#Reusable Glad wrap

[staenless]

STEDDIE OMEGAVERSE LUNCHBOX FIC PART 2

He put the kettle on to boil, then set the ingredients out on the counter. Kiwis, left over chilli from last night, a wrap, quarter of a cabbage, cheese, the special trail mix he has to travel across town for, yogurt. Was that enough protein? Carbs?

The kettle finished boiling. He steeped his teabag in silence, eyes fixed beyond the kitchen window to that small patch on the lawn. He had taken a hand shovel to it yesterday, swung up and down and chopped up the kikuyu until a neat square had revealed itself to him. The back of his neck stung from sunburn when he'd lain down beside Tommy last night. Today he'd hack and slash a second square, then buy the seeds and sow them before Tommy could get up in arms about it'd look to the neighbours-colleagues-friends that they were growing their own vegetables. How it would look, common and subsistant, and that store bought was fine, better actually, since it came with a label and price tag. He should stick to store bought tomatoes.

Steve thought about the note in the lunch box. Tommy hadn't brought a note back since Steve had started making him lunch, when their parents decided on their courtship. Steve had once thought Tommy kept them, saved them in a memory box like the lovesick fool Steve thought they could both be. He'd felt sick watching Tommy crumple it up without reading from across the cafeteria, had left in a fuss and a hurry to stare at himself in the school bathroom mirror and drown himself in self loathing. He had been stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. And stupider still when he wrote the notes every morning since, unable to give up on the charade to himself or others. If he couldn't have that life then he'd fake it.

He drained the last of his tea, then rinsed the mug. He began to chop the cabbage. The note, safely tucked in his grandma's recipe book, heated the burn on the back of his neck. Tommy had given his lunch away. He'd done it before, no doubt, but for some reason the Alpha who'd gotten it this time returned the note. Had scented the note and returned it, and Tommy hadn't even noticed when he'd tossed the lunch box onto the breakfast bar when he'd returned last night. He layered the cabbage onto the centre of the wrap.

He began to grate the cheese. Steve wasn't mad at Tommy, for passing on his lunch or not noticing the other Alphas scent. Tommy had probably been passing off his lunch for years, Steve wasn't so naive to think Tommy cared about handmade lunches. And in a twisted way Steve was glad the note had traveled safely to his kitchen, had sat patiently till Tommy was in his office having a tumbler of whiskey before making itself known. Had told him someone ate his meal, and had enjoyed it. If the only acknowledgment he'd get was from a stranger, he'd take it. He layered the cheese over the cabbage, then the chilli over that. He folded the wrap closed, sliced it in half, then neatly packed the two halves in the first tin.

The kiwi needed peeling, and he slowly worked his knife round and round under the soft furry skin. Tommy complained about the hair on kiwis the same way he complained about the hair on Steve. Got stuck in his teeth, was offputting and disgusting and had no place covering up something - someone - so sweet and meant for his consumption. The kiwi was neatly sliced then stacked and tilted into the second tin. The trail mix went into a reusable cupcake shell, and the yogurt into a small Tupperware next to it.

Steve's notepad sat patiently on the counter, pen poised above it and tensed with thought. The alphas scent had been soft, likely from scent blockers, yet unmistakably peppery and dry. It reminded Steve of the dry grasses in fields beside his grandma's old farm house. In autumn, when hot dry winds beat the land dry in preparation for winter. Hed run out to the fields, uncaring for the cuts the sharp grass left, and huffed the scent up. It smelt different from anything in the suburbs, more alive than the rickety farmhouses thatch, but ancient in comparison to prickly autumn lawns. Beneath that dry grass sat a distinct peppery smell, like spices heated in warm oil. Pepper and... Lemon rind? Steve wanted to fetch the note out and sniff at it again, but reigned himself in. It was still early morning, he was still packing Tommy's lunch and he was still a doting hustband.

His notepad stared up at him, large and white and questioning his hesitation. He could write anything, Tommy wouldn't read it and there was no guarantee the other alphas would get it. Still, as pen went to paper and he carefully looped his letters, he hoped someone would read the note. Would acknowledge him and his effort, his love that went to strangers and came empty and uncaring home. Just for someone to read his note, to know that he existed, somewhere out there, and he made this lunch with his own to hands. He slipped the note into the tin, then clipped them together with a clack and set them aside for Tommy to grab on his way out. Time to make breakfast.

Sorry this took forever to get out lol, I was lazy and avoided writing. As someone who hasn't written creatively since highschool launching myself into a full multichapter fic was probably kinda a bad idea... But I always was more of a deep-end kinda person so I will persevere.

Taglist: @xxbottlecapx @goodolefashionedloverboi @stevesbipanic @monsterloverforhire

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Can I lick your candy, sensei?

Roger and Anita cameo? :0c

If he doesn’t scare you, no evil thing will.

Crewel’s mouth lifted into a smirk, a quiet scoff escaping from the corner of it. He stopped stirring his tea and lifted his stick, pointedly jabbing it in your direction. A glob of something sweet, gray, and half melted glistened at the end of that utensil.

“I don’t know. Can you?” There was a taunting lilt on the one word. “I thought I had drilled better manners into you than that, pup.”

“May I, sensei?” you corrected yourself.

“How obedient of you. Could it be that you’re desperate to receive my praise?”

“Well, you gave Grim a piece of candy for studying the other day, so… I want one too.”

Crewel chuckled as he set his stirring stick on his saucer and next to a spotted tea cup. “Very well. Because you’ve requested it so politely—and, moreover, performed well on our last exam—I will reward you with a treat.”

He reached for a drawer and, pulling it open, produced a lollipop wrapped in cellophane. The sugar had been colored gray and was shaped into the head and neck of a Dalmatian, complete with dark detailing for a nose, collar, its ears, and spotted fur.

You blinked as he deposited the sweet in your hands. “I didn’t realize you kept so many candies on hand.”

“Not many consistently earned,” he replied, his tone slightly sarcastic. “No, I initially stocked up on these thanks to my meddlesome neighbors back in the Queendom.”

“Your neighbors? How do they fit into this?”

“They’re a couple, the overly loving sort. I believe the husband is a songwriter. The wife is an old colleague of mine from my days in the fashion industry.”

Crewel shook his head disapprovingly. “I keep telling them to not gift me things, but it’s in the ear and out the other. The latest item I received was a silicone candy mold. They said the shape of it reminded them of me.”

You held the lollipop up. At this angle, you could better appreciate the details in the design or the dog, and how the sunlight looked when filtered through tinted sugar.

I can definitely see why they thought that. Crewel-sensei loves dogs.

“I hadn’t intended to seriously use it,” Crewel continued with a sigh, “until I realized a ‘candy’-like form is good to take with tea.

“Sugar is loose and grainy, honey is sticky. Both can be deleterious for one’s clothes—but suppose you prepare a sugar syrup and let it to harden with a stick. It results in a lollipop, but it also doubles as a mess-free and reusable method to sweeten one’s tea.”

So that’s what he was doing.

“I guess you owe your neighbors a thank you,” you teased, this time pointing at Crewel with your own sugar-topped stick.

“Perhaps I do.” He reclined in his chair, lips thoughtfully hovering at the rim of his tea cup. “Hmph, now if only they would listen to me for once…”

“No such thing as a dog that can’t learn new tricks,” you joked with a shrug. Off came the cellophane wrapping, and you popped the lollipop in your mouth. “And if anyone can do it, it’s you, Crewel-sensei.”

“Hah. Glad to know that I have your faith, pup.”

He lifted his cup to you—a toast. Then he drank heartily, the tea tasting like triumph.

[icycoldninja]

Hey so uh…. Love ur fics and this is my first time requesting so, Dante (DMC 3 to be exact) x reader/girlfriend who is on her period headcaons

I'm so glad u like my work :) Dante headcannons coming right up, as requested!

DMC3!Dante x Fem!Reader Period headcannons

-He's way too stupid to notice when it's your time of the month. He blows off your grouchiness as a lack of sleep or something.

-Since he doesn't notice, he keeps trying to initiate a certain activity and feels disappointed and hurt when you shrug him off.

-This prompts you to explain to him that it's your period, which is a concept that is almost impossible for him to grasp. Blood is pouring out of you?! And it's not from an injury?! What the heck?!

-Has no idea how to care for you but tries his best because he's earnest. like a doggo

-Would buy you pads and tampons and whatever if he could, but he's broke, unfortunately, so he ressearches how he can improvise. After reading an old magazine (his method of "ressearch") and seeing advertisements from the 1980s, he gets the bright idea to try and make reusable cloth belts the way people did back in the day before pads were invented--and surprisingly, pulled it off.

-You now have an entire closet full of these things--and they're washable, too! You may never have to buy pads again!

-Dante isn't a complete idiot though, once he figures out that periods are normal and that as long as your pads aren't leaking you're fine and everything will clear up in a few days, he'll assign himself to be your personal cuddler.

-Wraps you up (but not too tight) in his arms and snuggles with you whenever you like makes himself scarce when you want to be alone, and sets up for movie nights complete with pizza and chocolate.

-Snuggles you and comforts you however you need to be comforted.

-If you're the type to get raging mood swings, he knows to disappear on missions so he doesn't accidentally incur the wrath of Y/N.

-After being introduced to periods once, future periods become less of a hassle. Dante will remember your behavior and will be able to recognize your change in temperament, associate it with menstruation, and knows to take the appropriate action.

-Secretly is terrified of you; Hell hath no fury than a woman on her period.

[poisonsage808]

ModernAU!Sandor Clegane x Reader (III)

trigger warnings: references to sex, drinking, swearing, gregor and gregor involved trauma, mentions of car crash, mentions of therapy, angst

• Sandor asks if you have allergies just to be extra sure you don’t die on his watch

• You may or may not be joking when you tell him sesame seeds because you send laughing emojis afterwards

• He’s not risking it, the seasoning is sealed into a plastic bag and put in the very back of the highest shelf of his kitchen

• Ends up glad he did, you’re very allergic to sesame seeds you just find the story behind it hilarious

• “I’m eating pasta and suddenly- hives! Mytongue was so swollen I couldn’t talk. The doctor does like three blood tests and can’t figure it out. Mom’s livid, she leaves and comes back with every ingredient for her pasta and has me eat it. Everyone was freaking out the whole time, my dad kept saying ‘who in the seven hell's allergic to that?’. I eat that tiny seed and blow up like a balloon again. When we got home I looked at my dad and said ‘who the fuck’s allergic to sesame seeds?’. First time ever he let me swear.”

• Sandor actually finds the story entertaining but he goes home and decides to throw out the seeds. Just to be extra, extra safe.

• It’s really cute how nervous you both are over the fact it’s a “date” and not a “hangout”. An actual for real life date!

• You’ve had exactly two serious partners before but something or the other led to a breakup. Then there wasn’t much time for dating in college, the one person you were into then didn’t want more from you than to “scratch an itch”

• Which is more what Sandor’s used to. One night stands, “friends” with benefits (benefits part was accurate at least) was his comfort zone but Sandor’s been on dates before! He can count them on one hand but hey, it’s more than he ever expected to receive

• You have a cheek hurting smile on your face when he opens the door and one reusable bag in each hand. Sandor steps back to let you inside, closing the door afterwards and following you into the kitchen.

• “Tell me ya didn’t carry all that with you on the bus.”

• (He’s offered to drive you around if he was able. He really hates knowing you rely on the bus at night, especially when you joke that you’re 99% confident you’re sitting next to a murderer. It’s the only time he doesn’t appreciate those jokes)

• “I didn’t,” You reassure him while placing the bags on the counter, “My roommate dropped me off.”

• Sandor grunts and steps directly behind you, his chest almost brushing against your back, so he can peer into the bags you’re unpacking. He can clearly see the red dusting your cheeks but doesn’t comment on it, which you’re grateful for. On his counter is two six packs of beer, a northern brand you’ve seen him drink before as well as a bottle of fruity, southern wine.

“You tryin’ to get me drunk?”

You scoff out a laugh, “Please, this isn’t even enough to get you tipsy.”

Finally you start to pull out a neatly wrapped box with a bow on top, shiny blue and greens.

“What’s this?” Sandor reaches for it and barks out in surprise when you smack his hand away.

“Your present— don’t you dare open it until I say so!” You demand while pointing a finger at him.

Now, Sandor didn’t like being told what to do… but he really liked when you were bold like that around him... so he rolls his eyes and surrenders his hands while he stalks further into the kitchen

• He lived in a single story house. Three closed doors, the one that was open was obviously a bathroom. The living room was adjacent to the kitchen, a black leather couch sat across from a fair sized tv. There was no dining table but the countertop had two barstools on the other side

• It was clean and very Sandor but very.. spacious. Empty. There were hardly any pictures or personal touches and that made your heart ache for inexplicable reasons

• The kitchen seems the most used out of everything else you’ve seen so you slink over to Sandor’s side.

• On the stove is a large pot that steams as he stirs its containments. Soup from what you can see, it’s colorful and smells amazing! You tell him so

• You occupy Sandor’s right side, he immediately knows that expression on your face means you want to ask him a question,

“Get no more than ten, make ‘em count.”

“How long have you been cooking?”

He hums, glancing at you then the clock on the oven, “An hour? Maybe.”

Your smile returns with a small giggle, “I meant, like, over your whole life.”

Sandor gives you a look that makes you feel smaller than you already are next to him, “No ya didn’t.”

You giggle and feign innocence. It doesn’t work so with a roll of your eyes and always that grin you admit, “No, I didn’t, but now I’m curious.”

“Always been good at it. Father said it was women’s work but,” The man talks as he carefully maneuvers around you, pulling open a drawer you stood in front of and plucking a metal spoon from it, “At the academy, there’s no women to cook. The boys take turns making meals.”

• (Sandor mentioned this before, the military academy he lived in from 14-18 years old, however it was the first time he’s ever brought up his father. He had to have one of course but sometimes you wondered if Sandor Clegane just appeared one day, he’s literally not once brought up his family!)

• You want to ask more but the minute you open your mouth, Sandor holds a spoonful of soup in front of your face. His palm hovers under your chin, to catch any drops but you’re painfully aware how he’s deliberately not touching you

“S’not poison,” He smirks, “Taste it.”

• You hate the way your knees go weak. Quickly you accept the sample and invite yourself to sit on the counter as he moves away

“Too spicy? Yer face is pretty red, killer.” Sandor chuckles and it makes your blush worsen.

• When you get control of yourself, you do tell him that it tastes amazing. He reaches over the counter with ease placing two full bowls beside each other then soon after a loaf of bread joins them

“Y’know it’s cheating if you bought the bread.”

Sandor sounds equally smug, “Didn’t cheat then.”

• He made bread. For you. Do you know how long it takes to do that!? Sandor Clegane baked bread for your date!

• You take pictures of the food before digging in. Sandor gives you a funny look about it and says, “Gettin’ that proof of your last meal, killer?”

Your grin widens at the nickname, “Hate to disappoint, but it looks really good and I wanted a picture— thank you, by the way.”

He shrugs like it wasn’t a big deal, “I take it you’re not a cook.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a pro at turning on my oven! Wait, that sounded dirty…” Sandor chuckles and shakes his head, “I just don’t have the time so I usually eat at work. Free bagels for breakfast and I’m at a job site with Dan, he caters for whoever’s there.”

“If you wanna keep that cafe job, y’might wanna stop stealin’,” He chides with a smirk, “Your boss already has it out for you.”

You laugh and cover your mouth to hide the fact you almost choked on the soup he made, “He won’t fire me, he probably won’t even let me quit! I’ll be chained up in the back and only let out to work morning shifts, slipping you notes to rescue me.”

Sandor snorts as he stands up and moves into the kitchen to get seconds and a drink. While on the other side of the counter, he opens the wine you brought but only pours one glass, setting it in front of you.

You exaggerate a gasp and cover your mouth to feign shock, “How the tables have turned!”

“Oh shut it.” He rolls his eyes and turns to his fridge so you can’t see his smirk.

