#and they never even send a card for Christmas or call on her birthday … so there’s a lot of mixed emotions there for her and me by extension

[gwyoi]

I’m a very #western Filipino American I’ve never been able to visit the family back home nor do I speak Tagalog or have a community here but the way some Fil-Ams talk about the motherland is so disrespectful like actually they are infected with capitalism brains. Don’t get me started on the religious ones too. But it’s just so sad to see people shit on the Philippines without knowing the history and politics of the region . I’m no expert but my god

[inkandarsenic]

Mav’s Daughter fic idea that I’ve been bullet pointing out in my notes app:

- 28 year old Naval Aviator Lieutenant Anna “Impulse” Mitchell is the product of a brief summer fling Mav had between deployments

- Her mom and Mav broke up when Mav deployed again, and her mom found out she was pregnant not long after.

- Mav did know about Anna and tried to be in her life for the first few years, but ultimately ended up putting all of his focus on Bradley and the Navy, and by the time she’s five, Anna just sort falls to the wayside. Mav sends Christmas and birthday cards for a few years after that but by the time she’s ten those stop too

- Anna’s mother moves them to Hawaii when Anna is seven because she gets a job at the Pearl Harbor base. Anna grows up surfing and sailing and learning to pilot, her first real job is at a helicopter tour company.

- After college, Anna follows her dad’s footsteps into the Navy’s aviation program, against her mother’s wishes.

- Her mom thinks Anna is chasing after the love and attention of a father who cares more for his job and another kid, and she thinks Anna is just going to get hurt

- Anna definitely takes after Mav in that she is a natural in the sky. She is referred to Top Gun by Cyclone, who was one of her instructors in the academy and sort of took on a fatherly role in her life. He knows she’s Mav’s kid and makes sure to let her know that Mav is teaching at Top Gun.

- Actually met Cyclone when she was 14 and her mom finally let her start learning to fly. Cyclone was stationed in Pearl Harbor and was kind of sweet on her mom so he offered to teach Anna how to pilot

- It irritates Mav to no end that someone else taught his kid how to fly and that Anna credits Cyclone for her ability to fly. He has no one to blame but himself.

- Maverick is not aware that his daughter is even in the navy, let alone top gun.

- He finds out when he and the Daggers are given the line up for the new top gun class.

- Rooster never met Anna and only knew that her mother had moved them to Hawaii and Mav didn’t get to see her very much

- Mav tries to talk to her about their relationship after classes one day, but it’s been 18 years since Anna’s even heard from him, so she shuts that shit down by only calling him captain Mitchell and telling him that she has no interest in anything but a professional work relationship

- She also doesn’t like Bradley much. She knows it’s not his fault but she feels like it’s unfair that he got Mav all to himself and feels however irrationally that he took her dad from her

- She gets along great with Phoenix and Bob and she and Payback bond over being from Hawaii.

- Her phones lockscreen is a picture of her, her mother, and cyclone at her college graduation. Mav sees it once and doesn’t know how to feel about it. (Or maybe it’s a picture she has in her jet? I don’t know for certain if that’s a thing)

- At the annual Navy gala, Cyclone asks Jake to accompany Anna, because her asshole ex-fiancée is going to be there and Cyclone doesn’t want her to be there alone

That’s kinda as far as I’ve gotten, but the Navy gala is like the beginning of Jake and Anna getting closer and eventually getting together.

[hyperactivewhore]

One of my biggest pet peeves is when people claim that it’s Marcel’s fault that Klaus was missing from Hope’s life. First of all, Klaus deserved everything he got after all the suffering and trauma he put Marcel through. Marcel is a saint compared to Klaus, who has done unspeakable things not only to Marcel but to thousands of others as well. If Marcel had kept Klaus locked up in a sewer until the world ended he would be more than justified.

Secondly, absolutely no one stopped Klaus from picking up his phone and calling his daughter. No one stopped him from sending birthday cards or Christmas gifts to his daughter. In fact, many people encouraged him to talk to Hope, including Hayley, Caroline, and Hope herself. He was the one who decided not to call Hope. He was the one who decided to cut off all contact with his daughter. He was the one who thought that the best course of action was to go no contact with Hope. But while he had no problem practically abandoning Hope (who was only a child at the time), he continued to seek out his brother knowing that being in close proximity to Elijah could hurt Hope.

So many people try to say Klaus wasn’t a bad father by blaming Marcel, Hayley, Hope, and everyone else in the entire show. But the reality is, Klaus was a bad father because of his actions alone.

