#and then after staying up all weekend that final week to finish my thesis i went to work sleep deprived | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

katiebruce · 4 years

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adios, amigo.

Well, 2020. What is there to say that hasn’t already been said, tweeted or Instagram-ed a thousand and two times about you? I’ll save us all the generic stuff—“unprecedented,” “nightmarish,” “absurd”—yes, 2020 was all of those things, but on a deeper, more personal level, there is so much more I have to say that doesn’t fit quite into those clichés.

So, this will be my attempt to document and reflect upon one of the strangest years I’ve encountered in my thirty-one years on this planet. Buckle up, buttercup.

Like many others before me have frequently observed, the way I spend my New Year’s Eve has always set the tone for the year to come, and boy, was this year a picture-perfect example of exactly that. Because I had to work on January first, I spent my New Year’s Eve at home watching a depressing movie with T, quietly kissing on the cold back patio as fireworks went off in the distance. I remember feeling both happy and sad about this evening (a duality that was a major theme for me for the fifty-two weeks to come, if only I had known). I was sad not to be celebrating my favorite holiday and even remember telling T that I didn’t want the year to come to be one I spent not going out, staying home, and becoming reclusive as I finished up the stressful process of finishing my MFA thesis in the course of ten (or, what I thought would be ten) short months.

But on the other hand, being held in T’s arms, I remembered feeling so happy that I could have this little quiet holiday—something that felt so private and personal—so entirely our own. It really set the tone for our relationship for the year, and for the obstacles we not only overcame together but dominated, one right after the next.

January was cold, snowy, and full of flight cancellations, which I remember to be something worth celebration at the time. I stayed home and snuggled my way into Aquarius season, the time for me and my brethren to shine, feeling positive that I had lived my thirtieth year to one of great satisfaction and maximum travels taken. (If only I had known then that that late-January El Paso layover where my crew and I walked across the border into Juarez to eat street tacos and laugh over Mezcal would be one of the only times I would leave the country for the year, well, I might have taken a few shots of tequila and really enjoyed my stay abroad just a bit longer).

February came, and with it, the promise of friends. My darling Kristopher, as always, flew to Chicago on the day of (also the day I completed and passed my eighth recurrent [!]) and, thanks to my other darling baby, Nicole, scored tickets to one of the highly coveted format reunion tour shows happening in March* for me, her, and my momma.

(*It did not, in fact, take place in March).

I turned thirty-one in the way I’ve come accustomed too—surrounded by my favorite people (this year at Dorians—a jazz club to end all jazz clubs) too drunk and too smiley to even coherently remember the evening properly. As much fun as I remember having, I told T that I thought it was my last year to host some sort of birthday gathering, and to hold me to it come next year. (He did very well—a few weeks later, after spotting an ad in a discarded newspaper for the Chicago tour of Moulin Rouge happening on my birthday weekend, we bought tickets and I sat peacefully with the fact that one of my new year (or, new age) resolutions was so quickly and poignantly adapted).

By this time, I was already deep in the throes of my first thesis writing course, meaning that I was pretty stressed out all of the time and surely a misery to be around (sorry to those of you who were). Basically, in three semesters’ time, I was expected to draft, edit, and rewrite a fully formed novel (70,000+ words) and the idea of accomplishing such a feat felt like a ton of bricks being carried on my shoulders. I had at least four mental breakdowns in the beginning of the year (again, we all know what lays ahead for the year, I know—but at the time, this seemed like an unbearable amount of stress for one person to have to carry. The joke is not lost on me).

In the coming weeks, things began to get even weirder. Covid scares began sprouting up in cities all around us, and as the government asked people to stay at home, airline ticket prices became massively reduced, so more people began traveling. I mean, this shit was like spring break on acid—it was hugely stressful, and though the threat of the pandemic had yet to reach Chicago, I felt more and more at risk with each passing day as careless amounts of people cashed in on what they thought was the deal of a lifetime.

By the time March reached its midpoint, I, like so many others, was terrified. We had no PPE at work—literally nothing. No gloves, masks, or even hand wipes. Cleaning the aircraft still wasn’t considered a “no-go” item, as far as regulatory practices go. I remember watching the news on my layovers only to keep myself up at night wondering if the virus was going to take hold of me or anyone around me, and if so, how long until they would recover, or perhaps wouldn’t.

St. Patrick’s Day came, and after fighting about whether or not to go out with friends (we didn’t—and for the record, T and I rarely fight—but this was, after all, his first St. Patrick’s Day as a Chicagoan—so his resentment was more than justified) we saw a matinee movie (Onward) and while in the theater, read about how Chicago restaurants, as a precaution, were shutting down the next day due to rising concerns about the spread of the virus. We reacted by grabbing drinks & lunch at one of our favorite neighborhood eateries and tipping the waitstaff more heavily than I think I’ve ever tipped anyone in my life (not mentioning this to brag, or whatever—just remembering what it was like to feel utterly helpless and unsure of what to do or what was to come—we had to find our positivity in some way, and on that day, this was how we saw fit, and it helped).

Then it all sort of happened at once—Lauren’s store was closed with no impending reopening date. The grocery stores (and I swear to god, I will never forget this) became a madhouse—people taking things out of other people’s carts when they weren’t looking. I remember going into Mariano’s with T and insisiting we tie bandanas around our faces for safety, feeling like a goddamn bank robber about to make a heist. But there was nothing left to even take. Frantically, we got what we could and got out of there, and I went home to have a full-fledged panic attack about the state of the world we were currently living in and what we were going to do if things didn’t turn around quickly.

As if overnight, everyone cancelled their airline tickets. It was for the better, and though it put my job in serious jeopardy, I was in massive support of it but still felt an eerie sadness looming around the countless empty airports, airplanes, hotels and city streets. There were times when my crew and I were the only guests in a place—times when I had zero passengers on a revenue flight. And then came the mass flight cancellations—and I mean mass. Everyday became a battle of anxiety as to what was going to happen to my job in the next twenty-four hours, and then cooing my stressed-out thoughts to sleep, only to relive the anxiety with every phone buzz waiting to find out if I had lost my job overnight. By mid-spring, I was hugely considering dropping out for a period of time, just due to the stress of it all, but thanks to support from my friends, family and T, I chose to stick it out and roll with as many punches as I could until I was finally knocked-out.

Quarantines were happening all around me, and without the ability to travel or the (former) grueling expectations of maintaining a social life, I started to reconnect with myself in ways that felt both organic and new, yet much like returning home after a long time away. Lauren taught me to knit, and we celebrated her birthday on the floor of our apartment in an Indian-food induced daze renting Emma and making thousands of tiny knots onto needles that would eventually become blankets. We took walks, did puzzles, and Lauren drove me to and from the airport on the rare occasion that I actually had a flight to work, as the CTA had, unfortunately, become a cesspool of targeted attacks on flight crew members (seriously) because they were often the only person in any given train car.

A rare glimpse of optimism then presented itself via two different opportunities: a chance to take a ninety-day leave from work, and a job offer in the form of editing a book for publication. I said yes to both and hoped that I would be able to take a step back and deal with the crumbling world around me easier with both of these opportunities now on my horizon.

This period of the year (May-July) started off swimmingly. Knitting, reading, and even smoking weed for the first time in nearly a decade (I took two hits and spent the rest of the evening sinking into the couch painfully aware of how bad I am at breathing and worrying that I might stop at any given moment). I fell in love with yoga and felt myself loosening up parts of my body and my mind that had been twisted into a series of knots for god only knows how long. I spent days reading in the sun, baking bread like everyone else in the world, and learning to make my own pies. Things were going really well, and I was even ahead in school, now on track to graduate in August—when things started getting heated.

I’m not going to go on a rant about race, although I very much could, but I will say this—the fact that we are still in a race war in this country in the year 2020 (and even now, a few days into 2021) makes me so sick to my stomach I don’t know what to do. Every injustice that passes by us, overshadowed by the next untimely death or wrongdoing makes me angry in ways that I cannot even fathom putting into words. It burns the color red that is so hot and so vibrant that I can see it soaking through my eyelids even when I squeeze them shut. This country lost a lot of love from me this year, and even more respect. There are not only things we can do better—there are things we must change. And honestly, most days, I don’t think most of the country is ready to not only admit that but to also work for. And that not only sickens me, but depresses the living hell out of me. I feel so stunted all of the time when I picture a world so at peace with its own injustice. It’s just so unfair.

I watched as the world was (rightfully, although woefully) destroyed around me. My neighborhood turned into a desolate, looted shadow of itself—one where Lauren and I could sit on our back patio safely until dusk, when the crime and gunfire became so rabid that on occasions, we sat in the living room in total darkness, listening only to the radio, afraid to let anybody at street level see that we were, indeed, at home. The opportunists that took advantage of the message of this movement made me numb to such a large demographic of the population, and I found myself crying myself to sleep enough times that I thought it might be time to leave the warzone that had become Chicago for a little while as escape down to Florida. So, we packed our bags and left. It is not lost on me that so many did not have this option, and for so many minorities, just simply existing during this time was enough to cause assault. I know I am fortunate—I carry it like lead in my pockets every day.

While in Florida, the first retailers began to reopen and I found myself waiting in an hour-long line to buy soaps and hand sanitizers, and to get a glimpse of what this “new normal” might look like when things started picking back up again. Like many, it was jarring to see empty tables, capacity limits on items, cashiers behind plexiglass sheets shouting to be heard over both the physical barrier and the cloth one strung across their faces.

By the time T & I arrived home, Lauren was already making plans to reopen her store “safely” and I felt sorry for her. How could anything be safe when nothing had changed? Why were companies acting as if business could go on like before—even though nothing had gotten better?

My final months of my MFA were just ahead of me, and I had one month remaining free from work to finish my first full-length novel, and I all I really remember is stress stress stress.

And then Andrew, being Andrew, offered a glimmer of hope, in the form of a drive-in concert celebrating fifteen years of Everything in Transit in southern California, a mere matter of hours from where Nicole had been working. It took a matter of two or maybe three text messages to confirm that we would be attending, and once the ticket was purchased I practically packed my bags and headed off to visit her and try and make light of my heart.

As suspected, the trip was magical. Being around Nicole, per usual, was magical. My heart felt so fully aligned seeing a little piece of her story and getting to experience her way of life once more—drunken hot springs and all their glory. There truly are few things in my life I love more than sitting in the passenger’s seat as Nicole drives us all over the country, and experiencing it again felt so right and so perfect that I honestly thought it was one of the happiest experiences of my life. Because I had requested so, she drove me all the way to Venice Beach the day of the concert so we could see where the infamous album cover was taken. We ate cbd gummies and listened to jack’s and ate in-n-out burger like our lives depended on it. When the concert began, it was eerie, yet hopeful to see all the new protocols of something that had become so familiar to me in my former life. Drinks were ordered through an app and delivered, as was merch, and clapping was replaced by the exuberant honking of car horns. We streamed the sound through the radio and laid the in the back of Nicole’s converted SUV as we cried and sang along to the songs that made everything, even just for one night, feel like it was all going to be okay again. We ended the evening marking ourselves with our first stick and poke tattoos—hers a sun to my moon, positioned to kiss one another when we stand next to each other on our preferred selfie side (lol). I left worried about how long it might be before I could feel her warm embrace again, the embrace of one of the truest friends I’ll ever know, but also recognizing that we were lucky to have had such an experience at all during such an insane year and feeling eternally grateful for its memory.

The last weeks of what I referred to as my Rumspringa were ahead of me, and one sunny afternoon I wrote the final pages of my novel. In a mad rush to edit, revise and complete my portfolio for official review, I never really sat with myself and what I had accomplished or congratulated myself; I wrote a book in seven months’ time, and even though I am unhappy with it (more on that later) there’s no denying that I actually did it. I did it, and nobody can ever take that away from me; it’s an accomplishment I will forever have, and it’s all my own. And I need to remind myself of that. I need to let myself feel proud.

I was back to work in September and taking a huge pay cut, though working the same hours. It was stressful, but once I found out my portfolio had been accepted and I, indeed, would be receiving my MFA I felt a bit at peace for a while. I had let my hair grow long all summer, and all but stopped wearing make-up (mascara makes me feel entirely dolled up now). I felt in an odd way free—almost bare.

The fall came and went fairly quickly—the weekends alone at home and grocery-store-only outings feeling more and more like normalcy. It had been such a tough, trying year, that it suddenly felt nice to just stand still for a bit. So, I did.

In a brief amount of time, I watched (safely) as friends got married, got sick, got older and fell in love. I watched, with great anxiety, as our country voted in the most important election of our lives so far and took the deepest breath I’d ever taken as I watched that man face defeat—although he’s yet to swallow it. I watched as ex-lovers had babies, got engaged and never really stopped to think twice about any of it. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the safety (and not in a lame, “safety-net” sort of way) of having T in my life has turned me into someone who not only craves quiet time at home, but really also sort of fell right damn into it very easily, though unexpectedly. I’ve heard the saying so many times before, but you really don’t realize everything is different once you find the right fit because that place feels like it’s always been home. I am grateful to not only have that now and moving forward, but most certainly throughout the trying, unstable times of 2020. In fact, I don’t know how I would have survived without it.

The holidays always creep up on me, and after being dealt a shitty hand from work (don’t even get me started, I’m still fuming) they came that much quicker. T & I were lucky enough to spend the holidays back home in the swamp, visiting my parents and his Dad. The time went by fast but was relaxing, fun, and reenergizing. We spent New Year’s Eve playing giant Jenga and yard Yahtzee with my parents in the cool, tropical winter of Florida. It was nice. We got tired right around 11, so we laid in bed until midnight talking, staying awake just long enough to share our new year’s kiss. It felt right—a proper send off to such a strange and unusual year. I was exctly where I needed to be—wrapped up in a blanket of T’s embrace, comfy in a bed in my childhood bedroom.

So now, here it is: 2021—the supposed upgrade to 2020, or so everybody secretly hopes. So now, as I sit here, drinking a warm, soy-chai latte (homemade!) I find myself having great difficulty setting an intention for the days ahead of me. I feel so beaten and bruised and physically fatigued for no reason but the experiences of 2020 and the courses they ran all over my life. I’m feeling reflective of having finished yet another year of my life (and my Saturn return! Halleluj!) and finding it hard to be anything but fatigued. I guess it’s from the year that’s just finished—more so than any other year it physically pained me at times to be alive at times. I’m missing so many of my friends who I haven’t been able to see for extended months at a time now. I am craving a sense of normalcy, of safety, so that I can feel better about making plans, but as for right now I just don’t have it. I am quietly trying to make subtle changes within myself and how I react to the world around me, but just like the start of this new year, that process is a slow one.

One of my resolutions (though I’m growing to hate that word more and more with each passing year) is to get back to writing. I had a good, albeit stressful, thing going while still in school, and after finishing my novel and receiving feedback, I couldn’t shake the feeling of absolute failure. It’s still there—it’s really hard to try and celebrate an accomplishment when you don’t feel like your work was good enough to warrant anything at all—especially not a fine arts degree. I never said I was a fiction writer—I just wanted to get better at writing fiction—so I need to remember that and allow myself to veer away from that for a while, to work on something new. Something I’ve been saying I’m not ready to write for many years now, something that when I now say that is just a plain old lie: My memoir. I’m ready to close the chapter in my life where I am a flight attendant, so the timing feels more than perfect.

I learned so much about what I want to do within my career and what sort of boundaries I don’t want to place on myself—and I’m trying, I really am. T gifted me with my own pottery wheel for Christmas and we are going to set it up this weekend and I am so excited to get my hands muddy and start creating. Until this year, I didn’t realize how much I needed a creative outlet other than writing—I had been depending on it for too long, my little cup felt bone dry. So, I’m excited to see where this new hobby takes me and how it influences my ability to return to the blank page—quite literally.

I know this year will not be the quick fix that so many are hopeful for—I think quite the opposite, actually. But here are some things I know for sure will happen: I will move out of my apartment and in with T. We will then, immediately get a dog and a new apartment. This, alone, feels like enough to fill the pages of the blank year ahead of us. I will go long periods of time without seeing my loved ones, and without traveling (bleak as this lifestyle may be). I will write, even when it’s hard to. I will publish something—I’m at work submitting pieces as we speak, and though the process is slow, I can tell this is my opportunity—I am ready t fight for it. I will turn 32, and the numerology of my life will seem more aligned. I will spend my birthday at home, alone, because of course Moulin Rouge has now been cancelled (I’m fine with it). I will learn more about myself the more I use my hands to create, to plant, to sculpt, to mold. I will love with fervor. I will smile more, because it’s actually healthier for you, even though my black heart hates to admit it. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get to attend a live concert, though I realize this might be wishful thinking at this point. I will do mushrooms and giggle with the colors. I will cry. I will hurt and I will cause harm. But through it all, I will persevere. Because if 2020 taught me anything, it’s that I am capable of regenerating into new versions of myself that I didn’t even have the time to dream up. I can adapt to whatever is thrown at me, though it will often times feel impossible. I can, and will, create. I can be reborn (as many times as I’d like to, too).

So, thanks, 2020, for teaching me more about myself than any other period of five years has ever taught me. I definitely feel like I’ve been through the ringer a couple of times, yet I find myself still standing day after day. It must be the way a domino feels, standing up, time after time, knowing that something right in front of you is about to knock you down. But instead of thinking about what I’m bringing down with me, I’m thinking of the entire collective as a whole—we are all experiencing this together. And maybe, just maybe, on the other side, there’s a kid with a smile waiting to do it all over again. And that’s perhaps where the beauty lays: we have to tear everything down in order to do better, be better, make change. Nobody likes to catch fire, but everyone loves rising from the ashes. We’ll all get to where we’re headed, one way or another. And eventually, I hope, we’ll see that the other side is better than we could have ever dreamt of.

I hope that 2021 is a bridge that brings us from destruction to creation. I hope the journey is long, so we all appreciate the outcome.

I love you all and wish you warmth and wellness into this year and beyond.

Happy new year—honor the circumstances you have around you and let them help you grow.

#me #personal

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purplesurveys · 4 years

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1139

1 - What's your favourite TV show that was released before you were born? What is it that got you into that show in the first place? My parents introduced me to Perfect Strangers when I was 10 since they both grew up watching and enjoying the show - it came out in 1986 and ended in 1993. I love it mostly for the dynamic of Larry and Balki, which was really the whole point of the series. Then there’s also Friends, which first came out in 1994. It’s my comfort show for years to come and it’ll always be a series I’ll come back to whenever I need a pick-me-up.

2 - What is your preferred brand and flavour of ice-cream? I usually just stick to Selecta and I always get cookies and cream. Sometimes I’ll spoil myself and get Ben and Jerry’s and get whatever flavor that has cookie dough.

3 - When's the last time you got something in your eye? Can’t remember the last time I either cried or felt irritated with something in my eye.

4 - When was the last time someone got you flowers and what was the occasion? I’m not so sure. It was two or three years ago, I think. I don’t get to receive flowers or bouquets often, and especially not these days.

5 - What are your plans for tomorrow? Are these normal for that particular day of the week or are you doing something out of the ordinary? It was such a draining work week so I wanna use the free time this weekend to relax; but since I’m a bit of a workaholic I might also end up finding some time to do some work on the side just to feel productive hahah. I can’t go out either since we’re experiencing another spike in Covid cases - we’re reaching 7000 new cases a day - and stay-at-home orders and curfews are in place everywhere again, so I’ll just have to make the most of my time at home this weekend.

6 - What will you be eating for your next meal? Depends on what my mom is making for dinner, but I’m guessing another pasta dish...it’s Friday, though, and I usually allot this day to have food delivered in the evening as a reward to myself for finishing the week strong heheh. I got a spicy tuna salad and sushi again :)

7 - Who was the last person to pay you a compliment? How did you come to know that person? Andi, I think. We met at an anti-Marcos rally three years ago. They were carrying a big-ass guitar and I approached them because I liked their wrestling shirt.

8 - When is the last time the weather changed your plans? What were your plans and what did you end up doing instead? That would be last November, when we were in the middle of a bad typhoon and I had to file an emergency leave because we had a village-wide power outage and it kept me from being readily available for work. I made plans to a nearby mall to get wi-fi, but our village was seriously flooded so there was no way out. I had no choice but to begrudgingly file the leave even though I really wanted to attend work lol.

9 - What's your favourite kind of liquor? Do you prefer it "plain", flavoured or in a mixer? Tequila. Preferably as straight shots, because I like having a good time lmao.

10 - Who was the last person you spoke to via video call? Did you speak to this person via video before the pandemic hit? My workplace doesn’t really make it a norm to turn on our videos unless we’re pitching to or speaking with clients who prefer video calls. But I did just come from a Google Meet (albeit just using audio) this afternoon to present a deck and that call was with my co-workers and the clients we were presenting to. And no, I wasn’t even employed before the pandemic so other than Bea, I’ve never met any of the people in the call in person.

11 - Are you someone who prefers routine or spontaneity? I thrive on routine, but I also like it spiked with the occasional spontaneity.

12 - What streaming services (if any) are you subscribed to? Do you think they're good value for money? Just Netflix and Spotify. Yeah, I’d say both are good deals, especially Spotify.

13 - When was the last time you struggled to get to sleep? What did you do to help things? I’m not so sure, actually. I have no problem passing out these days lol. If I do have trouble falling asleep, I usually remedy it by watching YouTube videos or take a survey until my eyes feel tired.

14 - How often do you get your five a day? What was the last fruit or veggie that you ate? I’ve never heard of that concept...anyway, I looked it up and it has something to do with having a good amount of fruits and veggies per day. In any case, I had eggplants in my dinner tonight.

15 - How do you take your coffee? 3-in-1, so that it’s already made and blended well for me lmaaaaao. If I’m ordering at a coffee shop, I like sweeter flavors; I never take mine black.

16 - Is there anything that you're currently putting off? When do you think you'll finally get round to doing it? Getting new frames for my eyeglasses and an updated prescription along with it. Idk man, it just seems pointless to book an appointment for the meantime since I’m never out and I can manage during my workdays without glasses anyway. With another strict lockdown order in place, idk when I’ll ever get around to setting an appointment.

17 - When was the last time you watched a Disney film? Which one was it and is it one of your favourites? I have no idea, it’s definitely been a while.

18 - What was the last household chore you completed? Is this something you do regularly? Just cleaned out the tray underneath Cooper’s playpen since it had some food crumbs and some of his fur. Yeah, I do it every night.

19 - Who were you with the last time you went out for a meal? Angela, Hans, Pia, Kyelle, Al, Gab, and Sam.

20 - Have you had your COVID vaccine yet? If not, are you going to accept it when you're offered? No, not yet. My workplace booked a bulk order for one of the vaccines - though I can’t remember which one - and we should be getting it in a few months or so.

21 - Do you have any pets and how many? If not, would you like to have one someday? I have two dogs. I’ve always wanted dogs, so I’m okay for now.

22 - What's the most unusual meat you've ever eaten? Did you like it? Carabao meat. It was fine, not horrid-tasting or anything, but I wouldn’t have it again. The one I had felt very hastily made, apart from smelling and tasting very farm-y.

23 - Do you prefer still or sparkling water and why? Still. I don’t like carbonated stuff period, so I doubt I’d enjoy sparkling water.

24 - Do you own a car? If so, could you live your current lifestyle without one? If you don't have one, would having one change your life in any way? My parents technically own it because they bought it, but it was designated for me. I mean I’d obviously survive without a car, but I’d find it very inconvenient. Booking a Grab every time would be so costly, and I’m not willing to try out our public transport anyway because they’ve been constantly terrible with disinfection and sanitation protocols throughout the pandemic.

25 - Who was the last person you made plans with and what are you going to do? Andi; we made plans to have our thesis printed and bound so that we can finally put a close to our college life hahaha. We just have to figure out a date and I also have to remove Gabie from my acknowledgments.

26 - What's the worst kind of physical pain you've ever experienced? Is this a one-off or is it something you experience regularly? Accidentally ripping my earring off my piercing was a fucking thrill I’d never want to go through again.

27 - What's your favourite length for a survey to be? Do you get put off if surveys are longer or shorter than you like? Anywhere between 35-80 questions is fine. Anything else would be too short or long. I’ll occasionally give long surveys a pass since it’s easy to take breaks in between, but I ignore short ones altogether.

28 - What colours are you wearing at the moment? Are any of those colours your favourite? I have a multi-colored striped top on and a scarlet pair of shorts. And no, I’m not wearing any pink rn.

29 - Once you've found a TV show you like, do you tend to watch it over and over again? What was the last TV programme you watched for the second or third time? Not with all shows - like I haven’t revisited BoJack Horseman after completing it the first time. I’ve been like this with Friends and Brooklyn Nine-Nine, though.

30 - When was the last time you cried and what was the reason for it? Do you feel better now? No idea when but it was probably from a heartwarming video.

#survey #surveys

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wowweeharrystyles · 5 years

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Part 1 | Kindness & The Perfect Fit | 9.2k words

‘Sequins & Zippers’ Summary: An internship with Harry Lambert transformed into a job of a lifetime - Aurora Del Gatto finds herself touring the world with the one & only Harry Styles as his ‘Head of Wardrobe.’ Aurora is nothing but nerves & excitement as she packs her bags & almost 100 custom designer suits that belong to an unbelievably kind rockstar. She never thought she’d fall in love on top of it all.

A/N: So here’s part 1 of Sequins & Zippers. A MASSIVE shoutout to @niallhoranapologist. If it weren’t for Gwen I probably wouldn’t have continued to work on this story. Thanks for always helping me brainstorm ideas, listen to me talk about these fictional characters all the time & for continuously supporting my writing. you da best.

“Ugg, this is useless,” Aurora groans as she throws the t shirt she had in hand across the room. Aurora has been attempting to pack her suitcase for hours now. “How the hell am I supposed to pack 4 months worth of clothes in a single suitcase?” she whispers in defeat to herself.

“Rory? Everything alright?” Aurora’s mother calls from the other room. Rory is the nickname her mom gave her when she was only a baby. Her mother walks into her room and sees the frustrated look on her daughter’s face.

“25 countries? The weather is gonna be different in every freaking country,” Rory lets out a frustrated sigh, falling onto her bed. “I can barely pack properly for a weekend trip.”

“Hey, you’re thinking too hard and overwhelming yourself,” her mother says softly as she sits on the bed next to her. She places a hand on her shoulder, “Let me help. We’ll figure it out.”

Aurora is currently trying to pack for her new job. After the craziest year she’s ever had, packed with graduating college, moving to London to work with one of the most well-known stylists in the fashion industry and having the time of her life doing what she loves most, she was offered a career-altering job for the next 4 months. Never did Aurora think she would be sitting in her room back home in a small suburb of New York surrounded by cardboard boxes labeled with things like: “NYC Apartment - kitchen,” “London - winter clothes,” “School things,” “London Flat - bedding,” “I have no idea, from london.” Organized Chaos explained her life best right now.

“Rory, sweetie, where’s your list?” her mother asks, looking around to locate the papers she’s been carrying around for the past week that’s covered in scribbled notes, lists upon lists and small sketches here and there. “Should’ve really been keeping that stuff in a journal or something.” She finds the papers scattered on Aurora’s desk and a few laid on top of boxes. “Probably wouldn’t be so overwhelmed if you could be a little bit more organized,” her mother sighs gathering the papers into a stack, tapping the bottom edges on the desk to line them up. “You’re normally so much more organized,” her mother continues before pressing a kiss to Aurora’s hair.

“It’s a lot, Mom. I don’t know where to start.” She stands up from her bed and grabs her phone as it dings, indicating she’s received an email. “Finally!” she exclaims with a sigh of relief. “Harry’s just sent me my official itinerary and all of my flight info.”

“Harry Styles himself emailed you your travel plans?” her mother asks in disbelief.

“No, mom, Lambert. Harry Lambert, my boss.”

“Oh yeah, of course,” she laughs lightly, “How many mix ups has there been with that name?”

Aurora’s new job is ‘Head of Wardrobe’ for Harry Styles’ Arena World Tour. In all honesty, she has no idea how she got here. Well she does, but it still doesn’t feel real. Lambert’s original hire for the tour ended up needing to stay in London to help him with his styling work there and she was next in line, but she still isn’t too sure how she got this lucky. The past year happened so fast and it was one opportunity after another that landed her here. She’s barely had a moment to breathe after the holidays and some small jobs here and there to keep her busy. Last January, just over a year ago, Aurora traveled to London for a six week menswear design course at Central Saint Martins for some extra credits before her final semester of college. During this course, she was lucky enough to met Harry Lambert. After he saw her collection of work from the past few years, what her thesis plans were and what she had been working on during the CSM course he kept her information on file for the future. When Aurora left london at the end of the course she had no idea if she would ever hear from Harry Lambert again, but around mid march she received an email from him about an internship position he needed to fill and thought she would be perfect for. Starting the internship in NYC before she even graduated, May was a whirlwind and was the perfect indication on how the rest of her year would be. She moved to London in June and was put to work without a second to spare.

“Okay, so here’s what we’re gonna do,” Aurora’s mother starts before launching into a detailed plan on how they’re both gonna tackle packing up Aurora’s life for the next 4 months on the road, traveling. They’ve got barely 3 days until her flight leaves for London.

Nearly 4 hours later and they’ve organized Aurora’s room. Unpacking the appropriate boxes, written a new packing list, and they’ve also written a shopping list. They’ve got organized piles surrounding them. Again, Organized Chaos best describes Aurora’s life, always.

“Oh, what about that long pleated skirt you made last year? The emerald green one? You definitely need to take that.” Aurora’s eyes lit up at the idea. She loved that skirt, it was versatile enough that she could pair with heels or sneakers. Versatile pieces were key to packing she found out quickly. Her mom reaches into her closet and searches for it. “Probably at the back, haven’t worn it in awhile,” she motions towards her closet while sorting through the box of her bags, making decisions on which ones she’ll need with her.

