you know- that it's really a tomb

Where all your secrets and shame slowly die.

But you harden your gaze and slowly sigh

As they ask why you did it or why you tried

To take your own life and they break down and cry

You look up slowly and shake your head

Saying "you should've just left me I'm better off dead"

They quickly say that they simply didn't know

That they would've helped if you only let it show

But you shake your head and look off to the side

Avoiding their gazes as you let out a shaky sigh

You slightly chuckle but not from amusement

You speak softly, your voice raspy from not using it

"Its funny how you care now that the damage is done.

Where were you when it all begun?

When I cried myself to sleep in the corner of my room?

When I cut my skin to rid me of this fleshy tomb?

When I stopped eating meals that made me too fat?

When I looked in the mirror and subconsciously spat?

I don't want your pity or your false sorrow.

Cause I'm just going to feel the same tomorrow.

I'm hanging on by a single hair

Cause isn't it funny how nobody cares?"’

By the time he was done reading, Roman was in tears.

‘How could he think of himself like that? We-I was so...horrible to him. Is-is this what he was going through while I was being so mean to him? Was he...was he thinking about doing those...those things? Did he do those things?! Does he still think that way? What if he still thinks we hate him? What if he’s always thought that and never stopped? What if he-what if he tries-’

“Princey?”

Roman’s thoughts were cut off by a hesitant hand on his shoulder, making the crying side snap his head around to see who was touching him. He found Virgil, looking at him with clear concern written all over his face, wondering why the Princely side was crying. His gaze flicked over to the notebook still held in the Prince’s hands and his face went deathly pale.

“Princey, listen to me. It's not what you think-” Virgil started.

“...is it true? Do you feel like this? Do you… do you do those...things?” Roman asked, voice small and fragile. He looked up at Virgil with sad eyes, praying to every god out there that it wasn’t true. Virgil only sighed, giving Roman a sad face that said everything.

‘Its true. All of it. The feelings, the emotions, all of it. Oh god-’

“...what have I done?” Roman said aloud, mostly to himself. At those four words, the Prince launched himself at the emo, dropping the notebook and wrapping the small side in a tight hug, crying into his shoulder. Virgil, who wasn't prepared for this, stumbled backwards a bit but caught himself, wrapping his arms around the crying side to try and calm him down.

Roman gripped Virgil’s baggy jacket, guilt taking over his mind. He wanted to hold Virgil forever, make sure he never feels that way again. He wished he could take it all back. Start over, make everything disappear and get a fresh start. God, that's all he wanted.

‘It's all my fault. It's all my fault. It’s all my fault.’

“...it’s all my fault,” Roman whispered out through cries. Virgil tightened his grip slightly and pulled back so Roman could see his face.

“Hey, hey, no it’s not. It's not your fault, okay? Look at me Roman,” Virgil said. The usually energetic side was drained, slowly lifting his head to meet Virgil’s gaze.

“None of it was your fault, okay? You only acted the way you did because you were told to act that way. I don’t blame you. No one does. We were all in the wrong okay? Don’t blame yourself for something you had no control over,” Virgil said, holding the other by the arms.

“But I could have done something. I should have done something. I knew you were just doing your job and I still treated you like shit. You deserved-deserve so much better than that. You-you make us better, Virgil. I mean that every time I say it. You make me better. To think that I drove you to those..those things it- it destroys me,” Roman said, tearing up again near the end.

“Roman, you did not make me do those things. In fact, what I did to myself was no one’s fault but my own. In fact, I never did it because I got too anxious about someone finding out or if I would bleed out and, well, the list goes on and on. That's why I have that notebook. I use it to write down my feelings so they don’t escalate. It was a complete accident, actually. I dropped a glass and cut my hand so when I started cleaning it up I began thinking about what it would be like to hurt myself and what would happen. So me, being the literal embodiment of anxiety, thought of almost every possible scenario and that was one of them. I wrote it down and decided to make it into a poem to occupy myself. I would never do any of that, not after all I’ve been through. Not after all you have helped me through. I could have never been the person I am today without you, Roman. You helped me learn from my mistakes and grow from them. You saved me, Roman,” Virgil said.