And even to the every end of his life, he continued to be a bad father. He chose to flirt with Caroline when Hayley (Hope’s mother - practically Hope’s only parent) was missing and was in grave danger. He chose to spend his last remaining days showing Caroline around New Orleans as if he didn’t have a heartbroken, devastated daughter back at home who was grieving the loss of her mom and preparing for the loss of her dad. This man, who willingly chose not to contact his daughter for years, decided to spend his last remaining hours with his one night stand instead of Hope - and people have that audacity to say that it’s Marcel’s fault that Klaus was missing from Hope’s life?

Don’t get me wrong, I love Klaus. He’s a very interesting character. But I hate it when people justify his actions - especially because they will occasionally vilify Marcel to do so. Marcel and Hope deserved a better father. Marcel and Hope simply deserved better.

I'll never understand why people are surprised Klaus was a shitty father.

Loving your kids is the bare minimum and treating them right is like the least thing you can do, yet Klaus already failed miserably step two with Marcel. Klaus never respected Marcel as a person and let alone as his son, I don't care what people think. He liteally brought Marcel to that bridge in season three to remind him of his slavery, mocked his whip wounds, laid his hands on him in season one, and didn't even care to have a special goodbye with him when he was gonna die.

He literally told Hope she was meant to be broken by him, constantly jeopardized her safety when she was a baby, practically ghosted her most of her life, probably told Hope that Elijah didn't save Hayley, purposefully leaving out he was whoring around with Caroline, and was ignoring her the day he was gonna die choosing to spend his last hours with that same woman, and literally left Hope all in her own after losing her mother like the week before because he couldn't live without his brother.

Marcel had every single right to take revenge against the Mikaelson, and so does Hope. Their supposed family never gave any damn about them and yet people blame everyone but Klaus simply because they think Joseph Morgan is hot.

[br1ghtestlight]

Hi friend :) rewatching Father Of the bob and it made me wonder about the kids' and Big Bob's relationship. Do you got any headcanons and the like about that? (Sorry if you've already talked about it)

I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS ABOUT BIG BOB AND HIS RELATIONSHIP WITH THE KIDS i have peppered them throughout my posts and fanfics but i will expand on them a bit here >:)

i don't think bob ever went fully no contact with big bob but there was definitely a decade or two where they didn't live together and almost Never spoke except for big bob occasionally calling him to say happy birthday or whatever. when tina was born I think bob realized that he did want his dad to be in his kids lives in some way (yes they had linda's parents as their other set of grandparents but even back then i think bob KNEW they were shitty people and would be bad gransparents) he wanted them to have a good grandpa so he kinda introduced him into the kids lives

big bob was definitely nervous about being around these small and easily influenced humans even if he didn't outwardly express that. tina was the sweetest little baby so getting along w/ her was easy but gene and louise were definitely more stressful. and bcuz big bob was still busy with work he barely ever saw them anyway. but he did TRY to be a good grandpa by sending them birthday & christmas presents and giving them money every time they visited. trying to be a grandpa in the only way he knew how :(

could explore in another post how al and gloria are the WORST grandparents and how it's strongly implied that tina gene and louise don't actually like them (if you compare how they interact with linda's parents vs big bob its clear that they are tolerating al and gloria at most while they genuinely look forward to spending time with big bob and WANT to see him. can't even say it's because of bob influencing them to dislike linda's parents bcuz he openly hates his dad too lmao) but in comparison to them big bob really does correct so many of the mistakes he made w/ bob when it comes to his grandkids (to quote alice talking about gertie "she's a better grandmother than a mother you gotta trust me")

he's physically affectionate with them and he spoils them!!! he actually pays attention to their individual interests (watching gene's music performance and looking at louise's display of burobu cards, and seemingly getting her gifts specifically related to her interest in them for her birthday and christmas) and talks to them. compare that with al and gloria who literally got the kids a regifted book about staying active in retirement for christmas one year (with a whole chapter about sex with Actual pictures and examples which is fucked up) they're literally the worst ugh

and big bob's efforts with the kids seem to pay off bcuz they look forward to spending time with him :) they're always excited and I genuinely think it isn't only because he gives them money when they see him. they just like spending time with him!! "He's a good grandpa" and he bakes them cookies and worries about them and their futures <3 THEY'RE THE REASON HE BELIEVES THAT THE WORLD WILL BE OKAY. HE THINKS THEY'LL BE ABLE TO FIX THINGS?????