• Sandor finds himself time and time again relieved that you understand his personality. There’s moments where his bark borderlines on an actual growl but you haven’t been deterred. Not yet anyways. It’s.. an odd but a welcome change.. kind of like you

• Dishes in the sink, two glasses of wine and four beers later, your questions have surpassed the limit of ten. Sandor unintentionally turned it into a drinking game, claiming it was the only way to tolerate your curiosity. It’s drink or answer and as suspected he’s much more sober than you at this point. You’re holding your alcohol well, calling yourself an open book and nibbling on bread to keep up.

You sat on opposite ends of his couch. You on the right, crossed legged, holding the cup with two hands to be extra cautious while Sandor leaned back in his spot, one long arm draped along the back of the couch and his other hand occupied by a full beer can.

Suddenly you gasp, “Lemme see an old picture of you!”

“That’s not a question,” Sandor muses, “and no.”

“Can I see one? Look, I’ll find one of me and it’ll be a fair trade!”

He wants to say no. He could say no. He’s never had trouble saying the fucking word before! Sandor hadn’t willingly taken a picture in years, the most recent one he had was taken at the DMV because it was mandatory. He knows you wouldn’t battle him or whine if he flat out declined but he doesn’t know why he can’t

“I’d.. have to look.” He scratches the scruff of his beard.

You had your phone out, scrolling deep through your camera roll when you noticed the energy in the room shift. You made him uncomfortable. Your grin faltered but you were determined to save the moment, dropping your phone to the space between you and waving your hand around. “Wait, I wanna change my question! What did you wanna be when you were younger?”

Sandor grimaces and takes a swig from the bottle he held. Another sore subject, nice going genius. Fuck. You chew the inside of your cheeks trying to think of how to fix this but Sandor interrupts your thoughts,

“Y’know, ya ask me a million questions a day and not once have you asked me about it.”

You don’t need elaboration to know he’s talking about his scar. Your brows pinch together and any traces of a smile officially disappear, “I figured you’d tell me if you wanted to.”

“‘n if I never wanted to?” His tone is bitter but not angry, “We’d just go on pretending it wasn’t there?”

You tap a finger against the glass before reaching for your phone, “I guess.. I kinda know what it feels like,” it takes less than a second to find the photo you were searching for and you hand it over to Sandor, “When people see you and make assumptions.”

He frowns at your reply but takes your phone and looks down at the picture you wanted him to see. The only familiar face is you, holding the handles of a wheelchair directly in front of you and sitting in it is a man.

“That’s my dad,” You point out. Sandor assumes and the woman standing to your right must be your mother, “I won’t pretend it’s the same at all but everyone would look at us like.. oh, poor (Y/L/N)’s. It.. sucked and I wasn’t even the one..” You sigh deeply and struggle to meet his eyes, “It sucked and I didn’t want to make you feel that way. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to pretend your scar wasn’t there. I was hoping you would tell me if you ever decided to, I wanted to know you on your terms.”

You purse your lips to the side when Sandor hands your phone back to you. He breaks the silence by standing, “Wait here.” he commands softly. Something about his voice made you wonder if he thought you would leave.

Sandor takes his time in his room debating if he really wants to go through with this as he reaches into a tightly sealed plastic box. The night sure as hell couldn’t get any worse, why the fuck not he decides. So the man returns with a picture frame and offers it to you hesitantly, still standing. Young Sandor Clegane, 16 if you had to guess, in a perfectly pressed uniform and side cap, standing with his hands behind his back. The oldest in the picture, you assume is his dad, is on his left with a girl in a pale yellow dress. She’s the only one that's smiling, it’s weak but there. On Sandor’s right with a hand clasped on his shoulder is a man taller than everyone else.

He watches the way the corner of your lip quirks up as you study the picture. Sandor sits in the middle of the couch, still giving you a fair amount of space between you, and ghosts a finger above each person in the picture.

“My sister ‘n our father,” He hovers his index over the largest man and the name that comes is uttered with such hatred it freezes your blood, “That’s Gregor.”

From his other hand Sandor surrenders a faded polaroid, tinged with orange. The faces in it aren’t clear but you can make out the same people from above, this time everyone’s younger and a woman stands beside his father.

“Is that your mom?” You ask with a widening grin, “You look just like her.”

“Aye, that’s what everyone else said too. Gregor and Eleanor took after our father.”

Each blink you look between the pictures and your smile fades. In the older one, Sandor has no scar and a mother and in the other is the opposite.

“Mum knew somethin’ wasn’t right with him.” He sighs, “She tried tellin’ father but he wouldn’t listen, tried to take me and Eleanor one night but he stopped her. She left anyways.”

“I was six. I wanted to be a firefighter then, like Gregor did. He said we couldn’t both be.. said I didn’t have what it takes. One night Gregor waited ‘till our father and sister went to sleep, woke me up ‘n brought me into the yard. He lit a fire and just.. watched me try to put it out. When I realized I couldn’t, I went to get father and he grabbed me. Pushed me down and held my face in the fire ‘till father heard me screamin’.”

You stack the pictures over each other and slowly lean your head on Sandor’s shoulder. He turns his head slightly, looking down at you and somehow finds it easier to continue talking, “Father put it out and took me to the hospital. Told everyone I was playin’ with matches, started the fire got what I deserved. I hated my mum for leavin’ when she did but I took the first chance I got to do the same.”

You hear him tapping on the picture frame before your eyes fall to his hand, “This was the last time I saw my sister. Eleanor went missin’ then father died and left everything to Gregor... Just him and I now.”

“Sandor...” Your voice was so… soft and hesitant.

Anxious he’s heard you, irritated, flirtatious but gentle? Never before has Sandor Clegane felt the way he did when he felt your body shift beside him. Hovering over his lap now, you wrapped your arms around his neck and held onto him. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest and ringing in his ears, the lump in his throat that threatens to choke him and the unfamiliar sting in his eyes that he hasn’t felt in… Gods, when was the last time he cried?

“I’m so sorry they didn’t protect you, Sandor.” You whispered, chin on his shoulder.

Sandor’s breath hitches. He doesn’t know what to say or do but he doesn’t want you to go so he rests a hand on your back, “‘s fine.”

“It’s not but I know you’re only saying that ‘cause you’re done talking about it.”

You’ve been hanging around him too much if you know that. It’s uncomfortable talking about his past, his family and suddenly he feels immensely guilty for dumping it all onto you.

“Crappy first date, huh?”

“Shut up.” But your arms tighten around him and he can hear the weak smile in your voice.

Slowly yet all too soon you pull away to sit back on the couch, only this time with your thighs touching Sandor’s.

“Thank you for telling me. Have you told anyone else about that?” You ask carefully, unsure of how much more he would allow you to pry.

“My shrink,” he admits with another nervous scritch at his beard.

“Oh, that’s great—!” You slap a hand over your mouth, “Sorry, I just meant it’s great you have a therapist. Y’know because a lot of… I had one! I-I’ll just stop talking.”

Sandor eases your tension with a playful eye roll, “Don’t start now, I just got used to your yappin’.”

There’s an awkward but light chuckle shared between the two of you. Slowly you rest your head back against Sandor’s arm, “It’s not a crappy date, by the way. Well? I don’t think so. We never did small talk, it’s about time we told each other our tragic backstories.”

The man hums before lifting his arm to tuck you into his side, silently elated when you fold your legs under your butt and turn your body to lay your head on his chest, “Your turn then?”

“Mine is a lot shorter, it happened when I was still in highschool. Dad told me for weeks to take my car into the shop and I didn’t. It’s stupid looking back, I wish I listened and just did it the first time. Anyways, we argued, finally I said I’d go but he took the keys and said he'd do it himself.. and the brakes gave out on the way. A truck hit him and totaled the car. Mom and I waited in the hospital for hours until he was out of surgery. The doctor said he wouldn’t walk again and I, ugh, I vomited. The whole way up to see dad I was so sure he would say it’s all my fault, or I told you so… He said he was so glad it wasn’t me.”

You didn’t realize you’d been picking at your nails until Sandor’s spare hand came to stop it, gently engulfing your fingers into the warmth of his palm.

“Now you’re scared to drive.”

“Now I’m scared to drive. The whole thing fucked me up. I had a therapist too for a couple years but when I moved here I felt fine enough to stop calling.”

Sandor scoffs out a laugh, “Isn’t that their job to tell ya if you’re fine or not?”

Luckily you’re unphased by his possible insensitivity but do feign annoyance, “I see your point but I got a bunch of tools and exercises for my anxiety, I dealt with my guilt, I just don’t wanna drive. Plus, it’s not like I can never go back or change my mind.” Your eyes dart to where Sandor holds both your hands in one of his, “What about you?”

He shrugs, “I’ll quit when he tells me I’m cured.”

The giggle that bubbles from you is tired but genuine. Isn’t it funny how drained someone can get just from talking?

Sandor smiles though you can’t see, “Alright, killer. Can we get back to your game now?”

“You mean you still want to play after I just ruined our date with it? I thought you would’ve kicked me out by now.”

“Didn’t ruin it,” he squeezes your hands reassuringly.

• After that hiccup, the tension in the air evaporated as your night together went on. Cuddled up on Sandor’s couch, conversation flowed as naturally as it did between you two, what with you doing most of the chatting or asking questions. Occasionally there was a choppy tangent of another intimate detail from one of you but nothing quite as heavy as before

• Odd, Sandor kept thinking to himself. Odd but not so uncomfortable that he wished the couch would swallow him whole so he could get away from the topic. Not just yet was it a welcomed change but he’ll admit it was easier than it ever has been. Still he was careful not to overshare

• Around 9pm your roommate texted and said they were on the way to pick you up. Sandor helped you gather your things and swore for a second time that he wouldn’t open the gift you brought him. He walked you to the door when you spun on your heel to stop him from opening it. He knew that damn expression so well, he groans while you grin like a madman.

“Last question, I promise! What are my odds of getting a second date?”

“Depends… Do ya count a work party as a date?”

You grin, knowing exactly where this is going, “Absolutely I do. Especially if it involves softball and especially, especially if we’re on opposite teams.”

♡ [I], [II], [III]

[bates--boy]

Makeup removing oil, reusable wipes, and face toner set side-by-side on the vanity, the signal of the end of the day, and god, was Peter glad for it. He couldn’t wait to have his makeup off, to be stripped down to a pair of shorts, and get settled into his reading nook with his book, his thick-boy copy of Kuang’s “Babel”. Maybe later on, he could reward himself with a big bowl of gelato after tucking Caleb in for the night; he did deserve it, after all, after suffering that presser. 

         He began peeling off his lashes when his phone rang. He swiped the call button to answer and switched to speaker. “Yo!”

          “Peterrrrrrrrr!”

           Peter blinked and snorted, raising his penciled brows at the phone sitting beside him. “Ha ha, Naseeeeeeeeem!”

          “Guess what, my beloved little canary?!”

           Peter stared at the screen, his lashes forgotten. What was this energy? “What is it, my most prized stallion?”

           “Guess who’s got a call for a second audition?!”

           “What?! Audition?” Peter picked up the phone, now gaping at it in disbelief, his mind reeling back to the months before, trying to remember when Naseem had mentioned anything about auditioning. “For what?”

         “You know that new show that’s coming out? Wild Card?”

          Isn’t that the weird Swedish version of iCarly? Peter thought. “Uh, yeah, I’ve seen some ads on Twitter or something. And congrats, by the way! I’m so happy for you! But... Why didn’t you tell me that you were auditioning for it?”

           “I didn’t want to tell you about it until I at least get a callback. You know, so I won’t jinx it. Anyways, get dolled up for me, we’re going out to dinner to celebrate.”

           It’s just a second audition, though, isn’t it? Peter had wanted to ask, but bit his tongue as he worked on peeling off the second lash. He’d be damned if he ruined his love’s fantastic mood. Besides, Peter knew little about auditioning for television series; maybe second auditions were pretty much a guaranteed in. Luckily, he had an outfit in mind as he said to the phone, “Okay, babe, I’ll get ready. I love you.”

          “Love ya, too. I’m gonna call Sheer and tell her, too. See you in a bit!”

--

What they’ve found after Ashira’s swearing off alcohol was that they didn’t need booze for a good time; sugary sparkling grape juice was more than enough to get everyone into a good mood, to have Peter, Naseem, and Ashira loosen their inhibitions.

         Dinner was decadent, and dessert was divine, slow and smooth. They had to be careful around Ashira’s bump, had to work a perfect balance of pain and pleasure with her increasingly sensitive tits, but pacing themselves and going easy proved to be a delightful form of edging on its own. They lied tangled together in the sweetest afterglow, Peter enjoying the musk that filled the room like a piece of chocolate placed on his tongue, attached to Naseem as the man used him as a cock warmer.

         “You still up, sweets?” Naseem murmured against Peter’s neck.

          “Mhm,” Peter hummed, scooting closer into Naseem, groaning as he felt Naseem’s spent dick filling him. “Yeah. What’s up?”

         Naseem kissed him through his hair. “Nothing, I was just... Can I tell you something?”

          “Of course!” Peter moved his hand off Ashira’s belly, detaching from the mild resentful envy he felt tainting his otherwise happy mood, and rubbed the arm wrapped around his hips. “What is it?”

          Naseem sighed, and Peter shivered at the warm breath that tickled his bare shoulder. “I... don’t actually like sitcom acting.”

          “What?” Peter wanted to turn around and face him, but a part of his head knew that extracting Naseem from himself and shifting around (and possibly waking up a very drained Ashira) to do so was too much hassle. “Why? When this works, you’ll get to be on TV!”

          “We’ve been on TV plenty of times,” Naseem pointed out.

           “You know what I mean!” Peter blinked, absentmindedly watching Ashira’s bare breasts go up and down with each light snore. “This’ll be good for your acting career! It’ll have a bigger reach than being on stage, right?”

          “That’s if I get the role, and it’s still going to be a pretty minor one,” Naseem explained, and Peter wished he didn’t sound so defeated about it; sure, he knew that Naseem should have gotten a bigger role, but he also knew that whatever role Naseem had, he was going to make memorable. Plus, hadn’t Naseem explained during dinner that if all went well, the role would likely have more screen time?

            Naseem rubbed Peter’s stomach, and slid his hand down to Peter’s thigh. Peter willed himself to not get hard again, not during this confessional. “Even if it’s a bigger role, I don’t really want it.”

           “Why?”

           “Because, sweets, so much can go wrong with acting for a studio audience. People would laugh at the wrong time and ruin the joke --”

         “Don’t they have recorded laughter for that?”

         “That’s even worse!” Naseem laughed, and Peter couldn’t tell if there was genuine humor behind it. “People could tell when the laugh is canned, and it gives the show that How I Met Your Mother or The Big Bang Theory vibes.”

       Oh, God! Peter balked. “Yeah, that... would be bad.”

       “Plus,” Naseem went on, “Who knows if this show would even see the light of day, let alone make it to season two.” Peter felt movement behind him, heard a scuffing of fabric, probably Naseem shaking his head. “So many sitcoms crash and are forgotten about, and the ones we see today, like the ones I mention--”

        “--And Two Broke Girls --”

        “And Drake and Josh--”

        “Only after season three--”

        “Anyways, all those shows, they give sitcoms a bad name. When people watch a new series, it’s begrudgingly, and mostly because there’s nothing else good on. Even the good ones can jump the shark and piss off long-time fans.

         “It’ll take a really, really good sitcom to be a stepping stone into other, better projects, Peter, and that stuff is rare nowadays. I doubt Wild Card will be critically acclaimed. I just have to hope that it won’t be so bad that it’ll follow me for the rest of my career.”

            Peter licked his lips before pursing them. He reached down to the hand that was rubbing up and down his thigh and held it. “So... are you going to turn it down?”

        “No.” Naseem sighed. “If I get it, I’m going to take it. It’s still an acting gig, after all.”