“Oh gosh, Rory, look what I found,” her mom emerges from the closet with a handful of rolled up posters.

Aurora goes bright red knowing exactly what is on those posters. “Oh no. I kept those?” her mom sets them down on the floor but keeps one to unroll. Once the tape is off and her mom has got it flat, she turns it around to face Aurora. It’s a large poster of One Direction from a TigerBeat magazine. Aurora drops her face into her hands.

“Remember when you couldn’t see a bit of the wall cause of these posters? If I remember right, you liked that blonde one yeah?” her mom laughs, rolling the poster back up. “Maybe you should take one with you and have Harry sign it? He’d get a kick out of it, I’m sure.”

“Mom!” Aurora whines. “This is my job, my career. I have to be nothing but professional.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a joke or two. Gotta have fun still and honestly, he’d probably think it’s cute.”

“Mom, it’s embarrassing and I’m gonna be working with him and his team for the next 4 months.” Her mother can see the panic on her face. “I cannot just show up with a One Direction poster.”

“Ror, I’m just having a bit of fun with you. You need to relax or you’ll just be frustrated and stressed the entire time.” She sets the posters aside and goes to join Aurora on the floor. Placing a hand on her cheek, “Baby girl, my baby girl, promise me you’ll have some fun? This is a chance of a lifetime and I know you’ll work your butt off and do your job perfectly, but you need to enjoy it too. Okay?” Aurora nods slowly. She knows her mother is right, she always is.

“Okay,” she says softly giving her mom a weary smile.

“You’ll be okay, I know you will,” her mom says before leaning in and hugging her daughter. “I’m so proud of you.”

Aurora and her mother continue bustling around her room until the sun sets. By the time there is no daylight left there are 2 large suitcases completely full, all organized and packed with Aurora’s belongings. They spend the next hour packing up Aurora’s rolling caboodle. The large, rollable, sturdy set of drawers and compartments is from Aurora’s days as a competition dancer. It used to carry her stage makeup, extra pairs of tights, accessories and an emergency sewing kit. It was always covered in glitter and there were bobby pins in every nook and cranny, a few stray sets of false eyelashes too. But for the past 4 years, she’s used it for all things sewing and design. She never went to class or the design studio without it. Aurora and her mom empty the drawers and reorganize the contents. They make another list of things they need to pick up at the local sewing store the next day. Aurora pulls out her old sketchbooks and sets them to the side and adds a new clean book to the now empty drawer along with her cases of Micron pens, drawing pencils and prisma coloured pencils.

Aurora continues to organize each little compartment as her mother prints out small labels and adds them to the section dividers. Aurora loves to be overly organized and have everything in its place. It keeps her calm and stops her from getting overwhelmed in stressful situations. There’s nothing she hates more than being backstage at a fashion show and needing a simple needle and thread to fix a small seam quickly and having to dig through the drawers to find what she needs. Backstage life, anywhere, fashion shows, dance competitions, or even a world tour, can be stressful if you’re not prepared properly.

“Oh, keep the box of sequins and swarovski crystals in there. I actually might need them.” Aurora finishes the sentence with a giggle as she’s setting her scissors in their respective home.

“Really?” her mom laughs too.

“Yeah, some of the looks for this tour are actually pretty sparkly. You never would’ve thought. I actually might have to bedazzle a few things on the road.”

“You’re home!” her mother sing-songs. They both laugh again thinking about the countless hours they spent bedazzling dance costumes with 100’s of crystals.

After saying goodbye to her parents through a continuous flow of tears, Aurora got on an 8 hour flight. She kept herself busy on the flight to occupy her mind and stop her from overthinking or panicking about the next 4 months ahead of her. She landed in London on the 3rd of March, just a few days till she’d be back at this exact airport with the same luggage plus a few crates labeled ‘Wardrobe’ that she’d also have to care for. She made her way to the Air B’N’B that had been set up for her for the next few days and headed straight to bed. One thing Aurora, jokingly, prides herself on is the ability to sleep anywhere at anytime.

When the morning rolls around and her alarm wakes her, she’s preparing herself a cup of coffee when her phone rings. She notices Lambert’s ID on the screen. She answers and they exchange good mornings before he asks her about her travels from the day before.

“Okay, so, I’m sending a car to where you’re staying in about an hour to bring you to the arena.”

“Arena? I thought we were meeting at your studio?”

“Oh no, change of plans, sorry should have mentioned that in an email. Harry is in full rehearsal mode and everything for the tour is at the mock stage space at Wembley Arena. They’ve just finished the final tech rehearsals and Harry will be there today to start running the show,” Lambert continues. The new knowledge of Harry Styles being there on her first day makes Aurora jittery, small butterflies erupting in her stomach. She’s met Harry before. They’re friendly, but she was only just Lambert’s shadow anytime they were together. He was sweet and kind, just as everyone always says, but she was still a tad nervous. She will be with him almost everyday, on her own, without Lambert there to be a buffer. Aurora tended to be a nervous person, especially if she doesn’t know someone all that well. She can keep her nerves at bay and save a proper panic for after the situation ends most times, which is the best she can do right now. It’s something she’s working on. It’s what she hates most about herself, not being able to keep her nerves in check.

“Oh yeah, makes sense,” Aurora responds, surprisingly with no jitters evident in her voice.

“Great, I can have the run of show lookbook all put together for you when you arrive and we’ll go through it and make notes.” “Do you mind if I actually set it up when I get there? I would feel much better and more settled doing it myself as we do a walkthrough of the wardrobe.”

“Of course, Aurora, whatever you think will work best for you.”

She thanks him and they end the phone call after confirming the time and car that will be picking her up. She finishes off her coffee and heads to the living room where she left her suitcases last night. One of the large suitcases was lying on the ground, opened, exactly where Aurora left it last night. She ruffles through the contents of her suitcase, moving around different packing cubes until she finds the cube that contains her favourite black jeans. She locates a creme hooded knit sweater and some clean undergarments. She pops into the shower and continues to bustle around the small flat getting ready. At some point she turns on some music to distract her mind. There’s an airy feeling in the flat, the sun shining in london for a change and it calms Aurora down despite the nerves running through her veins. Aurora checks her watch, 10 minutes until her car is due to pick her up. She slides on her all white leather court sneakers and laces them up, tucking in the excess laces for a clean finish. She grabs her black bomber jacket and slips her arms in, then pulls out the hood from her sweater so it lays comfortably on the outside of the jacket’s collar. She takes a quick look in the full body mirror that leans up against the white brick wall across from the large, unmade bed. She’s reminded by the reflection in her mirror to text her mother and thank her for convincing her to pack her favourite clothes instead of all her fancy stuff. She looks put together but is still extremely comfortable, prepared for anything today has to offer her.

There’s a short honk from the street in front of the building. Aurora grabs her rolling caboodle and her purse before rushing out the door to meet the driver.

20 minutes later she finds herself stepping out of the car and thanking the driver for holding the door. He grabs her caboodle from the trunk and hands it to Aurora and wishing her well and to have a nice day. Harry Lambert greets her at the door giving her a big hug and exclaiming about how excited he is to have her there. He takes her an office where the tour manager, Michael is set up. The office is busy with several people working at desks on laptops and people taking phone calls. Lambert introduces Aurora to the team and gets her set up with her tour pass and all the nitty gritty stuff. Within half an hour she’s all set for tour and has her new lanyard tied to her on a belt loop. They walk through the never ending halls plastered with signs that state “Treat People With Kindness” and Aurora smiles everytime she sees another. Lambert points out different places, important notes posted on bulletin boards and casually introduces her to people as they quickly pass.

Everyone seems to be on a mission, darting in and out of rooms and talking on headsets. It’s a busy atmosphere but nobody seems stressed or upset. Aurora appreciates the hustle that everyone seems to have. There’s smiles and high fives passed between crew members and coffees getting pass along. Lambert points out where Harry’ band’s dressing room is and then Harry’s as well. Harry’s reads “Hershel” on the sign that sticks out from the wall.

“Hershel?” Lambert chuckles when he sees the confused look on her face.

“Yeah, Jeff, his manager, you’ve met him, calls him Hershel 95% of the time.” She nods along with a smile. After making their way through a few more halls they reach a larger dressing room. “Okay, so here’s our space for the week.” Aurora rolls her caboodle and sets it against the wall near the door for now and sets her purse down on an empty space on the counter that lines one of the shorter walls. On the wall directly across from the doorway there are 3 large black cases that stand about 6 feet tall, opened and filled with garment bags.

“Is everything here already?” Aurora makes her way towards the case farthest left.

“Hopefully!” Lambert picks up a large binder that’s sitting on the table across from a small leather couch. “That’s where we’re starting. Checking through each night’s look and making sure it’s all here.” She takes the binder that Lambert has handed her and opens it up to the first page.”

“Oh wow. I almost forgot how beautiful these suits are.” Towards the end of her internship in London, Lambert let her help him pick some options for the tour. She thumbs through the book quickly to get a glimpse of the beautiful designer suits. She notices quite a few of her favourites made the cut. The 2 of them sit down and devise a plan to best get through this large task of double checking the 60 looks in front of them. They’re about ¾ the way through around 1pm when they mutually decide to take a break and grab some lunch before they power through the rest of the wardrobe. After meeting more members of the crew and grabbing another cup of coffee, Lambert and Aurora make their way back to their dressing room.

“Hey, let’s go take a look at the stage,” Lambert said as he made a sharp turn in the opposite direction of the room they’ve been working in. “I haven’t seen the final setup yet.”

“Oh, I’d love that!” Aurora’s face lights up at the idea. They enter from the back of the stage. The stage itself is fully constructed but the light trees are currently hanging low to the ground and crew members are working carefully to change the direction, colour or size of each bulb. Lambert excuses himself as he takes a call, telling Aurora he’ll meet her back in the dressing room in 15 minutes. Aurora continues the theme from today and introduces herself to the stage crew. “Mind if I check out the stage?” she asks Jack, one of the crew members who introduced himself as the Stage Manager.

“Go ahead, just keep an eye out, we haven’t cleaned up much.” She nods and smiles while walking up the metal steps at the side of the stage. She takes careful steps as she steps to center stage. She looks out into the empty arena. The lights are low and the noise from the powertools is echoing through the arena.

Though there isn’t any music, the stage lights aren’t shining, and she isn’t in one of her rhinestoned costumes, she still feels at home standing center stage. The nerves she’s been holding on to all morning wash away as she takes a deep breath. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment and she remembers the last time she performed on a stage like this one. It was her senior year of high school at nationals in New York City. It was her farewell to her dance career. A smile starts to grow on her face, the nerves from this morning, the the whole trip to get here, completely washed away now.

“Oi!” a voice booms through the air, making Aurora jump and she searches for where it came from. She turns around, her hair following her as she turns. Her hair continues to follow her movement, falling in front of her face a bit but she can still make out the face the voice comes from. “What’re you doing on my stage?” She’s met with a smiley, broad shouldered Harry Styles. He’s got his hands in the pockets of the tartan trousers he’s wearing. The strong feeling of embarrassment brings heat to her cheeks as she looks down at the black and white vans he’s sporting.

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry, I-,” she starts rambling apologies. She watches his vans take a few steps closer to her. Aurora’s fumbling with her hands, a nervous tick of hers. “-I was told, told, I could, could, check out the stage,” she’s stuttering over her words and pointing in the direction of Jack. She finally stops talking when she meets Harry’s eyes. He’s still beaming and her stomach drops at the fact that he’s enjoying this situation. His confidence paints an incredible stark difference from her mumbling nervousness. Her brain is a bit fuzzy right now but that doesn’t stop her from noticing the way his eyes sparkle.

“I’m only joking, love” he says as he pulls his hands out of his pockets with a chuckle. “The stage suits you.”

“I’m sorry,” Aurora offers again. “I’m-” She’s reaching her hand out when he cuts off her introduction.

“Love, we’ve met. How could I forget you, Aurora.” She’s startled a bit when her name comes out of his mouth. “Ya fixed the hole in my pink jacket, remember?” He’s stepping closer to her and before she’s able to process what’s happening he’s wrapped his arms around her torso, his tattooed arm rubbing her back briefly before pulling away.

A small laugh leaves her mouth, “I remember, didn’t think you would is all.” Her voice is soft and trails off towards the end of her sentence.

“Not got much a reputation then if I’ve got people that work with me thinking I’ll forget them.” He lets out a soft chuckle and his smile elicits a dimple on his cheek.

“No, no, you’ve got a much better reputation than that, promise. You must meet a lot of people day to day is all.” Aurora is calming down, now, realizing that there is no reason for her to be so nervous around him. She’s interacted with him before, this shouldn’t be so jarring to her. Though this time is different. She wouldn’t be working behind Lambert or running errands. She’ll be with Harry just about everyday and she terrified she’ll never be comfortable, always anxiety ridden. Although his life is much different from hers, she’ll be getting a real taste of it and they’re close in age. They’re bound to find something in common. Right?. There’s a bit of silence before Aurora speaks up. “Well, your suits aren’t gonna organize themselves. I better go find Lambert.”

“Yes, of course. Don’t let me stop you from your work.�� Aurora nods. She excuses herself as she makes a comment about how she thinks the stage looks great so far. Just after she’s walked past him she feels him grab her hand. “I’m excited to have ya on tour with us, love. Happy to have you making sure I sparkle just right on this stage.” He’s let go of her hand and presents his arms out to the sides as he mentions the stage.

She’s beaming back at him. “Packed extra rhinestones just for you.” She’s almost skipping down the stairs after that. A weight of relief falling from her shoulders in a light sigh. First, interaction with Harry? Check. She finds her way back to the room she’d been working in all morning. She settles down on the couch again, pulling the large binder into her lap. She jots down a few notes and adds to the ever growing list of things that need to be done. She stands up and walks over to one of the open wardrobe cases. She’s sliding hangers across the rack before she gets to the next look. Aurora takes the hanger off the rack. The sleek black hanger is labeled Yves Saint Laurent and an emerald green sequined button down shirt hangs off of it. There’s a pair of black straight leg trousers folded over the hanger as well. Aurora carries the ensemble across the room and hangs it on one of the vanity bulbs that sticks out from the light bulb framed mirror. She fixes the collar so it’s sitting straight. She takes a step back with one hand on her hip and another on her chin.

“What’re you thinking?” Lambert asks when he sees Aurora’s furrowed brow. She hums, still processing her thoughts.

“You know Michael Jackson’s black sequin jacket? The one he wore when he did the moonwalk for the first time?” He nods, following along. “Think we could play with that idea. What if Harry wore this open, with the Calvin tank?” In the small section of a wardrobe they’ve already gone through is a slew of clothing articles that will be used for multiple shows. The Calvin tank she’s referencing is one that will be, in Aurora’s opinion, an iconic, staple for the entire tour. It’s a simple white ribbed tank but on the left side, “Treat People With Kindness” is embroidered in black. “It’d be closer to Michael’s ‘Billie Jean’ performance in Munich that same year, but it’s the iconic sequin jacket that will sell it.”

“You really know your stuff huh?” Lambert chuckles, impressed by her knowledge and the way her brain works. Lambert walks away and grabs the tank from the rack and brings it back to Aurora.

A smile creeps onto Aurora’s face. “My mom loves Michael Jackson. Loves him like everyone loves Harry. I grew up dancing around the house to his music.” She takes the tank from Lambert after he slides it off the hanger. She’s quick to unbutton the YSL shirt in excitement but does it as carefully as possible. She hangs the tank under the shirt, turning it into a overshirt now. The smile on her face is growing. She’s in her element, doing exactly what she’s always wanted to do. Lambert places a hand on her shoulder and gives it a squeeze. A silent approval. Aurora walks back to the table and writes down their decision for this look in the notebook she’s been working with. They go through a few more suits and make a note that they’ll need an extra white button down from Gucci. Lambert is sending Aurora there sometime this week to pick a few more things up that are getting finished and some extra shoes for Harry as well. Lambert says Harry likes to wear his shoes to dust and that Aurora will have to make sure he doesn’t go on stage with holes in his shoes cause he will, especially his rainbow loafers. They finish going through the rest of the suits before calling it a day. Lambert fills her in on the next few day’s timeline to prepare her for the week. Aurora leaves the arena feeling like her heart could burst. She couldn’t have imagined a better first day at her new job. Aurora heads to bed early, after she orders a Domino’s Pizza, to rest up for the days ahead and beat the jet lag that’s bound to hit her in the next few days.

When she gets to Wembley the next morning, Aurora grabs a coffee from craft services and says hello to a few people she recognizes from yesterday. She’s thankful that everyone has a lot to get done and people are jutting off to their own areas to get to work. Aurora would be lying to herself if she didn’t acknowledge that she’s a bit overwhelmed by all of the new faces. She knows faces will become familiar as time goes on but right now she’s content with her coffee and knowing that she’s walking to a room to work on her own for awhile.

When she finds herself in the familiar green room she sets herself up for the day. Aurora pulls her laptop out of her leather bag and presses play on her current spotify playlist. She likes working alone, but not in silence. After collecting her notebook from yesterday and the envelope of images that Lambert left for her she sits down and starts putting together the final look book for tour. She’s organizing the book by tour dates, making a section for each city.

“Basel, Switzerland” is written on the top of the 1st page in bold all capital letters. Aurora tapes an image of the black glittered Gucci suit that Harry will wear for the opening night of his world tour. She copies any notes she made about this look from yesterday onto the space underneath the photo. After she’s finished the page for Switzerland she goes to the large cases and pulls the black glittered Gucci suit to the empty rolling rack that she set up yesterday. Each of the traveling cases will need to be organized by date to make traveling and set up easier throughout the tour. She continues this process for the next 2 hours. Once her coffee is empty at the end of the 2 hours she has almost 6 cities complete. Aurora takes her empty coffee cup as a sign for her to take a break. Before leaving the room to get more coffee she checks her phone. There’s a few notifications, emails from lists she keeps forgetting to unsubscribe to and a string of texts from her mother. She laughs at the first text - “I know you’re probably fine, but you’re in a different country and I need to hear your voice to make sure you’re still alive and it’s not some kidnapper texting me back” - then another text about 20 mins after that one reads “I love you, I know you’re busy, but please call me” and the last one delivered just a few minutes ago, “I’m your mother, it’s my job to worry.” Aurora shakes her head and feels a bit guilty because she hasn’t texted her mom as much as she probably should have and before knocking out last night she texted her back apologizing for not calling after her first day and that she was just too exhausted.

Her mom doesn’t answer and is greeted with an automatic voicemail greeting, “Classic,” she chuckles as she hangs up without leaving a message. She shakes her head, standing in the doorway as she sends off a text saying she’s taking a break and to call her back, adding a “I’m good, everything’s amazing! Just calling to chat” as she always does so her mother doesn’t worry any more than she is. As she finishes the texts she mumbled a bit to herself about how her mother is always worrying but never picks up her dang phone. It isn’t until a familiar voice rings through the hallway that she realises she was mumbling quite clearly.

“Sorry, everything alright, love?” Harry’s distinct voice travels closer to her as she looks up from her phone to him. She’s made her way into the arena hallway completely now. There’s a small furrow in his brow but a slight grin on his face.

“Ah yeah, didn’t realise I was talking out loud.” She holds her phone up, “You know mothers, always worrying but never actually answering their phone when you call.” Harry laughs, his shoulders shaking. “She sent me this string of texts about being worried and 2 minutes later doesn’t pick up when I call her.” She sighs before sliding her phone into the pocket of the track jacket she’s got on today.

“My mum does the same. Always saying we don’t talk enough or that she misses me and when I do get the chance she’ll text me back saying she’s out with friends drinking wine or s’thing like that.” Aurora laughs along with him. When she takes a proper look at him she notices he’s wearing black adidas joggers today with a white t shirt and a black nike jacket.

“Looks like we both had the same idea when we got ready this morning,” she continues to laugh while gesturing between to two of them. They’re dressed almost identical right down to the white sneakers. Aurora’s got on her favourite black lululemon leggings instead of joggers but her tshirt and track jacket look just the same as Harry’s. Harry takes a good look at what he’s got on and back to Aurora and his eyes begin to crinkle and his nose scrunches up before he’s laughing. The laugh is almost a giggle and Aurora has to hold back from flashing him the most endearing smile.

“Guess it’s a good thing that my Head of Wardrobe and I match. Must mean I’ve got the right person taking care of my clothing then.” He swings his arm around her shoulder before asking if she’s got a minute to grab a snack.

“Probably should eat and I definitely need some more coffee,” she replies with a smile and shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket not knowing what to do with them. There’s something about Harry, it’s that thing that people always talk about, his ease around everyone, the way he makes you feel like you’ve known each other forever. His kind demeanor relaxes Aurora and she’s sure this is how he makes everyone feel. Harry starts to go on about different things that are happening around the arena as they walk to the green room, pointing out different people and what they’re working on. Harry doesn’t know this, but the more Aurora knows about her surroundings and the things people are doing, the more comfortable she feels. Aurora likes knowing what’s going on. She knows it’s got something to do with wanting control over as much as she can but she also knows that there is so much going on that she can’t control anything and she especially knows that it isn’t her job. But knowing is good for her. Just as they turn the corner to the green room her phone rings. She pulls it out of her pocket and “Mother” with a pink heart is flashing on her screen. She shows the phone to Harry and she slides out from under his arm. “Rain check on the snacks?” she offers him before answering the call. She smiles as he shoots her a grin and voices an ‘of course’ before he turns around and goes back the way they had came. She questions his actions for a moment before saying hello to her mother.

Aurora pulls out her notebook while she’s in the car the next morning to review what she needs to get done today. Written in red, at the top of the page under today’s date is: final fitting with Harry @ 12pm. She’s excited to get some of the newer pieces on him and finally have all the looks together. She’s nervous too. Lambert won’t be there again today or barely at all the rest of the week, her part time buffer ripped away sooner than expected. She knows there’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just Harry. ‘Just Harry,’ she continues to mumble under her breath.

“Miss Del Gatto, we’ve arrived,” Steven, her driver, who she’s come accustomed to after the past few rides, announces. Aurora looks out the window and sees the Gucci store front.

“Thanks, Steven. I’ll only be a few minutes.” She smiles at him before stepping out of the car. She got dressed this morning in slightly more put together outfit that she had on yesterday, knowing she had to stop into a few stores on her way in to pick up some pieces that were still missing. Her black chunky heeled leather boots make a clacking sound as she walks towards the entrance. Before she can even reach for the door, she’s welcomed by a man in an all black suit that is welcoming her into the store.

“Welcome to Gucci.” His voice is deep but bright and welcoming, she thanks him with a smile.

Once she’s a few more steps into the door she adjusts the small gold airplane necklace that is sitting on the outside of her black turtleneck before speaking up. “I’m here to pick up some shoes for Harry,” she rattles out. A questioned look appears on the man’s face. “Harry Lambert and Styles.” She clarifies.

“Aurora Del Gatto, yes?” another woman’s voice speaks up from across the store.

“Uh, y-yes,” she stammers while turning towards the women.

“I’m Lauren. Nice to meet you, Aurora. Harry told me to be expecting you this morning.” Aurora shakes Lauren’s hand with a smile. Lauren looks like a seasoned pro, her black suit fits her perfectly and her greying hair is pulled up into an elegant low bun. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable,” she says motioning towards the plush dark purple couches. “Would you like any water or coffee, dear?”

“Oh, I’m alright actually, thank you.”

“I’ll be right back with everything.” Aurora nods in acknowledgement while sitting down on the couch. She slides off the lightweight, long, camel coloured coat she’s wearing and drapes it over the couch next to her. She checks her watch to make sure she’s good on time. She’s got to stop at Calvin Klein as well before heading to arena to prep for Harry’s fitting. It’s just gone on 10am, she’s got plenty of time but still anxious at the thought of arriving just before the fitting, not getting a chance to set up. She’s brought back from her thoughts when Lauren returns with 3 shoe boxes in her arms and a garment bag.

“I think there are only 2 pairs of shoes I’m supposed to be picking up,” Aurora questions, “the rainbow loafers and the Spring 18 leather boots.” Lauren’s face lights up in a smile.

“Yes, those are both here and there’s a pair of sneakers here for you as well.” Aurora’s face reflects exactly what is going through her mind: surprise, shock, and other emotions she couldn’t put words to. Her jaw has dropped and her eyes are wide. “Harry called last night and wanted us to fit you into some Ace Sneakers for the tour.”

“Lambert said that?” Aurora is confused, giddy and nervous, always nervous. She doesn’t even know how to accept a gift like this. She’d also be lying if she hadn’t been looking at these sneakers forever.

“No, dear, Harry Styles.” Aurora is beyond caught off guard at this point.

“I’m sorry, I think there must be a mistake. There’s no reason for Harry to be giving me anything.”

“He specifically called these in for you. I don’t know the details, he just wanted to make sure you walked out with the perfect fit.” She set 2 of the boxes down on a glass table and brought over the 3rd box. “I grabbed the 7.5, I’m normally pretty good at guessing.”

“Well, you would be right.” Aurora laughs nervously. She slides off her boots in order to avoid the overwhelming thoughts in her head. She’s afraid if she doesn’t keep moving she might go into shock. She’s trying on the sneakers before she speaks up again, “Uhm,” Aurora starts to speak, “Does Harry, uh, do this often? I-I mean, uh call in for gifts?”

“I wouldn’t say often, but I’ve fulfilled a few of his gifting requests over the past few years. Just a handful though. There really hasn’t been many, if I’m honest.”

Aurora smiles to herself. She’s still confused about it all but still that same familiar feeling rushes through her when she’s reminded of Harry’s incredible kind demeanor. And before she knew it, she's walking out of Gucci with a smile on her face, a tingle in her fingers, a garment bag and not 2 but 3 boxes of shoes.

She’s setting up one last suit on the tall silver rolling rack before she checks her watch. 11:59. She made great time getting to Wembley after grabbing the pink plaid jacket and custom boots from Calvin Klein. There’s a light knock on the slightly ajar door seconds later.

“‘Ello, love,” Harry’s voice booms through the small, concrete walled room. Aurora turns towards the door. “All ready!” He exclaims as he makes his way towards her.

“Hi Harry,” Aurora responds before Harry has a hand at her waist and is placing a light kiss on the top of her cheek.

“How’s your morning been?” He’s now made his way to the rolling rack she had just filled.

“Good,” she wants to ask him about the shoes but she doesn’t know how to bring it up. “I did uh- I, I-”

“Can I try this one on?” Harry interrupts, suddenly distracted by the garments he hasn’t seen yet. She’s grabbing her book from the table across the room when she hears the sound of hangers hitting the floor. “Oooff,” there’s a chuckle that follows. “That one’s a bit slippery.”

“Oh gosh, yeah I need to add some hanger loops to that one,” Aurora sets her book down and rushes over to pick up the fallen garments and hangers. Harry utters a few sorry’s before stepping away. She swears she hears him mumble about being in the way. Once she’s got the fallen garments gathered on the crook of her arm, she grabs a hanger adorn in the pink plaid Calvin suit. “That’s what you get for being so nosy,” she quips at him and hands him the suit. His jaw drops slightly but before he can say a thing Aurora’s speaking again, “Try this one on first, please.” Aurora lingers on the please and shoots him a sweet smile. “There’s a small room through there you can change in.” She turns around after motioning towards the door and sees that Harry already has his trousers down to his ankles. “Orrrr you can change right there.”

“Oh, don’t wanna make you uncomfortable, darling,” he responds as you quickly turn away, sliding the plaid trousers all the way up and buttoning them just as fast.

“Oh no, you’re fine, don’t wanna be rude is all.” Aurora is flipping through her book finding the section for Stockholm. “The black ribbed tank was on the hanger with the jacket, yeah?” She asks as she skims over the page in front of her. He hums back letting her know it’s there. Aurora lifts up her coffee cup from earlier this morning to her lips, turning around to find Harry fully dressed in the Calvin Klein suit she picked up this morning. She frowns realising there’s no coffee left in her cup.

“What?” Harry asks, his brows knitted together in concern after seeing the frown on her face. “Does it look that bad?” He’s messing with the way he’s tucked the shirt into the waistband of the trousers.

Aurora giggles at his frantic hands. “Harry, nothing could look bad on you.” She shakes the empty cup in front of him. “I’m out of coffee.”

“Well, that frown was badly timed. I’ve got a brand new suit on and that’s the first reaction I get?’

“Oh you’ll be fine, rockstar. Plenty of ego pumping in the near future,” Aurora quips backs at him as she makes a circle around him. “They did great with this one,” she’s pulling at the shoulders of the jacket so it sits just right on his broad frame. “How do the trousers feel?” She asks as she smooths down the fabric of the sleeves before rounding back to face Harry straight on.

“The trousers? Yeah they feel good. Fit perfect, I think.” He’s pulled up the bottom of the jacket and is twisting his hips round. “Wha’ d’ya think?”

“I think Calvin Klein knows exactly what he’s doing,” she says with a smirk. “Okay, that one’s all set, go ahead and put this one on now.” She hands him another pink jacket, this one velvet with embellishments and it has a Gucci tag on it rather than Calvin Klein. She hands him black trousers with a gold trim as well. “You’ll wear this with a button down but just try with the tank. I just need to make sure all the alterations were done properly.”

“Did you stop at Gucci this morning? Lambert mentioned you were going,” he asks while handing her the plaid suit he just took off. Aurora busies herself with hanging them up.

“Yeah. Got your loafers and boots. I also-”

“Oh nooooo, Aurora,” Harry’s voice is panicky.

“Wha-,” is all she gets out before she sees and hears the beads rolling on the floor. “Ahhh I had a feeling that was going to happen. And THIS is why we try things on 100 times. Wouldn’t want you unraveling on stage.” She runs over to her kit that stands in the corner.