anyway some specific headcanons about his dynamics with each of the kids:

he definitely gets along the most easily with tina. they're similar people in the way that bob and tina are similar (except that tina is more positive than either of them lol) and they enjoy doing more lowkey activities together compared to louise or gene. they might enjoy baking cookies or doing puzzles together :) definitely a good thing that she was his first grandchild bcuz she was always kind and quiet and easy to get along with and it made him more confident in his abilities. Whenever he sees a horse themed item at a thrift store or whatever he buys it and gives it to tina the next time she visits!! that's how she got quite a few of her porcelain horses when she was younger (even if maybe decorative porcelain horses were not the best idea ever for a seven year old tina took very good care of them u_u gene and louise not so much. rip)

gene is probably the grandchild that he finds it the hardest to relate to just because they're such DIFFERENT people. gene is so effeminate and unashamed of himself and his emotions which is pretty much the opposite of how big bob was taught to be as a kid and how he raised bob. he never had daughters so its easier for him to relate to tina and louise bcuz they're almost like a blank slate?? he sees so much of what he did wrong with parenting bob when it comes to gene :( But they eventually find some common ground with gene's love of music and performing. big bob will tell gene about his favorite songs and records from when he was younger & he'll listen to all of gene's performances when he visits

louise is the most.... complicated for big bob? she reminds him SO MUCH of lily in everything from her personality to her pink hat. it definitely took him a few years to get over that and begin to see louise as her own person and stop projecting that trauma onto her (not intentionally but its just hard when you lose someone and then suddenly they're There again and they're your grandaughter) luckily louise is easy to love and her bold personality makes herself VERY known. he could not ignore her. he loves how spunky she is and how unashamed she is of herself (all his grandkids really) and he definitely thinks she's gonna grow up to do something great in the world. they don't have that much to bond over tbh he just let's louise take the lead and he does whatever she wants him to do. he just likes spending time with his granddaughter <3

definitely think that the kids have started seeing big bob more since his relationship with bob has been repaired a bit so i can imagine that connection will only grow stronger!!!!

[but-ur-beautiful-to-me]

tonight i am thinking about my parents and how i often don’t believe they are right for each other. they fight. argue. a lot. too much. as long as i can remember, multiple times every day of my life, there’s always something, and as soon as it’s resolved, there’s always more somethings. they get annoyed with each other constantly, my mother more than my father. my father never wanted my sister and i to grow up while my mother wanted us to mentally mature quickly while slowly shifting from girls to women.

tonight i am thinking about my parents and how i sometimes believe they are right for each other. my father is a hopeless romantic who passed his penchant for lovely gestures onto me. he puts thought into the gifts he gets for my mother. he takes time to write beautiful love letters in her birthday, christmas, and valentine’s day cards. he gets her flowers on each of those holidays as well. he has proposed to her three or more times, simply because he wanted to (although, she has lost a ring or two). he rubs her feet when they ache. he turns the tv volume down when she falls asleep before him, a nightly occurence. my mother, on the other hand, is a little less outwardly affectionate, but she never forgets to tell my father how much she loves him. she logistically explains her feelings in all of his cards, in tiny font he always jokes about needing a microscope to read. she always remembers to phone him if she misses a call, and if he doesn’t pick up she will send him a text message. she knows he doesn’t like onions, so she makes sure none of the chicken thighs she cooks for dinner have pieces of onion on them when she serves his plate. she drove two hours to work and back for forty-eight months so my father, my sister, and i wouldn’t have to move for the third time in as many years.

tonight i am thinking about my parents and how badly i want a love that is so similar, yet so different than theirs. i want someone who buys me flowers for every major holiday, and every once in a while when they feel like it. i don’t want explosive anger. i want someone who knows and accepts that i am not the world’s best vocalist, but smiles when i make attempts to serenade them with song. i don’t want to feel like an annoyance. i want someone who will massage my back when i over-exert myself, and stroke my hair when i’ve had a stressful day. i want someone who will gladly shout their love for me from the highest rooftop in a city. i want someone who would try to sing my favorite song atop a restaurant table before i pull them down, laughing. i don’t want to be shrugged off when obviously upset. i want someone who will sneak out with me during parties to look at the moon and talk about the universe. i want someone who is sure about marrying me before they even ask my friends for help in proposing to me. i want someone willing to raise two beautiful children into kind and good adults with me; some animals are included in there. i want someone to record adventures around the globe with me. i want to know someone’s soul like we came from the same star, and for them to know mine like we were fed the same constellations.

tonight i am thinking about my parents and supernovas and love and calla lilies and relationships and sour candy and a white dress and horror movies and honeymoon phases and rock songs and eight-letter phrases and me and you.