He was teary-eyed and grabbed Roman's hands. Speaking of Roman, he was crying his eyes out; half out of sadness still and half out of pure joy that the poem wasn’t all true. Roman threw his arms around Virgil yet again, hugging him so tight Virgil thought he would pass out. Virgil hugged back, smiling slightly and patting the others back in comfort. Roman pulled back, still hanging on to Virgil by his arms. Virgil wiped Roman’s tears away with his jacket sleeve, making the Prince blush out of pure contact.

“Hey, Princey, you got a little something on your face,” Virgil said, teasing.

“Oh shut it,” Roman said, smiling. Virgil smiled back, glad to see the other smiling again. God, that smile.

“There it is, there's that smile I was looking for,” Virgil said. Roman just smiled brighter and Virgil laughed. He actually laughed.

“Come on, Princey. I think Logan and Patton are helping Thomas with something so we have the Mindpalace to ourselves. Want to have a mini movie night?” Virgil asked. Roman smiled.

“After that emotional roller coaster? Hell yes,” Roman said. The two made their way downstairs, grabbing their blankets off their beds as they went, and snuggled into the couch. Virgil grabbed a few snacks while Roman picked a movie, which turned out to be Moana since it was his emotional support movie. They settled down to watch the movie, enjoying their time together.

A couple hours later, Logan and Patton returned from their errand with Thomas, coming home to see the two sides cuddled together on the couch fast asleep, the end credits of Moana still rolling on the tv screen.

---

A/N: Well...there you have it! My first oneshot I've posted! I've got a ton more so if you'd like to read more, let me know. I'm open to suggestions so message me, send asks, or tag me anytime! Anywho, hope you enjoyed :)

Taglist:

@whattheremus (sorry if you didn't wanna be tagged, I just thought since you said yes you'd like to know :) )

[aqua-harry]

She’s Just Not That Into You » Part V (A Harry Styles Miniseries)

Miss the previous parts? Part One » Part Two » Part Three » Part Four

Check out the inspiration behind Harry’s home here!

After secluding himself for the better part of two days, Harry decided it was best to consult someone about his next move, if there was one at all. Nick was the only plausible option, as he was the one who introduced you to Harry, and he’d known you longer than Harry had. Much longer. He’d told Harry that he considered you to be one of his best friends, which shocked him a bit, considering Nick didn’t mention you all that much. But, plenty of time had passed since Harry was in London for an extended period. Nick was a magnet for friends, and he was allowed to make more without Harry around…

...especially if they were friends like you.

Harry begs his best friend to not take the piss out of him when he calls to confirm his takeaway Thai order. He needed the version of Nick not many saw. He needed the friend who was straight-up with him, yet kind at the same time. He needed advice, not jokes.

So, when they’re both situated in the kitchen - Harry leaning against the sink and Nick sat at the island - Harry digs his chopsticks into the cardboard container of noodles, mentioning your name with a nervousness he hadn’t ever remembered feeling before.

“You said you wouldn’t do that shit!” Harry rolls his eyes when Nick groans at the sound of your name. Trying to hide his embarrassment, he smiles shyly before taking a large bite of his food.

“Okay, okay,” Nick places both of his hands flat against the countertop. “What’s up?”

Harry tells him everything - the relief he felt when you said Cam wasn’t your boyfriend, the impromptu purchase of peonies that lead to him popping into your shop and covering the reason for the visit  up with a change in color to his living room, the miscommunicated lunch date - and doesn’t stop until he’s finished, powering through Nick’s sympathetic cringes as Harry details the past two weeks for his friend.

He bulldozes through the story wanting to get it done and over with, knowing how stupid he must sound.

“Not used to ‘avin’ to work so hard for it, are ya?” Nick asks with a soft voice, wanting Harry to understand he’s not judging him.

“Does she even talk about me? Ask about me? You two talk all th’ time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nick nods, walking around the island so he’s leaning against it in front of Harry. “But it’s usually not about work. Just a casual night o’ pub trivia t’ blow off some steam every now ‘n again.”

“About work?!” Harry grumbles, setting his food down next to him. “‘m not talkin’ about me bein’ her work!”

“Harry...” Nick smiles as his friend rakes a disgruntled hand through his hair.

“So she doesn’t talk about me?”