“I’m sorry, not sure what I did,” Harry’s face shows worry like he’s done something wrong.

“Hun, you didn’t do anything, promise. I think it might have been from the alterations.” Aurora is tying a knot in a piece of thread before walking over to him. “I’m just gonna close this strand up while it’s on you and I’ll re embellish it later.” The piece that’s come undone is on the right shoulder. She slides her hand under the jacket to find the back of the spot she needs to fix. Her hand brushes the skin of his shoulder, reminding her he’s only wear the tank underneath and he flinches. “Sorry, my hands are probably cold. This will only take a second.”

“S’alright, love.” There’s silence while she focuses on the work in front of her. Once she’s finished she carefully slips a small pair of gold scissors underneath the jacket and cuts the thread and needle she had been working with loose, detaching herself from Harry’s shoulder. “That was quick,” Harry says with a tone of surprise and Aurora thinks she can hear a little bit of disappointment as well. Aurora shrugs her shoulders in response.

“Could you put on the black version of that jacket for me?” Aurora asks as she grabs a spool of black thread. “Think we might have the same problem with that one too.” She slides the needle she’s threaded with black thread onto the cuff of her sweater so she doesn’t lose it. She helps Harry into the black jacket and hangs up the one he just had on.

“Aannddd there it is,” Harry says with chuckle as a strand of beads comes loose on his right sleeve. Aurora gets to work on the one on his sleeve as 2 more make themselves known on his back. “So you got my boots and loafers this morning? Up to anything else before I came in and ruined all the garments?” Aurora laughs and moves to his back to take care of the broken pieces there.

“Uhm picked up that Calvin jacket and your custom boots. Let me tell you, those boots are glorious. The glossed leather with the steel tip will look incredible with your suits. ”

“Oh can I see them when we’re done?”

“‘Course you can!” There’s some silence between them again as she concentrates on the job in front of her. She catches a glimpse of the white gucci bags that are sitting by one of the wardrobe cases and it’s like those new sneakers are burning a hole in her head. It clicks in her head now that he’s been directing the conversation this way trying to get it out of her. “Hey Harry,” she’s met with a hum, “can I ask you about something?” She continues to work on the jacket, keeping her hands busy. She’s thankful that the strand she’s working on is on his back so she doesn’t have to make eye contact with him.

“‘Course, Aurora.”

“Uhm, at Gucci this morning, they uh, they fitted me for sneakers,” Harry hums in response, “and um, I-I, um, that was very kind of you.” She’s stuttering through her words. It wasn’t until now that she got a tinge of nervousness. “Y-you didn’t need to do that. Really.”

“Aurora, I wanted to. And I thought you deserved some new shoes.” She can’t see his face but she can hear the smile that’s formed on his face. “We’ve got a few countries to trek around the next few months.”

Moments later she’s finished repairing what she can and she’s sliding Harry’s jacket off his shoulders. “Thank you, Harry,” she says finally after the black jacket is hung back on its Gucci hanger on the rolling rack near them. “Seriously, too kind.”

“No such thing as too kind, Ror,” he quips back and before she can comment on the nickname, he’s talking again. “Now what else do you need me to try on?”

The afternoon goes by quickly and Harry is patient with her. He stands up straight in each new piece and asks questions about different things she’s making notes of or checking off of her thousands of lists. She checks her watch quickly as she’s making one last note.

“How is it 3 o’clock already?” Aurora stammers out. “Sorry to take your entire afternoon from you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Ror.” Harry’s pulling down the hem of his white tshirt he walked in wearing earlier today, “Nice to spend some time with ya and seems like you’ve been able to check a lot off your list.”

“You probably have a list a mile long of things that need to be done this week too, though,” she rebuttals. “Or do you have someone to take care of those things for you?” she jokes.

“Oh yeah, don’t remember their name, but I just tell them everything I need done and they do it for me.” The look on Aurora’s face is utter disgust, unable to politely react because she wasn’t expecting that answer. There was no hint of sarcasm in Harry’s voice. Harry’s face is still and he’s silent for a moment before his nose scrunches up and a giggle erupted from his mouth. “Ror, I’m totally kidding.” He’s placed a hand on her shoulder now, rubbing his thumb soothingly.

“Harry,” she’s giggling along now too, “you had me for a second.”

Harry thanks her for her work and the time spent together today and leaves only after giving her a hug and a short kiss on her cheek.

The next few days are spent hand stitching gold and silver beads onto those 2 Gucci jackets, labeling every single piece of the wardrobe and then organizing the giant crates for the travel managers to take and get ready to fly. She walks through all of the wardrobes multiple time and completes fittings with all of Harry’s band members as well. Brief 1 hour time frames are scheduled with each of them, Clare, Sarah, Adam and Mitch. Lambert pops in to make sure the final fittings went well and pays complements to Aurora’s new sneakers she’s sporting with a knowing look on his face.

There’s one day left till the first tour stop and the arena is just about empty. The stage is packed up, the wardrobe crates have been taken from Aurora and the number of people in the arena is starting to dwindle down. Since everything is already loaded on a truck making its way to the airport Aurora didn’t have much to do today but she kept herself busy at the apartment she’s been at all week for the majority of the morning. She’s repacked multiple times getting everything to fit perfectly, almost committing the perfect folding techniques and order of adding things to her suitcase to memory. Everyone is to arrive at the airport early the next morning but Harry has arranged for a group lunch at the arena for one last collective meeting before the tour starts.

Aurora arrives a few minutes early to the lunch and says hello to a few crew members she’s gotten to know. Lambert is there too - seems that Harry has invited anyone who has helped with the prep of the tour regardless if they’re coming along or not. She also meets a few more new faces like Ayae, Harry’s hair and makeup stylist. She’s new to the tour group and hasn’t been needed for prep so this his her 1st time meeting a lot of the crew too. She sits down with Aurora and Lambert at a table and is engaging in a conversation about this and that when Harry comes up to the table with Jeff. Jeff is a familiar face to Aurora even though she has only interacted with him a few times. Jeff always seems to be everywhere - Aurora always makes mental acknowledgment about how he is consistently working on something but always is seemingly available to everyone.

Alicia, a woman probably in her late 30’s, is following Harry and Jeff with a grey rolling cart like you would see in an old cafeteria and it’s filled with large cardboard boxes. Aurora has met Alicia and remembers Lambert introducing her as the Tour Merchandise Manager.

“Aurora, Ayae, Harry, great to see all of you! Doing alright, I assume?” Jeff asks while rounding the cart and reaching a hand in the box.

“Got some tour sweatshirts for everyone, treat people with kindness and all that,” Harry adds in, running a hand through his hair. It isn’t until now that Aurora notices the length of his hair. It’s not as short as it was when she first met him but it’s nowhere near the length she remembers him having while still in One Direction. There is one curl that won’t stay back no matter how many times he runs his hand through it to push it back. The lone curl falls against his forehead one last time before he gives up.

“Oh, very humble of you, Harry,” Ayae says with a chuckle while examining the sweatshirt Alicia had just given her.

It’s a plain black Champion hoodie with 2 small pieces of embroidery, 1 on the left of the chest and the other on the inside of the right arm. Ayae is referring to the large embroidered “Harry” on the chest. Underneath his name is ‘World Tour 2018’. Hah. He’s gotta love this shit. His name written on everything. Clothing, signs, his name is branded everywhere.

“Heyyyyy,” Harry’s voice is slightly whiny, both of his eyes scrunch up and his brows furrow. The ‘hey’ turns into a giggle and they all laugh along with him. Harry then hands Aurora her sweatshirt. “Here ya go, Ror.” She thanks him softly after taking it from him.

Post lunch, Harry, Jeff and a few others talk about how excited they are and how successful the prep went all week. The Head Travel Manager, Daniel, reminds everyone to double check their itinerary when they get home tonight and to double, triple, quadruple check they’ve packed everything. Harry yells something about making sure everyone’s got their passport cause “long story short” he forgot his once and it was not a day full of kindness. The large group chuckles at his little antidote before the room begins to clear out and everyone heads home to get ready to travel the next day.

Thanks for reading !!! Feedback & comments are always welcome !!!

#harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #sequins & zippers #aurora on tour #harry styles fanfiction #one direction imagine

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rokutouxei · 4 years

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the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

ikemen vampire: temptation through the dark theo van gogh / mc | T | [ ao3 link in bio ]

The challenge seemed pretty simple: to try to befriend the university bookshop’s most sour employee, Theo van Gogh. As a literature major with a boatload of book recommendations on her back, it ought to be a simple task indeed. But as she uncovers what lies between Theo’s pages, the more she finds it harder to become closer to him without having to put the feeling directly into words. What can she learn from Theo about what it means to stay—and how can she teach Theo about what it means to let go? | written for ikevamp big bang 2020!

[ masterpost for all chapters ]

CHAPTER 22 OF 22 [ END ]

But the world is strange and endings are not truly endings no matter how the stars might wish it so.

-"The Starless Sea", Erin Morgenstern

Like a reversal of fate, everything else goes according to plan afterwards: much to Theo’s delight.

After the expectedly but also overwhelmingly successful two-week long exhibit at the gallery, Vincent—after years of indecision—finalizes his documents and portfolio, submits a stack of photos and a long, written document detailing the exhibit to the graduation approval panel. The following month is the longest of the brothers’ lives, but the committee approves Vincent’s submission, and a few weeks later he’s finally marching down the aisle to claim his diploma. (It was a beautiful affair, Theo would always say about it, but in truth he was unable to see anything more than a few smudges of color, due to how hard he was crying. Thank god for photographs.)

Freshly-graduated Vincent takes on various jobs while submitting to various institutions both locally and abroad, and finally persuades Theo to finish his bachelor’s degree, promising that he’ll always be facing forward into the future. The following semester, Theo enrolls for a final time at the university, taking his last units to write up his thesis.

Theo doesn’t quit his job at the bookshop, but eventually as things get busier he can only take so many hours until he’s barely there at all. They get a new employee named William—Theo doesn’t really like him. Arthur gives a little show of crying when Theo reveals he can only work weekends now, treats him to dinner and some alcohol at the end of it, so maybe it isn’t that bad. Theo, of course, still forwards all his book requests to the bookstore, and, much to his disgust, continues to spend Saturdays or Sundays (or both, if he’s unlucky) as “quality time” with Arthur, as the latter has called it. It’s not much, but more than enough for his “begrudging” best friend.

As Theo is working on his thesis, Vincent finally receives an offer for apprenticeship at a rather renowned fine arts gallery a few hours away, and Theo feels all his dreams are coming true.

And it’s time to get a new one.

He’s finishing a degree, bracing himself to enter a field he’s always long wanted to be in, to help support his brother but also to begin the long journey of a little hope he’d long kept in his heart, the one he hadn’t ever dared to say, fearing he wasn’t good enough for it—of being the director of a museum.

He might even be able to take a master’s on the side, if he finds a company that’s willing to get him trained both on the company floor and in an institution—and his grades and a few recommendation letters will get him there, he’s damn sure.

And next to him, or well, miles away, his brother is getting steadier and steadier on his feet, near-sprint towards a future with art he’s always dreamt of as well, this time with no one putting him down. Theo’s going to make sure that stays the same for all the years to come, too.

It feels like the beginning of everything good, and Theo walks around the town with a smile on his face.

All that’s left to do is wait.

He has faith that everything will settle into their proper places, like they always have.

And they do, because just as she always does, it’s 2:00pm on a Sunday, and she comes, in a long, plain cream coat over a sweater, a short plaid skirt over dark leggings, high black boots, because it’s fall now, starting to become cold. She’s looking around her with stars in her eyes, like she hasn’t been here in a long time. And she hasn’t.

Theo spots her first, and then, like she feels the touch of his eyes on her skin, she turns to him. Her face brightens with a grin that makes Theo’s heart stop.

And then she runs with a speed unexpected for the shoes she’s wearing. Theo braces himself as she jumps into his arms, but they still topple towards the ground.

THUNK!

“Oh my god, I could have killed you!” she says, but every word is stuck in between fits of laughter. Curls of hair hang over the sides of her face as she pulls herself up on the palms of her hands and her knees. Guiltless, as she always is.

Theo crinkles his nose, raises a hand to brush off the curtain of hair. “You have an accent,” he says. It’s not derisive, not an insult, just an observation, the same way he’d say something about a work of art.

And, just because she doesn’t run out of ways to take his breath away, she laughs and presses a kiss on his lips, her mouth warm, his face suddenly hot. She smells like strawberries and sour things and home.

She pulls away and breathes against his trembling lips, “I missed you so much.”

“Talk’s for later,” he half-growls, pulling himself up into a seated position before taking her lips in his once more—his fingers in her hair, her hand on his shoulder, seated on his lap. The kiss doesn’t deepen like she expects it to: instead it’s just a series of small kisses exchanged between the two of them, passed back and forth to each other like a shared breath. His hand squeezes her waist and—

“GET A ROOM!” someone shouts from across the street, followed by a burst of laughter, random onlookers to a long-awaited reunion.

“God, I sure miss being home,” she chuckles, making light of the call-out, chewing on her lower lip in embarrassment, turning her eyes away from him.

The word home hangs heavy between the both; but a good kind of heavy.

But for now, he’s not having that, not when they’ve been waiting for this for the longest time; he reaches out to cup her cheek in his hand, only to feel the damp trail of a tear slipping down.

It’s his turn to snort, rubbing a thumb up underneath her eye. “Don’t cry, liefje.”

She pouts. “…‘I missed you too, baby,’” she says mockingly, but wipes the tears that fall out with the back of her hand anyway. The two of them stare at each other for a long moment, like confirming each other’s existence, like making sure the other is really there.

Then, she breaks the silence with a laugh, like she always does.

His heart feels more than just full. It’s always more than with her around.

“I kept all your letters,” she says softly.

“And I kept all your postcards.”

That makes her laugh. A sound he wishes he could listen to forever. “Ah, we sound like some kind of rom-com protagonists. So silly.”

“That’s not so bad though,” Theo says, taking her hand in his the way he’s always wanted to but has always been afraid to do.

“No,” she says, leaning against his warmth. Pressing their foreheads together. “Not at all.”

And because her friend’s been bugging her throughout her entire first year at the university while she was gone, said friend decides to get back at her by holding a little surprise party to match the little surprise arrival she had made for Theo. She, Theo, her friend, Dazai, Arthur, and a shifty-feeling Isaac—she will have to figure out the details for that later—end up having dinner together at a place that opened while she was gone, talking about all that she’d missed, stories that may as well have already been told but feel different when they’re told face-to-face.

They all go home flushed, half with drunk and half with joy. She hasn’t really checked into her apartment complex quite yet, but Theo shoots down her friend’s offer for her to be driven back to the city in exchange for getting her to sleep at his place. The van Gogh residence has been home to one for quite a bit now and Theo… well, he’d like some company.

The two of them are walking home side by side, swaying a little as they pass through flickering streetlights. There is so much to talk about, to catch up on, so many things hidden in between the lines of letters and messages that are better sorted out in person, and Theo feels each question rising up his throat clawing their way out.

Was coming back worth it?

Won��t you regret it?

Did you find what you were looking for out there?

But they have time—they have so much time now, so instead, he settles for the gentle quiet they’ve always known each other for. Instead, he bumps the back of her hand with his, and because everything is more than with her, she takes it as an opportunity to intertwine their fingers together.

There’s mischief in her voice.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“Say ‘I love you.’”

Theo stops in his tracks. “What?”

The shock makes her laugh. Pulling at his hand to get him to start walking again, she explains, “You’ve never told me you loved me, you know.”

“I have.”

“Not in person!” she argues. “Not even in call. You wrote it, but that’s different.”

Theo can feel the words on his tongue already anyway, but he continues to prolong the inevitable. “What’s all this all of a sudden?”

“Nothing! I just haven’t heard it, and well, I wanted to hear it? Please?”

“No.”

“C’mon, you’re not fair. Tell me.”

“No,” he says, pulling her by her hand and pressing a kiss on the back of it. Chaste, and yet so deep with hunger it makes her knees wobble just a bit. “I’ll tell you later.”

She flushes a deep red.

After all this, their friends will not stop joking about how they’ve had one of the most intense courtships in the history of their friend group—and likely their university—but the two of them both rigorously deny that, saying that there are likely to be more complicated ones they just don’t know. Besides, at this point, it doesn’t really matter how long it had taken them to get here—

Just that they had gotten here.

And what a good story that journey was.

Just fit for a literature major.

But stories are stories because they flow into each other, and so even if that chapter has ended, that just means another one has begun and—there is so much plot to be done. She and Theo have a talk about their relationship—this time in person, and this time for real—somewhere in between their last semesters in university. Their friends are, well, still their friends, ever so patient even now that they’re together, especially after all that happened before they got to this. And the future is wide and the world is out there waiting and—

They can’t wait to see it together.

Like flower facing upward to the sun daring itself to see what the world has for it out there before deciding it wants to stay, deciding to grow its roots, deciding…

Right here is okay.

Like blossoming in reverse.

When she and Theo move in together to their own little apartment, away from the university, long after shared books at the rooftop of the physics department and Dragon’s Hoard and Little Owl, Vincent sends to them a moving-in gift: a series of three canvases, a triptych depicting the two of them at that most vulnerable part of their romance. The start of the most beautiful part of it. On the opposite panels, she and Theo; sitting in front of their respective windows, looking out at different cities, different times of the day. And in the middle, a humble little paper airplane made of envelopes, with their blue and red marking, the stamps, the smudged ink, crossing the landscape without care for distance.

They hang the paintings in their living room, above the sofa, the first thing they see when they enter their little shared home.

Just another one of many shared things that will continue to grow.

And today, they’re not yet done unpacking and they’ve only gotten out two sets of dinnerware just enough to be able to eat—but there is so much time. So it’s two in the afternoon on a Sunday, music playing lowly from cheap Bluetooth speakers, and their next-door neighbors are hammering something in the wall but it is still beautiful. Standing in the middle of the living room on the carpet, the TV and the books still in their neatly labeled boxes stacked against the wall—they hold each other close to the slow beat of the music.

Sure, they may have been idiots about this but—they have the rest of their lives to make up for lost time

And so Theo presses his forehead against hers, smiling when the gesture makes her laugh. Nothing makes him feel as warm as she does, and no metaphor, no literary reference will be able to truly put into words how he feels about having found her at just the right moment.

How they crossed that near-miss.

And how lucky he is to get to keep her.

Arm wrapped reverently around the small of her back, one hand on her waist, the other with its fingers interlocked with hers—he presses a small kiss on her knuckles, eyes sliding shut. Everything goes dark: the music shushes into silence, the room collapses, the only thing is him, and her, and the long eternity.

“…And this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart,” he whispers, quoting a poem from a poet from a book from a bookstore from what seems like a million years ago, sighing when she squeezes his shoulder, “I carry your heart—”

Tilts his head upward with her finger, oh, she has him wrapped around her finger, always has.

He looks back at her and her heart dips into the deep blue of his eyes.

She kisses the words onto his lips, “I carry it in my heart.”

---------

thank you for reading this! longer A/N on ao3!!

#the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart #ikemen vampire #ikevamp theo

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rideonwings · 4 years

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The Enevitable Cliche Quarantine Story

Pairing: Hiccup/Astrid

Summary: Stranger-Neighbors lean on each other during the quarantine.

A/N: It’s cliche and silly, but dammit, I think a lot of us need something cute and fluffy these days. There’s more written, I’m just struggling to focus on continuing, so maybe posting this will make me work on it more. Generally I don’t post things until they’re further along, but if you like it maybe I’ll get my ass in gear.

Day 1:

Astrid

After yesterday’s official announcement, once the panic had settled to a mild simmer, and once she’d stocked her fridge and pantry to the fullest possibly capacity with anything she could find left in the vacant grocery store, Astrid was left sitting on her couch coming to the realization that she had an unknown expanse of open time to fill and not a whole lot of ideas on how to fill it.

Sure, she had her thesis to finish, and the gym she worked at part time had asked her to film a few workout classes a week for their clientele to follow along with, but, in the normal state of things, she was the type of person to fill her days with errands, exercise, and activity. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been in her apartment past 10:00am. A shelter-in-place was the opposite of all of those things.

Even if she wasn’t particularly social, Astrid thrived on routine. Her days were scheduled, regimented, and tidy, bouncing from teaching classes at the gym to study sessions with her colleagues in her DPT program to her waitressing job at night. She wasn’t really sure what to make of this crazy concept of ‘flex time’. She strolled around her apartment a few times, looking for things to pick up or organize, leaning down to scratch her cat between the ears every time she walked passed. Finally, she sighed, flopping her arms against her side heavily and collapsed onto the couch. She flipped through her Netflix account and selected an old favorite, grabbed a blanket, and tried to embrace her new normal.

Hiccup:

Honestly, he should have paid more attention. He’d known the world was reeling with the impacts of this virus, but he hadn’t really thought about its application to his life until his boss had sent out an email yesterday and then basically forced everyone to leave the premises until further notice. As Hiccup was packing up all of the equipment he would need to work from home for the next… while, he’d joked with Fishlegs that he should have stopped at the store earlier.

It had been a joke, and yet, now, as he roamed the grocery store looking for anything remotely appetizing, he felt woefully unprepared. As someone who didn’t spend a lot of time at home, mostly rolling out of bed, walking the dog and shuffling off to work where he’d stay way longer than he should have, he wasn’t entirely sure what ‘staples’ consisted of. He could cook, was a good cook in fact, he just never made the time for it. Now he was trying to figure out how to make a meal out of kidney beans and frozen brussel sprouts. At least he had toilet paper.

Finally, he stumbled out of the store into the deceptively beautiful day, rolling a cart of completely random supplies to his car and wondering if he should get gas before the world ended. When he pulled up to his apartment a few minutes later, he looked up to his balcony window as he always did to see Toothless’ smiling face in the window, tail wagging hurriedly, as he waited for his owner to come inside. At least he wouldn’t be alone during this.

Day 2:

Astrid

Astrid never would have believed that you could get sore from sitting on the couch all day, and yet, as she rose from bed that morning, she felt the unmistakable pull of pained muscles in her lower back.

“Gods,” she moaned, “This is going to be the month ever.”

She’d stayed up way later than normal, watching old episodes of her favorite tv shows to bring her comfort, though in reality, she’d mostly just stared through the screen and let her mind wander. Now, bending over to touch her hands to the floor, she knew that if she was going to survive this pandemic, she’d need to figure out a way to schedule her days, even when there was nothing to fill them with. Maybe she could learn to cook? For someone as health obsessed as she was, she lived predominantly on protein shakes, microwaved lunches and cheese and crackers. Half of the groceries she’d bought over the last week she had no idea what to do with.

Astrid turned on her coffee maker and fed Stormfly, continuing to stretch out cramped muscles as the scent of coffee filled the apartment. The sun was shining brightly from her balcony window, so once she’d filled a mug just the way she liked it, she opened the sliding door and curled herself into one of the padded wicker chairs her mom had dropped off one day after cleaning out her garage in preparation for her move across the country.

As she sat there and sipped at her drink, she tried to remember the last time she’d actually been out here. It wasn’t exactly secluded: the balcony itself was only about 12 feet long and 5 feet wide, with a few feet of gap between it and the one next to it, though it looked out onto a fairly nice part of town with a park.

She didn’t really know her neighbors, either. The man in the unit to her right seemed to work opposite schedules as her, waking up later than her and coming back when she was getting ready for bed. She’d only really seen him from afar, walking his dog or getting in and out of his car on the weekends, but she thought he was about her same age. Her other neighbor was a cranky old man that never spoke to her and made it clear that he preferred it that way. The few times they’d bumped into each other at the mail slot he’d been gruff and rude, and honestly, she hadn’t tried to be nice after that. It hadn’t seemed worth the effort.

It wasn’t exactly warm out, being late March and all, but she pulled her bare legs into her hoodie and enjoyed the quiet. Astrid tried to remember the last time she’d felt like she didn’t have to be somewhere, turning to face the sun more directly. After a while Stormfly edged out onto the balcony and curled up next to her, adding to her feeling of contentment.

An explosion of noise erupted from her right, jerking her out of her trance and spilling her remaining coffee all over the cement as she jumped. She whipped around to find the source, noticing her neighbor’s black dog with his nose pressed against the window, staring intently at Stormfly, who had poked her head up to return the glare, apparently unimpressed with the dog’s theatrics. Astrid swore under her breath as she wiped coffee from her hoodie sleeve, cursing the dog for ruining a nice moment.

“Toothless, Gods, what is wrong with you?!” She heard from inside the unit. She looked over to see the dog’s owner glaring at the excited animal before he opened the door slowly, letting the dog onto the balcony. The dog - a black lab - slinked onto the balcony like spilled ink and came directly to the railing, still looking at Stormfly and sniffing interestedly but refraining from barking. “I’m sorry if he scared you,” the man said, running his hands through his longish hair and looking decidedly sleepy. “He’s not actually trying to attack you or your cat, he just wants a friend.”

Astrid nodded, still feeling a little annoyed at the disruption, but accepting the apology. She shifted, picking Stormfly off of her lap and putting her down. “It’s okay, he just surprised me.”

“Sorry, he’s always crazy in the morning.” The neighbor-guy said, his tousled hair falling over his eyes as he scratched the dog, who wiggled ridiculously in response, looking up at his owner adoringly. “Once he’s had his walk he’ll calm down.”

Astrid smiled despite herself at the dog’s happy reaction. “You still get to take him on walks?”

Neighbor-guy shrugged. “I’d assume so, as long as I stay away from crowds and other people. Otherwise I’m going to have to send the government a bill for carpet cleaning.”

Astrid snickered. “I’m not sure they’ll have that in their budget after all this is over.”

Neighbor-guy smiled, and Astrid was struck by how cute it was. “I’m going to go take him out. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.” Astrid replied, standing from her chair as they went back through their sliding door. She then made her way back inside to refill her mug before opening her computer to work on her thesis. Maybe she’d lucked out and found someone to keep her company during all this.

Hiccup

As eerie as it had been to walk Toothless in the nearly deserted streets and parks of their town, Hiccup had taken advantage of the extra time in his day to really tire his buddy out, walking for nearly two hours while simultaneously calling into conference calls for work and enjoying the sunshine.

Now, settled back in his apartment, his stump was throbbing as a result of the extra activity. He wrapped a cold, wet washcloth around the base of his left leg and settled onto his balcony with his computer and a beer, because why not? It was after noon!

Popping in his headphones, he opened his CAD program and began refining some specs on his latest project. While the extra screens on his workstation would have been helpful for this, he was perfectly content out here. Toothless nestled against him at the seat of his chair.

Hiccup lost track of time, alternating between chatting with Fishlegs and uploading revisions to their project board. He hardly noticed when his make-shift ice pack dried and fell off his leg. He was finally jostled out of his focused state when Toothless jumped up from beneath him, trotting over to the railing bordering the neighboring unit. Hiccup turned to see what the dog was getting up to, only to see the woman next door coming out onto the balcony again, her cat curled around her heels. She smiled at him, waving hesitantly. He pulled the headphones from his ears and returned her wave. “Hey.”

“I see you survived.” She said with mild amusement. Her bright blue eyes - so bright that he could distinguish their color even from this distance - trailed down to Toothless, before catching on his half-leg. “Oh!” She exclaimed softly, her hand flying to her mouth.

Hiccup instinctively folded his knee, tucking his stump underneath him. “Don’t worry, that wasn’t a casualty of this morning’s trip, it’s old.” He said, trying to lighten her reaction. “As far as I know, this virus isn’t known for removing limbs.”

“No… I…” The blonde blushed, her hand clenching reflexively at her side. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have reacted that way. It just surprised me.”

Hiccup smiled kindly. “It’s fine, really. People don’t expect it. I guess Toothless and I both are full of surprises.” He said, gesturing to the dog’s own stump, which fell just short of his hock. Astrid’s eyes widened again and she came to crouch at the bars of her railing.

“I never noticed when I saw you walking him, he moves so well!” She said, reaching towards the lab instinctively, though her hand fell a few feet short. “You two match.”

“Yeah, we took that dog / owner costume thing one step too far.” Hiccup joked and she laughed. “He has a little mini-prosthetic to match mine, he just doesn’t need to wear it in the house.”

The girl pulled her chair up closer to the bars and sat down. “I’m Astrid.” She said, reaching down to scratch her cat between the shoulder blades. “And this is Stormfly.”

Hiccup reached towards her and mimed shaking her hand. “I’m Hiccup, and this is Toothless.”

“Two very unusual names.” Astrid commented.

“Yeah, we’re aware.” He responded with a smile. “I was a runt, his baby teeth were late coming in… it’s amazing we’ve survived this long.”

Astrid smiled - Gods, she had a nice smile - and stood. “I’ll be right back.” She ducked back into her house and came back a few minutes later with a glass of wine. “I liked your idea.” She said, gesturing to his beer, which was nearly empty, it’s dregs warm. “Though it seems a bit early.”

Hiccup shrugged. “Maybe. It honestly feels like there are no rules right now.”

“Are you working? I don’t mean to disturb you if you are, I was just getting a little stir-crazy in my place.”

“Yeah, but nothing too time consuming. I could use a break.” Hiccup replied, reaching to drink the last sip of his beer. “Let me grab another one.” He stood from his seat, hopping on his good leg through the door. He’d intentionally set up his apartment furniture at perfect distances so he could hop without his prosthetic or a crutch when he needed to, using chairs, tables and desks as handholds along the way.

In a few minutes he was seated back outside, facing his new neighbor-friend.

“Is this six feet, do you think?” He said jokingly, gesturing to the distance between them. “I am just over 6’2”, I could lay down across the bars to measure it more accurately.”