[echoedvoice]

I really hate to be negative or bring bad vibes to the dashboard, but… Climate change is such a bitch, and it's only gonna get worse because the onus is on oil companies and other mega-rich billionaires who clearly don't give a fuck. It makes me so sad and angry. We as average individuals cannot possibly combat it alone. Like I'm glad certain grocery stores in California and Austin, TX require reusable cloth bags instead of plastic shopping bags, and that there are metal and paper straws now, but NONE of that shit is ultimately gonna be enough to stop climate change. I hate that they've tried to put responsibility on us as individuals, when it's super rich people and major corporations causing these problems.

Literally every person on the entire planet could go Vegan, but if oil companies and the rich elite don't lift a finger to stop polluting the fuck outta the world, it wouldn't even put a dent in it. It’s hard to even wrap my brain around it, and it makes my blood boil. Again, sorry for the negative post; I just really hate what's happening to the planet because of mankind’s greed :(

[sonyamichel]

Local Farmers Markets - Relaxed Shopping For the Holidays (and Every Day)

If you love farmers markets, you are definitely not alone. According the U.S. Department of Agriculture, the number of farmers markets in the U.S. tripled in the 15 years from 1994 to 2009. There are now almost 5,300 of these wonderful markets throughout the country.

If you are tired of the artificial lighting in supermarkets and produce picked before ripening to perfection, head for your local farmers market this week. You will be rewarded by a symphony of shapes, colors, and textures of gorgeous fruits and vegetables. Natural light heightens the appeal of the stunning food.

Most animals lack color vision because they don't need it. Humans can use the ability to see in color to select the freshest, ripest fruits and vegetables. Who can doubt that we are designed to thrive on whole foods? Otherwise, the colors would not attract and delight us the way they do.

Farmers markets are an ideal break from holiday shopping and hectic preparation for parties and wrapping gifts. The sunlight and fresh foods are relaxing. You will sense your roots in the earth and soil.

If your kids pester you in the supermarket for candy, cookies, or overpriced trinkets, you will find the farmers market a complete change of pace. Children love to run from booth to booth, and will beg for samples of fruit rather than for junk food. They can burn off their energy, and you need not be embarrassed if they are noisy or enthusiastic. Farmers markets are also educational for city kids, who may never think about how food grows or what the local crops are.

While larger farmers markets have more produce choices, smaller markets may be less crowded and have easier parking. If you are new to farmers markets, here are 8 useful tips to get started.

Find your market choices- Ask your neighbors, look in the newspaper, or just enter the name of your town and "farmers market" into your favorite search engine.

Visit several markets near you- If you are lucky enough to live close to several markets, visit them all to see which ones you like best. All will have a somewhat different mix of vendors and each will have its own ambience.

Go early- If you go during the first hour the market is open, you will have the best selection of produce and the aisles will not be crowded. On the other hand, Marketing near me if you get to the market during its last hour, some farmers will reduce prices to close out their inventory.

Bring reusable bags- As you walk around, you will notice many people have reusable grocery-size bags for their purchases. You can also save the plastic bags you use for individual kinds of produce (for example, the smaller bags you put your apples and lettuce in) and reuse those. This conserves the oil used to make the plastic and keeps bags out of landfills.

Bring enough cash- The farmers rarely accept credit or debit cards.

Have realistic price expectations- Since the food is fresh and premium quality, don't expect bargain basement prices. Supermarkets buy food long in advance from giant farms and may offer better prices than a local small farmer. But the local food is likely to taste a lot better, and you have the satisfaction of supporting a small farm in your area.

Talk with the farmers- Most are friendly and love to let you know about their location, growing techniques, what will be in season next month, suggestions to cook their produce, and other helpful information.

Enjoy sampling- Many of the vendors will have samples of their best offerings out for you and your family to enjoy. If not, feel free to request a sample. Most farmers are glad to offer this.

Farmers markets are a perfect stop during the holidays; but are equally wonderful any time of year. Make a festive fruit basket for your table and have fun eating it after you look at it. Have your kids help with the arrangement. This will entice them to eat more healthy fruit. The beautiful colors will relax and refresh you year round.

[thegreenwaysblog]

plastic free shop

Zero Waste Web-based Stores To Diminish Your Plastic Use

Carrying on with a zero-squander life is no simple accomplishment when you consider how much plastic we are presented to consistently. You may be feeling that reusing is a decent choice, and at times it is, yet the idea of zero waste is to decrease or dispose of waste out and out and these 31 No Waste Web-based Stores For Plastic Free Shopping are the ideal spot to begin your excursion.

What is a zero waste web-based store?

A zero waste internet based store offers purchasers items that are reusable, refillable, recyclable, or returnable. Every one of the items are without plastic and assist individuals with lessening their waste. You will ordinarily find things like beeswax wraps, wellbeing razors, cleanser bars, unpaper towels, hardened steel straws and compartments, silicone capacity sacks for food, reusable cosmetics wipes, and sterile cushions, and significantly more. A portion of the things you find can be treated the soil and are biodegradable.

1..The name says everything! Thegreenway signifies "the goddess of unadulterated water, springs, and wellsprings", the organizers picked this name since they share an energy for diminishing plastic contamination and synthetic toxins in the sea. They do as such by offering a large number of restorative things from eco-accommodating ordinary items to regular skincare and normal hair care items like cleanser and conditioner bars.

2...Love their curation of zero waste and reusable home necessities, Thegreenway has all that you want at an incredible cost. You can peruse by classification and even quest for something explicit like dish cleanser, which by the way is one of their hero items. It's veggie lover and thought about the best "multi-reason kitchen cleaner for your whole home."

High quality in San Francisco with only a couple of regular fixings, match it with their Normal Natural Loofah Dishwashing Wipe, dishcloths, or regular brushes and wipes. The loofahs are 100 percent compostable so when you are finished with them, just cut them up and throw them in the fertilizer. Who doesn't cherish a decent loofah?!

The best part is that their enormous 11oz block dish cleanser bars can supplant 4 plastic containers. You will likewise see as scented and unscented choices for the touchy skin. With huge number of fabulous surveys, it's certain to be a hit in your home as well! You know the amount we love to clean here on The Eco Center point. 😜

Thegreenway's plan of action is one that envelops manageability in all features: they are without savagery, 100 percent regular, natural, vegetarian, fair exchange/lady claimed private venture that upholds other private companies! Furthermore, we are so really glad to have them with us on our feasible excursion!

Thegreenway is a online shopping website.

[yourjentl]

Safety Razor Australia

Our reusable safety razor is a minimal alternative to disposable razors designed to gently glide over your skin for a close, smooth shave. Our sleek silver safety razor is unisex, easy to travel with and come in a range of colours. With billions of plastic razors being discarded a year, our sleek and easy to use Safety Razor Australia will last a lifetime saving you money and in turn reducing your plastic waste. To optimise the use of the blade and safety razor, dry off after each use. We recommend that you unscrew and clean out any soap or hair residue left behind in between each shave.

[luveline]

how abt reader holding her hand over her mouth to silence her cries because she was never allowed to cry freely in her house and remus walks in on her and comforts her?

thank you for your request!! tw for implied rough childhood ♡ fem!reader | 1.1k words

Remus gets home from the shop quietly like he always does. The door is well oiled and makes no sound as it pushes open. He shucks his shoes off with a practiced ease, the reusable bag hanging from his elbow making next to no noise. Remus likes his quiet life and so do you – he's too jumpy and you've always been his little mouse, and though you have more than enough to say, you tend to say it at a moderate level. 

He adores that about you, but he'd also adore you screaming or incensed, just to be clear. 

It had been a late night trip and you've been out of sorts today. Remus had suggested you stay home and maybe head to bed if you wanted to while he walked to the corner shop two streets away for a pint of milk to make tea in the morning and something sweet for you. He hadn't disclosed that part. 

Remus puts the milk in the fridge and the bag back in the cupboard under the sink, your sweet treat in hand. 

And usually he'd say something as he walks in, feels the saccharine Dove, I missed you, on the tip of his tongue. He withholds, worried you're asleep, and then can't summon words when he realises you're far from it. 

You stand with the back of your hand pressed over your mouth and your shoulders to him, shaking with the sheer force of your sobs. Remus can't remember ever having seen you cry this hard. The only sound is your ragged breathing. Panic drips off of you in waves. 

He doesn't want to surprise you. He takes a soft step back and hits his hand against the doorway as he comes back in to give you some more warning. 

He says your name softly. 

You flinch towards him, see that it's him and turn straight back around. Your hand turns, pressed so hard over your mouth that Remus is genuinely worried you'll leave fingerprint bruises over your pretty face.

"Dove," he says, dropping the sugary treat he'd found for you on the dresser. 

You don't protest as Remus wraps his arms around your back, your shakes calming very slightly when he crosses them over your front to rub aimless lines up and down the lengths of your sides. 

He pushes his face into your neck. "Tell me what's wrong." 

You try and it hurts his heart. The very beginning of a word warped by a sob, your hand slapped straight back into place to smother it. 

"Dove, you gotta tell me." 

You shake your head.

Remus turns you in the circle of his arms for a proper hug. You cling to him, hands fierce as they bunch in his shirt, damp face pressed to his collar. Remus curls one arm behind the nape of your neck like he might protect you from the world or at the very least what's hurting you so much. 

"Please tell me what's wrong," he says, his worry a tangible nausea, a sloshing, unhappy wave. 

"I can't- can't tell you without crying." 

"So tell me while you're crying," he murmurs. 

You don't. 

Remus is very quickly realising why you might not want to cry. He knows in some part how you grew up. Wonders, though he thinks the answer would break him, how often you were told to stop crying, lest you be given a reason to.

"It's okay," he says. "It's okay. It's okay. You can cry as much as you want to." 

You make a high-pitched keen that feels like a kick to the stomach. Remus pets your back desperately. 

From then your crying is both terrifying and easier than before. You make sound, real sound, and it's devastating, but Remus is just so glad to hear it, to know you trust his word. 

"That's it, get it all out," he says. 

"Sorry," you say. It's more of a gasp than a word. 

"No, it's okay. You don't need to be sorry." 

You shake your head, damp cheek rubbing against his skin. Your sobs taper out and turn to something softer. Soon, the tears draw to an end. You breathe heavily and sniffle, your lips moving up to his neck as you force yourself further into his open arms. 

You kiss his throat. It's messy, disorientated. "Sorry, Remus."

He bites back a frown, feeling very very sad for you. "It's alright," he says, rubbing your back. "Of course it is." 

"I… It was lots of little things." 

This is a relief. Though he's surprised. "Lots of things? You wanna tell me about them?" 

"Yeah," you say, voice thick. He can hear you swallow around it uselessly. 

He pushes your face from his neck to hold it in both hands, assessing. He gives you his softest smile, and is thrilled when you smile back. 

His fingertips press into your temples lightly. "Is there something I can do now that will make you feel better?" 

"No. None of it is about you, Remus." 

"It's okay if it is. And," he strokes your cheek, "it's okay to cry about these things. You don't have to cover them up. You don't have to hide from me when you're upset." 

Your eyes close. You shudder as you lean into his touch. "I know," you say. 

Your face is sticky in his palm. 

"You wanna come and make a cup of tea with me?" he asks. 

You nod but don't move otherwise. His fondness for you is an ocean. 

Your eyes open as he drops one hand to your neck and gives you a small squeeze. "More of that later," he promises, and means it. He'll hold your face for hours if you want him to. 

But for now he wants to make sure you're all ticked off. A hot cup of tea, something to eat, a soft blanket. 

"I got you something," he says, trying to tempt you. 

You peek at what he's taken into his hand. When you realise what it is your entire face crumples and you look dangerously close to crying again as you say, "Thank you, baby." 

He sets about kissing away a sluggish tear, frantic as it curves down your cheek. "Anything for my girl, yeah?"

He wants to say, please don't cry over a snack that cost me a pound, but that directly contradicts the whole cry as much as you need to thing, and so he wipes away tears and hums to himself the whole time. "Poor girl," he says, trying for lightness as he jokes, "if you don't like it you can just say, don't have to cry about it." 

Your wet giggle is a ray of sun. He knows you'll be okay.

[beehindblueeyes]

Time period: Drugs and Tupperware

This… is a combination. At this point these time period posts may slow down until I can think of enough points to actually constitute a post. I love doing these and giving info to help people with fics/time period info. I’m glad some people also enjoy it and I hope you all get some use out of it too.

The movie takes place in a different culture. This was a time before Regans war on drugs. They were a lot less stigmatised and a lot more…. Well “everyone was doing them” (nearly). Not to say it was without stigma or opposition - just not nearly as heavy or to the extent it is today

Added to that- smoking! Smoking everywhere! Cigarettes. Ads. Shops. Etc. you could smoke just about everywhere (planes, restaurants, theatres , parks etc) this was before it started to get? I guess “taken down”. Before designated smoking areas or them being banned all together

Hell mcdonalds gave ashtrays! (Look it up) and glass cups/mugs and not cheap ass plastic toys.

Glass > plastic see this is back when people used glass, aluminium, tin etc like actually recyclable materials. Sodas and beers are in aluminium cans (with the almost soup top pull we see in the opening). Or , more commonly glass bottles etc

Saran wrap > plastic baggies. Now plastic bags and things did exist but it’s much more likely your mom packs your sandwich with saran wrap. It’s also more brown paper bag or tin lunch box > plastic bag

Nutrition isn’t treated the same way. Now we focus on making everything hyper healthy or taking things out, adding them in etc. school lunches didn’t care they served you what they served you (thus the ‘mystery meat’ trend in media) and dieting is more for Mothers , teen girls or body builders. It wasn’t as? Widespread? As now.

Speaking of reusable materials and glass- Tupperware! Pyrex! Pyrex everywhere! Good lord Pyrex everywhere! We see some in the Blake’s kitchen- their coffee pot thing. Basically ceramic kitchenware is everything.

Gonna be honest Pyrex still owns America today. If your not using your grandmas dish from the 60s you probably use their modern products. Literally check your kitchen.

Warm Color’s are the way to go. Don’t ask me why it’s like woodgrain.

Speaking of mushrooms are a thing??? Again I don’t know they just are. It’s like gnomes today. They’re fucking everywhere and why?! Who?! We may never know. Difference is I’d put mushroom dining sets in my house but not gnomes.

Wallpaper! If your wall wasn’t woodgrain/wood slats. You probably had a nice wall paper or some touch with your paint. This was a glorious time before plain white/gray walls. I morn it. Era of maximalism. You like it? You have it.

[vanillann]

double sided recipe card (pietro maximoff x reader)

a/n: hi, pietro is literally the love of my life so OF COURSE i’d do this!! also request are always open so don’t be scared to send an ask whenever!!

word count: 2.3k

“Has anyone seen Pietro?”

I swung around the kitchen of the compound, walking in to find Clint and Nat in a conversation about who knew what. They both smiled when they saw me but Clint's face dropped slightly when he realized my words.

“Why do you need Roadrunner?” Clint crossed his arm, leaning back on the kitchen island slightly.

“I have his physical and if he wants to go to the mission tomorrow,” I tried off, smiling at Clint when he rolled his eyes.

“I think he’s in Wanda’s room,” Nat pointed over her shoulder, patting my shoulder when I passed her.

I did the lightest jog to the evaluator, finding Wanda’s floor number and smashing the button. The folder played between my fingers, my eyes begging to look but I knew I’d get in trouble if I was caught on camera.

The smallest ding drew me from my stares, informing me I had made it to the correct floor. I skipped out lightly, smiling when I noticed Wanda's door slightly ajar, the slightest bit of laughter spilling out into the hallway. I didn’t think much of him in Wanda’s room, he tended to sit around everyones room beside his own.

I stepped closer to the door, my knuckles ready to knock but I stopped when I noticed a female voice laugh. I looked closer, noticing Pietro sat in front of the T.V. his back turned to me but his knees were pressed to his chest as he stared at the T.V.

“Pietro,” a little bit of a younger Wanda's face smiled from the screen, her giggles sounded the same as they do now as she looked up.