“She’s busy,” Nick places a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Really busy.”

“Just say yes or no.”

“No.”

“Not ever?”

“No. Just mentioned that you’d have a pink guest room when I asked ‘ow things were goin’ with your house.”

Harry paces a bit in front of the sink, biting his lip with his fingers at his mouth.

“You really like ‘er that much, huh? Thought I was just havin’ a laugh at your mum’s over Christmas. Didn’t know you were actually into ‘er. Kinda feel bad now that I think about it, if ‘m honest...wouldn’t’ve been such a dick t’ya at the bar with the whole Cam thing, had I known…”

“D’ye think she knows?” he looks up at Nick. “Is she clueless? Just busy? Does she even want a relationship?”

“Wait,” Nick pauses, picking up his drink and setting it back down again. “Y’want a relationship with ‘er?”

“I don’t know!’ Harry nearly snaps. “I dunno! ‘d like t’ get to know her better, ‘n I know that if we talked about anythin’ other than my fuckin’ sectional sofa, I’d probably - definitely - want one with her.”

“Probably definitely,” Nick laughs.

“She’s not a fling. Never a fling. She wouldn’t be a fling,” Harry ignores his friend, continuing to pace. “She’s not a part-time deal. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’.”

“‘ave you ever thought about just askin’ ‘er?” Nick asks, tucking his hands in his jean pockets. “She’d be th’ one t’ talk about this with, y’know…”

“No, really?”

“I dunno, Harry!” he laughs, all of his teeth showing in the way they do when he finds something genuinely funny. “Don’t know what you want me t’ say, but y’ better do somethin’ about it now, otherwise your second studio album’s gonna be filled with songs titled after the furniture she convinced you to buy and I’ll never ‘ear the end of it,” he smiles lovingly at Harry.

“Thanks,” Harry grunts, rolling his eyes again. “Thing is...she’s not even leading me on. I can’t get frustrated because she ‘asn’t done anything. It’s all me.”

“Listen,” Nick places both of his hands on his best friend’s shoulders. “Told ye’ she would be a good match for you...should’ve listened to me a year ago. Now look at ye’,” he shakes Harry’s shoulders. “You’re a mess.”

“Don’t have to tell me that,” Harry dips his head into his hands, groaning into his palms.

“Tell her, mate. ‘ve obviously gotta be the first one t’ do it.”

“What if she says no?”

“Then she says no,” Nick shrugs. “Worse things ‘ave happened. Wars and shit, probably.”

Harry makes the decision to not mention you for the rest of the night, plotting on what to do. He laughs at Nick’s jokes, but the chortles don’t come as easily as they normally do, with the younger of the duo having to force a giggle more often than not. Moving into the living room, he turns on the TV, nodding when Nick offers to make drinks for the two of them.

As Nick pours a whiskey for his best friend, he can sense a melancholiness about him and decides to be as heavy-handed as he can with the amber-colored liquor, knowing that alcohol may dull some of the confusion behind his thoughts. He felt for him - he truly did - but he’d be lying if he didn’t say he found a bit of enjoyment in seeing the man who usually got what he wanted having to come to terms that maybe he’d be left empty-handed this time around.

Once Harry is pleasantly drunk, Nick leaves him to continue to drink in his living room, promising that he’ll feel better about the situation in the morning. Harry asks him to turn off the overhead lights, leaving him illuminated by candlelight as Nick gets ready to leave. He tries not to laugh at how his best friend looks, drunk and pouty in the near-dark - he knows that he’s prone to sleeping on the couch when he’s particularly lonely, the vastness of his bed only solidifying how alone he really was.

“Things ‘re always worse at night,” Nick assures him, patting the top of Harry’s head before telling him not to move, that he could let himself out. “Call me in the morning, yeah?”

With a thumbs up and a nod, Harry leans far back into the cushions on his couch, tapping his fingers on his knees.

Why is he so caught up on you?

Was it because you’re not reciprocating his feelings for you?

Is it because he can’t have you?

He’s not used to indifference towards him, as much as he hates to admit it. He feels like a dolt, pining for you like this. He’d never had to pine over anything for the last six years. It was all handed to him, no questions asked. If he saw something and he liked it, it was considered his. And that included women, no matter how big of an asshole that made him.