Astrid smiled into her wine glass. “I think we’re probably good, as long as we agree to sneeze in the other direction.” She took a sip before gesturing to his computer. “What were you working on?”

“It’s a diagram for an artificial knee,” he said, “trying to improve the rotational capacity of an older model of knee replacements.”

Astrid’s eyebrows rose. “Wow, that’s…. Cool. What do you do exactly?”

“I’m a biomechanical engineer for a company that basically improves medical equipment. You?”

Astrid tucked her hair behind her ears. “I work as a physical trainer at a gym, and I’m getting my Doctorate of Physical Therapy and a masters in history. I work as a waitress too, but obviously that’s probably not going to last with all this happening.”

“Cool about the Doctorate, sorry about the waitressing gig.” Hiccup replied, noting the concern on her face.

“It’s fine, it’s not like that was what I wanted to do, it just helped pay the bills. I’m still getting paid for the time being, and the gym pays me as long as I keep doing a few online videos, but it’s just generally going to be a little scary for a while.”

Hiccup felt instantly guilty and lucky for his own situation, knowing that he was in stable employment that wouldn’t be severely impacted. He instinctively wanted to offer to help her in any way she needed, but bit his tongue. He hardly knew her, after all.

“I’m sorry.” He said, not knowing what else to say. “Hopefully everyone gets with the program and we can shorten the lifespan of this thing so we can get back to normal soon.”

Astrid nodded, frowning slightly. “Yeah, hopefully.”

They sat in an awkward silence for a few minutes. Then, Astrid laughed weakly. “There’s no reason to play the pity game, though, right? We’re only on day two. Honestly, I’m more worried about how I’m going to feed myself for the next few weeks.”

Hiccup smiled weakly, noting her attempt to deflect from her real anxieties. “Were you not able to grab groceries?”

“Oh, no I’m fully stocked, unfortunately, I have no idea how to cook half of the things in my pantry.”

Hiccup laughed, glad for the break in the tension. “Well, I could probably help you with that. I myself have the most random selection of food known to man in my fridge, so I’ll need to get really creative with my meals.”

Astrid laughed. “Maybe we can potluck this situation. I have a startling amount of ramen in my pantry for someone that doesn’t like ramen.”

“How do you not like ramen? Even when you put an egg in it?”

It was Astrid’s turn to look at him skeptically. “Why would I put an egg in it?”

Hiccup’s jaw dropped. “What? You don’t know?” Astrid shook her head. “It changes everything, it makes it totally amazing. How did you possibly make it through college without adding egg to your ramen??” He said jokingly.

Astrid shrugged, giggling. “By not eating much ramen, I guess. It’s not exactly health food.”

Hiccup smiled, tweaking his eyebrow at her. “Feeling adventurous?”

10 Minutes Later -

“Okay, the water is boiling.” Astrid called from her kitchen. Hiccup sat on the railing of his balcony, legs hanging over the side as he gripped the bars.

“Okay, add the noodles and seasoning, then crack your egg into a separate bowl and whisk it.” He called, only able to see her part of her back as she worked at her stove. “Once the noodles start to soften, add the egg mixture and start stirring it in.”

Astrid complied, turning around to look at him. “It looks gross, it’s all clumpy.”

“You gotta stir it more, really mix it in there.”

“Okaaay…”

After a few minutes, she looked over her shoulder at him, her expression changed. “Oh, it looks creamy now.”

“There you go, that’s what should be happening.” Hiccup said, heart warming at her smile.

“That’s so cool!”

“Right? Once you get the hang of it, you can add all kinds of veggies and stuff to it to make it even more delicious, you just have to get the timing right on it.” He maneuvered himself down from the railing back onto his porch.

“One step at a time, Gordon Ramsay.” She said sarcastically. There was the sound of dishes clinking, and after a few more minutes, she came out onto the balcony holding two bowls with paper towels under them. “Err.. I am not really sure if we’re supposed to be sharing dishes and food, but… it’s too much for me to eat alone.”

Hiccup shrugged, reaching across the bars to take a bowl from her. “I’ll accept the risk in this situation.”

They sat in their respective chairs, enjoying their late afternoon snack and chatting. Hiccup couldn't remember the last time he’d enjoyed a conversation with someone this much, especially someone he’d never spoken to before that day.

They sat out in their separate spaces until the sun began to dip, only going inside to grab drinks or use the facilities, or once, for Hiccup to let Toothless out on another short walk. Finally it got to be a little too chilly to be enjoyable, and they began to clean up their areas.

Before she went inside, Astrid turned to him with a small smile. “See you tomorrow?” She asked, a teasing sort of hope in her eyes.

Hiccup smiled brightly. “Definitely.”

#hiccstrid #hiccstrid fanfic #hiccstrid fanfiction #hiccup/astrid #fanfiction #fanfic #httyd #how to train your dragon #mywriting

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essie-essex · 3 years

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anybody here remember night blogging??

You know thinking back on how I would do things differently, I would probably have gone to another school for college. I had assumed that you were required to write a thesis at every school to graduate, and at my school we had I.S. (Independent Study), which was kind of a final 100 page paper + project that we had to do our senior year, in addition to taking classes. But my school offered me the most money, and everyone I talked to said that it was a good school. I remember my English teacher being surprised that I got in. I wasn’t the best student, but during my senior year I started to be more engaged and pay attention in class. I think part of it was that my family (me and my mom lol) hosted a Japanese exchange student that year. She stayed for 10 months and I loved having someone at the house to do things with, and I think having her around really helped me out a lot with feeling less lonely. So, my grades improved (with the exception of math, I actually did a lot worse in math than usual despite studying every night for hours because my teacher was horrible, but that’s another story...) and for the most part I did a lot better academically. Also, I started running, lost weight, and felt generally better about myself (I thought that finally after all those years of depression, things were finally getting better, and I was stronger, and blah blah blah).

When I was accepted by a university, I was so excited, especially since my advisor told me I wouldn’t get into college (because of that awful math class--like honestly that year would have been so much better if I had had any of the other math teachers who could actually teach, and I came to my advisor meeting thinking that I was doing so much better with my grades than usual, like I literally had A’s in everything except for math, in which I had an F, and I thought she would ask me about what was happening in math and offer help, like seriously who sees a bunch of A’s and one F and thinks “this student clearly isn’t applying herself” and not “clearly this student needs some help with this one subject,” but no she said “I just don’t know what to do with you. At this rate, you’re not going to get into college.” And I just remember being so upset especially since I went in there without any emotional armor like I would have put up if I actually had really bad grades and was expecting to hear about it, but right that’s another story, so anyway... )

My problems started after I got back from Japan. Before that, while I did still have my moments of depression, especially when dealing with my boyfriend who had his own share of mood problems which tended to be a bit more high key than mine, it was a lot better than it was in high school. I loved my major, I had friends who actually appreciated my presence, and, for the first time in my life, I felt hopeful about the future. I remember when I was taking the bus back to my city after visiting my boyfriend and one of my friends, and I realized that for the first time I just felt like a normal person. I didn’t feel like some weird defective mistake that clearly didn’t belong in this world.

Then I went to Japan. And I fucking loved it, which is why I was so sad to leave. I’m usually a really quiet person, and in order to be outgoing I have to completely turn off my filter, which, I realize, can make me sort of obnoxious. It worked for me at first. I made several friends in different groups so I could have different options and be able to go out with friends more often.

My school only allowed us to study abroad for one semester. So, I had 4 months to do everything I wanted to do there. Like I’m not an energetic person at all, but basically I told myself “I’ll sleep when I’m back in the US, but right now I’m in fucking Japan and I need to do everything.” But basically everyone else was staying for the entire school year, so they weren’t in a rush to do and see things like I was. My no filter self helped me make friends, so I would have different groups to go out and do things with (like I changed my personality so much that when I told one of my dorm mates that I liked to play videogames, she said that I didn’t “seem like the type” who would do that. Like she was genuinely surprised.) Public transportation and the safety of Japan made it easier for me to be more independent than I was in the US. My college was in a small town, so while I was more independent there than at home (where if I so much as opened the front door, my mom would come rushing downstairs wondering where I was going/what I was doing/why was I going outside) I was still basically confined to one or two streets in the area. In Japan, I could just get on the train and go. Plus when you’re a foreigner you sometimes get random people talking to you on the streets and can even meet new people since you stand out. I went out to clubs at least once every weekend, and sometimes even twice (the advantage of having more than one group of friends). I didn’t sleep too much and always wanted to be out doing things since I just didn’t have a lot of time. I met guys, went out on dates and everything, had cultural experiences, and I mostly just didn’t care about any danger because I was in Japan and I basically had no plan after that and had done the one thing I really wanted to do (which was travel to Japan). The attitude was also brought on by me not giving much of shit about my studies because I was so angry and disappointed for not getting a placement in a program in which basically everyone who applied would get accepted. It was especially annoying because it allowed me to get experience in participant-observation while volunteering at a place that interested me, but most people who did the program were just doing it for fun, like there were a lot of various sciencey majors plus at least one math major, and I was just really disappointed. Luckily this attitude I adopted didn’t affect my grades too much, since most of the classes were pretty easy.

So, getting back to the point of all of this, I realize that the real problem was my shitty attitude, and I should have made the most out of my four months and then come back to “the real world,” as my mother put it, and be the same person I was before. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened. I have never been popular before, and having so many people not see my weird defective self was so exhilarating to me. For once I wasn’t the weird quiet girl. For once I could be independent. But then I was back to the small college town, and I wanted to go out and do things, I wanted to go to parties on the weekends. But my friends would mostly stay in and watch movies on the weekends. Like we went to the occasional party or did the usual hang out together and drink thing, but it wasn’t the same. I couldn’t be the same person I had been for the previous four months, and I didn’t take it well.

I had never had the kind of depression where I had brain fog. While I was still depressed in middle and high school, I could still do things like read books or write song lyrics. But brain fog made it impossible for me to get anything done. Like I could read a page and not know anything about what I read. I’d be stuck reading the same sentences over and over. When I hung out with my friends, I could muster up some energy, since I would cling to anything that brought me even a bit of joy, but mostly I just did nothing. I had this tiny room at the back of the house (we were a volunteer house and went to the local animal shelter every week) and I never even unpacked my clothes. Everything was in bags or boxes or in a clothing pile somewhere. I would have dreams of being back in Japan and wake up so disappointed. It was especially upsetting to think about all the people I knew in Japan, since they still were there. I tried checking in on people to see how they were doing, but--as is usual--they didn’t miss me nearly as much as I missed them. And I felt the same way about my friends at college too. I was back to just being tolerated instead of wanted. I always let them have their way and yielded to their decisions and just tried to keep my group of friends but I think a good number of them stopped liking me.

ANYWAY, getting to the point. I got on meds over the summer and felt kind of better. I didn’t having nearly as much brain fog. I was ready to do my IS and graduate, and then things went downhill again. My friends used to automatically include me in things, but now I always had to check in with them to see if they were doing anything. I started my IS, joined a local Pagan group to do my research, and started reading books to use as sources. My IS advisor was my favorite professor, but when I told her that I was having trouble doing everything because of my depression, she said “but you took care of that, right?” Like the meds I was on were supposed to fix everything. I just straight up never went back to her office. I stopped going to classes. I purposely avoided meal times and went to get food at times when most people were in classes. I stopped everything.

I feel like if I had gone to a different school, I might have been able to power through the year and finish my classes. Maybe. Or maybe not. I don’t know. This school truly felt like it was the best option though. They offered me the most money, and I was able to visit and write an essay while I was there to get an even better scholarship. I remember when I was offered a merit scholarship for the first time (for one of the schools I didn’t choose to go to) and I called my dad and told him they were offering me some money. He just thought it would be a few hundred dollars maybe, but when I told him $11,000 he was so surprised and was speechless. Like there was just silence for a few seconds for him to process it. The school I went to offered me $14,000 a year, and the scholarship I applied for and went there to write the essay for, brought the amount up to $18,000 (Sadly, this didn’t even cover half of the yearly tuition). It seemed like the best choice, even if they didn’t offer Japanese, I figured I could still learn on my own, and I didn’t realize that their IS program was so unique. If I had gone to any of the other schools, especially one of the bigger ones, I wonder if I would have made more friends. There would have been much more to do there. And all I would have to do was take classes and not be horribly stressed out by IS. Even if I was depressed toward the end of it, all I had to do was pass. Like even though I got good grades for the first two years, I would just need to pass the classes in the last two years to graduate. I got really off topic here I know. This is mostly just a stream of consciousness thing to get my thoughts out. And putting it here has probably stopped me from going into the kind of depressive rant that I usually go into when I write about my life.

Anyways, I’m not editing this or anything. I meant to write this while letting the Sims 4 load since it takes a while with the 938347283333 mods I have, but I forgot to actually start it, whoops!

tl;dr started writing this post meaning to talk about my college and senior IS, ended up having one of those sitcom clip episodes but in writing.

Also fuck my senior year high school math teacher, holy shit she was horrible at teaching

#essie things #i tend to put blame on myself and not other people for things #because it's my job to react in the best way even when things are difficult #but really that fuckin math teacher was just #awful

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h2omyeon · 4 years

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You Were Beautiful (KJM x Reader)

Summary: You had been in love with your classmate Kim Junmyeon for the last year and a half. You finally find the guts to tell him the truth about how you feel, but at the wrong time. (PS: Chanyeol makes a cameo in this story and Junmyeon is an Art History major!)

Pairing: Junmyeon x Female Reader

Tags: College Student Junmyeon, Art Hoe Junmyeon, bittersweet stuff

Warnings: Mentions of suicide towards the end of the story (not in this chapter)

Word Count (in total): 8.5k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is my first ever story I wrote and published on here. Feel free to leave comments and I will try to publish each chapter weekly! This story is based off of a combination of dreams that I had which included people who weren’t Junmyeon and Junmyeon himself during the beginning of this whole COVID pandemic (AKA: when things began to fall apart). Like the world that I was living in at that time, this story/dream is just as (I hope to believe) chaotic. I also apologize if there are a ton of plot holes in the story because it was based on a dream and I could not think of any filler parts. Enjoy!- PS

(Read part 1/prologue here!)

Chapter 1: Duty Calls

You realized that these days of happiness and fun wouldn’t last forever, but you wished they did. Senior year was a hectic one for the two of you; you were busy preparing for the initial teaching certification test you planned to obtain in adolescent English, while Junmyeon was finalizing his undergrad thesis on nature and stability in some Impressionist paintings. One spring Saturday afternoon during the final semester, he had come over to your house for your help in editing his paper. You two began to discuss the paper and the discussion of future plans after graduation were brought up; in the past he had applied for fellowships and internships, which he excitedly told you and your friends. However, for the first time since you had met him, his usually joyful face turned into a somber one, as if someone had died.

“What happened? You’ve been down for a while,” You asked with concern. Junmyeon was trying not to look up from his paper, fiddling with his fingers. There was a brief silence; you took a sip of the glass of water on the table.

Junmyeon looked up from his paper and cleared his throat. “I have something to tell you, Y/N.” He sounded nervous for the first time since you had met him.

You thought about how you wanted to confess to him that you had fallen in love with him, but by the looks of his face, what he had to say was more serious than something as trivial as confessing a crush.

“Go ahead,” you suggested, looking away from your computer. “I’m listening.”

“My father called me a few days ago saying I was selected to enlist early in the military in Korea,” he began.

“I remember you talking about it a while ago. You told me most people were in their mid 20s when they enlisted,” you replied. Junmyeon was only 22, that was so young, you thought.

“He told me a lottery had been done and my name was selected. Even he had protested, stating that I was too young but there was nothing neither he nor the base could do,” he explained. “I was upset at first, but I realized that I needed to serve my country first before I can focus on my future. I know it’s two years, but that’s not much compared to the four years that we are doing for a piece of paper. My enlistment date is June 3rd, so I have to be-”

“Back in Korea before then.” you interrupted. He gave you a look of bittersweet sincerity. You looked back at him and a silence built between the two of you. You were surprised; he had been applying for fellowships and curator assistant positions, as well as graduate school since he had initially planned to stay with his aunt for the next few years.

You didn’t know how to handle the news; June 3rd was two weeks after graduation. You began to remember Mr and Mrs Kim crying a few weeks back while Junmyeon was out; now you knew why they were crying that night when you and your parents went to visit them. You were both silent for the first time.

“Exactly. Unfortunately, I don’t know if I’ll ever come back to New York after my service because I want to work for my dad before I get the money to continue my art degree in France,” he added.

“What about all the positions and graduate schools that you applied for?” you asked.

“I forfeited my applications,” he replied sadly. He looked like he was going to cry when you went to console him. You gave him a hug and let go of that embrace.

“I’m so sorry, I wish I could help. Have you told anyone else besides me?”

“Yes, even Angela knew. Now you won’t have a museum buddy anymore,” he stated somberly.

“That’s okay. Duty calls and besides I have Angela. She likes anything,” you continued. You both began to laugh.

“True. She’s really something else. I always liked her. She was so weird, but a good weird,” he professed. “Anyways, are you excited for graduation?” he asked, changing the topic and overall mood of the situation.

“Hell yeah!” You exclaimed. “No more rats in the library, and no more crazy crowds. By rats I mean both the animal and the pretentious pre med students.”

Junmyeon gave a heavy chuckle. “I’ll miss you and your unintentional humor.”

“I’m not funny,” you snapped back.

“I beg to differ.” he responded.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. He then began to look at you deeply with a smile while he pushed a strand of your hair behind your ear. What the hell? You thought. You wanted to push him away, but you couldn’t. “It was bothering me,” he confessed. “I hope you weren’t bothered by me doing that.”

You weren’t at all; you turned slightly red, which he didn’t notice. You went back to your work area initially planning on finishing the English essay you had to write, but the two of you began to talk about the new Yoko Ono exhibition at the MoMa that you wanted to see the following weekend.

Part 3

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daydreams-and-shortattentionspan · 5 years

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Run For Your Money

A/N: I know I was supposed to post this last week, I just didn’t know what exact to write. I’m so sorry. But imma make it up to y’all.

Pairings: Tony Stark x (Y/N) Rhodes (platonic friendship), James Rhodes x Black Reader (Siblings)

Warnings: Cursing(?), Unwanted Touching

Words: 1.5k

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“Ugh if I look at another word on this screen I think my eyeballs are gonna fall out,” you said in mock despair. Hoping to get some type of reaction you turn around and find Tony still in his own little world working on yet another project. You groan loudly with actual despair; you had been using the archives -that would be at the library in physical form, but are all at your fingertips thanks to Tony having basically everything ever written in digital form- for hours to write your thesis for your masters and honestly a sweet, slow painful death would have been more fun than writing this damned thing. Tony allowed you to use whatever you needed and you could have easily gone to the living room to write all this but you had told him you’d much rather sit in his lab with him because you liked the company and you secretly enjoyed his taste in music. Thus your current predicament of tired eyes, aching back, and now growling stomach.

“Tony,” you called hoping to get his attention, to no avail; you get nothing in response.

“Tony!” you yelled a little louder. ‘He’s gotta be able to hear that’ you thought. Yet again… No response, grabbing your pen from the small desk behind you and flinging it at him and successfully hitting him in the head, he looks at the ceiling in confusion.

“Is there a leak?” he had questioned still staring at the ceiling and rubbing the back of his head.

“No you idiot, it was me. I’m hungry,” you said dryly. He said nothing at first, he looked to be thinking,“Burgers?” he had simply asked pointing the screw driver he was holding at you.

“Pizza.” you answered.

“Delivery?” he had asked starting to ask JARVIS to get food delivered.

“No!” you had groaned,“I need fresh air and so do you.”

He opened his mouth to deny it, before he could start you cut him off,“When was the last time you were outside and there wasn’t something threatening our planet?” Your question caused him to immediately close his mouth, you smirked knowingly, starting to put your shoes - that you had kicked off at some point to get comfortable and focus more- on.

“C’mon, I know a good spot not that far from here.” you said as you stood.

“I guess I could get some ‘fresh air’,” he said while using air quotes,” not like that exists in New York,” He had murmured that last part but you had heard; you rolled your eyes playfully,“JARVIS needs this new update I just finished.”

Jarvis replied instantly “Thank you, Sir.”

“Yeah, take the night off buddy.” He replied nonchalantly.

“See? This is a sign for you to get your ass out of here for a while,” you had playfully teased him and began your trek up the stairs and to the elevators; Tony close behind you, grabbing whatever shoes were near the elevator doors slipping them on with no socks. ‘White people,’ you had thought, rolling your eyes playfully.

“I know, right?” he mocked in fake disgust, genuine smile plastered on his face, indicating you did not say that in your head. It was good to see him actually happy after all the things he’d been through recently. It was like he was a danger magnet. While you were lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the zip up hoodie he was throwing your way and that had landed on your face. Taking it off in confusion you glanced at the window behind you and noticed that it was dark outside. Raising your eyebrows in confusion, you graciously put the jacket on knowing it would be cold out there. As soon as you slipped your arm in the final sleeve, the elevator dinged; indicating the it had arrived and you both stepped inside.

“So how’s the thesis going Mini Rhodey?” he asked while pressed the button commanding the elevator to head towards the ground floor thus beginning your descent.

“Ugh I don’t even wanna talk about that right now. And don’t call me that, I hate that nickname,” you groaned feigning mock despair again.

“What? Why? Rhodey loves that nickname!”

“Yeah because he’s older! And only by a couple years!”

“And?”

“And it makes him sound like my dad.” you replied in mock disgust.

“Or you’re being dramatic.”

“Aren’t I always?” you replied striking a silly pose. The elevator dinged once again and the doors opened immediately. You both stepped out and made your way out the building; Tony pulling on his hood to avoid any questions about the Avengers or Iron Man by anyone waiting outside the building. Successfully dodging that non-existent bullet, you began your quest for food.

“How’s Pepper?” You had asked trying to make the trip shorter by filling it with conversation and life updates.

“She’s good, running a huge company rather successfully,” he replied, full of pride over her.

“Mhmm, like some I know should have been doing,” you replied boldly, only playing around and bringing his ego down only slightly. He faked a painful expression while holding his heart.

“Ouch (Y/N), just ouch,” he said, you simply shrugged and raised your hands in fake surrender.

“Where is this place any way?” he said looking at his surroundings in wonder, like he had never seen this place before walking slowly.

“We are literally right around the corner, and it’s faster and cheaper than getting delivery, rich boy.” you replied grabbing his hand and practically dragging him to the restaurant.

Just as you said, about ten more minutes of walking and you had arrived at Joe’s Pizza. You two had entered the establishment and began to get warm from all the people inside. You had told Tony to find a place for you two to sit while you got the food. Quickly grabbing your food and drinks, you found your way to Tony and began to chow down.

“So you wanna talk about that masters yet?” he had asked in between bites of his pizza. You sighed and simply shook your head, mouth full of food.

“You’re gonna have to talk about it at some point.”

“Yeah I know,”sighing sadly again,” It’s just so nerve wracking and I need a distraction from it before I die of stress,” you said, semi-jokingly to hide your stress; picking at a piece of cheese off the side of your pizza. Tony had looked at you with sad and understanding eyes.

“Well,” you looked up at him,” This is the most delicious distraction I’ve had,” he said before taking a comically huge bite of his pizza, stuffing his face. You chuckled at his successful attempt at making you feel better.

You both stayed there a few minutes longer after having finished. Joking about anything and everything you possibly could, holding your stomach from laughing so hard. This is exactly what you needed; you felt refreshed and ready to head back to more hours of sitting on your ass and reading millions of words. You both felt it was time to head back so you grabbed your belongings and trash and made your way back.

You were so close to the building, finally opening up about what your thesis was about; totally lost in the conversation, when you suddenly felt a hand swat your ass, stopping you completely. Swinging around you saw a man looking at you with an evil like in his eyes and a disgusting smirk plastered on his face, almost looking proud of what he had done.

“What?” Tony had asked looking back.

“That dick just smacked my ass!” you had replied angrily.

“Hey asshole!” he had stopped and turned completely around at the sound of Tony’s voice. Smirk still in place, he slowly started making his way back to where you and Tony stood on the busy sidewalk.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you better apologize before you get your ass handed to you,”yo said, trying to hold back the rage burning in your chest.

“And who’s gonna hand it to me?” the man replied smugly.

“Me,” Tony said, taking off his hoodie. You looked at him in confusion, wondering how the hell he was gonna fight this huge Vin Diesel wannabe with his own strength or without his suit seeing as JARVIS was most likely still updating.

“Oh yeah Iron Man? Bring it then,” almost immediately, Tony punched the man square in the jaw, taking him by surprise. Making the man angry, he charged toward Tony and punched him in the nose, causing Tony to fall flat on his ass. The big man laughed in victory, angering you further, causing you to walk up to him and punch him right in his stomach causing him to double over in pain. You grabbed the back of his head and bashed it against your knee. He howled in pain. You stepped back trying to see what his next move was. He stood, face cover in blood, he had started to make his way over to you somewhat stumbling. You dropped and swept your leg beneath him knocking the man over swiftly onto his back. You stepped over his body and punched the man directly in the nose with all the strength, knocking the man unconscious surely from the unbearable pain. You adjusted the hoodie and turned too see Tony -eyes wide and mouth agape- looking like a fish out of water. You extended your hand to help him up, he took it slowly getting up; still looking at you in awe. You ignored the crowd that had surrounded you that you figured at some point wanted to see the spectacle but you hadn’t noticed. You pushed your way through, Tony close behind still stunned from the events that had just occurred. You both walked into the building and directly into the elevator that was waiting for you.

“How the hell did you do that??” he questioned you immediately.

“Boy, do you not know who my brother is? Do you not know I train with Nat some weekends?” you replied nonchalantly.

“Well,” he said, eyebrows raised,”you’re about to give Romanoff and Rhodey a run for their money.”

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Taglist: @oceanscorazon @snazzyjazzytrash

#tony stark #tony stark imagine #tony stark x black!reader #tony x reader #tony x black!reader #black!reader #tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #tony x y/n #tony stark fic #tony stark fiction #tony stark fan fiction

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streamacademe · 4 years

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Week 154, Day 1072.

Wow, it’s the 1st of September huh? The new academic year is upon us, which means I am officially entering the 4th year of my PhD! Kinda proud of myself for surviving this long, and on that note, today's post is dedicated to lessons I learned as a 3rd year PhD student.

10 lessons I learned as a 3rd year PhD student, whilst also living through a worldwide pandemic:

Time is precious, don’t waste it - Although this can be applied to normal life, it is especially poignant throughout your PhD. Whether you are working or taking time off, you cannot afford to waste this time on anything other than the task at hand. A work day filled with distractions can lead to a serious set back with respect to timelines. Not fully resting during your time off will leave you drained, unfocused, and stressed. All this leads to burnout and major mental health set backs.

Don’t underestimate how long stuff will take you to do - This goes hand in hand with lesson #1 and I would argue that it’s by far the biggest mistake PhD students make. By underestimating the time a task e.g. writing a thesis chapter, will take you and not adjusting your work plan for that can leave you with an unmanageable workload in the time that you have left to finish your degree. This is the point at which most people quit. Be realistic with project timelines, your abilities, and expectations.

Storyboard your work - Building a story of your work, be it your thesis, conference presentation/poster, an important email, etc. and understanding the bigger picture is essential to stay on track and to clearly convey what you’re trying to get across to your reader. It’s easy to go down the wrong path and get lost if you don’t have directions.

Looking after your physical and mental well-being is of paramount importance - This should always be a priority, especially as the final stretch of a PhD is really challenging and requires extra self-care, particularly when also living through a pandemic.

Have something to look forward to - Something that has gotten me through some of the toughest work days is knowing that I have something fun or exciting planned, from small things like a really good sandwich for lunch, to going away somewhere for a few days or even a week. It motivates me to keep going.

Relationships matter now more than ever - Doing a PhD is extremely difficult and having a good support network is vital. Be honest in your communication with your supervisors, family, and friends. A lot of the time they won’t have a clue what you’re going through unless you tell them and give them ways they can support you. This is especially important if you live with a significant other. Also, remember that there are others in your boat, so communicate with your peers and support one another.

Cut out toxic/selfish/negative people - I have said this before but I am shouting it this time.

Take criticism with a pinch of salt - This is honestly the best skill I have ever taught myself. Don’t get me wrong, it takes time, effort, and lots of crying before you learn to emotionally remove yourself from negative feedback, but you have to realise that the person criticising your work (usually your supervisor) is also trying to improve its quality. It would be worse if they didn’t bother at all. Also, life is bigger than your PhD and it helps to remember that when you feel like nothing you do is good enough.

Your coping mechanisms do NOT have to match those of others - Nor do you have to explain yourself to anyone unless your coping strategies affect those closest to you. For instance, if you need to isolate yourself in a wilderness cabin with no signal for a weekend, or drink a whole bottle of wine to yourself whilst binging TV box sets, make sure to set their expectations so that they know you’re okay.

You just gotta turn up - My main motto this year. A PhD is likely to be one of the biggest projects you have/will ever embark on and as it’s an ultra marathon, you will inevitably hit a wall, many of them. When that happens, do not give up, but turn up, and do the best you can, even if it means crawling towards the finish line.

Now that I feel like a wise old owl, I genuinely hope that at least some of the above is helpful to someone out there. ✨

Thank you to 760+ of you that follow my journey. I leave you with one of my favourite quotes...

“It always seems impossible, until it’s done”. ☕

Photo: Keep moving forward (me hiking in Snowdonia). Source: Camera.

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tomhollandish · 5 years

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Always Like This

A/N: After maybe two years of never writing anything, I’m back for @pparkerwrites writing challenge! This is my magnum opus, clocking in at 14k, and it’s inspired by Studio Ghibli’s Whisper of the Heart, The Louvre by Lourde, the prompt “I wish we could stay like this forever”, and my own anxiety about finishing college and growing older.