“I’m shocked you didn’t see it coming,” Pietro's voice sounded around the room, the entire video was starting to catch up. Wanda mentioned she had a few older home videos in her room, she didn’t watch them but she never had to heart to watch them.

“I’ll kill you.”

Pietro suddenly slammed his hand on the remote, doing his best to make the video stop but the laughter never stopped. He held in the air, ready to throw it at the T.V. before my feet took off. I don’t know how I made it to his side so fast, my hand wrapping around the remote as I placed my other hand on his back.

“Hey,” my voice was soft as I got his hand to fall, he looked shocked for a second and I realized he probably was upset. I was watching but that didn’t matter as he curled closer to me. His hands pulled at the overshirt hoodie that clung to my frame, his face pulling closer.

He didn’t cry, just took angry breaths and held himself closer to me. By the time dinner rolled around he had drifted off, his hands lose on my shirt as I played with the edge of the folder.

“Piet-” Wanda knocked lightly on the door, a little smile on her face before she spotted us on the floor.

“Hey Wanda,” I spoke softly, trying to get his hand off so I could speak away from my ear, making sure I didn’t wake him. Wanda waited a second, most likely reading my mind for a second before she gave a sad smile.

“The home video?”

I just nodded, following her from her own room to the kitchen, where I could smell the food flooding the building.

“He does alot of bottling up, with the anniversary of mother birth-” Wanda trailed off, upset as she spoke about her poor mother.

“When’s her birthday?”

“Tomorrow,” Wanda shrugged, both of us stepping foot in the elevator.

“During the mission? I’m so sorry, I can lie to Tony and tell him you aren’t clear-”

“Don’t worry about it (Y/N), it’ll be good not to think about it.” Wanda smiled lightly, looping her arm in mine as she leaned on me slightly.

“Thank you, for being there for him.

“Of course, you know I care about you both.” The door slid open, the smell even stronger as we heard Steve’s laugh fill the compound.

“Care isn’t the word I’d use,” her accent was thicker as she rolled her eyes at me, the hint of a smirk on her lips as we walked closer to the kitchen. I pinched her side, laughing when she jumped slightly.

Once we made it to the kitchen the smell well smashed into my system, walking over to look down at the soup that was lightly boiling.

“It’s a Saliva meal,” Wanda handed me a bowl, holding one in her own hand while she waited for me to hurry up.

“Should I wake Pietro? He wouldn’t want to miss this-“

“I’ll make it again, for now he should rest.” Wanda held my arm, smiling at my concern for her brother as I gently picked up the ladle and became pouring my own soup in the bowl. I watched the light brown broth pour into the bowl and suddenly I knew exactly what I had to do.

“Wanda, would you leave the recipe card out for this?”

I stumbled into the kitchen, the reusable bag full of different ingredients practically falling from the bag.

“Aren’t you glad you aren’t an Avenger,” I heard Pepper’s soft voice from behind me, her giggles coming from the doorway. I only shrugged, looking down gloomy as the ingredients that sat over the island.

“What are you making?” I felt her presence beside me now, looking over the food beside me. I didn’t say a word, holding up the recipe card Wanda had thankfully left out.

“This is what we had last night,” Pepper noticed, looking at the side of my face with the smallest smirk ever across it.

“I’m making it for Pietro for when they get back, he didn’t get any last night.”

Pepper bumped my shoulder, my eyes rolling in the back of my head before I reached for a tomato. I let it roll around in my hand a few times, looking down at the card Pepper had placed back down.

“You don’t know what you're doing?”

“Nope,” I popped the “p”, walking around the island to grab one of the pots and filling it up with water. I placed it on the stove, staring at it for a little bit as if waiting for something to happen.

“Would you like help?”

I probably should say yes, I was trying to make this soup when I should barely make a bowl of cereal. Maybe soup was one of the easier foods to make but I would spend half the time as a few words still in Russian on the card.

“I’ve got it don’t worry,” I brushed her off, simply because I was hoping if I could pull this off alone he would be proud of me. I was hoping he’d make a smartass comment with that little smirk and mention that I did a great job.

“Okay, let me know if you need help. I’m always happy to do so for you and Wanda, just not Tony.” I laughed slightly at her sarcasm, waving over my shoulder as I heard her light footsteps leave the kitchen.

I finally reached out and turned the burner on, smiling when I heard the small click signaling it was in fact on and ready to begin boiling the water. I turned back to the island, picking at the index card. I assumed it was a family recipe but the handwriting and the older terms were used within the recipe.

As I finally placed the tomato on the cutting board, a large knife in hand I thought things were falling into place.

I was in fact, wrong.

I panicked when I heard the elevator open, hearing a light noise of voices enter the floor. I couldn’t be everyone as they weren't as loud and also with how late it was. Clint wasn’t going to hang around with everyone at 2:12 in the morning.

“Just go in the kitchen,” I heard a light female voice speak, my panic rising as I realized Pietro was in fact home and probably seconds away from walking in the kitchen.

I hid my bandage hand behind my back, trying to block the few things I managed to chop before I attacked my own hand with it by accident.

“Why?” His accent was thick with sleep, which made a little smile dance across my lips. I understood why Nat was teaching them to lose the accent for safety reasons but I loved the way they spoke with it.

“Just do,” I saw the door slightly move, knowing someone was going to walk in soon and part of me panicked. I was more worried about Pepper finding me like this, she would have my head if she saw this and I didn’t let her help.

“Fine fine,” I watched him finally walk into the kitchen, lucky alone, as he looked around it for a second. When his eyes spotted me against the counter he smiled but it quickly fell when he spotted the mess behind me.

“(Y/N)?”

“Pietro?” I spoke with nerves. my body on high alert.

“What’s this?” He looked down at the island, his eyes spotting the recipe card I had forgotten to put away. His finger picked it up, a sad smile on his lips before he even read the words on the card.

“My mothers,” his voice sounded far away, as if for a second he was back home before the bomb, before they lost everything but each other.

“Wanda let me use it,” I pointed with my unharmed hand, trying my best to make him comfortable with the conversation.

“She told you?”

“Just a few details,’ I brushed off, my eyes suddenly looking everywhere but him as I wanted to leave the kitchen and run into my own room. I had already ruined the meal, let's not ruin a whole friendship.

“You told me you couldn’t cook?”

I laughed at the memory, I completely forgot about the time I told him about Bruce’s birthday. Thor and I thought making a cake was a great idea but it ended up with a weird green blob. I was much younger then sure, but it definitely showed my abilities with making any sort of food.

“You remember that story?”

“I remember all your stories, as you do mine.” I finally stopped looking at the floor, looking up at him as he titled his head at me. His arms were crossed on the island but his under eye bags stood out against the harsh light of the kitchen. The natural light was long gone and it was only the moon that bought light from the outside.

“You should probably get to bed,” I wasn’t thinking straight as I walked forward and lightly pushed open the door for him. I high when my fresh cut hand hit the wooden door slightly too hard.

Even as tired as he was, Pietro was at my side in milliseconds, looking over my hand with the awkward bandage across it.

“What did you do?” I ignored the little pet name, trying to pull my hand from his grip.

“I’m really bad at cutting potatoes,” I shrugged, the awkward smile making its way across my lips. He said nothing, looking up at me with a disapproving look.

“You must be more careful,” he looked at it a little longer but eventually let my hand fall to my side as he smiled slightly at me.

The silence felt like it lasted forever, like it would never end, but it eventually did when he spoke.

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t exactly make it,” I pointed to the brown sad water with nothing else in it. I didn’t make it far before things started going bad. Pietro frowned at me, speeding around the kitchen quickly before he stood in front of me.

A bowl was held in his hand, the brown water now had a few of the vegetables floating around in it, it looked much better but still not what Wanda made last night.

“I don’t know what you mean, I have it right here.” He held a spoonful up, taking a wide bite. I could tell it wasn’t what he thought but he didn’t look like he was going to be sick.

“It’s not your mothers recipe,” I looked up at him, trying my best not a smile at his little pout every time I said something.

“No, it’s your own.” He placed the bowl down, flipping the index card around and grabbing a pen that stayed in the kitchen for any reason. I panicked when I saw him start writing on it, my hand shooting out to stop him but he just quickly moved to the otherside of the island.

“That was your mother Pietro!”

“Now it’s your and my mothers! Two of my favorites on one card, don’t tell Wanda that,” he pointed at me with the last part, his smirk painted across his face making me feel little butterflies in my stomach.

I watched him write my name across the top with the ingredients he saw I had used. Once he was down he slid it across the table, smiling when I laughed at the title.

“(Y/N)’s Happy Mistake.”

“Yes, it’s my personal favorite,” he smiled, my own growing wider as the seconds went on with his looking at me like that.

“Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you, for everything,” he walked slowly, for the first time, around the island. He leaned beside me, his arm touching my own. I let my head rest there, smiling when I felt him leave a gentle kiss on my crown.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Anything Pietro,” I felt myself lean closer to him. I knew we would have to talk about this feeling in the morning, but we were both too tired to care for now.

“There aren’t any potatoes in my mothers’ soup.”

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[cobaincreates]

touch pt. 2

warnings: smut (surprise), oral (female receiving), 18+, language, literally no plot & i’m not sorry

count: 3k+

part two part two part two baby! thanks for all the love on the first! ✨taglist is open✨ i’m smoochin’ all your faces

— — —

sarah bustled around her room like it was on fire. her clothes were thrown messily on her floor and she had half of her hair up in a crazy-looking bun. you laughed from where you snuggled into her pillow. you were still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, having woken up to the closet doors groaning open.

“oh my god, where the hell did i put them?” sarah said, but you knew she wasn’t asking you in particular. her hands dug through a basket in her closet.

sitting up, you figured now was as good a time as any to get moving. with sarah leaving soon, you didn’t feel comfortable just lying in her bed like she insisted. given that you were best friends, and her house was your house, and vice versa, you jumped at the opportunity of leaving. she always offered the possibility of you staying longer than you wanted because she was a good friend.

which was why when you cleared your throat and tasted her brother, your cheeks lit up with a steady burning fire. you were glad her back was to you as she switched bikini tops, replacing the blue for the yellow. were you ashamed or reminiscing? there wasn’t time to think about it as she finished getting ready.

“you’re more than welcome to stay, you know. i feel bad running out on you.” sarah repeated once more.

“it’s fine. go have fun with john b and fill me in later.” you wiggled your eyebrows at her as you gathered your things and threw on your sweatshirt.

“how about we order some takeout and binge watch how to get away with murder next weekend?”

“that would be great.”

sarah beamed at you before leading you out of her room and down the stairs. you kept your eyes straight but noted the ajar door to rafe’s room. maybe he had already left for the day.

“morning!” rose chirped happily as you followed sarah into the kitchen. it all seemed very familiar as you walked in, even though you’d been in the cameron’s kitchen more times than you could count, but also because the last time had been less than six hours ago.

everybody was awake and doing something. wheezie was eating freezer waffles, ward had a few manila folders splayed in front of him on the table, and rose was cutting up oranges. sarah gave her a hug from behind as she passed and then turned to smack rafe’s back lightly as he cooked something on the stove.

you breathed in sharply at the sight of him. you blinked last night’s events away given that his entire family was right in front of you and now was not the time to think about it. you reminded yourself not to give anything away with your best friend in the same room. but you also wondered if rafe thought the same thing. would he try to hide it?

“you two sleep okay? i turned the air off since it was so nice out last night.” rose said.

you caught rafe’s eye when he looked over, that tiny jolt going up your arms. your feet melted into the floor and rose looked over at you with a sweet smile as sarah leaned on her other side.

“i was pretty comfortable,” sarah shrugged and took a slice of orange.

“you girls hungry? i’m sure rafe could make something up.”

“i’m going out with john b. he should be here in a few minutes.”

“y/n?” rose lifted her perfect brows as you stood at the end of the island, holding all of your things tightly.

“i’m actually going to head out,” you said. “thank you for the offer though.”

“aw, are you sure?” rose set down the knife on the cutting board. rafe glanced over his shoulder as the contents of the pan sizzled.

“yes. thank you though. i’ll see you guys again soon.” you hugged rose when she came toward you and you waved to sarah and the rest of the family at the table. you and rafe looked at each other once more before you walked out.

—

“oooh, look at these! i love these! how much?”

“12 dollars. they would go great with your top actually.”

“you’re so right! i’ll take them.”

the customer beamed at you as they handed over the set of sea glass earrings. you rang them up and returned some change before wrapping the jewelry in tissue paper and sealing it with the boutique’s sticker. you placed the wrapped gift carefully into a tiny reusable bag and handed it over.

“have a good day,” you smiled your noteworthy customer service smile and relaxed once they left, the front doorbell going off.

it wasn’t that you hated your job. but you hated your job. the main reason was that it was part time, and the second main reason was because you hated working in retail. it was exhausting having to put on a fake smile and answer stupid questions like whether or not you sold earrings when you literally worked in a jewelry store. it was tiring really, if only for four hours a day.

thankfully, you were due to clock out in about fifteen minutes and you couldn’t wait. you busied yourself with cleaning a few displays then restocking some with new styles your boss, the owner, had batched out the week before. 

“hey, y/n,” you looked up at your co-worker coming through the front door. your shoulders tensed as the cheery doorbell went off, but the arrival of your co-worker was always a relief.

“did you dye your hair again?” you eyed their bright locks as they went behind the counter and situated themselves for the rest of the day.

“yup and i think i’ll stick with it for a while. you like?”

“it’s bright.” you tried to say it as politely as you could. “maybe you’ll bring in more customers.”

they laughed at your comment and disappeared into the back. you turned to the display and set a few necklaces down.

once you gathered your things and said goodbye to your boss in the back office, you waved to your co-worker and toned out the bell above your head as you left.

the main street where the boutique was was swarming like a beehive. it was tourist season after all and there was nothing better to do on the island than shop or laze around at the beach. the island was perfect since both activities didn’t require much travel.

you glanced into a few windows as you walked down the sidewalk, dodging a couple kids with heaping amounts of ice cream on a tiny cone. the sun beat down from above and it was a wonder that the ice cream hadn’t already melted down their wrists.

your ears perked up at the sound of a car horn and a second later a truck was pulling up right beside you. looking over curiously, you recognized the gray truck and the person behind the wheel. your stomach leaped.

“hey.” rafe called from his seat as you both came to a stop.

“hi.” you said, feeling frozen momentarily.

“do you want a ride?” he asked in a hopeful tone that you couldn’t stop thinking about once it left his mouth.

you hadn’t seen or heard from him in a couple days since your sleepover with sarah and a part of you didn’t think you’d talk to him again until you went back to his house. you thought it was weird that he didn’t text you or even call, but then you reminded yourself that he was your best friend’s brother, and she didn’t know about what had happened between you two. you wondered if she would be angry with you.

you thought about accepting his offer, seeing no real harm in it. it was only a fifteen-minute walk otherwise. but something drove you to say yes and before you knew it, you were grabbing ahold of the door handle.

“thanks.” you said as you settled into the passenger’s seat. he pulled away from the curb easily as you put your seatbelt on, listening for the satisfying click of the lock.

“you just get out of work?” he asked, making small talk.

“yeah.” you nodded and glanced at his arm. the vein taunted you as he reached out to fiddle with the radio. you shifted in your seat. “what were you doing?”

“i had to drop some stuff off at the post office for my dad and work. i saw you walking and figured i could offer you a ride. even though you don’t live far.” he said with a soft shrug.

“i appreciate it.” you said and looked out the rolled down window.

you watched the cement walkway disappear and turn into the fine sand along the shoulder of the road. houses started to litter the street instead of the businesses and storefronts. you could hear the sand under rafe’s tires and you closed your eyes for a moment to focus on the breeze. you opened them back up when you felt the ghost of rafe’s fingers in your hair.

looking away from the dusty shoulder, you set your gaze on the road stretched before you. rafe kept a lose hand on the very top of the wheel, his other resting in his lap. you swallowed and licked your lips. 

“rafe?”