But he knows it’s not just because he wants what he can’t have. There were endless reasons as to why he couldn’t get you off his mind. To start, you’re absolutely gorgeous. It was offensive, really, that you could look so good in a pair of old jeans and a paint-splattered flannel. He understood now that he’d never be able to rid himself of that image - you bounding into his house and out of the rain, a grin on your face bigger than any he’d previously seen.

You were smart - good with numbers and even better with people. He doesn’t claim to know how much courage it must’ve taken to start your own business at such a young age, but you had the skill and you had the passion, so you went for it. You were confident in your intelligence, never dulling it for anyone, never being ashamed of how much you knew. You were stylish and classy, never boasting about your talents or skills, instead keeping them in your back pocket until you saw it was fit to use them. You knew how to get what you wanted, whether it be a discount on hardwood floors or the best-looking scone in a cafe. Interactions with you were left with a happy feeling - a good feeling that washed over those who talked with you for the rest of the day. You had a way about you that made people appreciate who you were and what you were capable of.

You were funny - God, you were funny - always supplying an unexpectedly witty comment that made entire rooms fill with laughter. He was comfortable letting you lead the conversation to wherever you wanted it to go, always looking forward to hearing what you had to say, surprised whenever a quip would come out of that beautiful mouth of yours.

No, it wasn’t a matter of you being unobtainable. It wasn’t the chase he was after.

You were the total package.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to rest until he had you.

To occupy his time until he was tired enough to fall asleep, he reaches for one of his favorite collections of poetry - Bukowski, this time - reading a poem he’d found it hard to forget ever since he’d read it for the first time. He writes in the margins, always keeping a pen in the binding of the dog-eared book, scribbling down the the words “This thing upon me howls like a beast / you flower, you feast” and makes a mental note to transfer them to his leather-bound journal when he was more sober.

He looks at his phone that’s placed on the coffee table he’ll be getting rid of soon.

Fuck it, he thinks.

Downing the rest of his whiskey on the rocks, he grabs the phone off the table, thumbing through his contacts until he finds your name. He presses it, taking a shaky breath while he listens to the line ring. He never intended on using your number without permission, but the liquor in his blood gave him more courage than any bouquet of peonies ever could.

“Hi, Harry.” You answer on the fourth ring, your voice clear despite it being past midnight.

“‘lo,” he says. His voice is deep and slurred, but he hopes you’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Hi,” you can’t help but smile through your words. “It’s midnight.”

“I know. Just wanted t’ hear your voice,” he hiccups, his words slightly jumbled together.

“Harry, you’re drunk.”

He’s immediately embarrassed based on the tone of your voice - what was that, disappointment? He shouldn’t have told you that he wanted to hear your voice. He should’ve talked about paint colors again; he should’ve talked about the only common ground he’d had with you.

What the fuck was he thinking, calling you up to hear your voice? And then confessing it?

Moron!

“I know. ‘m sorry.”

“Did you need something?” your voice is soft, almost tentative.

“No.”

“Then I need to hang up,” you break the news gently. “I can’t have you calling me this late at night, y’know? I understand that you’ve contracted t’work for you, but that’s exactly why you can’t do this.”

“‘m sorry,” he starts, swallowing harshly. “I just - Nick ‘n I were talkin’ tonight and…” he sighs, defeated.

He realizes everything you’re saying is true, but he wishes that - for once - you weren’t so goddamn professional.

“It’s midnight. And you’re drunk. And I’m your interior designer.”

“I’m sorry,” he says for the third time, putting on a clearer voice in an attempt to fool both of you into thinking he’s more coherent than he actually is.

“We’ll talk later, okay? Get some rest.”

“I really am sorry, y’know.”

“I know, Harry,” you sigh. “Goodnight.”

He throws the phone down to the floor without bidding you the same, grabbing at his hair from the roots and groaning so intensely, his throat burns. He does it again and again, rubbing his vocal chords raw, needing to punish himself for the deed he’s committed.

He could blame Nick.

Fuck, he could blame you.

But he knows there’s only himself to blame, which makes the bitterness in his throat cut all the more.

---

The next morning, Harry wakes on his couch, groggy and ashamed.