Summary: As you begin wrapping up your final year in college, you have some wishes, fears and regrets. This is the story of how you overcame all of them, with a little help from your friends. Platonic!Avengers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, mentions of past Bruce Banner x Reader and Quentin Beck x Reader (Yeah, I know,)

Warnings: Cursing, Mentions of (public) sex, and the reader being an anxious wreck

Word count: 14k (my bad)

* * * *

There is a tap once, twice, three times against the plastic cubicle, but your attention is elsewhere. As you breathe heavily, you can still see the black and white pages of your latest research endeavor printed underneath your eyelids. You swim in the words, trying to pick out what you can even comprehend when the rapping becomes less gentle.

“’Tis some visitor,” you recited, mumbling out the lines of a poem you’d once memorized. “Rapping at my chamber door.”

“It’s campus police,” the visitor said, and you fumbled to sit up properly. The harsh florescent lights made your eyes bleed, and the ugly khaki uniform of the man hovering over you was just as terrible a sight.

“Fuck,” you cursed, and then upon realizing that you just cursed in front of an officer (a glorified security worker, but you weren’t about to take pot shots right now), you covered your mouth. “I’m sorry, I just–”

“I just need your ID.” He smiled politely and you squirmed under the gesture.

“Right.”

You found it wholly ridiculous that this man was carding you in your campus library at—what time was it? —three in the morning as if you could be anyone other than a student. No sane person would be doing this without reason, and even so your reasons were wearing incredibly thin as your shitty bachelor’s degree grew closer into your clutches.

A bachelor’s degree in English? What will you even do with that?

Doesn’t matter what it’s in. It just matters that I’ve got it.

You didn’t want to spend four years doing something you hated. (With your bullshit Liberal Arts Program, it was really only two years of English, but who was counting?) You thought it would be easy to just pick up some desk jobs that would pay the bills once you graduated. But then you decided to grow noble and have an ambition and things rapidly changed.

The officer handed your card back to you. His eyes flitted over to the mess of a work station you had, before giving a pitying smile. “Long night huh? Haven’t seen you stay here this late in a while.”

Goosebumps ran up your arm. You tried to play it cool, painting on a smile as you wracked your brain for familiarity. “I’m sorry, have we met before?”

“No, not really. I’ve been working this shift for maybe two years, and you’re on this floor a lot at night. I just, uh, remember you.”

“Uh,” you blinked, unable to answer. The odds of this guy remembering you were like, twenty thousand to one. And while you were a regular patron of the third floor (it is the film section after all) it seemed unlikely that someone could pick out your face.

The guard seemed to understand that he’d stumped you, so he scratched the back of his neck sheepishly and moved on. Still stunned, you stared back at the pile of books across the table and groaned at the thought of continuing. It was late, and you had class at ten the next morning. The very class you were doing all this work for.

You sighed deeply and pondered whether or not to call it a night—it was only the third week of the fall semester and you were already working like a dog. There was a terrible feeling in your gut that if you didn’t save your energy for later, it would bite you in the ass.

Settling for checking out one last book, you scribbled down its call number and pulled yourself out of the mini cubicle, heading for the stacks. As you made your way you noticed that there were really only a few other people with you, many of them with their heads ducked into textbooks or laptops, engrossed in their own worlds.

The people began to fade away as the rows and rows of books dominated the room. You looked up and down between your notebook as you stomped through sections, passing anatomy, then biology before glancing at American literature. You ducked down one row, fingers grazing every book as you mumbled the call number under your breath, afraid it would escape you.

Finally, you knelt down, wincing as your knees cracked audibly in the quiet library. Sitting on the bottom shelf like it had been waiting on you for eons was the book in question; an innocuously black bound book, the title in plain white letters on the spine. A library reprint. You opened it, just be sure it was the exact copy you were looking for, when you realized something.

Someone had annotated this copy. Your school didn’t charge damages for writing in library books, but this person seemed to have written paragraphs worth of content between margins and on blank pages. It was the kind of analysis that could only belong to someone taking it very seriously; perhaps a fellow film studies major.

But the writing wasn’t mesmerizing because it was insightful, rather, it was because you recognized it. You stomped your way back to your seat with purpose, looking for the other companion novel; a newer, cleaner, bigger book and yet, as you flipped the pages you caught glimpses of the handwriting—legible, but obviously a quick scrawl. The e’s were always connected to the letter after it, and the m’s were hardly definable squiggles, but it was still nice to look at.

As you’d combed your way through these books, you’d found their handwriting more than once. They usually echoed the sentiment you’d been trying to capture, but they had done so first. It had discouraged you at first, thinking yourself a simple copy-cat, but it later comforted you that someone shared your ideals.

It was wishful thinking to wonder about them. Useless and distracting.

You still entertained the thought.

The whole trip back to your dorm, you busied yourself with thoughts of them–their major, if they had graduated already or if they were still here; what if you shared a class with them, or better yet, if you knew them? Your mind filled with romantic possibilities as your body took you through the process of getting you home—a maneuver you could pull in your sleep.

Once at home, you forgot all the formalities of bedtime routines and simply stripped down, crashing straight into bed. Sleep would overcome you in any moment, but in your last fleeting moments of consciousness you dreamed of flipping pages and handwriting.

* * * *

If college were a racket, you’d be fucking rich.

You’ve been at the same shit for nearly two decades, and still you felt like you were the absolute best at it. Sure, you weren’t top of the class (probably not even close) but your professors loved you and other students made the effort to know your name. You weren’t the obnoxious teacher’s pet, nor were you class clown, but people acknowledged your existence, which was honestly more than you could ever ask for.

It was moments like these when you thought twenty thousand a year (all in loans!) might have been worth it; you were talking with your professor—whom you called Kyle with the ease of an old friend—after class about some nonsense that had happened over the weekend, about the movies you had watched recently, and about school.

You felt a strange bittersweetness as he began to talk about your undergraduate thesis again, bringing up all the regalia that your presentations entailed. Maybe he noticed your sudden hesitation at the topic, because he stopped speaking and hummed.

“You’ve already started working on it, haven’t you?” It was a confirmation, but there was still a layer of trepidation to his voice you couldn’t decipher. You nodded, but it didn’t disappear. “You’re far more prepared than the others.”

“I’ve been thinking about this since sophomore year,” you confessed. “It’s nerve wracking, thinking about the presentation, but I like the topic.”

“When you blurted out your thesis during the first meeting, I think everyone wanted to kill you,” he laughed. “But as I’ve gotten to know you, I’m not surprised at all. You always know what you want.”

There was a lull then—a moments hesitation where you wanted to bluntly correct Kyle and tell him that you didn’t actually know what you wanted, but the words wouldn’t come out. Instead you smiled, and took that silence as a good place as any to end the conversation and quickly walk out of the room as the reality of your situation crashed back into you.

Staring at the tiles beneath your feet, you tried not to trip over your own mental leaps. Everything came folding in on itself as you thought of the upcoming semesters like the end of an era; the last of your eighteen years of education. Anxiety crept up your spine like a chill, and you felt yourself gripping your books tighter to keep from shaking.

And them something jammed into your shoulder, hard, the books in your hand spilling all over the floor. You grumbled to yourself, thinking you’d clumsily walked into a wall, but then you heard “Um, hello?”

Fear struck your heart as you turned to face someone: a boy, looking at you with knotted brows and his arms open with the expectation of an apology. Your fear turned to annoyance as you studied details like his tiny, low ponytail, his navy-blue blazer and the copy of The Sound and The Fury clutched in his hand.

You looked back at his face, painted with clear annoyance and spat out a half-assed, “sorry,” topped with a fake smile. His animosity was near palpable as he heel turned and kept walking, leaving you to pick up your things alone. You muttered under your breath angrily.

“Asshole, English Major Prick.”

* * * *

It was ironic to call the boy you’d bumped into earlier an asshole, considering who you spent your time with.

Your Monday/Wednesday afternoon schedule ended with a late as hell lunch with some old friends. Emphasis on old, because you were pretty sure after your major switch you had nothing in common with these men anymore.

“And what I’m telling you,” Tony Stark punctuated with a wave of his hands, “is that there’s no way Beck’s design would even theoretically work, let alone should Dr. “MIT graduate” allow him to continue with this completely doomed to fail idea.” He pointedly took a bite of the (likely now cold) pasta he’d spent ten minutes raving over before spitting it out onto a napkin. “God, what the fuck is up with this cafeteria?”

“Maybe if you would shut up for ten seconds, your food would still be warm.” You never had any clue what the self-proclaimed genius was ever talking about. It was a wonder you considered him a friend still, but even his annoying tendencies couldn’t break the brotherhood you all had from sharing the shittiest dorm on campus freshman year. You felt like you still owed Tony a debt for killing that roach in your shower all those years ago.

“I agree with Y/N, for once.” You side eyed Strange, wondering if there was some sort of punchline, but then he gave a nod of solidarity. “You’ve been complaining about this guy non-stop.”

“Beck is just,” Tony banged his fists on the table, shaking every one of your trays. “So infuriating. Y/N, how did you ever fuck this guy?”

“Stop,” Bruce says, his arms hovering over his drink and other objects that might fall over. “Tony, I’m begging you to let this go.”

“See, even Bruce admits he’d tired of this. Can we move on please?”

“Oh? Tired of me bring up your ex in front of your ex?”

“Tony, knock it off,” Bruce warned, but there was no threat in his voice. Tony dropped the subject, but still looked at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Or do you have any exciting developments in…what is it you do again?”

You threateningly held out your fork towards the engineering major and he flinched. “I’m about to major in murder if you don’t Shut. Up.”

The three science majors stopped their babbling and hurriedly shoveled their food into their mouths. You sighed into your cup of powered lemonade. While you were used to Tony’s jabs, he was right: your future felt inconsequential next to their aspirations. But you would be damned if you let either him or Stephen Strange know that you felt that way.

Bruce laced his fingers together and fidgeted for a moment. You turned to him, and he smiled nervously. “So, how’s your paper coming along?”

There was another awkward pause as you sipped your drink, trying to come up with something impressive or dramatic enough to hold their attention. And then you rolled your eyes at the thought. “Well, I’m at the part of the process where I sit in the library until my mind goes numbingly blank from staring at an empty word document or director interviews or companion books and then I go home and never sleep.” You said honestly. This earned a laugh out of Tony.

“English Majors: They’re just like us!” he joked.

“That fact that you think college majors are equivalent to high school cliques is very telling of your immaturity,” you sneer at Tony. He throws a fake smile at you—not that any of his smiles are ever real.

“Psychoanalyze me all you want, Dickinson,”—his habit of calling you whatever writer came to his mind was also telling— “But the fact is, the three of us are more like each other than we are to you. It’s just facts.”

You looked to Bruce for a moment. Like always, he was on the same wavelength as you—he averted his gaze the moment you two locked eyes. “Be that as it may, we’re still friends somehow.”

“‘Somehow’ being the operative word,” Strange spoke under his breath. You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Not my fault the three of you are giving into society’s capitalist ways and are only in it for the money.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tony says, dropping his fork in his barely touched food. He purposefully scoots his chair back with a grating noise and you wince at the sound. “Y/N, I can’t handle you when you’re like this.”

You huffed. “Now you know how we feel about you all the time.”

“I’m done with this discussion. Strangelove, Brucey,” he acknowledges his friends by their stupid nickname before rolling out. Strange sighs before following his lead, but Bruce stays put.

“He’s sensitive about that.”

You shrugged. “Then maybe he should try going into a career that helps people instead. No ones making him become a money mongering executive.”

“You know what his dad is like.”

“Yeah, rich.”

Bruce dragged his hands down his face, but there was a chuckle underneath his exasperation. “Your coldness is honestly so incredible. Aren’t writers supposed to be compassionate?”

“I am compassionate,” you stated defensively. And then, more flippantly, “Just not to rich industrialists who steal from the middle class.”

You laughed when Bruce shook his head at you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“So are you,” you said, nudging his shoulder with your own. There was nothing in the gesture, not like there used to be. “I mean, you want to be a nuclear physicist, or whatever. Ain’t nothin in that but prestige and your name on same wall.”

“You know that’s not what I want.” He used that voice, the one you’d become intimately familiar with towards the end of your relationship. “I just want to pursue something I’m passionate about. Isn’t that what you want too?”

The fruit under your fork slid out and rolled across the table. Both of your eyes followed it as it fell out of sight, and then you said nothing. Bruce sighed.

“I didn’t mean too—”

“Yeah you did.”

The buzzing of your phone jolted you two out of the tense moment. You lifted it up, seeing a message from Steve. You felt Bruce’s eyes peering over at your phone.

“You got to go?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll walk you there.”

“No, Tony’s probably waiting for you outside. He’ll just follow both of us if you don’t go with him.”

He pursed his lips, caught between a rock and a hard place. He looked up at you as you prepared to leave.

“I really didn’t mean it.”

“Even if you didn’t, you’re right.” It wasn’t hard to admit anything to Bruce, even after everything. “You’re damn good at it too.”

He tried to swallow back his bashful smile, but there was still a shimmer of it in his eyes. “You’re good at what you do, too.”

“Well, after four years, I’d fucking hope so.”

Bruce laughed through his goodbye, and you reveled in that small victory as you booked it to the art building.

* * * *

Perhaps it’s the creative part of you, but a piece of your heart fully adored that decrepit, godforsaken building. The elevator was broken, the hallways were a rotating gallery of amateur and professional projects, and it always smelled like some sort of chemical, but the building has charm.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Steve stopped in his tracks to look at you when you said that. He’d been guiding you through the labyrinth known as Bauer Hall with a well-trained quickness. He resumed it after the initial shock of your statement wore off. “You’re a real romantic, you know that?”

“I do,” you said, knowing there was no way to defend yourself from such a true statement. “But so are you.”

“There’s only so many things I can romanticize, and I have to say, Bowser Hall ain’t one of them.” You laughed through your nose at the ridiculous nickname. “Besides, I’m all romanced out.”

Steve walked through a room lined with canvases bigger than the both of you. In different corners students painted in different styles, with different elaborative brush strokes that revealed their subjects in a matter of moments. Someone’s music played from a wireless speaker, but you imagined everyone had tuned it out.

Steve lead you to his station, which was currently covered with photos of you. It was embarrassing to see yourself plastered all over his desk, but as you studied to pictures closer, you became enthralled.

“Is it narcissistic to compliment how awesome these looks?” Awesome didn’t even encapsulate the emotion. Not by a long shot. Over the summer Steve had approached you about featuring in his senior art show pieces, and you’d shot preliminary photos. He couldn’t guarantee that he’d paint you given the complexity of his idea (as well as his own perfectionism) but now he was promising that he would paint you.

So, you stared down at the photos, remembering the how he’d climbed onto your roof at night and shined a flashlight taped with blue gels through your window and you tried not to laugh. The fruits of that night where in your fingertips, and you were struck at how much more somber your face looked on a physical photo than it had on the camera that night.

“It’s not narcissistic considering Nat took the photo,” he said, leaning over your shoulder. He rummaged through the stack before he pulled out a specific picture. “I think I’m going with this one.”

“Of course you are,” you poked fun at him, but you actually did like that photo. The light that shined across your eyes was blue, but you were shrouded in a hazy purple. It was a close shot, with your hands framing the expression on your face that was equal parts haunting and beautiful. Steve had been trying to capture those hard-to-explain moments that crossed people’s faces, and yours had been the most agonizing. In his words.

“With most people it takes forever to get the shot. You got it in one.” There was veiled concern in his statement, but you’re a master of words. You drop the photo and step back from it all, looking at Steve.

“Wasn’t hard,” was all you told him. Steve took the photo and tacked it up to a ready to paint canvas.

“I’m thinking about using these two as well.” Steve handed you two other photos of different subjects, only one of which you really know.

“When’d you take this?” You flipped over the photo Sam, his face caught precisely between elation and realization. Steve took it gingerly before sitting back on his stool. You wished he could paint the look of utter longing that plagued his own blue eyes.

“He got the deployment letter that morning,” Steve explained. His voice was low as he talked through the lump in his throat. “I asked him to pose for me, because I knew when I saw his face that I wanted to capture whatever the hell it was I just saw.”

“He’s used to being your guinea pig. I’m sure he liked knowing he’s the inspiration for your project.”

“He’ll probably hold it over my head ‘till I die,” Steve managed a laugh, but it was hollow. The sigh he took afterwards could have cracked his ribs.

“It’ll be a great gift, you know? A huge photo of his favorite thing—himself.” His laugh this time was slightly more genuine. You’d have to take it.

“Who’s this?” You showed Steve the second photo, one of a man whose face was marred with the shadow of blinds, his eyes looking back as if it pained him to. Nat was a wonderful photographer, and Steve had an amazing vision, but you knew Steve well enough to know that whoever this was, the look was all his own.

“Oh, that’s Buck,” he said easily, and you lean forward as a gesture to elaborate. “Bucky, my best friend?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

“Hmm. You probably don’t know him because he was in Prague the semester we became friends.” Steve had been part of your freshman dorm nightmare, but he lived on a different floor than the rest of you. You didn’t get to know him until you realized Nat was a mutual friend.

“Did he spend a whole year there?” You leaned forward and stared at the picture, trying to find any recollection of this guy. “Cause it’s been like, a year since then.”

“No, but he did have an internship when he came back, I’d forgotten about that.”

You dropped the photo, feeling jealousy prickle down your arms. “Wow. Busy guy.”

“He tries to keep himself busy. Otherwise he looks like that all the time.” You understood the implication. You pinned the photos next to each other and contemplated just how Steve was going to recreate them in all their glory. He seemed to have the same thought, because he ran a hand through his hair.

“It really will take me all semester, but I’m excited.” He bounced on his feet. “I think I’ve found my thing.”

“Your thing?”

“Yeah, my niche, I guess,” he shrugged, but his excitement was contagious. “It’s good to be excited about something again.”

“I’m glad you love your project, because it’s going to turn out amazing,” you assured him.

“Thanks. I started Sam’s painting already and it wore me out. I think I’ll start on Buck’s next. Sorry,” he shot you an apologetic grin. “I’m just tired of looking at the same colors.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me for anything,” you said earnestly. “I totally get it. In fact, I think I’ve taken a long enough break on my own work.” You backed away from the blank canvas and glossy photos, feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. “It’s no masterpiece, but.”

“Hey, your writing is always incredible. I read that paper you wrote about the mis-en-scene of Art Cinema.” He recited with your work with such ease, it made you blush. “You’re really good at writing., Y/N.”

“You remembered.” You tried to laugh off the little swell of pride in your chest. “You’re sweet, Steve, but this is a lot more than a three-page writeup.”

“If it’s yours, it’ll be great. What’s your thesis again?”

“The politics of monster movie horror films.” When you told him, Steve shook his head with a proud grin.

“See? That’s brilliant!”

“It’s been done before—”

“Everything’s been done before. But you haven’t done this. You’re smart, you love movies, and you’re the most well rounded, analytical person I know. You’ve got this.”

You wanted to run back and give him the clingiest hug of your life, but instead you swung bashfully on the doorframe. “Thank you for your support, Steve, but I have to at least write it first.”

He waved you off. “Fine. Go, be great.”

You felt something unidentifiable rise in your stomach as you left, the knot only growing bigger and bigger until you reached the library. You wanted to exhale it out of your chest as you pushed the up button in the elevator, but it stayed stuck in your throat instead. You decided to leave it be as you settled into one of the plastic cubicles on the third floor, your home for the foreseeable future.

* * * *

Anxiety. That had been the feeling.

It gnawed at your stomach and in return you gnawed at your lip, thinking about Steve’s success as an artist and Bruce’s summer spent applying to grad schools. The future was in sight for both of them while yours was blocked by your laptop screen, showing you the three pages you had done out of the twenty you needed.

Angrily, you slammed the computer screen down and shoved it into your bag. The buzzing overhead light made red spots dance in your eyes even when you closed them, so you figured it was time for a break.

And by “break”, you meant spending the fifteen minutes between your apartment and the library trying to reword the sentence that had been bugging you over and over again. You were so out of it that when you opened your apartment door you were in shock of all the people sitting in your living room, despite having seen all their cars parked out in front.

Someone’s greeting went whizzing by you, but it’s only after the door slammed shut did you piece together that it was Pietro. The rest of the group chorused “Hi Y/N” with varying levels of enthusiasm.

“Hey, sorry they’re so loud,” Wanda pulled her cardigan close when she crossed her arms, smiling uncertainly at you. “I won’t have them here too late.”

“Nah, they’re fine,” you brushed off, slipping out of your uncomfortable shoes. You hated the fall—it always encouraged your terrible habit of style over function. “I’m just here for a quick costume change then it’s back to the ol’ grind.”

Normally Wanda would chuckle at your ridiculous phrases, but she creased her brows when she continued talking. “Actually, we were thinking of grabbing some food. Pietro’s bulking, or doing some other stupid diet and Viz thought we could go back to the diner. You know, the one on the corner of 11th?”

Oh, you knew the 11th street diner. It was the premier spot; you’d been there on dates, 21st birthdays, celebrated there after long arduous projects, and gorged on fries after movie marathons with Peter. The sheer mention of the diner was enough to make you swoon, and Wanda was likely exploiting that weakness.

So, when you sighed, her eyes lit up. “I’m sorry,” you said, watching as her shoulders deflated. Your heart broke at the sight. “I have to work on this paper. It’s—”

“Your senior thesis, I know, but. Y/N when was the last time you ate?”

You had the audacity to look defensive. “I ate with Bruce and Tony earlier today.”

“I saw Bruce and I asked him. He said you only ate a bowl of fruit and some lemonade.”

Snitch. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“You need to take a break from your work or you’re going to burn out.”

The sound that came out of your mouth was harsh and condescending. “I’m already a burnout, Wanda. I’ll be fine. Have fun at the diner.” You dodged the rest of her questions by slipping into your room and closing the door. As you hurried into a sweatshirt and old jeans, you heard the gang walk out of the house and leave you in silence. You checked to see if the apartment was empty before grabbing your things and locking up.

You planned on daydreaming the rest of the way back to the library, but the sound of a bicycle following you made your hair stand on end. When you turned to see who it was, you relaxed the grip on your pepper spray.

“Fucking hell, Parker,” you chastised as the teenager as he hopped off his bike and came up to walk beside you. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You looked like you were going to shank me,” he laughed, falling into stride with you. Regardless of his own destination, Peter would always ditch his own path to walk with you, day or night. The night part was incredibly sweet and chivalrous. “Where are you going anyways?”

“Library,” you said curtly. You were tired of explaining yourself. “You?”

“Came back from MJ’s, I’m heading home.” Peter still lived on campus due to his scholarship, and frankly, you were a little envious. It would be amazing to live seven minutes from the library again.

“How is the new girlfriend?” The smile in your voice made Peter roll his eyes.

“MJ’s fine. She’s in abnormal psych and she hates it because it’s too basic for her.”

“Ugh, yeah I took that class. But it’s a prerec for—”

“Psychopathology,” you two said simultaneously. “She told me.”

“If she wants, she can have my old notes from the class.”

Peter quirked his brow. “You still have them?”

You shrugged. “I keep all my old notebooks.”

“Why?”

The question was simple, but you felt yourself pondering the answer for longer than you’d care to admit. Why did you keep all that old stuff? You never went back and studied any of it, so it was essentially junk. Yet you treasured it like a childhood keepsake.

“I don’t know,” you lied, completely aware that you felt exposed by Peter’s question and embarrassed by the real answer. “I thought they’d come in handy one day. Looks like I was right.”

Peter looked at you, and it struck you how similar the expression was to the one Bruce had given you earlier. When he’d asked you about passion and doing what you wanted.

He seemed to drop the topic, because when he opened his mouth again, he said, “I don’t think she needs it, considering how much she loves that kind of stuff, but thanks for offering.”

You only hum in acknowledgment, spending the rest of your walk together listening to the cars passing by and the soft clicks of Peter’s bike chains; sounds that had plagued you since sophomore year.

After this year, you’d never hear them again.

You bit your lip to keep from sighing. Peter would surely ask you what was wrong, but you couldn’t admit all this to him. He had way too much on his plate, between his honors scholarship, his biochemistry major and his job running the Photo Lab, it was a wonder he even spent time with you.

There was no way to tell Peter you missed him without spilling your guts, and you were too tired and too scared to say it. So instead you made a joke when you parted ways, and spent too much time in your head worrying about what you should’ve said.

And if you’d been paying attention instead, you wouldn’t have bumped into someone for the second time that day. This time the person had spilled all their books, a large stack of hardbacks that scattered in the doorway.

“Oh, shit, I’m so sorry,” you said, not looking them in the eye. You crouched down to help them pick up their books, but when you placed The Essentials of Faulkner into someone’s hand, you looked up.

The blue eyes were soft on yours for a brief moment before recognition sparked in them. The man furrowed his brows before standing to his full height, which towered over you even when you stood too.

“You again,” he said, arrogance still pronounced. The English Major Prick.

Your blood pressure seemed to spike with anger. “Hey, I said I was sorry.”

“I’m mostly just shocked at my odds,” he said. “I must be the unluckiest person in this whole university to get knocked over by the same spaced-out girl twice.”

“One,” you glared, “I didn’t knock you over, my shit fell the first time. Second of all, you could also avoid me, ya know.”

“Oh, so this is my fault?”

“Hey,” a third party cut through your arguing. Someone walked around you two, flicking his middle finger at the both of you. “People have to fucking walk here.”

“Mind your business, asshole!” you whisper-yelled, and at the same time the English Major Prick said “Take a fucking hike, buddy!”

You were about to stare at him, but he was already disappearing into the pitch blackness. You shook off the encounter and headed back up to your regular post on the third floor.

Determined to actually get farther than before, you treaded through the floor stacks, searching up and down for the theory books you needed. One such book you found on your first stop, flipping through the index to find the pages you were looking for. A flash of blue caught your eye, and marked all over the page was the mysterious handwriting, like in the books from before.

“Huh,” you said, wondering what the odds were that you had checked out the exact same books as this person. It was unbelievable, and quite fantastical, if you were honest, but here it was; their handwriting in your hands once again.

“I wonder if I’ll find you, mystery person,” you lamented, before closing the book and carrying on.

* * * *

Weeks passed by in a similar haze: you would spend your days pretending to take notes while in reality you were highlighting sentences in articles, re-wording paragraphs and rearranging structures in your head. Mid-terms came and went, stringing you out even further. Time was unraveling at the seams, only stitching itself together when you needed to know what day it was or where to be.

Everyone around you seemed to be planning for something though; whether it was grad school or lining up jobs, or even something as simple as graduation, their eyes were on some far away prize while you could barely visualize waking up the next day.

Kyle noticed this. “You look awful,” he’d said, after he begged you to stay and talk after class. You rolled your eyes.

“Is that all you wanted?”

“No,” he said pointedly. “But it is concerning. You’ve been working on your paper?”

‘Working’ was both an understatement and a gross misuse. “I’ve been staring at the screen wondering why it doesn’t sound like I know it can.”

“That’s the dilemma of the author,” Kyle chuckled, but you were too numb to respond. “Tell you what. When you come in for your advising,”—he put emphasis on the word because he knew you hadn’t signed up for a time slot yet— “bring your essay and I’ll edit it. Sound fair?”

“You know it’s still a first draft,” you whined, mostly to hide the dread that bubbled in your throat.

“I know, and I expect it to be rough. But I know you’ve been working hard, so let me help you out. Please.” He added the extra please to sweeten the deal, and it had worked. Which is how you ended up outside of his office, contemplating which spot to take when something caught your eye.

It was blue ink, the m’s and n’s nothing but little scribbles, the capitol J hanging well below the line. It was familiar, so familiar that you fumbled around in your backpack for the research book you’d been carrying around with you, the one that held mystery persons notes.

You held up the defaced text, looking between the scrawl on the page and the name written on the line. It was exact match down to the ink, and you gasped in elation.

“I found you,” you whispered, making a squeal of delight. “I actually found you, James Buchanan.” You squinted, reading the name in the slot. Your excitement died down as you tapped your finger to your lips.

The name didn’t ring any bells. You didn’t expect that you would know the mystery writer, but the fact was, you shared an advisor. You pressed your fingers to the name as if it would disappear before your eyes.

“You complicate things,” you told it, as if somehow, they could hear you, feel you. Maybe they could.

“I’m no shrink, but talking to pieces of paper is definitely on the spectrum of insanity.”

His voice couldn’t scare you, even if it was so sudden. An office door closed, and Thor looked at you in amusement. He looked better than you last remembered, considering you hadn’t seen him since he had told his father—the college professor—he was dropping out.

“What are you doing here?” you straightened up, facing him with a beaming smile. He mirrored the expression.

“Talking to dear old dad about some things,” he took a few steps way from what you presumed was his father’s office. “Checking in on Loki.”

“How is the snake these days? Haven’t heard from him since you left.”

“I suppose there really is no reason for Loki to speak to any of you anymore.” Thor side eyed you. “Not that he shouldn’t.”

Thor’s departure had been a curveball in your sitcom-esque life up until that point. He was the connective tissue in your helter-skelter friend group; smart, compassionate and charming, he’d taken all of you out of your fussy shells and made you relax in ways you didn’t even realize you needed to.

And then, just like that, he was written out, and in his absence the void grew and grew until you didn’t feel like friends with anyone anymore.

It hadn’t been Thor’s fault. He’d done it for himself, and you were proud of him. You just wished it didn’t make things so goddamn complicated. So different.

You couldn’t dump that on Thor. “Yeah, well, he’s probably busy freaking out over the LSAT to even remember we exist.”

“God, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!” Thor laughed. “I have all these videos of him cramming and falling asleep on the dinner table. I once picked him up and put him back in bed and Hela filmed the whole thing.”