“yeah?”

willing yourself to look up at him, trying to act quickly before he reached your house, you stared at the side of his face. he glanced over quickly then back to the road.

“don’t bring me home.” you said in a small voice, hoping the question didn’t lead to rejection.

his eyes flicked to your face, his jaw flexing. “okay. where do you want to go?”

you let your gaze waver, wandering down his chin to his neck where he visibly swallowed. did you make him nervous?

“just somewhere private,” you said.

you wet your lips when he looked at you again, your eyes trailing from his neck to his face. your hands were itching to reach across and touch him, but they settled on fidgeting in your lap. when you looked out the windshield again, you saw your yellow front door pass by as rafe continued to drive. you took a deep breath in.

after a couple turns and the road turning into more sand, rafe pulled to a dead end in front of the marsh. the engine cut off with a turn of the ignition key and fizzled out to let the lapping water fill the car. you kept your eyes on the small bay ahead, spotting a dragonfly whizzing by over the water. letting the marsh sounds fill your ears, it seemed to calm your nerves.

you nervously glanced at rafe in the quiet cab of the truck. you wondered what was going through his head. he turned his eyes to you, letting them linger around your face. you swallowed.

giving a mental swift kick to your own rear, you looked over your shoulder into the back seat and unbuckled yourself. you slipped the strap of your bag off your shoulder and left it in the seat as you twisted and crawled over the console. rafe watched you, a dumbfounded smile making its way onto his lips.

you laughed when you saw it. “come on,” you patted to the seat beside you and scooted to the right so he’d have enough room.

rafe looked gigantic when he turned in his seat, bumping into the wheel and nearly pushing on the horn. you grinned as you watched him, the simple journey into the backseat seeming so wild. it felt like you were somewhere you shouldn’t be with someone your parents had warned you about. your parents loved rafe actually.

his knee bumped into yours once he was settled and situated. the space was too small for the two of you but you liked feeling his skin against yours. it also felt much more private than the open windows in the front.

looking over at rafe, you let your hand fall easily to his knee. he shifted his top half and closed most of the space between you, bringing an arm to rest atop the seat behind you. you breathed softly, trying not to show how fast your heart had started to thrum.

your eyes flicked down to rafe’s lips and you thought about how you didn’t know what they felt like.

“what are you thinking?” you asked as you licked your own lips.

rafe reached a hand up to your cheek, finally touching you and nearly drawing a moan from your throat as you leaned into his touch. when had you become so touch-starved? well, you could probably answer that.

“how badly i want to kiss you right now.”

you let out a breath as he looked down at your open and ready mouth. you both leaned in and finally kissed, rafe’s lips capturing yours and yours capturing his. your hand moved to his neck. his fingers on your cheek traveled into your hair again. you didn’t mean to make a noise but come on! you loved feeling his fingers in your hair.

“how i have you in my truck, in my backseat.” he pulled away to say, in a near whisper, then kissed you again. he licked into your mouth and it was difficult to find the words to portray just how amazing it felt. needless to say, your underwear was going to be soaked any second now.

you opened for him and moved closer to eliminate any space between you. he parted from your lips to travel downward. you leaned your head back, happily giving him the access he craved. your breath was coming out heavier now, but you didn’t have that panic of losing your breath like drowning. it was a good situation to lose your breath.

“how it’s been two days and i haven’t stopped thinking about the other night.” he admitted into the thin skin under your jaw. he switched hands, one holding your head in place and the other skimming over your chest. he nipped at your flesh.

“rafe,” you moaned and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

“what do you want?” he asked, his hot breath blowing across your cheeks. you peeked your eyes open and saw tiny flakes of brown in his eyes. his hand traveled further until it landed on your thigh, squeezing and triggering the sweetest of shivers.

“i want your mouth on me.”

pressing a kiss to your lips, rafe pulled away again to look over your face. “are you sure?”

you nodded and let go of his shirt to touch his cheek. you just wanted to feel his mouth everywhere on you.

“please,” you said. you shuffled away from him reluctantly so you could situate yourself on the seat. your head and shoulders rested against the back door and you brought your legs up over his lap, already having slipped your shoes off. he watched you intriguingly. your stomach sank a little, hoping he wasn’t going to turn you down.

when his hands reached toward your bottoms, you couldn’t help the smile that took over your face. he undid the button and tugged them down. lifting your legs so you could open them for him, he leaned forward and pressed a sweet kiss to the inside of your knee. his fingers traced your calf as he shuffled and bent down as awkwardly as possible in the cramped space. you felt bad for a moment until you saw the way he looked up at you. he wanted this just as much as you did.

keeping eye contact with you as he placed his mouth right over your pubic bone, you moaned faintly. it was so delicate and soft that you didn’t expect it to feel that way. he caressed your calf as he pressed another kiss over your underwear, moving lower and lower to where you had soaked them through. your face went a little red, anticipating his reaction to it.

he looked godly as he stared up the expanse of your torso and to your eyes, all the while his lips pressed against your clothed entrance. his groan at the state of your underwear sent ripples out from the exact spot he kissed, like the vibrations of him sent shockwaves through you.

“you’re soaked,” he breathed against you and had you wanting to close your legs. instead, you slipped from his grasp and took your underwear off.

pressing your left leg into the back of the seat, you opened for rafe again. he looked down at you in front of him and licked his lips hungrily.

“god, you’re fucking pretty.”

you bit your lip at the way he looked at you, like he wanted to go to town. you were all for it really, but with the way he’d been touching you so far you had a feeling he’d be super gentle.

taking your leg and guiding it over his shoulder, he pressed a kiss to your thigh. then he finally tasted you with a savoring lick between your folds. it felt so good that he even hummed against you. you moaned in return and slipped your eyes closed. you needed something to hold on to. searching for the seat, you reached up to that tiny metal pole of the headrest and curled your fingers around it. it was cool and grounded you to where you were.

rafe licked another stripe, making a delicious noise with his tongue. you were sure if you weren’t so aroused that you’d gag at the sound.

one of his hands moved to your hip now, his skin rough and warm against yours. a gasp left your lips as you flinched without much thought, your leg over his shoulder tightening. they were all caused by rafe’s tongue brushing over your clit, something you hadn’t expected yet. you surely welcomed it when he did it again after feeling your reaction. he did it softly the second time around and you felt him shift below you before one of his fingers appeared at your entrance.

“fuck,” you whispered mostly to yourself. rafe pulled away a second later and you gasped as his finger coated in your arousal before pushing into you at the same time he reconnected with your clit.

you moaned lowly from the back of your throat. “rafe, that feels so good.”

he spent a few seconds sucking on you until he disappeared again. “look at me,” he said with a squeeze to your hip. his finger continued to move.

you breathed through your mouth as you opened your eyes and looked down at him. his seemed a smidge darker, but he held a sweet and fascinated smile on his lips.

“do you want another?”

“y-yes, please.”

you reached down and grabbed ahold of his wrist on your hip. your fingers tightened around the headrest at the same time. rafe pushed in another and returned to your clit, his tongue moving. you moaned as you watched him, wondering why you had even closed your eyes in the first place. he looked heavenly between your legs, and it felt even better.

pulling his fingers out, he brought them to his lips and licked them clean. “fuck, you taste so good, baby.”

you whimpered the next moment when he wrapped his hand around your thigh and licked up your folds. both of your hands let go to attach to his hair, your fingers spreading and pulling.

rafe’s mouth worked over you a bit quicker this time and you could tell he was losing himself in it, but you were enjoying it. it was startling when his tongue dipped into you and he pulled away only to spit, but it blew your mind. he licked widely up to your clit then, mixing everything in to one as he closed his mouth over the sensitive mound.

“oh my god.”

you felt your muscles tightening in your abdomen and the familiar feeling of wanting to move, of wanting to release. your feet tensed, a white-hot fervor starting in your toes.

“fuck, rafe, i’m going to come.” you gasped. “make me come, please, please.”

rafe obliged, his tongue flicking over you and causing your muscles to tighten even more. your eyes pricked with tears; your legs tightened on either side of him. he held them open and you wanted to curse him out for not letting you close them, to trap him in place and never have him stop.

your hips lifted off the seat, bucking against his face as you grew closer. you thought you were ripping his hair out when you came undone, moaning loudly out into the truck, to the marsh. seconds later, your grip loosened on his scalp as he licked you clean, catching everything on his tongue.

pressing a kiss to your thigh, rafe pulled away slowly and sat up. you lay there for a moment, collecting yourself and catching your breath. the muscles in your legs felt like they liquified, but you could feel them harden again to help you move. the fire in your toes died out, a pulse still existent from your release. 

“thank you.” you said to rafe as you sat up and pulled your underwear back on tiredly. you looked over to find him watching you with a soft smile and a subtle dent in his shorts. “can i do something for you?” you asked, nodding toward his lap.

rafe glanced down then shook his head at you. “no, that’s okay. i liked just tasting you.”

he didn’t say anything else as he brushed your hair over your shoulder and pressed a kiss there. his hand ran down your back. you grinned at your lap, holding your shorts and wondering where to go from there. rafe’s hand felt nice, his thumb rubbing gently. when you looked over at him, he leaned in and kissed you slowly. his hand moved up to the back of your neck while one of yours reached to touch his jaw.

“i should get home,” you said when you broke apart. you found those brown specks again and wanted nothing more than to analyze them further, but if you didn’t show your face at home soon, your phone would be interjecting in your time with rafe.

he nodded in understanding and moved apart from you so you could pull your shorts back on. “when can i see you again?” 

it was such a stupid thing to make your heart leap in your chest. it even made your body flush as if it already wasn’t.

you grinned at him. “you have my number.”

he nodded again and moved in for another kiss. you reciprocated and gave it your all, hoping that if he hadn’t already decided, that he’d call you or text you tonight. it was thrilling to think about the next time you’d see him.

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[skyriderwednesday]

Uncle

"You couldn't have woken up... I don't know,  Drumknott?" "I would usually, if I had to. However tonight he is with his family." Maybe it was because they were both mostly in nightclothes and trending towards horizontal that Moist dared to speak his responding thought. "You didn't fight, did you?"

--

Called to the palace at two in the morning, a recently married Moist finds a far less pressing situation than he had been expected. He however finds himself drawn into a far deeper conversation than he would usually expect of his interactions with Vetinari.

(G rated, 2505 words, HC: Vetinari embroiders)

Also on AO3

The sound was like a rock bouncing off the window. Moist woke up instantly. He groaned and stumbled out of bed, glad that Adora slept like she was unconscious. It wasn't quite a rock. It was early summer and it was subtly threatening to get light already, so he could make out a hooded palace clerk standing on the lawn. They were idly reloading an oversized crossbow with a bolt that had a chunk of dense cork wrapped in cloth attached to its end. Moist groaned again and unlocked the door to the balcony. "It's two in the morning?" He called down, leaning on the railing. "His lordship requests you promptly." "At two in the morning?" The clerk sighted the crossbow. Moist stepped away from the railing. "What? If I say no, you shoot me with that thing?" "I'm not authorised to do that," the clerk said. Moist was kind of sure he recognised the voice. "Tony?" "Aye, that's my name," he said casually, pulling down his hood now that he had been identified. "This better be important..." "I don't know," Tony said with a shrug. "Can you find that other bolt by the way?" Moist found where it had bounced to. The shaft had snapped. "It broke," he said, tossing the cloth and cork bundle down towards the lawn. Tony caught it easily. "Damn, I was sure they were going to be reusable." "Look, if this isn't important then I'm going back to bed and you can tell Vetinari I'll see him when it's actually morning." "Then I'll be out here til it's 'actually' morning," Tony said, pocketing the bundle of cork. "I'm not supposed to go back without you." "That makes it sound important." "I told you, I don't know. I was just sent to come and get you." Moist sighed. "Okay, fine... I'll put my boots on." "I'd recommend trousers," Tony said dryly as he took the bolt out of his crossbow and slung it over his back. "We're walking." Moist groaned. "Fine, and trousers..." "Your roses are coming up well," Tony said. "Yeah, I'm sure you know all about roses..." Moist muttered as he left the balcony, though he had no idea what that meant. He was sure he heard the clerk snort.

The walk to the palace almost seemed... shorter at two in the morning, bizarrely. Moist would have expected it to feel longer, but then he couldn't be sure he wasn't dropping back to sleep as they went and Tony was making odd diversions. Once they got to the palace, Tony gave an odd sort of salute to the clerk standing at the foot of the stairs and disappeared into the dark. "Somebody important better be dying," Moist said as he was let into the office. "Not that I am aware," Vetinari said casually. Moist looked around for him, since he wasn't at the desk. He found him sitting on one of the sofas on either side of the fireplace with his slippered foot on the coffee table and a fairly large embroidery stand set up in front of him. The curtains were drawn closed, and there were only a few low lamps and the low-burning fire lighting the room. Moist wandered over. "Well it's not really... social, is it?" Vetinari looked up over his reading glasses, a needle held between his long fingers. "Is it not?" "It's half two in the morning." "It would appear to be, yes," Vetinari said, glancing to the needlepoint pattern beside him before continuing to sew. "You sent somebody to get me," Moist said. "I did." Moist observed that Vetinari really was in his nightclothes. He was wearing dark blue slippers, a long nightshirt, and a dark grey dressing gown. His hair, usually tied so neatly back down behind his neck, had been bundled up into a loose sort of knot out of the way further up the back of his head. It was if he had gone to bed, or at least he had decided to, then changed his mind. "Why?" Vetinari looked up. His eyes searched Moist for a moment, making him feel like he was being scanned. "Why what?" "Why did you send somebody to get me? People don't ask people over for..." he shrugged, "coffee at two in the morning." Vetinari seemed to think about this for a moment, pausing halfway through pulling thread through the canvas. "Of course not," he said. "Two in the morning is entirely wrong for coffee." He went back to sewing. Moist suppressed a sigh and leant against the opposite sofa. He didn't want to accuse Vetinari of missing the point on purpose, but he had to know there were certain social conventions he was breaking, right? "You may sit," Vetinari said plainly, not glancing up. "Oh, thanks." Vetinari tilted his head around the embroidery stand at him. "So I'm here, at half two in the morning, to watch you sew in the dark?" Vetinari didn't reply. "I was asleep," Moist went on. "A man shot a cork-tipped crossbow bolt at the bedroom window..." "His name is Antony and I had suggested him not to do that." "Oh, thanks so much for that," Moist said as sarcastically as he could. Vetinari grunted from behind the embroidery stand. Moist folded his arms and slouched on the sofa, glaring at him like a sulking teenager.