He’d said he wanted to hear your voice. He’d said it after too much whiskey, his words distorted by the alcohol. His mother had always told him that a drunk word is a sober thought, and he was feeling it today.

He makes coffee in the clothes from the night before, his eyes puffy and his mouth dry. After chugging a glass of water, he feels a bit better, but the fog in his brain still isn’t enough to mask the mistake he’d made hours before.

Should he text you?

That would just be crossing another line, he figures.

You probably wouldn’t respond, anyway. And he can’t honestly say that he wouldn’t do the same thing if he were in your position. Had someone he was working for called him up in the middle of the night because she’d missed his voice, he’d ignore her until the end of time, not just for the day.

As he looks out his window and onto the street, early-morning traffic distracting him for a split second, he decides to stick it out and wait two days until he’d meet you at his new house for a final meeting about the colors of the room and the furniture placement.

The days pass just as slowly as any amount of time does when he’s away from you. He finds it difficult to eat, difficult to sleep - difficult to do anything other than worry about the repercussions of his actions. You’d must’ve thought him to be absolutely mad, calling you in the middle of the night after half a bottle of whiskey.

On the day of the meeting, he arrives to his house early. He bides his time walking slowly through each room, the carpet pulled up to the studs so it could be replaced with hardwood. His footsteps echo, the only sound in the house. He was alone again, the silence around him louder than any show he’d ever played, but that was no surprise. He’d made a living out of being lonely.

When you arrive, you don’t have the usual folders in your hands. Instead, it’s just your keys and your phone in one hand as you ring the bell, a straight look on your face.

“Hi,” he opens the door.

When he goes to hug you, all you offer is a slight lean into his chest, rather than the full hug he’d become accustomed to. His heart drops to his stomach, your lack of warmth chilling him to the bone.

“‘ow are you?” he asks.

“Good,” you paste on a barely-there smirk. “Can we talk?”

“Course,” he nods.

He leads you into the stripped kitchen, the cabinetry ready to be replaced with the new, sleeker set the two of you had decided on during the “non-lunch date” lunch date. Leaning against the bare bones of the island, Harry finds it difficult to meet your eyes for the first time he can ever recall.

“‘ve decided,” you breathe out, pulling the hem of your sweater further down your hips, “that it’d be best if I give your account to one of my senior interns,” you clear your throat.

Harry’s mouth opens and closes twice, his throat suddenly dry and his heart pounding in his chest.

“You’ll be in great hands,” you sniff, looking at your shoes. “Her name is Carly and ‘ve briefed her on everything. We’ve been going over all the plans so she will execute them just as well as I would, if not better.”

He very much doubts that, but he’s silent. What can he say? He can’t defend himself - it was stupid, what he did. Calling you in the middle of the night with nothing to talk about, other than his want to hear your voice? He could apologize again, but at this point...

“It guts me t’ do this, Harry,” you look at him, your eyebrows knitted together. “It’s just...as a woman in the industry, I’ve got to draw a - well, I know I’m young. I know I can sometimes cross the line of professionalism with my clients. I get I probably shouldn’t invite them over to mine when m’days run long, and I shouldn’t meet them for a meeting over lunch, and I shouldn’t...I don’t know,” you sigh, shaking your head. “I just think of ‘em as my friends, my clients. I put everything into my projects for them, so it’s hard not to consider ‘em that way, y’know? I just - I’m sorry,” you’re nearly pleading at this point. “I’m sorry I gave you the wrong impression of me. I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“No, no, no,” Harry stands up straight, reaching out to you and then thinking better of it. “Please don’t think that. Please.”

He’d gotten drunk. He’d gotten drunk and he made a mistake. He could forgive himself for the phone call. But what he couldn’t forgive himself for was making you doubt yourself. What kind of man makes a woman doubt herself in a world that’s already so cruel to the better sex? What kind of man was he to make you feel doubtful about the level of professionalism you’d worked so hard to achieved?

He wanted to explain to you that it was admirable how close you were with your clients. You weren’t unprofessional by inviting them over to your home after hours. You were clearly dedicated to your job and you were willing to go the extra mile for them. That didn’t make you weak, nor did it make you unprofessional. He wanted to grab you and hug you and beg for you to understand that he didn’t think poorly of you at all - it was his fault. He’d crossed the line, not you.