“Shut up,” you said, a maniacal grin forming on your face. “Odinson, don’t lie to me.”

He wasn’t lying. The two of you laughed loudly in the hallways as you watched Thor lift Loki like he was a little girl into his arms and proceed to walk through their house, Hela snickering behind them. You were bracing yourself against a wall trying not to howl, while Thor held no such qualms about letting his booming laughter fill the silence.

It registered somewhere between your fourth gasp for air and Thor’s winding down laughter that someone had opened a door. And then, in a low, pointed voice they said, “Hey, people are trying to study in this lounge.”

You tried to hold back your laughter, but Thor’s insistent giggling kept a smile on your face. “Sorry,” you said behind your hand. “We didn’t realize—”

The smile slipped off your face when you looked up, seeing the angry pout of the English Major Prick staring back at you. His eyes glanced between you and Thor, leaned cozily up against a wall and laughing at something private. Embarrassment coiled in your stomach.

“Didn’t realize the lounge was right there. Sorry.” You averted your eyes. Thor had stopped laughing at this point, turning to you with an expectant look. You nodded and waved goodbye, noting the look he gave the English Major Prick as he walked past him.

And then he turned his accusatory stare back to you. “Was that Thor Odinson?”

“Yeah?”

“I thought he dropped out.”

“So what if he did?”

“What’s he doing hanging around the English department?”

You crossed your arms. “His father is a professor here, smartass.”

“Oh.” All his malice seeped out as his shoulders deflated. The two of you stood awkwardly facing one another. It had been a long time since you’d bumped into him that day (twice), but you’d started to see his face everywhere. Out of the corner of your eye in the stairwell or sitting on a table in the school café you’d catch brunette hair and distant, sad eyes.

They were never that way when he looked at you. It was probably the anger.

“Read any Faulkner, lately?”

You wanted to fucking die. It was lame as hell, but he didn’t seem like he was leaving anytime soon and you just had to break this tense air.

“What?”

“Every time I see you, you’re reading Faulkner.”

He looked away for a moment and you banged your head against the wall when. You muttered stupidstupidstupid to yourself while he chuckled.

“You’re paying too much attention to me, mystery girl.”

The nickname made you perk up you head. “Mystery girl?”

It was his turn to look embarrassed. “Uh, yeah,” he stammered. “That’s what I’ve been calling you in my head.”

He seemed to realize what he’d said too late. You sucked in a breath to calm down the nerves that felt like they were frying all over your body. “You think about me, huh?” It didn’t sound cheeky like you wanted it to—it sounded almost hopeful.

“You left quite an impression on me. Literally, my shoulder is bruised.”

You hummed. “Better than what I’ve been calling you in my head.”

“Oh, and what’s that?”

“Oh, you really don’t want to know, buddy.”

He was out of the lounge now, leaning on the door frame and fully facing you. “But I really, really do.”

You smiled down at the ground, partly because you were about call this boy a prick to his face, but also because he was smiling at you for once, and he looked rather sweet when he curled his hair behind his ears.

“English Major Prick.” His eyebrows shot into his hair and you had to put your hand over your mouth to stop laughing. “I told you you didn’t want to know.”

“No, no, it’s—” he scuffed his shoes against the ground. They were well shined oxfords with scuff marks on the very tips. “I deserve that.”

“So, we finally agree on something.”

The bashful smile he gave was infectious. “Well, I’d prefer you not refer to me as that.”

“Who says I’ll be referring to you at all?”

“Well, you do think about me.”

It shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did, considering you knew he did the same. And yet your reaction was textbook flustered. “I mean—”

“Bucky.”

“What?”

“My name,” he continued. “It’s Bucky. Bucky Barnes.”

Oh shit. Oh no. “You’re Steve’s friend?” It came out as a question because you were suddenly terrified. You had been off-handedly telling Steve about this guy for the better part of the semester and now you knew he was his best friend but you were also—no, you were not falling for this guy you barely knew.

But you did feel something in this stupid little interaction. Especially when you saw a new expression on his face—surprise.

“You know Stevie?” Stevie. Cute.

“Yeah, he’s—I, huh.” You took a minute to gather your thoughts. He was patient about it. “I modeled for him? You know, for his senior exhibition.”

Something crossed his face before he said, “Oh,” in a tone that was supposed to be surprise, but sounded like something else. “You’re the girl he’s painting.”

God, this could not be any more complicated. “Yeah, I am.”

The conversation came to a full stop, and from behind Bucky a familiar bearded face popped out, looking for him. “Hey, Barnes, don’t leave me hang—” Quentin Beck’s entire face went pale when he saw you, muttering out a “sorry,” before disappearing into the lounge.

Bucky whirled around, and you didn’t expect the wide eyes he gave you. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get Quentin to shut up?”

You snorted and he shushed you, but it was no use. The two of you broke into suspicious giggles, trying desperately to be quiet.

“It’s a long story. One you don’t have time for. Quentin will set this building on fire if you don’t pay attention to him.”

Bucky bounced his shoulders against the wall. “You’re probably right.”

You stood there dumbly for a moment, not meeting one another’s gazes until Bucky cleared his throat.

“I guess, um, I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.” You turned around on your heels so you wouldn’t have to see him anymore, but also to hide the stupid, childish grin you got from thinking about bumping into him again.

* * * *

You found yourself thinking about Bucky Barnes at the most inopportune, and rather inappropriate times.

You were never going to make a move on him; he was smart and well rounded and Steve’s best friend, three things that intimidated you into only confessing your feelings in drawn out day dreams. In your head he would always say yes, but there were many other discrepancies between your head and real life.

For example, in your head your essay was a masterpiece, but on paper you weren’t so sure.

A strange assembly of people sat around your table to read your magnum opus: Nat, Bruce, Wanda, MJ and Pete all flipped through the copies of your first fifteen pages, highlighting and scratching in notes. You had decided to stay with them and answer any initial questions, but it got very quiet very quickly as they became absorbed with your writing.

To keep from bursting with anxiety, you’d let your mind drift, thinking of the earlier days when this might have been a dinner party, or maybe even one of Tony’s house parties. And then you remembered that Steve had been to those too, but on the peripheral of everyone else. And if Bucky was his best friend, he must have been on the fringe as well. What it would have been like if you’d known him then…

Their insistent chittering interrupted your daydream, so you engaged them by saying “Something you want to share with the class? Peter, MJ?”

Peter shrank back at your raised eyebrows while MJ’s bored look persisted. “I was just telling him that I think your topic has been done before.”

You instantly remembered why the younger girl intimidated you so much. MJ seemed to read your face, because she continued: “I like your take on it though. You break it down in new ways, but you don’t dumb it down for your readers.”

“Okay, okay,” you repeated. There was nothing you could do with praise except keep your paper the way it was, but that wouldn’t help you write the remaining pages. “Everyone else? Thoughts?”

Nat kept scribbling down something in the margins while she spoke, never looking at you. “Your argument is well thought out, and your choice of movies reflects it really well.” She added one last embellishment before smiling up at you; small and genuine, but gone in a flash. “I might even add in one more film if you can.”

You breathed out to keep your elation under control. Had you seriously pulled this off? And so far away from the deadline? “You think so? Like the theory doesn’t feel like an afterthought?”

“Not at all. It feels like you’ve developed it pretty well. It’s solid.” Bruce complimented. His smile was warm and there was a twinkle in his eyes when he slid your paper back to you. “It’s a pretty good paper.”

The elation disappeared, replaced with a cold rush of fear. “Is that all? It’s just good?”

Your panic must have been alarming, because everyone tripped over themselves to console you.

“I like the part where you call the films low-key racist.”

“Thanks, MJ.”

“Yeah, you picked some good movies. You should use Jurassic Park.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a monster movie,” Peter explained this like you were stupid, and hadn’t just write fifteen pages on the ethics of monster movies.

“It doesn’t, it’s not—”

“It doesn’t work. No one wanted to fuck the T-Rex, Peter.”

“Can we focus on my theory and NOT on fucking T-Rex’s?”

Wanda came to your rescue. “Y/N, the theory is sound. It’s a well-constructed paper, with very minor issues—”

You wanted to tear out your hair. “What issues? You guys haven’t said anything!”

“Hey, hey,” Bruce came out of his seat and walked around you, placing his hands on your shoulders. Your short breaths became a sigh as you let him soothingly rub out the tension. You hadn’t been this close to Bruce in a long time, not since you two broke up sophomore year. But he could still read your anxiety like a book.

“Calm down. We know this paper is important to you.”

“I won’t graduate without it.”

“But you did a great job.” The occupants of the room smiled at you, and they felt honest. “You picked us to read it because we wouldn’t lie to you, right?”

You nodded. Bruce really did know you well.

“This is a great paper. Your teacher will love it.”

Bruce had never lied to you, but it didn’t mean he was infallible.

Kyle had a strange look on his face while he read your paper. A couple of times you’d broken away from your daydreams (usually about Bucky—you really did think about him in your worst times) and caught him whispering questions to himself or underlining furiously. You caught words being written in bold red ink and your heart dropped out of your stomach.

“Y/N this is,” he started, but was unable to finish. “It’s rough.”

“It’s my second draft, Kyle.”

“I know,” he was trying to use a calmer voice, but he was strained. “But it’s very early, and if you go back and fix some things, I think it’ll make more sense.”

“It doesn’t even make sense?!”

“Hey.” His tone was firm against your hysterical whine. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

His hands were laced across his desk as he looked to you pointedly. Your words died in your throat. There wasn’t anything you could tell him, there was no reason your draft was shitty. It was all you, all in your head, everywhere except on the page where it needed to be.

When you didn’t answer Kyle sighed. “You know you’re one of my favorite students, right?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“No, it does matter.” He was offended, you could hear it. Offended, concerned, and angry.

“You’ve never gotten higher than an A- on your papers. Not in my class. But you’re extremely smart and I know you can read my comments, so I’m just wondering why you think it’s okay to waste my time—and your hard work—not changing your essays when I tell you to.”

You felt like a scolded child. Tears pricked in your eyes, but you held it together. Just not enough to speak.

“Everything is here, but it feels like you’re holding back. Like you can’t see the bigger picture, and that’s not like you. So, I’m asking you, right now, why you’re afraid to put everything in this essay.”

“I—” your voice was thick with emotion. He knew you were on the brink of collapsing, and he sat back, defeated.

“This paper isn’t the same as all the others. You can’t get an A- and go. As you go farther in academia things change, and you have to step it up. You’re a senior, Y/N.”

“What if I don’t want to be?”

You weren’t sure how that thought slipped out of your mouth, but Kyle sat up when it registered to him what you’d said.

“That’s just how it is. Are you…are you scared of that?”

Your heart rattled in your chest. The obviousness of his accusation hit you like a freight train, and Kyle could tell he was right.

“Y/N,” he started, but you stood abruptly, snatching the paper off his desk. “Y/N, wait.”

“I’m sorry, professor, Kyle, I just—” you left it at that before bolting, shooting down the stairs and storming out of the building. The tears came dripping down your face and you crumpled, breathing heavily like you’d never had air before.

It was utterly humiliating. Passerbys would look at you and remark in hushed tones, avoiding you like the plague. You wanted to scream about how normal this breakdown was, but it didn’t feel normal.

He’d seen through you like glass and shattered you twice as easily. Everything was raining down too fast, and there was no way to stop it.

You were shaking so hard that when a hand came to rest on your shoulder you hardly felt it. “Whoa, Y/N?” came Peter’s warm, boyish voice. “Hey, hey what happened?”

He slid next you, curling his arm around your back and forcing you to lean on him. You did so with very little protest. His heart beat was steady as he coddled you, and through bleary eyes you could see Ned Leeds squatting to look you in the eye.

“Hey, do you want to talk about it?” His voice was so soft, like he was talking to a baby. The thought made you laugh.

“I’ll be fine in a minute. I’ll just, bounce back up and it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

“You don’t have to pretend, Y/N.”

“Yes, I do Peter,” you sighed, feeling another round of tears prick at your red rubbed eyes. “I have to, or else everything will come fucking crashing down—”

“Hasn’t it already?”

The statement pierced through your sobs like an arrow and you glared at Peter. Even through watery eyes you managed to take him aback.

“I’m not going to sit here and have you fucking patronize me, Parker!”

“Fine then, let’s go somewhere else.”

“Like where?”

Peter didn’t exactly smile, but his mischievous look was enough to ground you. “Somewhere the entire campus can’t see you have a breakdown.”

* * * *

Now that winter was approaching, the sunsets crept up earlier and earlier until by 7 pm the sun was already set, and twilight brought out the first twinkle of stars. Peter led the way up the scaffolding stairs to the sloped roof of the creative sciences building, despite having the afterhours key.

“I wanted the nostalgia of sneaking up here,” he told you, tossing his backpack over the highest point of the building and hauling himself up. The two of you helped Ned and the walked over to the best vantage point on the entire campus.

This far from the city, and with the lights out in most of the buildings you could see the stars wink into existence. It felt like lifetimes had past since you were last up here—it was Thor and Valkyrie who’d imparted this knowledge on you and you’d kept it confined within your friend group ever since.

The three of you laid down, backpacks under your heads like pillows. The only sounds were of the wind in your ears or the cars down below. You breathed deep to clear your lungs, and you hiccupped out your last sob.

“My professor says I’m afraid of change.”

There was a shift on either side of you as Peter and Ned simultaneously sat up and stared.

“He said that?” Ned asked incredulously. “Like, to your face?”

“No; he kind of asked me, I guess? I don’t know. He fucking read me.”

“Are you scared?”

Peter’s voice was as uncertain as you felt. No, that was a lie—you’d know this for quite some time now. You closed your eyes, letting it all wash over you.

“I wish we could stay like this forever.”

“You mean crying over a paper that’s worth all of your grade and contemplating jumping off a roof?”

You laughed outwardly and loudly at Ned’s response. “No. Well, Maybe.”

“Elaborate.”

“I want to always be in college. It’s been the most stressful, chaotic, stupid crazy time of my life and I just,” you opened your eyes to face the truth. “I don’t want to give it up. I don’t want to leave all of you, some of us scattered in the wind, the rest of you left behind. I want us to stay like this forever: sitting on the roof and counting the stars and pointing out constellations we don’t even know the name of. Laughing in the diner until midnight and screaming on the streets every time we jaywalk. Drunken house parties, movie marathons. This era, forever.”

There was a moment of silence after your confession, and you dragged your hand down your face. “Sorry, that was—”

“That was sooo poetic,” Ned told you, reveling in your embarrassment. “How long have you been holding that in?”

“Y/N,” Peter said seriously. “You can’t just fail your classes and bomb your senior thesis and stay in college forever.”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

“You sure? Because it’s all going according to plan.”

“Peter, what if I’m not ready to leave?” You sat up to face him. “I’ve been going to school my entire life, and now I’m just supposed to walk out and be an adult? I never thought I’d even make it past the age of sixteen, let alone do all this! What if I can’t do it?”

“You think any of your friends are ready? You think Bruce, or Wanda or Steve are just, full fledged adults, ready to take on the world?”

They hadn’t even occurred to you. The mention of them felt like a slap in the face.

“God, for someone so smart, you’re really stupid. None of us are ready for whatever the hell is out there. We never were!” His voice had that pain in it, the one that shouldn’t belong to someone so young. “We all wish it could be crazy fun teen shit all the time, but we have to move forward. And we have to do it together, so we don’t leave each other behind. That means you have to move on.”

“Damn,” you let his words sink in. “When did you get so wise?”

“Sophomore year,” he said precisely. “When I had a mental breakdown over chem class and you told me the exact same thing.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You told me that the crying and the failing happened to everyone, but that I couldn’t dwell on it and stay stagnant. I had to be the best version of my myself, and that included moving forward from my mistakes.”

You remembered that moment. Peter had been curled up against the wall of his tiny, dirty dorm room and you, Bruce and Tony had coaxed him out with the promise of ice cream and you knew for the first time in your life that you always wanted those boys in your life. You smiled at Peter.

“Sneaky trick, Parker.”

“I learned from the best.”

Your phone buzzed against the roof and you picked it up before it rattled off the edge. Wanda had called three times, and she was calling again.

“Hello?”

“Where are you? Peter said you were crying?”

You shot a look over at the brunette and he played dumb. “Yeah, I was.”

“Well I was worried about you! You usually come home and change by now, or at least tell me you’ll be late but…” her voice morphed into concern. “What happened?”

You didn’t want to be at home right now. In fact, you didn’t want this night to be like all the others—with you laying in bed until your mind finally shut down. You turned to Peter and Ned and mouthed a question, to which they nodded vigorously.

“Hey Wanda, I was thinking we could get some food and catch up. Say, 11th Street Diner?”

She grappled for words before giving a snort of disbelief. “You’re a heart attack, you know that?”

“Meet me at 8.”

* * * *

Wanda had brought everyone—and by everyone you meant her usual motley crew of Clint Barton, Nat, her boyfriend and her brother. They were all wreaking havoc in different sections of the diner: Pietro, Peter and Ned were outside filming skateboarding tricks while Vision was taking his sweet time picking something at the jukebox. Nat and Clint had taken seats at the bar to get their food faster, leaving you and Wanda sipping your shared milkshake. Strawberry, like you both liked.

“Wanna hear a secret?”

“Tell me.”

You two used to do this when you realized you hadn’t talked in a while. You’d tell her something no one else knew, because she was both your roommate and the best at keeping secrets. So, you leaned over and whispered into her ear about the time you gave Quentin Beck a hand job in the corner booth of this very diner, and she sucked down her drink to keep from screaming with laughter. Or possibly disgust.

“How long have you been keeping that in?” Pink liquid still escaped her mouth and you handed her a napkin.

“Since we dated.”

“Do you regret it?”

“While I never want to do it again, no, I don’t.”

“It’s breaking the rules, but can I ask for another secret?”

You tilted your head. “‘Fraid I’m all out.”

“Not quite,” she said coyly. “What happened, when Peter said you were crying?”

You watched the ice in your drink while you swirled your straw and monotonously recounted the events of your disastrous advising meeting and the roof with Peter and Ned. Wanda’s face fell into its usual pensiveness.

“Is he right?” The question was leading, but you fell for it regardless.

“Yup. Peter and I have established that my subconscious is sabotaging my paper.”

“I always knew you’d be your own worst enemy.” She wasn’t not smug when she said it, but the sip of her milkshake is. You snatched the glass yourself and she pouted.

“You’re right, I just hate hearing people say it.”

“Well, it’s because you’re always in that big brain of yours.” She prodded her finger on your forehead, like fuckin E.T. “And your overly romantic heart.”

“God, you’re like the fourth person whose told me that.” You counted them on your fingers. “You, Bruce, Q, and Steve. That’s entirely too many.”

“Five,” Nat interrupted, walking up to your table with Clint in tow. “I’m saying it now. Also, Bucky Barnes has been staring at you for ten minutes.”

A shot of adrenaline went through your heart. “Bucky Barnes? Where?”

“He’s at the bar, alone, so I suggest you do something about it.”

Wanda looked at you expectantly, then leaned out of the booth to get a look at him. You hissed at her to stop, but her mouth curved into a satisfied grin.

“Well, he sure is handsome. I wouldn’t mind if you ditched us for him, but you’ll have to tell me the details of this later. After you properly explain the Quentin hand job thing.”

“The what now?” Nat’s stoic face broke into one of pure shock, so you found it a good a time as any to escape the tension and enter…new tension.

Bucky turned his head to act like he wasn’t overtly staring at you, but you’d caught the sight of his eyes going wide. You sat on the stool next to him and waved off the server before leaning over the counter.

“You know I can see you even though you aren’t looking at me, right?”

He seemed to be ready for the confrontation now, because when he swiveled around there was confidence painted on his face. He opened his mouth but you stopped him in his tracks.

“Actually, before you say anything, do you want to get out of here? We have an audience.”

He looked behind you to see three sets of eyes peering over the booth you’d just left. He huffed before placing exact change next to his plate and standing up. You followed suit, snatching a few fries off his plate and flipping off your friends.

When you two stood on the curb of the diner, he confessed, “I walked here, so, there’s really nowhere for us to go.”

“Oh.” You realized it was the same for you, but you tried to hide your disappointment with a smile. “That’s okay. We can walk.”

So, you did. When you told him you’d go anywhere but the library, he seemed surprised. “You like, live there.”

“So it would seem. I’m just not really in the mood to do any work tonight.”

“Oh, so it’s one of those days.” He said it so knowingly, and you realize that he is also an English major, and a senior.

“Yeah, I’ve been working on my senior thesis.”

“No shit,” he said, but without the condescension. In fact, he’d been perfectly civil. “Same here.”

He talked about how he was taking Southern Literature because it was dark and surprising. His paper was on the Southern Gothic, and how that idea had moved on to other aspects of modern American ideology. Bucky moved his hands when he talked, his broad shoulders going up and down. He was wearing a blue bomber jacket that you liked because it caught the light from the street lamps nicely.

“What’s yours on?”

“Oh,” you came out of your thoughts abruptly, unsure of what he’d said. “Well, I specifically study film—”

“That makes sense.” He blurted out, and you creased your brows.

“What do you mean?”

He hissed out something to himself. “Nothing, it’s just when you’re on third floor sometimes I see you watching the weirdest shit and I wonder ‘why is she doing that in the library?’”

It took a minute for you to fully understand the implication. “You’ve seen me around?”

He rolls his head with a laugh. “You’re hard to miss.”

This was news to you. You’d flown under the radar for quite some time, never having joined any clubs or sports people could recognize you from. You’d gotten a few compliments on your outfits in the past four years, but nothing you thought could make you known.

He was very good at making your stomach turn into a mosh pit of butterflies. You felt not exactly vulnerable, but strangely delicate around him. Like you were floating on air.

So, to quell that feeling, you replied. “I’d beg to differ.”

“I’ve seen you around the library since, what, sophomore year? You’re always on third floor, you walk in like you own the goddamn place.” He smiled down at the ground when he talks about you. It was the cutest thing in the world to watch him curl his hair behind his ear and smile at you sideways.

“You never noticed me.”

It was true, you hadn’t. “I try to pick through my memories and find you. I feel like I’m retroactively learning about you.”

“Thinking hard?” It’s an accusation you’re okay with, because he was bashful, not arrogant when he said it.

“Maybe.”

You swayed when you walked beside him, thinking you could listen to his stories for hours. At times you felt like you were boring him, because the stories of Austria and internships were large compared to your freshman dorm party memories, but he laughed like he’s never been more entertained in his life.

“I wish I’d talked to you earlier. Gotten your name from your lips before anyone else had said it to me.”

Your eyes widened. “I never told you my name?”

He shook his head, and the hair came out from behind his ears. “No. that day I told you mine, was it the first time you’d heard it?”

“Maybe. I think Steve just calls you ‘Buck’.”

“Steve talked about you first. And then when I became friends with all his adjacent buddies, they talked about you too. And then, of course, when I went back to Quentin that day, he told me.”

“God,” you groaned. “What did he say about me?”

“That you’re smart and crazy and kind. He would say your name like it was cursed and enchanted all at once.”

“And my friends call me romantic,” you rolled your eyes.

“I’ve been branded that too. But I don’t mind it so much. There’s worse things to be.”

“Like what?”

“Like an English Major Prick.” He emphasized that last consonant and you hid you face in your hands.

“You won’t let me live that one down, huh?”

“Maybe. If I like the way you say my name, I might consider it.”

There was a split second where you realized how fragile the moment was; one wrong step and it was broken on the floor like humpty dumpty. You thought of your professor pegging your fear of change. Peter’s words echoed in your brain and you felt like you were jumping off the roof when you said:

“Bucky Barnes, you smooth son of a bitch.”

He smiled, brighter than the moon. All at once, everything that was ever certain was shattered, but you leaped over it and left it behind.

* * * *

Steve called you in one last time about two weeks before the showcase. You were scribbling over the words written by the mystery writer (James, you affectionately called him) while Steve wiped sweat from his brow. And incidentally, paint in his hair.

Tapping your leg to the beat of whatever pretentious song, you were too engrossed in your ‘work’ to hear Steve say “You look happy.”

“What?” you screamed over the music.

He turned it off and sat next to you with a smug look you disliked. You pushed his face away and he only laughed, that big almost fake sound you knew was real.

“Seriously, you’re so empathic that whatever your feel, I feel. And today’s goin’ great.” He gestured to the painting that was supposed to be you, but all you saw were swirls of paint. You took this to mean things were going well.

“I don’t know,” you shrugged. “I had a rough week last week, but things are getting better.”

“Did you talk to your advisor again?”

“Yeah.” Kyle had spent the better part of an hour picking apart your thesis in ways you couldn’t have even imagined. By the end of it you’d had at least three pages worth of new material, but still a hell of a way to go. “Kyle and I worked it out.”

“That’s good. You know my advisor’s freaking out about my work? He thinks it’s too complex.”

“It’s just faces.” It sounded dumb to say, but that was the way you saw it.

Steve picked up your chin. His fingers were wet and cold with paint. “You’re not just a face, Y/N.”

“Ah!” you screamed as lilac rubs off on you. “Let me go, paint monster!”

You dropped your book into his lap as you ran around looking for the sink. Steve’s laughter subsided as he looked down, puzzled at the writing that swirled around the pages of the library book.

“Hey, Y/N?” he called out, but you’re preoccupied with wiping paint off your neck. “Y/N?”

“What?”

“Where’d you get this?”

“The library, doesn’t it say that on the spine?”

“But this hand writing,” His voice tapered off.

You exchanged the book for the rag and assessed James’ words. “I’ve been curious about it too. It was in like, all the books I checked out, isn’t that wild? And—get this—it belongs to some guy named James Buchanan, and we have the same advisor. Isn’t that crazy?”

Steve looked like he was trying to say something, but he eyes turned towards the door as someone knocked twice.

“Yo, punk? You in here?” Bucky’s voice carried into the room. When he walked in, he immediately paused, taking stock of the two of you staring at him.

“Oh,” his voice wavered and a nervous smile appeared. “Hey.”

Steve’s eyes cut to yours, and you feel immense pressure. “Hi, Bucky.”

“Hey, Buck.” Steve’s voice is a bullet, and Bucky turned to him, automatically annoyed. “Y/N has this book I think you’ve read.”

“Oh, which one?” He crossed the room in easy strides, and you were helpless in the situation you thought Steve was orchestrating. When you handed it to him his eyes lit up in recognition as he flipped through it.

“Holy shit, I really wrecked this one, huh? Good thing the university really doesn’t give a shit.”

You were having trouble processing what he’s said. Steve had gotten up wordlessly, but there was a particularly blank look on his face as he avoided your eyes. You turned back to Bucky, who was fondly reading over James’ words.

“Though Scott himself does not adhere to Weaver’s interpretation, the fact still remains that the tension between the Alien and Ripley,” he trailed off with a stunned look. “I was a regular old critic, huh?”

Your eyes nearly popped out of your skull. “You wrote that?”

He was startled at the way you raised your voice, and answered cautiously. “Yeah, like, years ago. For a film class I took.”

You reeled back at the information. You fought the urge to open your backpack and ask him if he’d written in all the other books, but that couldn’t—how could he be—

“I checked out, like, seven books from the library this semester and they all have the same handwriting in them. And then, I found out that it matched to a guy named James Buchanan—”

“Barnes,” He finished.

“What? No. That’s not what I saw.”

“That’s my name. James Buchanan Barnes.”

You sat there dumbly, your eyes narrowed in thought. There was no fucking way that he’d written in all these film books. In every single one you’d painstakingly read with romantic ideals and dreaming of who it’d belong to and how you’d meet. The fantasies were crumbling around you, leaving you in the dust.

Bucky’s face was earnest though. Steve was silent behind both of you, painting away like your worlds weren’t colliding.

“You. Okay,” you restarted. “If your name is Bucky,”

“Doll, it’s a nickname—”

“Let me finish.” You ignored the ‘doll’ part and tried to Sherlock your way through this. “If everyone you know calls you Bucky Barnes, why did you write ‘James Buchanan” on Kyle’s sign-up sheet?”

Bucky settled into the stool Steve had been sitting on. “It’s a joke between the two of us. He thinks it’s funny, so I humor him when I can.”

“Okay but, the books are companion pieces for films, I thought you were an English lit major?”

“I am, but I took Intro Film sophomore year.”

“What? With who.”

“Kyle.”

You thought back to two years ago, when you’d been new to the world of film, and you’d met Kyle for the first time. You’d aced that class with flying colors, quickly becoming one of his star students. Coincidentally, so was Quentin Beck, a cock sure boy who got into arguments over any little thing with you. The two of you were the most outspoken in the class, and you never paid much mind to anyone that wasn’t him. But there had been other people that would wait after class for a moment with the professor, and it was in those memories that you recalled him.

Brunette hair, but far shorter. Crystal blue eyes and impeccable clothes. Bucky.

“That…you were in that class? But I never—”

“You never noticed me.” His voice was resigned and so was his smile. He’d told you this before, that he’d seen you around before, but you never imagined he’d known you since sophomore year. “I remembered you from all the way back then: you had long, shiny, impeccable hair and this glint in your eye whenever you talked. Which was a lot. You could dazzle the class just by breathing. And I sat rows and rows behind you, and never spoke. There was no reason you would have ever seen me.”

There was a wavering sadness in his voice, and for a moment, Bucky looked exactly as he did in Steve’s portrait: haunted by the past, unable to fix it.

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why am I just now figuring out that you’re the boy of my dreams?”

There was music playing in the background that hadn’t been there before; a cozy, soft melody by one of Steve’s favorite artists. It matched Bucky’s breathlessness as he gazed at you with a tilted head and eyes full of hope. A far cry from just seconds before.

“What did you say?”

“I’ve been thinking about this mysterious ‘James Buchanan’ who’s written exactly what I think, and has seen all the same movies as me. And I’ve been wondering what he’s like, or if he’s nice, of if he’d ever even like me if I met him.”