"I hear that you are now married," Vetinari said after a long while in silence. Moist woke up in surprise. "Um... yes? Yes, I... we are." "I offer my congratulations, though it appears you neglected to deliver invitations." "We... did things privately." Vetinari hummed. "I see. Was that your intent, or were proceedings... expedited?" Moist choked on nothing and his face burned. "No, we--" he spluttered, "We planned to-- We're not-- No..." "Are you alright, Mr Lipwig?" Moist coughed into his elbow and wiped his suddenly streaming nose on his sleeve. He hadn't changed out of his nightshirt to make a point, but the point seemed to have gone unnoticed. "I'm fine..." he wheezed. "You don't want a glass of water?" "No, I'm fine," Moist said, trying to stop coughing. "I think you should have a glass of water," Vetinari said, moving the stand out of the way. "There is a jug and glasses on my desk." "Really, I'm fine," Moist failed to stop his eyes from watering. "You have an... interesting method of being 'fine', Mr Lipwig," Vetinari said, starting to get up from his sofa. Moist watched him blearily as he shuffled across the room to the desk and came back with a jug and two glasses. Vetinari put the jug down on the coffee table, did not put his foot back on it, then sat on his sofa again. "Of course if you would rather choke to death on your own saliva just a few days after your 'clandestine yet planned' wedding, you may choose do so..." Vetinari poured himself water. Moist gave in because his throat was burning. Vetinari nodded at him. "There we are. I'm sorry to have surprised you so." Moist cleared his throat one more time. "It's fine." "You said you had planned to elope. Is that for a reason?" "No, it was just... less complicated, I guess...?" "You saw marriage as a complication?" Moist almost choked again, "No! Just the whole..." he trailed off, waving a hand vaguely. "The logistics of it," Vetinari finished for him. "Yeah... that bit." "But you are happy with the method in which you ultimately chose to wed?" Moist stared into the fireplace, smiling a little to himself. "Yeah, we are." "That is what matters," Vetinari said, tilting his glass towards Moist slightly. "Do inform me if you decide to celebrate more publicly at a later date." "Uh... sure! Of course... of course I will." "I do understand if you would not want me present, but I should like to be aware of it occurring." Moist stalled on a response to that. He stared into the fireplace again. "Um... thanks..." he eventually decided was appropriate. The office was getting darker as the fire burned down. The individual illuminations subtly flickering from the lamps distinguished themselves like lonely fireflies. When he looked away from the fireplace, Moist found he had to squint to even make out Vetinari opposite. He had turned his body approximately ninety degrees and had his legs straight along the length of the sofa. He seemed to be observing the way the dim points of light reflected off his water glass. "Do you always sit here in the dark?" Moist asked quietly. "Only when I can't sleep," Vetinari replied at equal volume. "I find it more useful than staring at my bedroom ceiling." "...you couldn't sleep so you woke up me?" Vetinari put the empty glass on the coffee table and hummed. "I apologise for that," he said softly. Moist played with his wedding ring, smoothing smudges out of the bright white metal. "You couldn't have woken up... I don't know,  Drumknott?" Vetinari had been tracing the panels of the ceiling. His eyelids seemed heavier as he looked back towards Moist, but it was probably a trick of the light. "I would usually, if I had to. However tonight he is with his family." Maybe it was because they were both mostly in nightclothes and trending towards horizontal that Moist dared to speak his responding thought. "You didn't fight, did you?" Vetinari huffed in amusement. "No, his not being here has nothing to do with me," he folded his hands on his chest thoughtfully. "It is because he now has another nephew." "Oh," Moist said quietly. "Tell him

congratulations from me." Vetinari raised a tiny smile. "I shall." Moist watched him in the darkness. He couldn't know what was happening in his head, what had really kept him awake, but the loneliness was coming off him in waves.  A lonely old (well, older) man lying across from a much younger man recently married... "You could be uncle..." Vetinari turned towards him. "Pardon?" "Well, what else are the kids gonna call you?" Moist said. "When we have them, I mean." Something happened in his face. It was too dark for Moist to determine what it was. "That is... if you want..." Vetinari hummed softly and turned back towards the ceiling. "I should like that, thank you." Moist nodded. Then his mind ricocheted, unable to leave it at that. "Do you... want that in writing or...?" Vetinari gave a second amused huff in ten minutes, which may have been a record. "Perhaps at your next appointment, Mr Lipwig." "Right sir."

It was the sound of curtains opening that woke him. Moist twisted onto his back, raising an arm over his face at the light. There was no sign of the embroidery stand, or the glasses on the coffee table. There was however a blanket folded neatly on the other sofa. He had a blanket too, though he didn't know where it had come from. Moist yawned. "Good morning, Mr Lipwig." He sat up and looked around. Vetinari was washed and dressed, standing behind the desk. He didn't look like he had fallen asleep on a sofa, though his hair wasn't tied... "Uh... morning, sir?" "It is six o'clock," Vetinari answered calmly. "I should think you may have your absence from home unnoticed if you wish." "Oh..." was all Moist could think to say. "If that is not a concern however..." Vetinari inclined his head, "it would not be wrong of you to stay for breakfast." "Um... thanks, sir, but..." Moist folded the blanket off of himself, "I should get home. I probably owe Spike excuses." There was a small smile. "Very well. I shall not make you walk home in your night clothes." Moist shrugged. "I've done worse, sir." "Certainly," Vetinari said, "but there may be talk. After all, you are a married man, Mr Lipwig." Moist spluttered, "Sir!" Vetinari laughed. Moist fought for control of his blushing. "Regardless, if you go up the passage and turn left to the flight of stairs, you are free to use the first bedroom you meet to wash, and there you will also find a clean shirt that should be around your size." "The passage?" Vetinari indicated behind him and Moist realised the hidden door behind the desk was open. "Oh. You said... left up to the flight of stairs?" Vetinari tilted his head slightly. "Straight ahead as you enter the passage, then turn left," he corrected. "You will encounter a flight of stairs, which you should ascend. At the top of the stairs, you will exit the passage via a door, subsequently the first door in that corridor will be the bedroom to which I refer." Moist did his best to commit this to memory. "Straight ahead, then left. Up the stairs, out the door, first room in the corridor. ...right?" Vetinari nodded. "Right, okay. Thanks, sir."

---

Somehow Moist managed to convince the carriage driver to drop him off at the end of the street, and he crept back into the house through the kitchen door ‐- where naturally Adora was waiting for him. "So?" she asked flatly. "They... needed me early at the bank," he said. "Really?" "...yeah. Problem with the..." He'd forgotten the words, "...cutting dies." "Cutting dies," she repeated. "Yeah." "At the bank." "...there's cutting dies at the bank." "You went to solve a problem with the cutting dies at the bank in yesterday's trousers and your nightshirt." "Yes..." Moist said, trying a little too hard to be convincing. "So what's this shirt?" she asked, tugging gently at his sleeve and the laced collar. "...it's a spare one." "From the bank." Moist looked at himself. "Yeah," he said. "It's a bit old fashioned," she said. "If it had ruffles you'd fit in on stage." "...which is why I'd only wear it in an emergency." "And this morning was an emergency." "Well I couldn't walk home in my nightshirt... there might be talk." "Why might there be talk?" "Well..." Moist turned red, "Because we're married." Adora snorted, "You're an idiot." "I'm your idiot," he said hopefully. She rolled her eyes and pulled his shoulders down to kiss his forehead. "Yes, you are. And since you're back and conscious, you can make the coffee."

---

"Is there something on your mind, Vimes?" Vetinari asked from across the desk several hours later. "Just something stupid, sir," Vimes replied, only half looking at him. "What would that be?" Vimes cleared his throat. "You're going to think I've gone completely daft, but I'm convinced I saw Lipwig walking up the street at six o'clock this morning wearing one of your old shirts." Vetinari gave him a stern look. "Yes, Vimes, that is rather... how did you put it? 'Daft '." "I had just woken up, sir." "I expect you had, Vimes." "Sorry." "Yes." Vetinari changed the subject, "Drumknott is once again an uncle." Vimes lightened, "He told me actually, as I got here. Seems very proud, sir." Vetinari nodded fondly. "Yes, he does in fact."

[marlahey]

under the same roof part one: a stickler for the rules

a harry styles rpf ratings/warnings: references to stalking behaviour by a peripheral character, too many longing looks in a space too small to contain them, she’s clueless sometimes but we love her notes: surprise surprise! it’s good to be back my friends. as far as OG openings go, part one of utsr probably underwent the least amount of rewrites. the most notable change is sylvia’s age: she’s four-ish, going on five. just makes our lives a little easier in terms of continuity and logic! (please visit the masterlist to find all our other writing because I forgot tumblr is a BITCH and hates external links now. ugh.)  utsr masterlist | part 2 (7.12.2020) 

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• tuesday, 1st february 7:48 pm • In spite of the biting chill outside, it’s about a million degrees in this lobby. You wonder if the heater is broken and if it’s always going to be like this here. The hair escaping your ponytail is pressed flat against the back of your neck, and you’re struggling to balance the crate between your chin and the massive box in your arms.

One of the corners is digging into your gut so you raise a knee to adjust it, but the box slips in your grip and you barely manage to hang on. There’s a faint meow from Chowder’s crate. The doors to the elevator whirr open with a ding and you shuffle inside. “Which floor is it again?” India grunts. The box that she’s carrying is lighter but larger—more cumbersome. It obscures half of her face and the way she’s leaning over can’t be any good for her back. “Eight,” you reply, strained. India stretches an arm out to the keypad, struggling to reach the right number. She misses. “Yeah,” you deadpan, “so press four twice.” The sound of a quiet, stifled chuckle turns your head to the back corner of the elevator. A young man leans against the hardwood of the elevator wall with his hands clasped in front of him. He is tall and lean; silver and gold rings adorn his fingers. His hair is wavy and cocoa brown, as though he used to have a businessman’s haircut but has let it grow out. He’s wearing grey tartan tweed pants and black ward lo Vans. Tattoos poke out of the sleeves of his sweater. It’s an arguably strange ensemble, but he pulls it off well. The man pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up his nose with a thumb, gaze trained on the floor. His lips are still pressed together against a smile that flirts with the corners of his mouth. Only then do you realize you’d been staring. You tear your eyes away as heat nips your cheeks and ears. In your tattered converse, mom jeans, and grubby moving flannel, you feel suddenly small. Chowder moews plaintively, like he needs to remind you of his current status in, on, and surrounded by boxes. “Is it just me,” India murmurs to you as the doors ding open on the second floor, “or did that take… is the lift broken?” “It’s the slowest bloody thing,” the man interjects, like it’s the bane of his existence. “You get used to it.” The elevator jolts to a stop on the fourth floor and the doors peel open in silence. Nobody moves. “Sorry, ” India murmurs. The man just shakes his head. The back of the door to the elevator is a mirror so you’re able to privately relish in the invisible threads of your curiosity that reach out to him. “S’ fine, ” he replies softly. By the time you’ve reached the sixth floor, you’re still peering at the man periodically from beneath your eyelashes. He looks up and holds your stare in the reflection of the doors moments before they part, and a ding sounds again through the small space. He smiles at you, poised, before pushing off the wall and stepping carefully between you and India to the hallway. The doors close once again and you are alone with your friend. She drops her box a few inches and bugs her eyes out at you from over the cardboard lid. “Dibs.” You step forward, laughing, and bump your box into hers. Finally, you reach level eight, pile the last two of your boxes by the front door, collapse on the mattress on your bedroom floor still covered in clear plastic packaging, and order pad thai. • friday, 30th march 7:23 am •