But he couldn’t.

He couldn’t explain that to you without making you feel worse. He saw no way out of making you feel like you’d lead him on by doing what you normally did with those who’d hired you. He saw no way out of explaining that the whiskey he’d downed so easily two nights ago had made him confront his feelings for you, and that it was on him to work through it, not you.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” he starts. “Know I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry - again - for calling you. ‘m sorry that y’feel so uncomfortable that you can’t work with me anymore. I’m so sorry. But please don’t ever think that it’s because you’re unprofessional”

“I just,” you bite your lip and Harry wishes you hadn’t. “I can’t have a client calling me and telling me he just wanted to hear my voice,” you meet his eyes, seeming to ask for his understanding. “I just don’t think it would be fair to either of us if we continued working together on your house,” you pause, realizing that when you looked away, he’d placed a hand on his forehead. “You’re a great guy, Harry. It’s not that. I just don’t know if…”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, shielding himself from your gaze. “I understand.”

“Call the office if you have any questions or concerns about Carly, okay?” you walk up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Can’t wait to see pictures of the final product.”

He hears your footsteps walking away from him, towards the door and out of the world you’d created for him.

“Will my apology lose its potency if I say I’m sorry again?” he jokes, trying to hide how much shame he’s feeling. “Because I truly am sorry.”

“I know,” you nod, turning from the doorway. “I am, too.”

He takes the long way home, pleased to be stuck in the traffic of rush hour, welcoming anything that would keep him from going home to an empty house once more. It’s silent in his car, save for the subtle purr of his engine or the click of his turn signal, but he feels that silence is necessary. It matches the tears in his eyes, the scratch of his throat, the pain in his head. The silence magnifies it, amplifying the feeling he deserved and craved so deeply.

How could one put into words the loss of something he’d never had? How could he force himself to live in that moment - that regret, that bile-filled remorse he’d forgotten long ago - without tearing himself down? But, he deserved that too, the self-hatred. He deserved to feel like a proper joke for the way he’d felt over the past two months. He deserved to have those ties with you cut so sharply, he felt the piercing of the break within his bones.

When he arrives home, he neglects to turn on any light, instead striking a match from the small book of them he keeps on his coffee table in the living room, the singular flame from the earthy candle illuminating enough of what was in front of him.

He sulks, this time with no alcohol.

Does he call Nick?

He didn’t think he had the energy to listen to him say, “I told you so…”

Gemma? No.

Anne? No.

Every person in his life would point fingers at who was to blame, and Harry knew for certain that it wasn’t you. They’d all be on your side, and rightfully so.

He deserved to be sat alone on the couch, the only company within the empty house the journal he’d placed open on his lap. Beneath the lines he transferred over from the poetry book, he writes down the words that had come to him on his way home, turning to the only source of comfort he knew during times of unadulterated heartbreak…

Apologies are never going to fix this / I’m empty, I know...

[hypotheticallyhaunted]

A book and a bracelet.

Okay so my absolutely lovely friend @sassyshoulderangel319 has been asking me to write something and last night I couldn’t sleep so I tried to write something. A Thomas Sanders imagine. Hope she likes it and hope everybody else likes it too. Constructive Criticism is most welcome :)

“Lyric wait.”

Lyric turned around to look at Thomas grabbing his bag and calling her. She’d only seen him in class and they'd never talked but he was such a sweetheart, always so polite and kind.

“Yeah Thomas.” Lyric flung her bag on her shoulder as Thomas reached her. They were the last ones left in class only because Lyric always wanted everybody to leave first and Thomas was finishing up his work.

"You know my name??" Thomas had looked quite surprised to see his name leave Lyric's lips.

"Of course I do, Thomas. You're in almost all my classes and it's really hard to forget the name of a guy who’s so sweet and helpful."

"Oh." Thomas' cheeks turned red and he gave a shy smile that made his eyes lit up and made 'em look like two chocolate chips melting in the sunlight. His auburn hair fell on his eyes no matter how many times he tried to push them back, and it was kinda adorable to watch.

"I never thought you noticed me. You always look so lost and happy in your own lil' world, listening to music on your iPod or reading a new book every week and scribbling a thousand words and doodling endlessly in that blue leather book of yours like it's the only thing that really matters." Thomas commented.