A coy smile stretched across his face. “Well, what is he like?”

“He’s,” you blanked for a moment, trying to tone down all the wildly romantic thoughts you’ve been having ever since you’d met Bucky Barnes. You decided to risk it all and tell him the truth.

“He’s very smart; he reads Faulkner but think Hurston has more heart. He dresses like he already has his PhD but it looks good on him. He’s sweet but extremely romantic, which is okay because I could listen to him talk for hours. He’s a bit of a prick, though.”

He hung his head back when he laughed at the last part, and you felt your heart swell tremendously. He wasn’t mocking you. He was agreeing with you. You knew this to be true.

“Well, do you think he does like you?” Bucky suddenly became serious. He was nervous.

“I don’t know, does he?”

“Can you two just fucking kiss already?”

Bucky threw something at Steve, but you couldn’t tell what. In the moment he threw it you were laughing, but once it’s over his hand slid onto your face and pulled you into a kiss. Your eyes closed when you felt it, and he tilted his head to keep you occupied. Otherwise you would have heard Steve triumphantly yell “yes!” behind you two.

Bucky rested his forehead against yours. His blue, blue eyes were so much lovelier this close. He whispered, “I think he does.”

You kissed him quick, once, then twice, then sighed contentedly. “Good. I like him too.”

“Well I for one am happy for them.”

This time you see a wet paintbrush beam for Steve’s eye. “Less talking, more painting, punk!”

* * * *

Bucky is lost in thought when the door to Kyle’s office opened. There was a low chatter between two people and he looked up to see Kyle propped up in the door was as you spoke to him. You were dressed up nicely in a tweed coat that matched his own.

Kyle’s eyes rested on the chair Bucky sat in and he perked up in recognition. “Oh, James,” he said, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, were you waiting for me?”

“No, not you.” He stood up and brushed out the wrinkles in his shirt before coming to your side. You gave him a quick smile before turning back to your professor, whose face was openly shocked.

“Oh,” he said in a dubious, but delighted voice. “So, this is happening.”

“We’re going to the senior art exhibition to see our friend’s graduation project,” you explained, looking rather annoyed at the two men. “We’re both in one of his paintings.”

“Together?” he asked, a bit of scandal in his voice.

“No,” you droned, shutting it down. “Mind your business.”

“You’re both my advisees, this is my business.”

“Good night, Kyle,” you said pointedly, turning around and marching down the hall. Kyle sent a congratulatory wink at Bucky, who acknowledged it with a salute.

As he caught up with you, he handed back a thick essay, riddled with blue ink and yellow highlighter. You added it to another similar essay, one with exclamation points and significantly less marks.

“How’d he like it?” Bucky made conversation as you two trekked across campus. Winter made the nighttime seem even darker, but the two of you glowed underneath the street lamps.

“He loved it. Said it was infinitely better, and then apologized for the millionth time for making me cry.”

“What did he say about the part about Ripley and the Alien?”

You shot him that crazy grin, the one that looked unbelievably beautiful as you approached the traffic lights. Your face was highlighted in red and Bucky thought of the painting you two were about to witness.

“He didn’t say a thing. I should have cited you on that.”

“I’m not a published writer.”

“I know. But one day when you are, I can tell people I gave you your start.”

Bucky laughed, mostly to keep his heart from beating out of his ribcage. Crazy, crazy girl.

You two entered the exhibition hall and traded your backpacks for flutes of fake champagne. The room was lighted lowly, the works of art brandished with bright lights to show off their artistry. You two walked through still life paintings and abstract canvases, marveling some he understood and other’s that made him think.

“Art’s not my forte,” he confided. You hummed, taking a lofty sip.

“Mine either. But they’re gorgeous.”

You floated down the hall as if pulled by a string, and Bucky noticed what you were hung up on.

Steve’s paintings were hanging in a trapezoid shape, and when you walked closer, they seemed to engulf you in color. To your left was Sam and to your right was Bucky, but you stared dead ahead at yourself.

Bucky had seen the painting early, per Steve’s request. He’d helped him move them from his apartment, and had seen the three of you looking very somber and one another.

You were silent as you examined the pieces, and Bucky strode right up to your side.

“So, what do you think?” you started. “I know art isn’t your forte.”

“She’s gorgeous.”

You hummed, pointing to your right. “I like this one better.”

He rolled his eyes. “What do you like about it?”

“His eyes; they’re so expressive. I remember being moved when I saw the reference picture. It’s haunting, but ethereal.”

This wasn’t poking fun now, you genuinely meant it. Bucky tilted his head.

“I was thinking about the future.”

“But you’re looking back.”

“Isn’t that ironic?” There was no humor in his voice. “I was thinking about how it could be the last time I ever modeled for Stevie, done everything at his beck and call, whatever the fuck he wanted. How it was my last year to do something impressive, something memorable. How I had,” he eyes looked to yours for a flash, but you caught his meaning. “Wishes. Regrets.”

Your hand snaked up his back and rested on his shoulder. The touch burned and comforted him all at once. “Do you still have them?”

“Some of them. Not all of them.” He gave you a smile and a quick kiss. Not you.

“Good. That’d be a shame. These three deserve to be happy.”

“They look so beautiful when they’re upset, though.”

“Don’t they?” you sighed and laid your head on his shoulder. “They should hang them in The Louvre.”

“They’d shove me in the back.”

Steve’s voice echoed from your left, and Sam strolled up with him. He stared at his own giant face, all mellowed out with blues and pinks.

“This face deserves to be in every museum. Front and center.”

“God, I did not miss the sound of your voice,” Bucky groaned.

“And I didn’t miss your sour attitude Barnes, and yet here we are. Y/N, remind me again why you’re with this loser?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. He’s had a crush on me for a looong time,” you drawled, lacing your hands together when Bucky rolled his eyes. “Decided to give him a shot.”

“I’m glad you did. Now he can finally stop talking about you with that look one his face.”

“What look? You mean that one?” Sam pointed to the portrait.

“That same exact one.”

“I’m leaving.” Bucky marched back the way he came, with you, Sam and Steve laughing at his heels. He tried to turn away and hide his smile, but everything was falling into place very nicely. All those wishes and regrets withered when he walked back to the entrance and found all their friends gathered loosely on the street.

Bucky had never been part of a friend group so large, but they cheered at his arrival. You greeted everyone in different ways; shoving Peter light heartedly, hugging Bruce and telling Tony to fuck off. They walked as a pack down the street to the 11th street diner, stupid, young and infallible as they all jaywalked, hollering like they were committing murder and not a minor traffic offence. In the hilarious chaos your hand found Bucky’s and you ran like hell, racing Pietro though you two knew you would lose. He kissed the back of your hand. Tony gagged.

He wished they could always be like this.

104 notes · View notes

roman-writing · 5 years

Text

two, across (6/8)

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Hilda Valentine Goneril / Lysithea von Ordelia

Rating: E

Wordcount: 6,748

Summary: Lysithea can barely keep afloat under the workload of giving undergrad lectures and finishing off her PhD thesis. Meanwhile Dr. Hilda V. Goneril is somehow both the laziest person as well as the most successful young professor she has ever known. It’s absolutely aggravating.

Author’s Note: Please be aware of the rating increase for this chapter. There is explicit sexual content (finally), which includes but is not limited to: oral, strap ons, stupid banter, and some slight overstimulation.

Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

Almost a whole week passes before Lysithea is able to work up the courage to ask if she can stay over at Hilda's apartment again. She tries to manufacture some excuse as to why she should come over, but eventually gives up on any pretense.

When she finally does ask, the work week is nearly finished. A three day weekend is fast approaching, with the Monday a national holiday. Lysithea is standing in the doorway to Hilda's office, waiting to be taken out to lunch.

Hilda shuffles through a stack of student reports when she answers Lysithea's request. “Of course! You’re welcome over whenever. Just so long as you, like, text me you’re coming or whatever."

“So you can pretend to clean up for guests?” Lysithea replies in a dry tone. Her arms are crossed.

“So I can piss you off by making it even messier.”

“I knew it.”

Hilda crouches down to start rifling through more stacks of reports on the ground. “Yes. All part of my cunning plan. I have an image to uphold, you know."

"Is that why you do it? For your carefully manicured image of laziness? Not because you actually like the mess?" To drive her point home, Lysithea gestures at the entirety of Hilda's office, which is mostly hidden by stacks of papers and books.

Hilda gestures with a paperback before tossing it back to the floor. "I refuse to incriminate myself. In fact, this line of questioning is borderline entrapment."

Lysithea rolls her eyes. "Oh, hurry up and come grab lunch with me already."

"I'm trying! My TA put the damn marks somewhere different this time, and it's driving me crazy! I've told him a squillion times that they need to go -! Oh! Found them!!" Hilda rises to her feet, stuffing a few loose pages haphazardly into her bag. "Okay, we can go now!"

"Finally."

This time when Lysithea comes over she brings a gift. The bag of cider bottles bumps against her shins as she chews her lower lip outside Hilda's apartment. Behind her, night is falling, turning the sky a dusky purple. The brass 2-A plates on the door gleam in the last fading rays of sunlight on the horizon.

Steadying herself with a deep breath, Lysithea knocks.

Hilda answers the door wearing shorts and one of those tight-fitting black undershirts she prefers, the kind that strategically hangs off her shoulders. It gives the illusion that it might slip completely free without ever actually being in danger of doing so. Her hair is loose and long, hanging down her back.

"You don't have to knock when you've already texted me a million times saying you're coming over. Just come in," Hilda says, exasperated.

She waves Lysithea inside, barely looking at her, already striding back towards the kitchen.

"It was not a million times!" Lysithea calls after her.

Hilda's voice drifts from the other room. "Four times is basically a million times. I know you're polite and all, but it's just me we're talking about."

Lysithea toes off her shoes and closes the front door behind her, locking it and casting the chain as well.

The smells of cooking waft from the kitchen. Lysithea wanders in that direction. Hilda is humming to the music playing from her tablet. Her back is turned, and she puts down a pair of tongs to perform some perfectly executed air drums.

Lysithea lingers in the kitchen doorway. She takes a moment to admire the glimpse of bare skin, the flex of muscle along Hilda's back and broad shoulders. Her mouth goes dry. She swallows.

"What are you making?" Lysithea asks, placing the cider on one of the countertops.

"Baked chicken parmigiana. It'll be ready in forty." Hilda opens the oven door, and slides a full dish inside before slamming it shut once more. When she turns, her eyes alright upon the bottles. "Ooh! Are those for me?"

"No, they're for your cute neighbour and her cat."

"Well, I can't blame you there."

Hilda begins rustling through the grocery bags to see what Lysithea has brought. When she leans over, Lysithea catches a glimpse of generous cleavage, and quickly averts her gaze. So far, all her carefully laid plans for being cool and composed about this whole evening have been wholly tossed out the window.

Turning to the drying rack piled high with clean dishes, Lysithea grabs a dish towel. She dries and puts away the various pans and cutlery that have accumulated there. It strikes her that she now fully understands Hilda's system, and doesn't need to ask once where anything goes.

"I'm not that hungry yet to be honest," Lysithea says while she goes up on her toes to try to put a cutting board away.

"That's fine. Just let me know when you are." Hilda twists the oven dial off. Then she crosses the kitchen. "Here. Let me get that."

Standing directly behind her, Hilda takes the cutting board and easily reaches up to tuck it beside the bamboo steamer. Hilda's arm brushes against her, and Lysithea has to clear her throat. It does nothing to stop the burning in her cheeks however.

Hilda does not linger there, as much as Lysithea might have wanted her to do so. Though she trails her hand across Lysithea's back as she moves away, opening up a nearby drawer and pulling out a bottle opener.

"You want one?" she asks, picking up one of the bottles of cider.

It's tempting, but Lysithea shakes her head. "I shouldn't. Just soda, please."

"You know where it lives." Hilda taps the floor cabinet with her bare foot.

"What a gentleman." Lysithea grabs a glass for herself. She bends down, opens the cabinet in question, and pours a glass of sparkling lemonade.

"Your gentleman privileges were revoked when you started leaving spare clothes in my bedroom. Honestly, at this point I should probably just cut you a key."

"I wouldn't say no." Lysithea tries to keep her tone light and playful, but the implications of what she has said are not missed.

Hilda hesitates when she lifts the bottle of cider for a sip. Lately most of their conversations have felt like this. Like a dance around an inevitable topic neither of them are willing to address.

Then Hilda ruins it. "Great! On that basis, I'll start charging you rent, too."

Making a face, Lysithea lowers her own glass which she had been taking a sip from. "I am not going to pay two rents."

"I'm implying that you should just move in with me already. Duh."

"So I gathered." Lysithea can feel this conversation already treading dangerous waters, and she has barely walked through the door. She veers it towards safety. "Speaking of rent, you're still using my Netflix login. Does that contribute to my share?"

Hilda pretends to mull over the idea. "Only if I get to pick tonight's show."

"No horror," Lysithea says with a glare. "And no more drag races, either!"

"Why do you hate fun?"

"You know what? I'm picking the show this time." Lysithea starts towards the bedroom.

"Oh noooo," Hilda whines, trailing after her. "Not another nature documentary! Those narrators are always such a turn off!"

"I like learning new things."

"So do I. But I also like taking a break, and letting my braincells regenerate with some good old fashioned trashy television."

Crossing the bedroom, Lysithea sets her drink onto the bedside table and flops onto the mattress. It is so easy to fall back into these habits. It's most as though the last few weeks of staying away from Hilda's apartment never occurred.

Hilda sits beside her, cider in one hand, tablet in the other, already flicking through a list of shows for them to choose from. The music has been paused. She hands the tablet over while tilting the bottle back for a sip. Lysithea takes the device, and scrolls for an acceptable alternative to the documentary she originally had in mind.

"What about this?" Lysithea holds up the tablet for Hilda's inspection.

"Too sad. I would be a blubbering mess twenty minutes in."

That seems fair. Though Lysithea does not point out that she has extra tissues in her bag for just that purpose. She had started bringing them after the first experience of Hilda becoming a sobbing wreck during an emotional chick flick.

Lysithea keeps scrolling. "This?"

"Saw it last week. Was bored out of my mind, and abandoned it halfway through for a new jewellery project and a podcast about infectious diseases."

"You're so picky," Lysithea grumbles.

"Then pick something good for once."

Lysithea sticks out her tongue at her, then turns the screen around again. "Okay. How about this one?"

"Ohh, I've heard that one's good! But also thought-provoking. After the week I've had, my brain is not up for it." Hilda takes a last swig of her cider before setting it aside. "Turn around. I want to do your hair."

Setting the tablet aside, Lysithea gives up on the idea of finding a show for now. She turns without question. "What's wrong with my hair?"

Hilda touches her arm, and guides Lysithea back so that she's seated between Hilda's legs. "Nothing. I just want to try out a few different styles and see how they look on you."

"Hmm," Lysithea says in mild suspicion, but Hilda's fingers are running through her hair now, and she doesn't actually want her to stop. Hilda's hands are gentle and inquisitive, expertly parting her hair into sections.

"I can't believe this is your natural colour," Hilda says. "You know, when I first saw you, I thought you dyed it."

Lysithea snorts. "Like I would ever do that."

"Well, I mean, now I know better. Obviously."

"Neither of my parents have this hair colour. They're blonde but not like -"

"Peroxide blonde?" Hilda supplies helpfully.

"I was going to say 'etiolated' but yeah. Sure."

"Outstanding crossword clue, but not a word I would ever use to describe you."

"Are you sure about that? You should never try taking me to the beach, then," Lysithea says dryly.

Hilda has begun to pleat Lysithea's hair. "Let me guess: you go full goth. All black. Big hat. Sunglasses. Parasol."

In admonishment, Lysithea tickles the sensitive underside of Hilda's knee. Hilda squeaks, and jerks her leg.

"Don't be an ass," Lysithea says.

"You really wanna start a tickle war? Huh, punk? When I have you trapped between my legs?"

"That would mean risking the integrity of the braid you're working on, which you would never do."

"You severely underestimate how competitive I am."

Immediately Lysithea stiffens. "No tickles."

"Wow. Hypocrite much?" Hilda teases, but lets the topic drop. "Anyway. This summer we're going to the beach."

"What? Why?" Lysithea can't keep a slight whine from her voice.

"Because I want to take you swimsuit shopping. And also I want to wreck some fools at beach volleyball."

Lysithea has exactly zero doubt that Hilda would do just that. "Do you realise just how sunburnt I get?"

"That's what sunscreen and beach umbrellas are for. Now, let's see how you look."

Tying off Lysithea's hair with a spare elastic band from the bedside table, Hilda reaches for her phone. She uses the forward facing camera as a mirror. With her chin resting upon Lysithea's shoulder, Hilda studies their reflections on the screen.

"Not sure if a braid is quite your style," Hilda muses. She picks apart the braid with one hand, running her fingers through the waves left behind in Lysithea's ghost-pale hair. "Maybe a bun?" She twists the hair up, and her mouth forms a contemplative moue in the mirror. "I'm thinking something classic and scholarly. But stylish, not dowdy. You know?"

"Yeah. Sure," Lysithea replies, but she is not paying any attention.

She isn't even looking at herself in the reflection. She is too focused on the way Hilda is tucking a stray flyaway behind her ear, and the way Hilda's face rests so comfortably beside her own, and the way Hilda's chest is pressed against her back.

In the reflection, Lysithea's staring does not go unnoticed. Their eyes meet in the mirrored phone screen. Hilda grins, mischievous. She presses a kiss to Lysithea's cheek, and Lysithea is so preoccupied by it that she does not register the camera shutter noise indicating that Hilda has just snapped a picture.

Leaning her chin back in the crook of Lysithea's shoulder, Hilda wraps her arms around her to play with the phone in both hands.

"Cute," Hilda murmurs. She modifies the image slightly, and then sets it as her background.

Lysithea can feel Hilda's smile against her neck. The corner of Hilda's mouth is curled in one of her signature grins, the kind that she never can get enough of, no matter how much time they spend with one another.

"Hilda."

"Hmm?" Hilda tosses her phone aside, but remains where she is seated, wrapped up around her. She glances at Lysithea with a curious cant to her smile.

Before she can even comprehend what she's doing Lysithea turns her head and closes the distance between them. It is a chaste press of their mouths. Hilda freezes. The moment Lysithea realises what she has done, she pulls away. An apology is still on the tip of her tongue, when Hilda grabs her face and pulls her back down.

Lysithea isn't quite sure how it happens, but the next thing she knows is that she has turned around in Hilda's lap and is being thoroughly kissed.

One of Hilda's hands has pressed against Lysithea's lower back to steady her, and is now slipping beneath the hem of her shirt to trace the waistband of her skirt with clever fingertips. It sends a shiver racing up Lysithea's spine. Of the many ways Hilda is lazy, this is not one of them. She kisses skillfully and cannily, leading Lysithea along until Lysithea clutches at her shoulders.

Lysithea's knees dig into the mattress as she kneels over her, straddling one of Hilda's legs. When Hilda bends her knee so that Lysithea is seated upon her thigh, a coil of heat spools low. A noise rises, unbidden, in Lysithea's throat and is trapped between their mouths.

Hilda pulls away just enough to ask, "Is this alright? Can I -?"

"Yeah," Lysithea breathes, already tilting Hilda's head back for another kiss. "God, yeah."

Hilda's hands grasp at her waist, urging Lysithea to rock against her. Lysithea's grip on Hilda's shoulders tightens. When a whimper escapes her, the world pitches sideways as Hilda tumbles her over so that she is pressed back against the warm-scented sheets with Hilda crouched over her on all fours.

This time when Hilda reinitiates a kiss, it is urgent. Hilda lies flush against her, and rocks until Lysithea is gasping. She grasps at the back of Hilda's shirt, the fabric bunching between her fists. It does nothing to ground her; she can feel the pool of heat spreading in her stomach with every roll of Hilda's hips.

"Ha-Hang on. Just -" Lysithea pushes weakly at Hilda's shoulders, and Hilda immediately pulls back. Lysithea stares up at her, as if unsure that this is even real. "Are we -? Are we really doing this?"

"Do you mean in, like, a metaphysical sense?" Hilda asks, slightly breathless. "Or just in a 'oh my god are we finally gonna bone' sense?"

"The latter, of course." Though in truth, Lysithea thinks it's a little of column A and a little of column B.

"Okay. Good. In that case: only if you want to. Because I want to. Like a lot. But if you don't want to, then -"

"I want to," Lysithea blurts out before Hilda can even finish.

Tugging at the hem of Lysithea's shirt, Hilda says, "Great. Glad we've established that. Now, can we get this off? I've been dying to have you naked and under me for, like, months to be honest."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"What? And risk scaring you off?" Hilda snorts. "No way! Besides, who doesn't like a little anticipation, am I right?"

Lysithea makes a face, but helps Hilda get her top off. "No, thank you." Her voice is briefly muffled by cotton until the shirt is tossed carelessly onto the floor. "I much prefer to just get to the point."

In a single smooth motion, Hilda lowers herself down on her elbows once more so that their bodies are pressed together from chest to calf. Lysithea shivers when Hilda runs one of her hands lightly from her shoulder and stopping at her hip to toy with the waistband of her skirt. Slowly, she nudges Lysithea's head to one side so she can ghost her mouth against Lysithea's neck.

"Don't worry," Hilda breathes against her throat, "We'll work that bad habit right out of you."

Hilda shifts. Even through a layer of black fabric Lysithea can feel the flex of muscle in Hilda's abdomen as she presses a thigh between Lysithea's legs and drags it slowly upwards. Lysithea has to clench her teeth to keep herself from making a noise. Hilda repeats the motion, long and slow, so that she can hear the first faint creak of the mattress, and the entire bed rocks slightly.

Throughout it all Hilda is still lavishing Lysithea's bare neck and shoulders with attention. She has to pause to push aside some of Lysithea's long pale hair.

"Should've left it in the braid," she says, laughing softly against Lysithea's throat.

Lysithea takes the opportunity to tug at Hilda's shirt. "Can you take this off?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Hilda pushes herself to her knees, and divests herself of both shirt and bra, casting them to the floor alongside the last scraps of Lysithea's dignity. Lysithea sucks in a sharp breath through her teeth, and stares.

"You okay there, tiger? You're not going to faint on me or anything, right?"

Lysithea opens her mouth to respond, but no sound comes out, so she shakes her head instead.

For a moment, Hilda's brows furrow. "Wait. You've done this before, haven't you? I mean it's totally fine if you haven't, but, like -"

"Once," Lysithea admits.

It had been in the last year of her undergraduate studies. She hadn't enjoyed it too much, but she hadn't hated it either. She'd been indifferent to the classmate who had asked her during one of their final study sessions. Honestly, she had been surprised at herself for replying that yes she would go back to his dorm for the evening. He didn't speak to her again after graduation, and that had suited her just fine.

"Though I know what I like to do to myself," Lysithea adds.

"Okay. Cool." Hilda has reached over for the elastic hairband, and is tying her own hair back into a single ponytail. "Just tell me if you want me to do anything different or whatever. I'm always open to requests, and feedback, and stuff."

"I'm fine with anything," Lysithea says, leaning up on her elbows to remove her own bra and fling it aside.

Hilda's answering grin glints wickedly. Her voice lowers to a note that makes Lysithea's breath catch in her chest. "You say that, but we'll take it nice and slow."

"As opposed to what?" Lysithea asks, but Hilda has placed a hand on her chest and is pushing her gently back down.

"As opposed to me strapping up and fucking you 'til you can't walk straight for the next few hours. Now, lie back. I want to go down on you."

Lysithea lies back. Her heart thuds in her chest. She feels dizzy and they have hardly done anything yet.

Hilda takes her dear sweet time working her way towards her final destination. She is languid but thorough. She teases Lysithea's breasts with mouth and teeth. She kisses her way slowly down to Lysithea's navel until Lysithea is squirming beneath her. Her hand inches up Lysithea's skirt to toy with the elastic band of her underwear before sliding the fabric down her legs. When Lysithea reaches for the zipper of her herringbone skirt however, Hilda nudges her hand aside.

"No, no. Leave it on. Just for now."

"Why?"

"Because the hot librarian look on you really does things for me."

"And here I thought you wanted a hot goth."

"Listen. There's only enough room for one hot goth in this family, and you're looking at her."

Lysithea gasps on a laugh, when Hilda begins to kiss up along her inner thigh. "How are you goth? Your favourite colour is pink."

"Excuse you. Pink is goth!" Hilda insists, but it is impossible to take her seriously when her head has been reduced to a bump beneath Lysithea's skirt.

"Is your strap on pink, too?"

"Why? You want to find out?"

"Yes."

She can feel Hilda snicker against her leg. And then Hilda places an open-mouthed kiss to her clit, and all thought of banter goes sailing out of Lysithea's head.

Her lower back arches, pushing her further against Hilda's mouth, but Hilda's hands hold her firmly in place. The slow, deliberate pace drives Lysithea half mad. Hilda rushes through nothing. Every time Lysithea's breathing starts to grow irregular and she clutches at the bedsheets like a lifeline, Hilda moves her attention somewhere else.

Lysithea loses track of time. She gasps towards the ceiling, her eyes squeezed shut. Dimly she is aware that not much time could have passed in the grand scheme of things, but it feels like she's taught classes shorter than this.

"I swear to god, Hilda, if you don't hurry up, I'll -"

At that, Hilda pauses entirely. "You'll what?" she asks, her voice muffled.

Thighs trembling, Lysithea doesn't answer.

Hilda pushes Lysithea's skirt up so that her flushed face comes into view. Her mouth and chin are slick, but she doesn't seem to care. "No, go on. I'm super curious to hear about what you'll do to me."

Lysithea's cheeks are already red. She glowers, but the effect is ruined by the way her legs are splayed open, and her breathing is ragged. "I'm - I'm really not good at dirty talk, if that's what you're aiming for."

Hilda shrugs, smiling. "Like I said. Nice and slow."

"You also said something about requests?" Lysithea asks. She waits for Hilda's nod before saying, "I don't like being treated like I'm made of glass, and I don't want nice and slow."

For a moment, Hilda just stares at her with wide eyes. Then she wipes her face clean with both hands. "Am I dreaming?" She lightly smacks her own cheeks. "Is this a dream?"

"Hilda."

"Right! Okay. Yeah. I'm on it. Just give me a sec."

For someone who had seemed to enjoy making Lysithea wait, it takes an impressively short amount of time for Hilda to kick off her shorts, and step into a harness. Though she has to rummage around beneath the bed for a plastic storage box beforehand.

Hilda is seated on the edge of the bed with a bottle of lube in her hands, and Lysithea sits up to run a hand across her back. She kisses Hilda's shoulder and relishes the reaction that invokes.

"You know," Hilda says, "this is really not how I expected this night to go. Not that I'm complaining or anything. Because I'm really not, let me tell you."

"I see that my suspicions are confirmed, and all you're good at is talking."

Hilda blinks at her in surprise, then laughs. She turns, pushing Lysithea back onto the mattress so that Lysithea lies beneath her.

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" Hilda grins down at her. "I am great at multitasking."

Hilda is lying between her legs, and Lysithea can't think of a witty retort. She's still incredibly wet from when Hilda had started using her mouth, but regardless Hilda has taken every precaution, and the toy is slick with lubricant. It is also predictably, violently pink.

Lysithea angles her head back, when Hilda kisses the line of her jaw. Her skirt bunches up around her waist. She bites her lower lip but can't keep a whimper at bay as Hilda eases the tip of the toy inside of her. Her knees splay open to accommodate the stretch, and one of Hilda's hands glides up her thigh to grip her by the waist and hold her steady.

A dull thrill of pleasure winds up Lysithea's spine as Hilda takes the time to work the shaft fully into her. By the time their hips are brought flush together, Lysithea is panting towards the ceiling, her breaths coming in short sharp bursts. She can feel Hilda's mouth at her neck, the gentle rasp of teeth at her throat.

Then Hilda pulls back. She draws the toy almost completely free, and sinks it fully in place once more in a single slow thrust. The second time the motion is repeated, Lysithea angles her hips up to receive it. The joint movement sets the toy more firmly inside her, and draws a sound from her lips.

The noise seems to spur Hilda on, for the next thrust bears a bit more weight. She uses one forearm to hold herself up, and her other hand grips Lysithea's waist tight, urging her along, encouraging a more exaggerated roll of her hips. It isn't until a steadier pace has been set that Hilda pushes off of her forearm to kneel between Lysithea's legs.

Shifting somewhat, Hilda guides Lysithea's knees to the angle she wants, and murmurs, "Relax. Let me do the work."

Relaxing is the absolute last thing on Lysithea's mind. Lying back like this, she can't reach Hilda's shoulders, so instead she grabs at the bedsheets for purchase. Hilda drives her hips forward, and a sharp cry is wrenched from Lysithea's throat.

"You alright?" Hilda asks even as she thrusts again at the same pace.

"Y-Yes."

The single syllable ends on a breathless noise. Hilda drives the toy to its base again and again in a hard, steady, unrelenting rhythm. A jolt rushes headlong through Lysithea with every thrust. The mattress creaks in time with their movements, and the bed's base knocks against the wall. At any other time she would have been relieved that the bed is situated against the wall facing the living room and not a neighbour's apartment, but she can't bring herself to care now.

Lysithea doesn't know how Hilda is able to maintain the pace, let alone increase it. At one point, Hilda has to pause to readjust, almost effortlessly lifting Lysithea's hips so that she can brace herself and continue with short rapid thrusts. With a hard quick rhythm, it doesn't take long for Lysithea's breath to start hitching every time the curved end of the toy is lodged deep inside her. She comes with a sharp cry, hands grasping at Hilda's lower back when there's no sign that she will relent and slow down.