~ L.G. | would you say i’m worthy?

[tittyinfinity]

Venting, just having the words in front of me helps me process my own thoughts better.

Dylan and I might have just lost all our progress on house hunting again because of his dad.

His dad is the reason he's stuck in Texas in the first place. Offered a job at his dad's work, but then his dad took an entire YEAR to finally agree to it, all while telling Dylan that his family wouldn't help him get to work if he got a different job (and he made sure to tell his siblings and mom that they weren't allowed to take him either) even tho they're a 30 minute drive away from the nearest business and they're in the middle of nowhere. He also said that he and his mom weren't going to babysit, so he had to find a babysitter somehow with no money and no one to contact in the first place bc he doesn't fucking know anyone down there. And once Dylan got his car working again, HIS DAD STOLE HIS KEYS, ID, AND DEBIT CARD FOR 2 MONTHS. He found it in his DRAWER. Only reason he's working now is because his mom is charging him $800 A MONTH to watch her own grandchildren. AND SHE DOESN'T EVEN DO IT! Dylan's siblings do! His mom locks herself in her room and doesn't come out all day! SHE SAID OUT LOUD "What if I don't like my grandchildren?" "I'm not doing anything for the kids' birthdays or Christmas because it wouldn't be fair since my kids never got to do that" "your kids better leave me alone"

Dylan's dad is one of those super "alpha males" who has to control every aspect of everyone's life, and he makes sure NOT to let his kids (specifically, his sons) succeed at anything because it makes him feel inferior. I'm not kidding. He has done this every time Dylan has made progress.

Lemme tell you about just how abusive this man is.

He trapped Dylan's mom. He forced her into pregnancy back-to-back, told her she wasn't allowed to take birth control, told her no one else would ever want her because of her mom body, wouldn't let her drive until a couple of years ago and only allows her to do it with his permission and another person going with her to track her, doesn't allow her to have any friends at all, doesn't allow her to work or have her own money, etc. There's a lot worse things he does to her that I won't go into detail.

They had 9 kids. Nine. Most of them only a year apart. They didn't send any of them to school. They didn't homeschool them. They were specifically just farmhands. Literal slaves. He would stand and watch his kids do all the farming and then go kick them any time they stopped. They never had new clothes. They never had birthdays. Never had any holidays, actually. They had fake homeschooling stuff just in case cps stopped by. They weren't allowed to go to school or have friends because "he didn't want them going and saying bad stuff about him" (because he knew he'd go to fucking prison over it).

He makes sure he has control over everything. If dylans mom makes him mad, he says she better stop arguing before he hurts the kids. He will hurt and ground ALL the children if ONE person makes him mad. He uses that against them. So no one dares to mess up because everyone will get punished. Dylan is the only person who stands up to him because he's no longer afraid of him, but his family tries to tell him not to stand up to him at all out of fear.

And then with Dylan specifically.... he's the oldest son. For some reason, his dad thinks he's in constant competition with him. To the point that any time dylans mom showed him attention, his dad would tell her "well why don't you talk to DYLAN about it since he's so much better than me." Dylan wasn't allowed to succeed at anything at all, and if he tried, his dad would physically destroy his progress in order to keep him under his control.

Any time he stood up to his dad, he would beat the shit out of him (starting as a toddler), spit in his face, and call him a stupid faggot.

Dylan and his dad stay in motels during the week since their house is a 2-3 hour drive from work and they go in begween 3am-5am. Three nights ago, Dylan accidentally fell asleep in his dad's hotel bed instead of his own. He didn't know which bed was his. His dad yanked him out of bed from a dead sleep and Dylan pushed him off of him. His dad then punched him in the face and said that he assaulted him. Dylan went outside and his dad called the police. He had to drive 3 hours out of town with no cell service, trying to find his family's house in the middle of nowhere by memory only. He had to call in for two days in a row. He's not sure if his dad is going to try/be able to sabotage his job.

Dylan looked at a house a few days ago, but he may be homeless soon because his dad isn't going to allow him to go back to his family's house and that means his kids get kicked out too and he has no babysitter again.

WHY. WHY. Every time we make any progress, something outside of our control ruins it. All year I've been trying to move. All year everything has been working against me. I'm getting sicker and sicker staying at my mom's house.