Now it was Lyric's turn to blush but she hid it well and said "That's because I like my little world, it's calm and relaxing and I don't "scribble" a thousand words." Making air quotes around the word scribble and stared blankly at Thomas. Thomas was about to reply that he didn't mean it that way when Lyric cocked her head to one side, her raven black her falling to one side and smirked "Try more like a million words." Thomas looked relieved and then the both of them started to chuckle loudly like two kids on a playground.

When both of them caught their breath, Lyric sat down on one of the nearby benches and folded her legs beneath her. Then she motioned to Thomas who did the same.

Lyric then took out her blue leather bound notebook that she always carried with her and started doodling in it. “You called for me". She looked up at Thomas who was looking fascinatingly at her notebook."Huh" came a soft and unhelpful reply. "You called me, before, when we were leaving class?” Lyric tried bringing him back to topic. Thomas still not registering what she said, pointed to the notebook and asked "Can I see??" Lyric was a bit hesitant but then thought that it was Thomas who was asking, the sweetest guy in any of her classes and handed it over to him. “Yeah sure.”

“Thanks,” Thomas looked ecstatic to be looking at the blue book which he’d only ever seen when Lyric was busy writing in it. He’d always thought it was like the TARDIS from Doctor Who. Bigger on the inside with a whole world in its hundreds of pages some a bit crumpled, some old  and some pages that weren’t of the book but seemed to belong there. As he flipped through Lyric's journal he found out he was right. It was indeed the TARDIS. It had her favorite quotes, original poems by her (which were beautiful btw), many amazing pieces of art she'd done and sooo much more. It was like looking through a portal in Lyric's world. The girl in question watched quietly as Thomas looked through the pages of her journal, who she called Blue. She'd never seen someone look so awestruck by her journal though to be fair she'd never shown it to anybody before. And then she wondered why.

She was thinking about it when Thomas nudged her and handed Blue back to her with a cute smile on his face. "Thank you for letting me see, it's beautiful." "That's sweet of you to say, thanks." Lyric took it from his hands and put it back into her bag. Thomas then gently reached into the back pocket of his jeans and then took out the charm bracelet he'd found near Lyric's chair and gingerly put it in her palm, " You dropped this when you were leaving class".

Her eyes went wide as she took it from her hand and wrapped it around her hand, " Oh My God, how could I drop this !! Thank you soo much Thomas, this was my grandmother's gift to me and I'd go mad if I lost it." She gave him a hug and kept thanking him for finding and returning it to her. " It's okay Lyric" Thomas said after she'd thanked him for the tenth time." OK, so I'll see you later?" Thomas got up from the bench and started to leave.

"Where are you going, that was the last class for the day, wasn't it ??" Lyric inquired.

"Yeah, it was, I am just heading to the library to get started on the English assignment." Thomas replied.

"But isn't that a two-person assignment?" Lyric asked as she got up from the bench and pulled her hair into a bun and put a pencil through it which made her a little too like an elf.

"Yeah it is but I haven't asked anybody and I really don't know if somebody would wanna work with me but I really loved the concept so I though I'd get started on it by myself for now" Thomas said as he walked alongside Lyric to the library.

 " Yeah I think it's an excellent assignment too, take a sonnet from any Shakespearean piece of work and write your own version of it. It’s gonna be fun doing this.”

Just then an idea popped in her mind.” I haven't found a partner too, so why don’t you and I partner up for it ? If that's okay with you?" Lyric stopped and turned to look at Thomas whose eyes seemed to agree with the suggestion. “Are you kidding me? If it's okay by me? I'd love to partner up with you. You write so beautifully and amazingly, it's a pleasure to read what you write. I'd really love to work with you on this assignment."

Lyric beamed at him and extended a hand towards him “Partner?"

Thomas took her hand and shook it. "Partner" came the enthusiastic reply. The two of them then spent the entire day in the library but not a word was written for the English assignment as they spent all that time discussing about their mutual love for books, the kind of music they enjoyed and all about their respective fandoms which ended in them being through out of the library giggling for "disturbing the silence" but it was a good day and the both of them really enjoyed each others company.