“Hold the elevator!” you call mid-jog, and immediately wince. You need to be better about calling it a lift. You make it through the doors of the lift before they close halfway, but not before noticing an arm outstretched to hold them open for you nonetheless. A cross tattoo and the bottom of an anchor poke out from the sleeve of his suit. It’s black velvet that has a navy lustor in the light. You’re in the same company now as virtually every other morning since you’d moved here—the man with the glasses who noticed you on that first day. You’re pretty sure his name is Harry, unless he’s pinning someone else’s name to his chest every day on a badge beneath red emboldened letters reading, The National Gallery, London. It’s surprising to see him as you get on, however, because he lives below you on the sixth floor. Perhaps he’d forgotten something today and needed to go back up… if this were the case, you’re glad to have caught him by chance. Every so often the cast of characters rotates. Sometimes a stout older man with an emerald green briefcase and a mustache rides down with you on weekdays. A slender woman who is almost always on her headset, hovering by the button pad occasionally makes an appearance. They both live above you. Most mornings, however, are like today. It’s just you and Harry together, without fail, if only for those few measured moments of quiet at sunrise. Perhaps you two are on the same tube schedule. For someone you see so often, you know remarkably little about Harry apart from the observable; he’s not one for small talk, has poor eyesight, and boasts impeccable taste in suits. It occurs to you that you still haven’t had a full conversation with him. You absently wonder if he’s single. You’ve even made progress from polite nods of acknowledgment to a consistent “Good morning,” from him and a nearly unflustered, “Morning,” from you (though realistically speaking, a smile before you’ve had your first cup of coffee is only manageable because India would disown you if she knew that you weren’t taking every opportunity to talk to this stupidly handsome stranger). “Thanks,” you murmur, stepping through the doors Harry’s held open for you. “Sure.” The ride down passes in silence. You can’t work up the nerve to speak until the doors part and Harry gestures for you to exit first, and by then it’s too late. You offer a faint parting smile. But, you reason, there’s always tomorrow. • sunday, 8th april 2:42 pm • The lift stops on the sixth floor in its descent as you look up from your phone. Harry’s voice is audible from the hall as the doors open and it startles you because he’s usually alone. You take a sip of your iced coffee as Harry steps inside, wearing a black knit sweater with pink and orange planets across the front, black jeans, worn leather boots, and wayfarers. In one of his hands, he carries an umbrella and rolled-up reusable grocery bag. In the other—most surprisingly—he holds the tiny hand of a little girl. She’s wearing frog rain boots, rainbow leggings, and a t-shirt that proclaims the future is female. Her dense curls are a shade darker than Harry’s, her eyes are closer to brown than hazel, and her skin is a warmer golden hue—but her smile presses a dimple into her cheek, identical to the one you’ve been staring at for months. He has a kid? Harry pulls her gently inside and she seems disappointed that the button for the ground floor is already lit. “This one pumpkin,” he whispers, pointing at the close doors symbol just beneath. She presses it with a firm clack and beams when the familiar mirrors slide across. “Daddy, can we please, please get bananas?” You almost choke on your cold brew. He has a kid. Is there a ring? Do you see a ring? You’d never noticed him in a wedding band before and he certainly isn’t wearing one now. “Shh, we won’t forget bananas… I wrote it down, remember?” With his free hand, Harry fishes out a folded piece of Hello Kitty paper from his back pocket and holds out her, more than happy to let his child snatch it from him. “Daddy, look at the pretty star!” You almost choke on your coffee again as Harry’s gaze follows his daughter’s waving hand, still gripping the pink, polka-dot paper with cat ears, all the way to the golden star dangling from your neck. “Yes, it’s very nice,” Harry nods down at her, agreeing in a voice that could only be used with a child. “Don’t point, angel… s’not very polite.” He smiles at you, almost apologetic, and gently wraps his hand around hers to lower her outstretched arm. “You have a million stars at home.” The lift stops on the ground floor. You gesture for Harry to exit first, a courtesy he always seems to extend to you, and you melt into a smile as he lifts one corner of his mouth in timid gratitude. He hesitates in the doorway on his way out. “Say goodbye, Sylvia,” he says. He has a dad voice. It makes your stomach flip. Sylvia flashes you those sparkling brown eyes once more and waves, suddenly shy. You wiggle your fingers and she buries her face into her father’s leg. “We’re workin’ on it,” Harry says, like it needs an explanation of some kind. He keeps his tender smile when he glances at you over his shoulder before he and Sylvia disappear out the lobby doors and into the rain, hand in hand. • thursday, 7th june 8:24 am • You’re pinning an earring in as you step into the lift. It stops on the sixth floor and then it’s silent as usual between you, Harry, and the mustached emerald briefcase man. You still haven’t had a complete conversation with either of them, but you hardly mind. It’s gratifying to have a few moments of peace before the triathlon that is your final exams, the gym, then straight into your evening shifts at work. Even though you’re looking forward to drinks tonight with India to celebrate the end of term, you’re weary and your body is stiff. Another sleepless night had come and gone and you’d struggled to cover the bags beneath your eyes with makeup this morning. You frown in your recollection of the nightmare, the same icy stare tormenting you. There is an older man with nearly translucent blue eyes, who you see so often around London that you’re beginning to wonder if he’s a figment of your imagination. Yesterday you’d caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of a shop window on your daily walk home from the tube station. He was staring straight at you, but when you’d spun around to look closer, he had vanished. It had unnerved you so much that you hurried straight home without stopping at the shops for kitty litter. London is a crammed metropolis; at this point it’s likely nothing, but that doesn’t stop you from losing sleep over it. “My daughter has that book,” the man with the emerald briefcase says, pulling you back to earth. You let go of your now fastened earring and hold up the book that was pinned under your arm so that the cover is on display. The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen. “This one?” The man hums, continuing, "I’m ashamed to say I don’t even know what it’s about.” “It’s sweet.” Harry’s eyes flash to the book and then your face as you speak. You flip it over and consider the blurb on the back. “A girl sort of accidentally starts working for this catering company one summer while she’s dealing with the loss of her dad.” The stout man brushes over his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “I never knew you were American!” “Oh, yeah,” you laugh softly through a shrug. Harry looks down to the floor and you catch the last second of his smile. “I am.” “What brings you to London then?” asks the older man. “I’m a student at UCL.” “Impressive. What do you study?” “I’m a third year in Law... um, I have a minor in Art History, though.” You peer over at Harry through the reflection of the doors, but he simply pushes his glasses up his nose. You’re startled by the lift’s ding at the ground floor. “Cheers.” The old man nods at you before exiting. “Cheers,” Harry adds like a reflex, stealing a side glance at you before brushing past into the lobby. You could have sworn you’d seen the dimple forming on his cheek to mask a smile. • thursday, 27th september 8:51 pm • You knead the back of your neck with your fingertips and frown toward the ground as you wait for the lift. You don’t usually get home this late but your research advisor needed you to come in a little earlier to your shift this afternoon, and you hadn’t been able to get in a workout until an hour ago. What’s more, readjusting to London’s time zone after spending the month of August back home is taking a toll on your sleep. You sigh and try to relax your shoulders. The first term in your final year at university seems determined to bury you early. You press the auto-lock button on the set of car keys India had loaned you, then once more for good measure. You managed to finagle a guest spot in the garage beneath the building, though it’s your first time using it. It’s eerie and poorly lit down here; you tread lightly into the lift. You’d seen him again today—the blue-eyed man—and by this point it had just been… too often. You had convinced India to let you borrow her car to pick up some archives for your advisor in Ilford forty-five minutes out of your way. It was the first time you’d been to that part of London, and you were still getting used to driving on the other side of the road, so you were already on edge. You remember crossing the street over to a small brook beside the road and when you glanced over your shoulder, he was there in your wake, watching you. It was the middle of the day but you were alone, so you faked a phone call and took an indirect route to the Ilford Historical Society. It was enough to solidify your suspicions that something more serious is happening. On the drive home, you had mentally worked out a time in your schedule to visit the police department and file a report. The lift stops in the lobby on your way up, and your worries from the day promptly evaporate. You smile at your feet as Harry creeps inside the tiny corridor with a very measured, and even gate. Sylvia is passed out, her arms draped loosely around his neck. He’s in a charcoal grey tuxedo tonight and his usual glasses are switched out for contacts. You reach out to press the sixth-floor button, and Harry thanks you with the beginning of a smile. The two of you are stood at the back of the lift together, shoulder to shoulder facing the mirror, so it’s easy to indulge in your gaze toward the small child in his arms. You don’t try to hide the fact that you’re staring the way you might have a few months ago. Even in sleep, Sylvia’s tiny hand clings to the fabric of Harry’s collar. She nuzzles into his neck when the lift jolts upward. Her cheeks are rosy, and she wears a pyjama set covered in primary-colored dinosaurs. Her dark bob of curls—which have grown longer since you’d seen them last—are spread out across his shoulder, and her bloated toddler belly rises and falls against his chest. You smile absently at the short trail of memories you have of Sylvia, but your reverie is interrupted when you notice that Harry is looking directly into your eyes. It makes you do a double take. Could you have imagined it? Is that a blush? Had you embarrassed him? You’re still staring at each other in the reflection when the lift reaches the sixth floor. Your eyes dart to the floor, and you only allow yourself to look up once Harry is stepping out into the hall, well in front of you. He pauses in the doorway to turn around. “Goodnight,” he whispers. “Night.” You hesitate before adding, “Goodnight, Sylvia.” Harry’s smile only grows wider, as though the two of you had shared some fond inside joke. Something catches your eye when you arrive at your floor. You crouch down and pick up a plush kangaroo toy in the corner, flipping it over in your hands. It’s ratty, and has been washed so many times that the pink cotton on its ears is beading. One of the miniature black buttons for its eyes dangles loose, and the synthetic fur is matted. What was once chestnut has faded into a dull, tawny copper. “S.S.,” you read curiously. The initials are stitched in red to the bottom of the kangaroo’s long feet. The sound of the doors closing catches you off guard. You jump to your feet, tucking the small stuffed animal into your purse as you hurry down the hall and fish around in your bag for your keys. • saturday, 6th october 2:31 pm • You step into the lift, fasten in your earbuds, and tap the button on the keypad for the eighth floor. Today marks your third trip to the Ilford Historical Society this week. Soon you’re going to need to ask your advisor for reimbursement to fill India’s tank, but on the bright side you hadn’t seen the man with blue eyes since the first time you’d made the trip…You just hope that this means he’s retreating and not that he’s getting stealthier. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and increase the volume of your classical playlist by a few notches. A flash of purple, white, and green bolts into the lift as the doors part at the lobby. Sylvia is in a Buzz Lightyear costume today. Harry’s tattooed arm swings through the half-open doors immediately behind her, going for the jet pack wings, but she squeals and escapes his hold. You watch the scene play out like a Tom and Jerry skit with La Traviata in the background as Sylvia darts around the corners of the lift and her father fails to corral her. Harry lunges for her, misses, lunges, misses again, then catches her by the elbow as she screams in laughter, squirming out of his grip. You silently pause your music and press the button for the sixth floor as Harry spreads his feet apart, catching Sylvia in his arms like a goalie as she tries to bowl through the closing doors. It’s fortunate that nobody else is trying to get in. She kicks her legs before adopting that pose children do when they don’t want to be held, and makes a rigid plank with her body. Hair disheveled and glasses sliding down his nose, Harry lurches for the keypad with his daughter wedged under his arm a few seconds after the doors close. “Oh.” He stops in his tracks once he sees the button for his floor is already illuminated. “Thanks.” You flash a quick smile. Harry sets Sylvia down breathlessly and she finds a hiding place behind him, her little arms wrapped around one of his knees. He leans against the back wall of the lift, the smallest backpack you’ve ever seen swinging from one hand with the initials, S.S. reappearing stitched onto one of the straps. You swallow and tug your earbuds out by their chord before slowly crouching down to eye-level with Sylvia. For a moment you look up at Harry because you feel the instinct to ask for permission for some reason, certain your expression is more serious than necessary. He’s frowning but he’s also smiling at you as though to gauge your next move—so are you, to some degree. You shift your eyes back to Sylvia, and reach cautiously into your purse. Sylvia’s eyes widen at the sight of the small kangaroo you retrieve from your bag, her mouth gaping in a tiny, square-toothed grin. It might just as well be Harry beaming at you himself with such a striking resemblance. Both of the kangaroo’s black button eyes are fastened tightly in place now. You make your voice light and ask, “Is this yours?” The sound of a zipper comes from above your head; you glance up to catch Harry pulling another kangaroo out of the backpack. How many kangaroos does she have? He passes the stuffed animal to Sylvia and you see now that it’s quite a bit larger than the one you’d found last week. It’s also different from yours because it has a long white stripe along its front with a wide, empty pouch halfway down its belly. Oh… perhaps it’s just the two. She cautiously approaches you with the larger toy in tow, until you’re close enough to snuggle the joey back into its mother’s pouch. She stumbles backward into Harry’s legs. You sigh in relief before rising to your feet. “Sylvia, can you say thank you?” Harry folds his arms behind his back and leans over to whisper against the top of his daughter’s head, but loud enough for you to hear. Her curls bounce as she bobbles her head in a bashful nod, wrapping an arm around dad’s leg again. “Thank you.” This child, you have to admit, is devastatingly cute. “We tore the flat apart looking for him this weekend,” Harry intones, shaking his head. “Where did you find him?” “In here,” you reply. He makes a noise, like the possibility had only just occurred to him. “Thank you.” “It was the least I could do.” You lean back against the wall opposite them as the lift reaches the sixth floor with a ding and you wave to the two of them on their way out. “Cheers.” Harry nods to you. “Say goodbye, Sylvia.” She gives you a small wave. Harry gently nudges her forward into the hallway with his foot. There is an interim of about ten seconds of quiet before Sylvia is hurtling back into the lift, making a beeline to you, and wrapping her arms around your legs. She beams up at you for the second time with a smile cut-and-pasted from her father. Bubbling laughter overcomes her, and you uncross your legs, unable to help yourself from joining in her smile. “Hello again!” you say, before it occurs to you that you probably shouldn’t be encouraging this behavior. “Vi,” Harry calls from outside the lift. She just giggles and buries her face into your knee. He appears in the quickly closing doorway, one hand keeping it open as he narrows his eyes. There’s something playful in it though, a practiced pretend serious. Your gazes catch and Harry winks, putting a finger to his lips. “Uh oh,” he says, “I think I hear a tickle monster!” Sylvia shrieks, but she’s not faster than her father, who’s crouched low to catch her by the sides, merciless fingers at work until the child instinctively releases you. She laughs and laughs and laughs as he scoops her up into his arms. “So sorry.” Harry’s apology is much less flustered than you would have expected. Sylvia wiggles in his grip, cracking up, euphorically naughty. You simply let out a breathy laugh as they finally both make it out of the lift together. Down the hall, you hear Sylvia’s giggle melt into a screech against gravity; you lean over to catch a glimpse of Harry flipping her upside down on his chest with her belly out, legs flailing back and forward over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re bad. You’re bad.” He does not show his daughter the mercy of waiting until they’re in the privacy of their apartment before the second round of tickling begins. “You’re gonna get Daddy in trouble.” • monday, 8th october 8:23 am • Riding in the lift alone is nice because you don’t have a full-length mirror in your apartment. You brush the cat hair off of the front of your sweater and fix one of the sleeves that had bunched up beneath all your layers. The yarn is a warm, autumnal bay that compliments your thick scarf and the gold buttons of your roomy black overcoat. You hear a ding and your eyes flash up to the floor indicator above the entrance. You almost lose your balance jumping back from your reflection when you see the illuminated number six. The doors separate and Harry steps in beside you, closer than usual. Today he’s in a forest green, double-breasted jumpsuit with faint pinstripes, and you can’t help but find it fitting that he works in an art museum. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Good morning.” You feel something tense pinned to the air between you two. “Did you fix Jojo’s eyes?” Harry asks after a beat, almost accusatory. Your eyes narrow at his reflection in the doors. It takes you a minute to summon to mind what he’s referring to. “Jojo?” He flushes a little, just enough to warm the tips of his ears. “The um—” Harry clears his throat, shaking his head. “He’s… the baby kangaroo.” If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was embarrassed. But as you’ve come to learn, Harry just loves his daughter immensely. “It was nothing,” you reply evenly. Harry lets out a light, almost defensive scoff. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.” “I know.” Part of you wonders if he’s the type to make a fuss over what you’d consider an innocuous gesture. You could see how an unsolicited favor from a stranger might come off as undermining to a young, single parent, come to think of it. The thought that you’d been the cause of Harry’s ire—or even his mild annoyance—makes your chest feel tight. The lift stops on the second floor. A group of three enters in staccato laughter, pulling your attention forward. Harry’s eyes meet yours in the reflection of the doors—just two seconds that maybe you could pretend were an accident—before you both glance away as though you’d been caught. The group leaves ahead of you into the lobby. “I just wanted to do a nice thing, you know. For her.” You’d been staring resolutely ahead in your admission, but dare yourself to glance sideways and look directly at Harry. “And for you, honestly.” You brush past Harry into the lobby without waiting for his usual beckoning you to go ahead, but sense him turn toward you at the last second. You do not look back. • wednesday, 7th november 8:23 am • “Ouch, shit―” You jerk your hand from your pocket, staring in disbelief at the tiny pinprick of blood welled on the tip of your pinky. Returning your hand carefully into your coat, you pull out the red paper flower just as the lift doors ding on the sixth floor and Harry walks in. Sucking on your finger is helping your wound, but consequently draws his smiling, vaguely concerned eyes. “Alright?” he asks. You nod with a little hapless shrug, holding up the offending fake petals with a black button center and protruding silver pin out the back. “Forgot I had this.” It’s only a slightly embarrassing admission. Commonwealth countries mark the day of the Armistice, November eleventh, in a particular, unfamiliar way; India had explained the Poppy Appeal briefly to you last week when the pins had begun to appear all over the city, and you finally had a spare pound coin for the volunteer offering you one yesterday after class. You have a scant three seconds to look at the poppy pinned smartly to the left lapel of Harry’s trench coat before he turns to face forward, but in looking down at the one in your hand, you realize you have no idea how he’s done it. Surely it can’t be that difficult? You frown down at your own jacket. A tentative stab of the pin into the fabric is met with an audible chuckle from the other side of the lift. You flush; Harry’s smiling gently with one corner of his mouth. You try a second time, going at it from a different angle. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” You haven’t had enough coffee yet to justify how warm you’re getting. You shake your head, accepting defeat. “Best let me help you before you hurt yourself again.” Despite his offer, he makes no move to take the poppy until you sheepishly hold it out to him. Neither the mustached, emerald briefcase man nor the headset lady have appeared today, but the space of the lift seems remarkably smaller when Harry gently takes the flower and shuffles forward to get a grip on your coat. An impressive array of rings on each of his hands catches the light. You have no idea what to do besides stand ramrod straight. “Trick is to put the pin through twice so you’re not poking yourself on it all the time,” he explains, his eyebrows pulling together in focus. You watch his chest move as he breathes; the scent of Harry’s cologne wraps around you like an invisible shroud. It occurs to you that this is the longest interaction you’ve had since he noticed your careful restoration of Sylvia’s tiny treasured kangaroo. You wonder how long she’s had the pair of them. You also wonder if Jojo’s eye had been falling loose for a reason―if perhaps Sylvia preferred him a little rough around the edges, and it leads you again down a strange rabbit hole of is Harry upset that you did that? “I hope it’s okay that I fixed Jojo’s eye,” you venture. Harry pauses a moment, then laughs once, which draws you inadvertently closer together. “You’re funny. Which you shouldn’t be when I’m holding something sharp.” You almost stop breathing altogether. “Course it’s okay,” Harry continues without looking up. His nose is now scrunched as he pinches the tough wool. “She loves that thing, and I’m shit with sewing.” His eyes finally flick up to yours, a self-deprecating tilt to his mouth, and you smile tentatively. “Glad I could help.” With that, you’re quiet until he’s done and his concentrated frown relaxes into satisfaction. You watch Harry consider his handiwork, tracing the side of a petal with one of his fingers. “That should do it,” he says, stepping back. Your eyes meet again. You’ve reached the ground floor, but the doors simply sit open. “Looks nice.” He’s talking about the poppy. Your cheeks warm anyway. “Thank you.” Harry smiles slowly, as though he’s trying to pace the expression. “That’s alright.” He turns and ushers you out of the lift. “Have a good day.” “Same to you.” The edges of your poppy flutter as you turn the corner out of the lobby. Don’t turn around. Don’t ruin the moment. Who are you kidding? A quick glance over your shoulder reveals Harry loitering outside the lift, watching you. He starts a little, lifting a hand like he’s going to wave and dragging it over his hair instead. Harry turns abruptly. You almost feel bad for catching him out. You’re too busy walking faster and failing to smother a stupid grin all the way to campus. • thursday, 20th december. 4:11 pm • You’re thankful that everyone else in the parking garage has ruddy cheeks and runny noses from the storm—nobody would be able to tell by looking at you that you’d been crying all afternoon. Just when you thought you’d never see those blue eyes ever again, you’d felt a hand brush against yours on the crowded tube just hours ago. You turned to see whose pinky was resting atop your knuckles as he clutched onto the pole directly above your hand. The fear was immediate and visceral; every follicle of hair above your shoulders prickled, your lips went cold, and you couldn’t get yourself to start breathing again before stumbling back into the chest of some other unsuspecting passenger. How long had he been standing there? You bolted out of the doors the first chance you got, a good seven stops from home. You didn’t think you were followed but of course you couldn’t be sure, so you ducked into a coffee shop instead of jumping straight onto the next train. You used up all your data to call your parents, hardly able to hold your cell phone steady with the sheen of sweat on your palms. The police had no record of such a man you described. He was middle-aged, taller than you could have imagined so close up, and had a deformity or some sort of scarring on his upper lip. You would have recognized him if you stumbled across his photograph, but you’d gone through every headshot on the books within a ten-kilometer radius of London at the police station. You’d lost sleep combing through the online database of sex offenders in your area without any luck. And since you didn’t have a name or a concrete instance of harassment, they could only add the encounter to the file you’d started in October. Once you’d managed to get a hold of India, she immediately came to rescue you from the coffee shop and dropped you off at home. You insisted she pull into the gated underground garage rather than letting you off by the front doors. With a hand on your shoulder, she offered to stay the night. You had declined. There were some days when you swore you were going crazy, but all it took was one last look into his eyes on the tube today for you to know in your gut that he was real, he was watching you, and you were right to be afraid. You hadn’t heard the ding of the lift but you notice when the people around you begin to huddle on. It’s a tight squeeze inside. You sigh when you see that nearly every floor up to ten is illuminated on the keypad. You sneak into a corner by the doors and try to distract yourself by focusing on the overwhelming smell of rain carried into the lift on everyone’s rubber boots. A faint buzzing noise thrums overhead, and the light seems dimmer than usual—one of the bulbs in here must need replacing. The lift comes to a stop at the lobby. Your eyes are on the carpet, but you recognize a familiar pair of black leather boots ambling through the doors. You look up to catch Harry shaking the rain out of his curls with one hand. He licks his lips and scans the lift briefly, only moving from the entrance once he sees you by the keypad. His eyes change, the corner of his lips quirking up. Harry parts a few people to stand in front of you, chest to chest, carrying a box of Legos almost as tall as you, covered in fire trucks and construction vehicles. They’re the bigger, softer type of plastic blocks that come in lighter shades made for toddlers. You didn’t even know they made sets with so many pieces. It doesn’t seem necessary. The thing could be a column. Harry rests the box on the floor against his hip and even more people pack inside behind him, so many that you have to give up your corner spot which was already tight, and sandwich yourself in between Harry and the wall. And why is the person standing directly behind Harry trying to leave a voicemail? The two of you share a small laugh, looking down at your feet and shifting to get comfortable as the lift vibrates into motion against your back. Ding. Level two. Someone to the rear of the lift needs to get to the entrance. In order to let them through, Harry actually has to press up against you and prop his hand on the wall behind your head to avoid crushing you completely. “Sorry,” he says, strained. “It’s fine.” Ding. Level three. The last thing you need is for your heart to race like this after the mess of a day you’ve endured. To make matters worse (or better), Harry is close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his body. You’re struck by the most staggering urge to just… lean forward a few inches. It would be so nice to bury your face in his sweatshirt, to be engulfed in the embrace of his arms, and to let yourself cry about your afternoon until you feel empty and full at the same time. Ding. Level four. You choose a button on his open black overcoat to stare at, flustered and humiliated by your own sensitivity. If it were any other afternoon you’d be having a field day with this but you’re too much of a coward to look anywhere near his face in your state. A single drop of rain falls from the end of Harry’s chin and lands on your collar. Ding. Level five. Your eyes are dry and puffy, your breathing is still ragged, and you seriously consider holding your breath altogether until you reach the sixth floor. You’d known since the coffee shop that you were going to cry the moment you stepped foot into your apartment tonight, but you hadn’t considered the possibility that it might happen sooner than that. You shake your head. Ridiculous. You look up idly to find that Harry is watching you. His expression seems serious now, oddly focused. You tilt your chin up incrementally. Harry licks his lips. Is anyone looking? How is nobody looking? You take a small breath and Harry’s gaze flashes again to your lips. Your palm brushes the back of his hand, hidden by the toy box, and he tilts his wrist toward you, spreading his fingers just enough to fit the tips of yours between his knuckles. His hand is cool from the rain and yours is warm from the car. How is someone still leaving the same voicemail? There’s space enough now in the lift for him to give you a few inches of distance so why is Harry drawing closer to you? Why is he leaning in? Ding. “It’s you,” you blurt, and swallow before adding more quietly, “This is your floor.” A few people stuff their cellphones back into their pockets, making their way into the hall. Harry clears his throat and leans over to lift the toy box. Your hands fall apart but he reaches out to gently brush the side of your arm in goodbye—unable, it seems, to meet your eyes. You watch him as he turns on his heel to shuffle out behind someone else, carding a hand through his hair. You close your eyes and exhale without a sound. You only open them in time to catch him glancing over his shoulder at you before rounding the corner. Neither of you had smiled. When the lift reaches the eighth floor, you almost forget to step off. You lean on the back of your door and sigh once you’re in your apartment, dropping your keys to the hardwood with a clatter. Alone in the dark, after one of the single most distressing days of your life, you press two clammy palms to your face and laugh—giddy—like a fool. • tuesday, 1st january 2:33 am • You swing your leg inelegantly out of the cab. Your foot slips on the road’s thin polish of ice. The ankle strap of your stiletto comes undone at the clasp as you only just remember that you began taking them off in the back seat. You laugh at yourself, nearly dropping your half-empty bottle of Prosecco, hobbling to the sidewalk through the rain with one shoe in hand. “Thanks—thank you, goodnight!” You wave your shoe in the air as the cab speeds away after having left a fifty-percent tip—it’s half past two on New Year’s Eve for Christ sake—and turn toward your building. Have the doors to the lobby always been this heavy? Perhaps it isn’t the best idea to try and hop back into your shoe while shouldering through the doorway, because you bang your head against one of the large, protruding handles with a metallic thud. “Fuck.” It hurts a little but the jello shots and bottle of Sangiovese you’d guzzled with India earlier are helping. You squint up because the lobby is spinning, and spy the outline of a man facing away from you with his hands in his pockets. He looks over his shoulder as he waits for the lift, lackadaisical. It’s a familiar profile. The half of his face visible to you is in shadow apart from the crescent moon-shaped hollow of his dimple sinking in as he smiles. “Hi,” Harry drawls with a chuckle. You step into your shoe without bothering to fix the ankle strap and wobble over to the lift. All night you had glided so effortlessly in your four additional inches. Now, you feel as though you’re walking a tightrope in flippers. “Hello.” You enunciate too much in your efforts to sound sober. You and Harry look at each other and smile until you laugh, at absolutely nothing at all. There’s no sign of his specs tonight; his hair is sopping, and the shoulders of his burgundy suit are damp. Harry gives you a once over. “You alright?” He’s slurring a little. You bob your head in a nod. “M’good.” The lift dings and you both lurch forward to step between the doors before Harry stumbles backward and gestures for you to go first. You almost fall forward again in your shoes and have to grip the wall on the way in to steady yourself. These need to come off. Harry moves to his usual corner, leaning against the back wall with a hand on either railing and you do the same in the next corner over. You shimmy off your heels to hold them in one hand while balancing your half empty bottle of Prosecco against your hip with the other. The carpet is coarse beneath your bare feet. You take a gulp of wine and the curled silver ribbon around its neck tickles your chin. You and Harry glance sideways at each other at the exact same moment, both of your heads leaning against the back wall of the lift. You have to lean forward and cover your mouth with the hand holding your shoes so you don’t spit out your drink in laughter. It’s not even funny, really. How many times had you both accidentally caught the other staring over the past year in this very room Harry’s chuckle builds into a laugh and the echo of it reminds you of Sylvia the day she’d clung to your legs. You’ve noticed that Harry’s eyes crinkle like hers, too, if he finds something especially funny. The laughter melts and you stretch the arm holding the bottle out to Harry. He looks down at it, then back up at you before taking it gently from your grasp and helping himself to a swig. “You know wha’s not fair? I’ve—” he hiccups. “I’ve got to wear a badge t’work. With my name on it. And I see you everyday—” “Almost,” you correct automatically. “Almost everyday… so you probably know my name.” Harry’s eyes narrow. “Do you know my name?” You nod, a bit delayed. He passes the bottle back to you and you admire the intricate embroidery on the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’ve got a pretty good guess.” “What’s your name?” Harry asks after a beat, rolling his back off the wall to lean on his shoulder and face you. “Charles doesn’t know either.” You tilt your head, frowning a little. “Who’s that?” Harry rests his pointer finger on top of his upper lip. You grin slowly before answering his question. Harry echoes you with an equally slow smile, his voice italicizing the sound of your name. It sounds like he’s saying someone else’s name—a person you’ve never even met. He says it again, like he needs to introduce himself to each letter. Your heart is about the only part of your body able to move quickly. Harry smiles widely. It’s as though every other one he’s given you before had just been practicing for this moment. “Nice to meet you.” You wedge your shoes and Prosecco beneath one arm, taking a step forward with your free hand outstretched. Harry shuffles to meet you halfway in a handshake and the height difference between you feels staggering barefoot. You remember the feeling of his hand in yours when it was hidden by the Lego box. It would be so easy to just shift a little and clasp them together the way you had before. You can smell the memory of whiskey on his breath and see the flush of his cheeks close up. “You look like a disco ball.” You laugh and he releases you, like the sound had awoken his sense of propriety. His eyes take you in again, almost reflecting the shimmer of sequins scattered across the fabric of your dress before he looks back up at you. “Yeah,” you agree, tugging the hem an inch down your bare legs. “My best friend dragged me to some formal thing the other American students were trying to throw together. Really random.” Harry nods so you go on after a pause. “You’re handcuffed to someone and have to finish a bottle of wine, but India and I didn’t coordinate beforehand so we both brought one.” “Seems like fun.” “It certainly was.” You raise the Prosecco and it sloshes up against the neck of the bottle in tiny waves. “And you,” you raise your eyebrows, “look like a Turkish rug.” Harry grins, inclining his head as if that were the highest compliment. “Where’s Sylvia tonight?” His face is full of mock surprise. Harry pats the breast pocket of his jacket before running his hands over the front and back of his trousers. He looks over his shoulders, comically frantic, scanning each corner of the lift until you begin to laugh. Harry smiles wider, a little too pleased with himself. “She’s with her mum and her mum’s fiancé this week—so I guess her, um… soon-to-be other mum… They were having a little gathering at their new place tonight and we did the countdown a few hours early for her.” “How sweet.” Without a second thought, you inch closer and begin reaching for a stray piece of confetti in his hair. You can tell you’re drunk because you indulge a little in combing your fingertips through one of Harry’s curls, though it’s probably subtle enough for him not to notice. He goes very still. “Did—did you press the thing?” Harry stammers, his attention jerking to the keypad. “I didn’ press the thing.” “Oops,” you laugh, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the doors as you turn to watch Harry hit the sixth and eighth floor buttons. Though the rain has offset India’s efforts to tame your hair, what surprises you more is the bright-eyed expression on your face. It’s out of character for you to feel this exhilarated over a simple drunken conversation. But something delightedly nervous hums beneath your skin all the same. “Why are you so wet?” you ask as Harry returns from the keypad. A tad closer, you note, than where he’d been standing before. You lean on your shoulder to face him and he slouches a little to meet your height. “Walked home,” Harry replies. Your jaw drops. “In the pouring rain?” “S’like ten minutes—really not bad.” Harry shrugs. “I didn’t mean to get so pissed tonight. My New Year’s resolution was to go a little easy on the booze.” He shakes his head in a chuckle. “I can’t really handle what I used to since the little one came along. M’not much of a drinker anymore.” The lift jumps as you reach the sixth floor and your arm flies out to balance yourself in the same moment that Harry offers both hands to catch you. You clutch his forearm and then immediately let go. “Sorry,” you murmur, taking one last look at him. “Well, goodnight Harry. Happy New Year’s.” The look he is giving you is peculiar—on the verge of resignation, but not quite letting go of all hope. As though the last sober part of him is leaning forward on its elbows, asking if you agree without telling you first what it wants. Harry cranes his neck around to look down the stretch of hallway, his head falling back against the wall with a gentle thump. “You know, New Year’s isn’t really over until you finish all the champagne,” he declares, and you laugh a little in surprise. “Prosecco.” He waves away the correction. “Fine, all the Prosecco.” “New Year’s isn’t over until you get every last piece of confetti out of your hair,” you challenge. Harry raises his eyebrows, looking back to you. If he doesn’t get off soon, the doors are going to close. “New Year’s isn’t over until your shoes come off in the lift,” he shoots back. You burst out in a laugh. “New Year’s isn’t over until you’ve broken your resolution two hours into January.” Harry rolls his eyes. He smirks a little and it’s annoyingly charming in the dim, golden glow of the lift’s broken light. He’s stalling. All at once, you’re acutely aware of the lingering smell of rain and the faint hum of the light fixture overhead. You swear you can hear the echo of that never-ending voicemail from the day you’d slotted your fingers into his like it was a secret, just an arm’s length away from where the two of you stand now. He had tried to kiss you once before and you had stopped him. But now, in this moment, with your heart in your throat, you desperately want him to try again. Harry starts to speak and you don’t wait for him to finish. “Well, New Year’s isn’t over—” “—until you kiss someone at midnight.” You’re hyper aware of your own breathing in the daunting silence that follows. The lift doors seal closed. Harry is close enough for you to see the flecks of hazel in his eyes like sea glass. He floats his hand up as though he’s going to cup your jaw, but traces the tip of his middle finger in a line up your cheek to push back your hair so lightly it tickles. His jaw flexes and just when you swear he isn’t going to, Harry leans in. It’s gradual, as though he’s waiting for you to change your mind, but your heads are tilting and then the tips of your noses brush. If you turn, even minutely, the corner of your mouth will meet his. You can feel your pulse thumping in the side of your neck. It dawns on you that you’re both simply waiting to see who is going to do it. “It’s not midnight,” Harry breathes. “Don’t tell me you’re a stickler for the rules.” The warmth and dew of his laugh grazes your cheek. With that, Harry brushes his mouth against yours. It feels painstakingly tender, like he’s never kissed anybody before. You’re so spellbound that you’re hardly even sure how to reciprocate something so soft. Harry’s bottom lip hovers over the very tip of your cupid’s bow just before he pulls away. Was that even a kiss? The very edges of your mouths had met, but only just. You still feel the tingle of where his lips had been moments ago. You open your eyes and Harry is a few inches away now, looking down at you. His hand is still ghosting the side of your face, like he’s afraid he might break you. When had your own hand slid flat against his chest beneath the lapel of his suit? “Is this a good idea?” you whisper, sliding your hand out to trace one of the round, fabric buttons with your fingertip. He swallows roughly. “Maybe not.” “Okay.” “Okay,” he yields. But neither of you move away. “Maybe this should just stay between us,” you suggest after a beat, heart sinking in your chest. “Well then if it’s just staying between us…” Before you have the chance to inhale, Harry presses his mouth against yours, harder, like he means it this time. His lips are warm and soft as they move with yours. You’re on your toes as one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, the other snaking around your waist to pull you into him. It still isn’t close enough. It’s surreal to be kissing him after a year. How much time had lapsed in total since you’d seen him that first day you moved in? How many mornings had been spent beside each other in silence? You’d spoken through side glances and subdued smiles from opposite corners of a crowded lift more than you ever truly had with words. But this… this feels like threads made up of every intimacy you’ve ever shared in this tiny room pulling you together at last. You pull apart just before the lift dings on the eighth floor. You’re both somewhat winded as you rest your foreheads together, and you release two unintended fistfuls of his jacket. Harry slides his hands down your bare arms to cup your elbows, his thumbs stroking circles in the soft crook of your forearm. “Have some water before you go to sleep.” “I will,” you chuckle. You’re unsure why either of you are speaking so softly, there’s no need. “Goodnight, Harry.” “Goodnight.” He says your name like a promise—like he’s determined to make up for all the days he didn’t get the chance to use it. You didn’t know it could sound like that. “Happy New Year’s.” You smile over your shoulder before padding barefoot into the hall as he reaches out to push the sixth-floor button for the second time. The last thing you’re able to see through the closing doors of the lift is Harry rubbing a thoughtful hand over his stubble, smiling down at his feet. (part two)

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