I just want to give up, but I can't. It's hard to want to try when it only ends in failure and heartbreak.

[stellylee]

TASK #11 WRITE A LETTER

triggering / sensitive content: abandonment, cheating.

I hesitate to address this as 'dear dad' because you haven't been for a while. Unless you count the occasional text, or the cards at Christmas time. I'm not even really sure that you remembered my birthday this year, but it wasn't like I was waiting for you to call. I had a good time with Mandy and my friends.

And I know that I'll never actually send you this letter, because what would either of us get out of it? I don't need to guilt trip you into feeling bad about not being in my life, because I've got a great life despite your absence, and I don't see that changing any time soon. I'm happy. I guess I'm just writing it all down because I have the opportunity to, and why not?

At this point, I'm done being mad at you. Which took a long, long time to realize. Because when mom closed my bedroom door and told me that she needed to talk, I knew that it wasn't going to be an easy conversation. I was only twelve years old, and she told me that we were going to move. Not to another apartment, or another area, another part of the city... or even somewhere else in the state. No, we were moving up the coast, to Maine, of all places, and you weren't coming with us. She never actually told me that you cheated, you know that? I think because she wanted me to have a good, solid relationship with you, which maybe makes it harder that you didn't want that with me. I think it took me a long time to reconcile that feeling and realize that it wasn't all my fault. But, regardless, we moved to Maine and I was absolutely miserable. I hated how remote everything was, how quiet. I was also a pre-teen slash teenager who hated life in general, coming into my own and making decisions about my identity in a brand new place, which I guess was okay. Because I got to be Stelly in my own way. So, hey, I guess thanks for knocking up that chick. Helped me find myself?

Mom fell in love, which at first pissed me off (not just because it made me get a step brother, but just because she moved on), but now I an see that he's really good to and for her. She's happy, which is more than I can say about those last few years in New Orleans. I slowly learned how to not hate Maine. I got into photography, and I waitressed after school while I went to college, and eventually took some bartending classes. Now, I'm lead bartender at a sports bar and I kick some serious ass. I got a job with the local paper, photographing events and taking assignments when they need me, and I'm friends with journalists and editors and all the higher ups. I live in a downtown home that I share with some friends, it needs some work, but it feels like a place that's mine. And I have some really good friends who love me for who I am. And a dog.

And Mandy.

I lied, because sometimes I am a little bit mad at you, knowing that you'll never know how cool she is, or how she makes my heart skip a beat when she kisses my cheek. The way she likes my black jeans and ripped tanks, and the way she doesn't mind that it clashes with her pink hair or the bubblegum way she smiles. The thing is, I definitely gave up on the idea of love and relationships when I found out what you did and how much you hurt mom, but then Mandy stopped by Touchback more and more and I realized it was for me, to see me, to spend time with me... and I realized that maybe humans aren't always so awful to each other. Maybe you can genuinely, really care about a person.

The whole point of this was to let you know in my own fucked up way that... I'm okay without you. That I reached that point where life goes on and everything doesn't feel heavy, and I think about New Orleans with fondness in my heart, instead of the bitterness you planted there. But I could be okay with you, too. A part of me hopes that someday, you call instead of text. Just so I know that you sometimes still think about us, too.

[speedytimemachineblizzard]

**PLEASE READ AND PLEASE SOMEONE HELP ME** IM FEELING DEFEATED, Although HE IS CURRENTLY IN JAIL AWAITING A JUDGE FOR MORE DEFINITE SENTENCING, I FEEL LIKE HE WILL STILL SOMEHOW GET OUT WITHIN A WEEK, AS CRAZY AS THAT SOUNDS...ITS HAPPENED MORE TIMES THAN I COULD COUNT. REACHING OUT ON HERE IS ONE OF LAST RESORTS. I STILL DONT FEELL SAFE. AND NEITHER DO MY KIDS. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! Praying this will finally be the time they keep him locked up, but not feeling too confident.