Eventually, Hilda does slow and instead grinds their hips together, her hand wandering downwards until her thumb is stroking softly against Lysithea's clit. She continues until Lysithea is shuddering and seeing stars again. Fingernails digging into Hilda's lower back, Lysithea can't stop her hips from bucking when Hilda maintains that constant pressure all while keeping the touch of her thumb feather-light.

When a broken note cracks at the back of Lysithea's throat, Hilda stops.

"Sorry," Hilda breathes. "Too much?"

Lysithea nods faintly, and her voice is strained when she says, "A little. But keep going."

For a moment, Hilda does nothing. She watches Lysithea with an intense and unblinking expression. Her forearms tremble slightly, and Lysithea can feel a light prickling of sweat that has gathered along the divot of Hilda's spine. A few strands of pink hair have escaped from Hilda's ponytail, and stick to her temples.

Then she starts moving again, and Lysithea hisses through clenched teeth. She squeezes her eyes shut. Hilda resumes a staccato rhythm of shallow thrusts, but her thumb circles slowly, out of time and gentle in comparison. Lysithea's lower back is set back down on the mattress, and the sudden shift in angle makes her grind her hips upwards to seek more friction against Hilda's fingers. With her free hand, Hilda holds her down by the waist, carefully controlling the balance between the hard press of the toy and the soft caress of her thumb.

Whenever she touched herself alone, Lysithea has always stopped after finishing. This is new. This wavers on the bleeding edge of beyond the pale. She feels trapped in a fugue state where every single one of Hilda's motions seems too much to bear and not enough simultaneously. As if from a distance Lysithea hears the feeble, plaintive whines that escape her own throat.

Hilda only slows to a halt when Lysithea's heels begin to slip and flounder against the bedsheets. Lysithea can still feel small aftershocks racing through her, clenching at the toy until Hilda pulls out of her. Lysithea is barely aware of the sticky silicone bulge against her already slick inner thigh.

Hilda sounds winded when she speaks, "Alright, I would really appreciate if you'd just, like, do literally anything to me, because I am unbelievably turned on right now."

With trembling hands, Lysithea tugs at the harness to loosen it. Hilda helps, their hands fumbling as Lysithea leans up to kiss her. After the harness has finally been kicked to the foot of the bed, Lysithea manages to get Hilda on her back. Her arms and knees can barely keep herself up, and Lysithea has to drop down to her elbows.

Whereas before Hilda's movements were precise and controlled, now they are sloppy and desperate. She is already making high-pitched impatient noises, as Lysithea leans down to mouth at her breasts.

It takes Lysithea a moment to realise that only one of Hilda's hands is clutching her shoulder. The other is already between her own legs. A glance down confirms that Hilda has buried three fingers up to the knuckle inside herself, and is frantically seeking release.

"Now who's impatient," Lysithea mumbles around Hilda's nipple.

"I don't think you understand how close I am," Hilda gasps. "Please, just -"

Lysithea reaches down. Rather than push Hilda's wrist aside, she manoeuvres her hand in such a way that her fingers can slip against Hilda's clit at the same time.

Immediately, Hilda cries out. Her free hand tangles in Lysithea's hair and holds her in head in place. Even so, Lysithea is nearly dislodged by the shuddering jump of Hilda's hips every time Lysithea's fingers circle her clit.

Hilda is noisy. She writhes when she comes, gripping the back of Lysithea's head tight, and chanting the first broken syllable of Lysithea's name until her cries dissolve into utter incoherence. Shivers continue to roll through her, slowing in time with both their fingers.

When Hilda's muscles begin to relax, and she pulls her fingers out of herself, Lysithea follows suit. Rolling onto her side, the two of them lie on their backs, and the only sounds in the room are their harsh breathing. Lysithea can feel Hilda's arm pressed up against her own. Gracelessly, Hilda wipes her own fingers off on the sheets, but otherwise does not move.

Lysithea dares to break the silence. "Are you normally so quick to get off?"

Hilda lets out a huff of breathless laughter. "Not really, no. But fucking you was hot. Like, really hot. And this thing -" Hilda weakly hooks her foot into the harness' straps, and lifts it a little from the bed. The pink dildo dangles comically from the ring that holds it in position. "- was rubbing me the whole time. I almost came, like, twice when I was getting you off. Why? We're you not impressed by my godlike stamina?"

Lysithea rolls her eyes, but Hilda is grinning at her with that old familiar roguishness, but for the fact that her hair is darkened with sweat, and she is both very naked and sated. Like a proverbial cat, though Lysithea herself has never felt less like a canary.

"I would be lying if I said no," Lysithea concedes.

In response, Hilda brushes the backs of her fingers against Lysithea's leg. Then she sits bolt upright. "The oven!" she says with wide eyes, until she places a hand over her chest, and heaves a sigh of relief. "Oh, wait. I turned it off. Thank god."

"It hasn't been forty minutes anyway," Lysithea adds.

"Are you sure about that?"

Hilda leans over her and taps her phone on the bedside table just to wake up the lock screen display. She tilts the screen towards Lysithea so she can see.

Turning her head aside on the mattress, Lysithea's stares in incredulity. "An hour and a half?"

"Yeah. That chicken parmigiana would've been charcoal." Hilda bounces a bit further down the bed, picking up the strap on and giving it a preliminary wipe down on the sheets as well.

Lysithea sits up, and swings her legs over the side of the bed. The moment she does so, her skirt falls around her knees. She can feel the area of fabric that has been soaked through. With a grimace, Lysithea unzips her skirt and slides it down her legs.

"We may not have ruined dinner, but we have ruined my favourite skirt," she laments. Then looks at the bed. "And your sheets."

"I'll wash them." Hilda holds out her hand, and Lysithea passes the skirt over to her.

"Thanks. Though it is your fault, to be fair."

"That's a compliment, thank you very much. Totally worth it. Eleven out of ten." Hilda checks the skirt's tag to see if there are any special washing requirements. She grins over the skirt at her. "Wanna mess up some more clothes?"

"I am going to need a few hours to recover," Lysithea says. "And a bath."

"Can I join you?"

Hilda has begun to strip the pillows of their casings, chucking the fabric along with her skirt over towards the bathroom door. Gripping the edge of the bed, Lysithea studies in fascination how relaxed Hilda is. About everything. Meanwhile just sitting here leaves Lysithea reeling, like she's in some alternative dimension.

They have just had sex -- really quite fantastic sex, if Lysithea is being honest with herself -- yet they still haven't spoken about anything in any material sense.

"I really like you," Lysithea blurts out before her courage fails her.

Hilda snorts in amusement, tugging the bedsheet free from the two corners of the mattress nearest her. "Well, that's good. Otherwise this would be kind of awkward. Can you get up real quick?"

Lysithea gapes at her. "Wait. That's it?"

"What do you mean: 'that's it?'"

"What do you mean: 'what do I mean?'" Realising that this is starting to border on the ridiculous, Lysithea lets go of the sheets she has bunched in her hands. "I just - I just was hoping for something a bit more -- I don't know -- concrete."

Hilda eyebrows have risen towards her hairline. "Concrete."

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say? Because if so, then -"

Hilda interrupts before Lysithea can finish that sentence. "I think you need to see an optometrist, because I am pretty sure I've been dropping hints that I've been super into you and wanted to date you for at least, like, three months now -- maybe more -- and I am not someone known for my subtlety."

A slow flush mottles Lysithea's pale cheeks a ruddy hue. "Oh."

"So, anyway, is that a yes on the bath? Because otherwise I can just take a shower after you're done."

"That's a yes to the bath." Lysithea staunchly refuses to feel embarrassed by how easily this conversation has occured after worrying about it for weeks and weeks.

"Great." Hilda leans over to drop a brief kiss to Lysithea's temple. "Now, I'm going to throw all of these sheets in the washing machine, chuck this -" she brandishes the bright pink dildo like a battle axe, "- in the dishwasher, and then make sure we get to actually eat something tonight. But first, I'm going to need you to get up."

She tugs at the bedsheet under Lysithea for emphasis.

Lysithea sighs. "Alright. I'll go run the bath."

She tries to stand, but her legs wobble and she has to sit immediately back down or else risk collapsing to the floor. Delicately clearing her throat, she stretches her legs out, and can't suppress a slight wince at the twinge in her knees and thighs.

"Nevermind," Lysithea says primly. She does not meet Hilda's gaze. "I'll go run the bath in a moment."

Hilda laughs.

They don't leave the apartment for almost two days. By the time Sunday evening rolls around, Lysithea feels more well rested than she's been since starting the PhD program three years ago. She is also significantly more relaxed. It is a joint effort, a combination of copious amounts of both sleep and sex.

Eventually however, Hilda is champing at the bit to get out of the house even for a little while. She drags Lysithea down the road for walkies, and to grab some cheap takeaway for dinner. Neither of them could be bothered to put on real clothes. Lysithea is swimming in a borrowed pair of black sweatpants and a white hoodie with a gold crown threaded across the back.

Hilda holds her hand. She laces their fingers together, and swings their arms in a broad arc, chatting all the while. Lysithea allows it, but feels a bit silly. She casts a glance around and tightens her grip whenever someone passes them, but nobody seems to care, least of all Hilda.

If the past few days have taught Lysithea anything, it's that Hilda has very little concept of shame. She acknowledges its existence, but disregards it utterly. More than once, Lysithea had to scurry around the apartment and draw the curtains, while Hilda strode about wearing not a stitch of clothing.

Not that Lysithea would ever berate Hilda into putting on clothes when they are alone. She rather likes the view.

At the restaurant, their order, which Lysithea had called in back at the apartment, is already sitting on the counter in plastic bags, waiting. A weary-looking cashier with a five o'clock shadow - one that has extended to well beyond eight o'clock - rings them up on a battered register.

Hilda swaps cash for the plastic bags. After she's scooped up the change, she heads towards the exit. "Let's hurry back. I want you to ride my face."

Lysithea almost trips. Her face burns, and she looks over her shoulder to find the bored cashier completely ignoring them. She hurries through the door after Hilda, who is waiting for her on the street just outside. This time however, Lysithea is the one to reach for Hilda's hand. She receives a playful stroke against the sensitive skin of her wrist in return. It sends a shiver of anticipation racing up her arm.

By the time they actually get around to eating at the apartment, the food is cold and Lysithea's knees are sore. They stand in the kitchen, leaning against the counters, and eat directly out of the cartons. Lysithea is wearing nothing but one of Hilda's oversized shirts, and Hilda is wearing nothing but an impressive smattering of bruises at her neck and shoulder. Lysithea admires them while she twirls her fork through cold takeaway.

"So," Hilda waggles her eyebrows as she puts aside her carton of food. "I take it that you're still really great at being available for dating?"

Lysithea shrugs. "Depends on who's asking. I'm very picky, you know."

Hilda bumps their shoulders together. "C'mon and date me already. Officially, anyway. Since we've basically been dating for, like, months now, except without all the great sexy times I could have been providing."

Lysithea tries to hide a smile by taking an extra large bite of food. She isn't very successful. "Oh, fine."

"Oh, fine," Hilda mimics. "Like you aren't dying to be my super cute and awesome girlfriend."

"Well, when you put it like that -"

"- How can you resist?" Hilda kisses her cheek. "Trick question. You can't."

Rolling her eyes, Lysithea allows the fork and carton to be taken from her hands and placed aside. She accepts another kiss, when Hilda drapes her arms around her neck.

"I was eating that," Lysithea says.

"You can eat me instead."

"I already did."

"Well, apparently you're still hungry."

"You're insufferable," she mumbles against Hilda's mouth.

"You love it."

Lysithea does. She kisses Hilda rather than say it aloud.

#hilda/lysithea #hilda valentine goneril #lysithea von ordelia #two across #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #roman writes

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jenildasjewelquest · 5 years

Text

for once, i’m not ranting.

I’m not waiting for the downfall either, when I say that things are actually turning out well.

part one: the org.

The warzone that used to be the college org that had pulled me in about a year ago, has become something like a congress or courthouse. It’s not yet a perfect democracy, but at least it’s no longer a one-man army. Maybe it’s just my war flashbacks - a term I’ve quite recently learned to call my officer initiatives as - talking, but I really am proud that it’s quickly coming to a close.

I authored 80% of a constitution, designed new branding schemes, appointed key bearers of the legacy, and hauled in the footholds for a well-connected and reputable college organization. In the end, I stumbled with the unfamiliarity of what I’ve achieved. I’ve grown so used to doing everything on my own that I almost forgot that I was leaving, that I should be training others to be as open to receiving new learnings as I had when I started out. For the younger ones, I’m the org mentor that I never had for myself.

It’s weird, it’s heart-expanding, it’s inspiring to see progress. And especially when you’ve been working for it all along.

But it hurts - just as much - to have to give it up, just as it teeters towards the peak of its greatness.

part two: the internship.

By luckiest stroke of fate, by some divine intervention, by some alignment of stars that still boggle me til now, I got into the best internship I think I could ever have signed up for.

I got into an IT consulting firm that specializes in UI/UX web and mobile development and design. Coding and UI, my unexplored specialties. My graphics design team are made up of UI/UX designers, and they allow me to learn their trade without being pressured to keep up with their standards. They were literally assisting me in coding my thesis website, but that wasn’t the best part.

The firm allowed for flexi-time, which meant I could clock in anytime in the work week as long as I got to finish at least eight hours. My supervisor always came around 10am-7pm, and I always arrived earlier and left later than him. I’m determined to do as much work as I can for the whole day; I can almost go 12 hours with minor breaks and coffee lmao.

The supervisor is an alumni of my course. He had taken his college life easier than me, and him being like that allowed me to think that hey, even if you don’t graduate this school at the top, you can still get by if you have the guts and the grit. And that’s what I’m developing right now. I occasionally ask for time off work to attend to org duties and thesis emergencies, but I still do deliver for the internship. Yep, while senior high taught me that I had a voice, college taught me how to use it and use it well.

part three: the thesis.

I know where to use my voice for: to talk about what no one does. My undergraduate thesis talks about civics education: the umbrella concept for how people are taught about politics, society, and democracy. It’s a personal advocacy that stemmed from questions about nationalism and patriotism, from reading about history surrounding Rizal, and being immersed in the novels themselves. Writer as I am, I simply can’t help the latter.

The multimedia thesis a print card game about Rizal’s civic activities, that aims to teach civics education to Grade 10 students. Paperwork and pre-production almost done, this iteration is down to the last few tweaks until we can squeak past proofreading, user testing, and market testing.

For the record, I myself stressed over the website for the last few weeks that not only had the UI/UX designers at the internship had stepped in and offered some tips, but that I seriously had to take days off work just to finish it. When I finally eked out half, my thesis adviser said that I should have focused on the game instead, since the website was only a marketing tool. Within that same day, I churned out all 63 cards (one still had its illustration underway) out of 2 ginormous PSD files, ready for proofreading and printing. The night burned me out quite bad, but at least that load quickly finished...

part four: the story.

Coupled within the week, a good friend had asked help for his animation thesis, which was an advocacy story he was to animate in VR. I’d promised my help long ago, and I delivered: a five-page draft script, complete with concrete visualizations and directions of how he’ll execute it in VR.

I couldn’t have been prouder of this collab. I’ve always wanted to be a story artist - someone who visualizes stories and writes them as well - the only thing holding me back is my lack of experience in drawing for animation aka my degree. I could be helping all his classmates with their animation stories, he says, with how much I’m able to use film techniques, symbolisms, dialogues, and colors to fully execute his VR animated story. My degree is siphoning me into the ad industry, but in this collab, I learned what it’s like to be the visual director, the story artist. Not only was it fun, it was actually really fulfilling to be able to write with animation!

The collab also demonstrated that two people - in all their differences and similarities - can still be on equal ground if they work together. This collab taught me what it truly means to be loyal, to have each other’s back not out of duty or responsibility but because you chose to learn when you chose to stay.

part five: the burnout.

The weekend after demanded at least 12 hours of sleep and mug of warm milk, and ton of chocolate. The burnout was real. My head was ringing from the online calls for the animation thesis, among other things; I was in no mood to do org work nor house chores, not even to draw, write a poem, or squeeze out a chapter. I was tired, physically, mentally.

But emotionally, I was satisfied.

For once, I was satisfied with my week.

Not only with my week, but everything that led up to that. The org. The internship. The thesis. My staying. Everything.

My college life is coming to a close. My time to understand everything, before twenty hits, is fast ending. For once I’m not regretting, for once, I’m not mad.

For once, I’m no longer ranting.

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vivalaskristie · 5 years

Text

Chapter 4 Meanwhile, Back at the Palace

Book: The Royal Romance (AU)

Series Premise: Parallel, behind the scenes, Madeleine and Bastien

A/N: This is my first series, my first AU, because Madeleine and Bastien needed to smash. I posted and then pulled it because it wasn’t quite right. It’s still a work in progress.

Warnings for this series: The first sex scenes I’ve ever written, bad language, sneaking around, alcohol, general mischief and the occasional academic symposium.

Permatags: @speedyoperarascalparty @burnsoslow @dcbbw @stopforamoment @emceesynonymroll

Chapter 1 Prelude

Chapter 2 Drinks on a Yacht

Chapter 3 A Dark and Stormy Night

Three months later, Bastien walked down to the track at the nearby high school, just after dusk. It was finally cooling off, and he was looking forward to having a run outside. The treadmill in the palace gym just wasn’t the same, and it never felt right to be in there with the nobles and courtiers anyway. Either they ignored him because of the differences in social stations, or they talked to him and most of the time he didn’t have a lot to contribute to the conversations.

He hopped the chain link fence around the track instead of using the gate 50 yards away. He dropped his towel on a bench, checked his shoes, and turned when he heard the sound of someone running behind him. It was her. Madeleine was here, and based on her flushed face and sweat-soaked shirt, she’d been here a while. She slowed for a couple of steps as she recognized him, but she hit her pace again almost immediately. He hadn’t seen her since the yacht. He’d watched her disembark and get into her limo and he figured that was the end of that story.

He jogged to the track and started his workout. She was about a third of the way around in front of him. As he warmed up, his pace increased. By the end of his 2nd lap, he was next to her. She had earbuds in, so there was no conversation. He matched her pace and they ran kind of together for a few laps, separated by a lane or two. She eventually slowed down as her run came to an end. He was aware of her stepping off the track finally, and she sat on the bench where his towel lay. He kept running. She remained on the bench, cooling off and drinking her water and scrolling on her phone. A couple of times he caught her watching him. A couple other times, she caught him watching her.

When he finished his final lap, he sat down beside her on the bench.

“Hello Bastien,” she said, in that wonderful scratchy voice that he’d heard in his dreams for three months now. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you as well. Please accept my congratulations on your engagement,” he said. There was no point in ignoring the fact of her impending nuptials.

“Thank you,” she answered. “I figured you’d be on the bachelor party world tour with the rest of the boys.”

“Not this time. I’m taking a couple weeks off before we have to start implementing security measures for the wedding.“

“Ah. So you’re not the one making sure that Leo and his American girlfriend aren’t discovered.”

Bastien was stunned. What did she know about Katie? How did she know about Katie? This was bad. Only Leo’s inner circle was supposed to be in that loop. Madeleine gave a low laugh when she saw his reaction. He looked at her, and his questions obviously showed on his face.

“Please. I’ve been playing this game for years. I pay attention. He never liked going to the States, until suddenly he liked going very much. And he’s a terrible liar.”

“And you’re still going through with the marriage?” Bastien asked.

“Of course. I’m going to be the Queen. She’s a mistress. That’s nothing new for people in Leo’s position. He’ll get tired of her, replace her. My place is secure.” It was brave talk, but her tone didn’t match her words. She sounded like it had been rehearsed, like she’d been coached…

“I see Adelaide’s been helping you come to terms,” he said coldly. She looked up sharply, her expression showing the hurt he heard in her voice. “I’m sorry. I overstepped.”

“Don’t be. You’re right. Mother has been making sure that I know that my duty is to remind Leo of his.”

He took her hand. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to be Queen.”

“No. That’s not what I meant. What do you want your life to be? Married in name and title only? That will be enough?” He wasn’t sure who the hell he thought he was, all of a sudden, asking the future Queen of the Realm about her personal thoughts on her marriage and future. He couldn’t help himself. Somebody needed to ask her, and nobody else seemed to be doing it.

She was still for a few seconds, considering her words carefully, and then she smiled. “Bastien, have you been reading fairy tales again? You know how this works. Leo doesn’t love me. I don’t love him. But we can be good with each other, and good for Cordonia.”

“Well I guess you’ve got it all figured out..” His eyes were on her, and no humor showed on his face.

“I always have,” she said softly. “Shall we go back?”

They rose, and walked together, Madeleine a step ahead of him as dictated by royal protocol. They didn’t speak again until they were inside the palace gate.

“Good night, Bastien.”

“Good night, Lady Mad.”

She blinked, remembering the note he left on the yacht and the hours they spent together. Her cheeks flushed, and he smiled faintly before he turned to walk away.

Later that evening, Madeleine was reading in the sitting room in her suite. Her quarters were well-appointed and positioned near enough to the Royal Family to establish her as one who belonged there. The balcony doors were open to allow the cool sea breeze to fill her rooms. Her phone buzzed. She picked it up to read the text:

You deserve better, Lady Mad.

She considered it for a moment, and then replied:

Yes, but Cordonia deserves the best

Within a minute her phone buzzed again in her hand. She smiled.

Can’t argue with any part of that.

She paused, wondering if she dared…

It’s certainly worth discussing further in person.

Bastien was lying on his bed as her last text flashed across his phone. As he read her words, heat filled his body. He’d been sure that their night together was a one-off, something that happens occasionally between nobles and palace staff but never lasts beyond a weekend. He stood up. Of course he was going to go to her. He pulled on dark clothes, something that wouldn’t draw attention if he were seen. He started to open his door and then shut it again. It wasn’t a good idea to just walk through the palace and show up at her suite. There was no way to explain that away. No, he’d need to take a different route.

He walked to his office and entered a code on the wall panel next to the bookshelf. The bookshelf swung open. He’d take the subway.

Fifteen minutes later, he was standing in a dimly lit narrow passage three floors above his own. I should warn her, he thought.

Go to your dressing room. You’re going to hear a knock.

She’d set her phone down after he hadn’t replied to her insanely bold text. She’d been disappointed, but not surprised. What was he going to do, skulk around the palace for a booty call? But now this was interesting. She stood up and walked through her bedroom to the dressing room. There was a single knock on the wall to her left. Before she could do anything, the wall became a door and Bastien was standing there.

The look on her face was priceless. “What…?”

“I thought it best to be discreet,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “May I come in?”

She smiled and walked back to her sitting room. She closed her book after marking her page, put it on the side table, and gestured for him to sit next to her on the sofa. They sat half-facing each other.

“I hope I’m not interrupting. Quiet evenings alone are rare around here.”

“No it’s fine. I was just reading. One of my mentors from school sent me his new book. He’s trying to get me to come back for my MPhil.”

His attention switched from the memory of the last time they were on a sofa to what she’d just revealed. She’d gone to Oxford, but he didn’t know much about what she’d done there. “Are you considering it? What did you study?”

“History and Economics. My honors thesis was about how a small traditional monarchy in the European Union can leverage its strategic geography and outsized capital to become an equal partner in the global economy. I may go back at some point in the future, but I have things going on here right now.”

What the hell did she just say? What just happened? He was riveted.

“You did academic research about Cordonia’s economy.”

“I did. Nobody really had before, so it was a blank slate.”

His mouth was literally hanging open. She smiled, knowing she had just taken control of the situation back from him after his little “meet me in the closet” stunt.

“Well, you see Cordonia’s location on one of the most lucrative trade routes in Europe has benefited us for centuries. The coastline allowed us to build ports that were accessible and still protected.” She stood up and began to pace in a circle as she talked. “We’ve had one of the most generous tax structures for imports and exports ever since the idea of tax structures for imports and exports was conceived.” She looked at him and saw that she had his undivided attention. The heat of his gaze was unmistakable. Was he … was he turned on? She decided to just go with it. With a twist. “When we opened the casinos in the middle of the 19th century”– she pulled her shirt over her head, revealing a simple black bra–”we became the leading tourist destination for the new wealthy class of commoners. We welcomed their presence, and their money, like nobody else in Europe.”

Holy hell, what was she doing?

“Since then, Cordonia has been able to parlay its geopolitical position to its advantage through two world wars.” She approached him and knelt between his outstretched legs, resting her hands on his thighs. “We took a risk not staying neutral like Switzerland, but it’s always been our international policy to do the right thing. Our well-chosen strategic alliances resulted in strong positions with much more powerful nations.” She put her hand on his crotch and felt his erection. He looked like he was about to pass out. She stroked him with her finger.

“Today, we have one of the highest per capita GDPs in the world.” She unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, looking him straight in the eye. “My conclusion was that we could, and we should, do more.” She pulled his cock out and appraised it with the same expression she wore as when she’d been talking about economics. “Don’t you agree?”

He swallowed and cleared his throat. “I do. I like more. More is amazing.”

She rose to her knees and licked the underside of his penis from base to tip. “I think so too.” Her lips closed around the head of his cock and he groaned as she took him further into her mouth. She made a sound low in her throat that he felt all the way up his spine. He felt her nails rake over his balls as she slowly raised her head. She dipped again, not breaking the suction between her soft hot lips. Her free hand snaked up under his shirt and over his chest, then she ran it down the length of his body, down his side to his thigh before bringing it to clasp her other hand as it worked the base of his cock.

Bastien’s muscles clenched from head to toe. He was close, so close and he didn’t want it to end but it had to. He ran his hand over the back of her head, not pushing, just feeling her move against him, around him, all over him. And then he broke, letting loose in her mouth. She kept going, not slowing down until he was still. His eyes were closed, but he knew exactly where she was as she raised her head one last time and released him.

She folded her arms and rested them on his thigh, laying her cheek on her forearms. She watched him as he breathed deeply a few times.

“I hope my seminar didn’t put you to sleep,” she remarked with a sly grin. Bastien hooked his hand under her arm to bring her onto his lap. She settled in the circle of his embrace. “I don’t get the chance to talk shop very much lately." He laughed softly.

"I have an entirely new respect for economic theory,” he said. “You really have a way of making it relatable." She flushed, but not out of embarrassment over the topic or the blowjob, quite frankly. She knew she was good at both.

They sat like that for a while, talking about whatever came to mind. This wasn’t small talk, or the usual chatter that happened inside the palace. They both had to work at that, and neither enjoyed it. This was different and comfortable and easy.

The balcony doors were still open and the room grew chilly. She nestled in closer, unconsciously seeking his warmth. They kept talking.

"Would you like to stay?” she asked after an hour more. “Can you? Do you have to be somewhere?”

“Technically I’m on vacation. I can be wherever I choose. I can stay." Bastien knew that this was happening on her terms, that every minute with her was stolen. He wasn’t about to leave if he had anything to say about it.

He stood up, lifting her with him. He carried her to the bedroom, leaning her toward the light switches so she could turn them off as he passed them. He set her on the bed, walked back out to close the balcony doors, and returned.

"Just in case we get loud,” he said and her smile became a laugh. He crossed over to her and kissed her. She pulled him down so he sat beside her, and he leaned in for more. They were already partially undressed–his pants were still undone and her shirt was in the other room. They slowly finished pulling each other’s clothes off, exploring with their hands and mouths. He kissed a faint thin line that crossed her belly on the right side where her appendix had been removed while she lived in England. She found scars shaped like stars, from gunshot wounds he received during the attack that killed Drake’s father. He ran his finger across her apple tattoo, which he had seen in his mind every day since that night on the yacht.

“Talk,” he said with a laugh. She rolled her eyes and blushed.

“Before I left for university, I went on vacation with Hana and Olivia and Penelope. We were close in school, before all of this… whatever it is, palace nonsense became important and got between us. We were on Ibiza, doing the rich Eurotrash thing, and Olivia got this idea that we should all get tattoos.”

Bastien’s eyes widened. All four of them?!

“Right. So we spent the day drinking and deciding what to get. It had to be meaningful, y'know?" She laughed at the memory. "It was our version of a blood vow. Penelope was on probably her tenth appletini and she had this amazing idea: we should get apples! The famous Cordonian Ruby! It was perfect! Hail Cordonia! We found a place that could take us all at once, and …” she pointed to her own apple on her abdomen.

Bastien’s expression was priceless. He looked about to burst.

“Go ahead, ask away.”

“Are they… are they all the same? In the same, uh, location?” He was laughing now.

Madeleine slowly shook her head, smiling wickedly. “And that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

Those were the last words they spoke for the rest of the night.

They slept late. Neither had anywhere to be the next day, so they lazed in bed, achy from the night’s adventures. They had gotten loud indeed. Bastien didn’t realize how badly he wanted to bite her, to grab her, to leave some sort of mark on her like an animal until he realized that he couldn’t. It was enough that she was covered in beard burn, some places more than others, he realized with no small amount of possessive pride.

Madeleine, however, had not hesitated to leave a trail of bites and scratches and handprints all over him. She knew that he’d been careful; she made up for it.

She rang for a late breakfast while he was getting into the shower so it would be on the table when they got out. And it was. It was cold, but it was there.

Leo was scheduled to return late that night. Neither of them mentioned it, but as they filled the hours with sex and words and silence and even a nap tangled around each each other, they both knew they were racing the clock. They made love once more as the sun disappeared over the sea. Afterward, Bastien got dressed as she watched from the bed, uncovered and unconcerned by it.

He sat down and kissed her again, memorizing her taste and scent, and how she touched him as she leaned toward him. “Bye, Lady Mad”

“Goodbye, Bastien”

They didn’t speak of what would or wouldn’t happen next. It didn’t matter.

Chapter 5

#trr #trr bastien #trr madeleine

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