Karma AT it's absolute finest was served on the very FIRST DAY OF 2024 too for a certain person I know. Today was Veda's 7th birthday, but this certain someone decided he had wanted to celebrate his way. All of my tires are now slashed, so as a result of that and not having the funds bc of back to back December birthdays and Christmas, I couldn't purchase tires, we couldn't take Veda out to celebrate her special day. She woke up to cops having to be called. My friends tires were also slashed, also this person stole my friend's debit card and car keys. I could go on and on but 6 charges currently, most definitely 7 when he is seen by a judge tomorrow or Wednesday. He admitted to cops he knew it was Veda's birthday, and that was how he chose to celebrate With trauma and memories I know she will never forget. I did my best to make her day that much more special, but my mommy heart can't stop aching for her. This person was also hiding in my laundry room outside for many hours before he was caught. This person also, yet again, violated the restraining order I have on him. I think this is the 5th time now. The system fails me and my children time and time again, he gets away with everything, all the time. And will continue to do so because he knows there will be no true consequences for it. This event was by far the most malicious and I am even more afraid now than I already was. Some may say that me posting this will make him retaliate. Yea...he mostly likely will. But I've been silent for 4 years, no communication with the person and he "retaliates"regardless. And since the court system won't serve justice, I'm talking it upon myself to reach out for help/advice. I've asked for guidance from Victims assistance, cops, and unfortunately something like my life has to be taken in order for anyone to take any REAL action. I can't afford a lawyer, it's not possible or ideal for me to move. This has been our family home for 15 years. Is there anyone, or even anyone who knows ANYONE, who can help me keep my children and I safe from this violent person? How, other than him talking my life, do I go about finding someone that will hold him accountable? Why is domestic violence treated like a minor issue that's not worth handling. He gets a slap on the wrist and a free pass to go back out into the world, basically allowing him another chance to "get me" again. This has been going on for years. Plz don't send negativity my way, and plz no judgement for my decision to take it to FB...just know bringing it here was truly my last resort.

Tonight we ended our night with pizza and ice cream and presents.. and even when we sung happy birthday to her, my whole heart was just breaking for her. She deserves the world. She is one of the sweetest souls I know. Please send me in any direction that will help us.

Karma was he got arrested within 5 minutes, whereas most times, he runs away and GETS away. Leaving us terrified to even sleep at night.

[sonnyinthesky]

I went to synagogue with the author up until a few years ago. Shes a total hypocrite. She was never excluded at synagogue! Also, she can shut up about knowing all about the Jews of Aotearoa cause she's literally American. Ive been to her house, shes super rich and all that so yeah shes privileged, but that doesnt mean we all are.

When she first started talking about being "Jewish not zionist" the community accepted her, so long as she understood not all would agree with her. She had many friends at shul when I went at least.

It feels like a slap in the face to hear her say Jewish people in Aotearoa are privileged and what not, and that we dont experience housing crisis or food insecurity. Im currently very poor. Below poverty line. My family maxed the amount of emergency food grants we can get in a year because of food insecurity. My family was homeless for a year, living out of a car in a campsite in a dodgey area. And we sure as hell arent the only Jewish people in the country that have lived like this. Not even the only ones we know personally. The government doesnt give two shits about us, and because of family drama we were shunned by the local Jewish community for years so couldnt ask anyone for help.

And, on the topic of Jewish people not facing antisemitism here, how can Marilyn explain the feeling of unsafety every time i wear a magen david necklace? The disgusted looks my mother got when wearing a shirt with hebrew writing at pride? The fact that when my class was made to read boy in the striped pajamas in school, not only were our concerns ignored about the antisemitism of the book itself, but it lead to the atrocities of the holocaust becoming a running JOKE at my school. I was teased constantly for saying that it wasnt ok to laugh about the books content. I was told i should be gassed because i called out a kid for doing a nazi salute in class. Not a single teacher did anything. In fact i was told off for complaining and being too sensitive! Even when I was a small child, I was bullied for being Jewish. Got called awful nicknames due to my Hebrew birth name, and told I was going to hell and i was a "jesus-killer" who should die. I was 11 when my best friend at the time said that. I had my artwork ripped up by a teacher because i drew a happy hannukah card for my mum instead of a merry Christmas card. I was 6. My friend once knowingly tricked me into eating pork because she knew it wasnt allowed and she thought it would make me Christian if i ate pork.

My mother was called slurs at work. She has been abused and assaulted throughout her life for simply existing as a visibly Jewish woman. My best friend told me I was a fascist and she couldnt speak to me anymore because i dared say that what happened on oct 7 was bad (she has since apologised and we are chill again but ????). My mother once made a facebook post that lead to our friends, people that came to my birthday parties, people that my mother worked with, stalking her facebook and sending dozens of death threats and messages saying "hitler shouldve finished the job" "we dont want people like you here" and sending her graphic images of the holocaust. And all that facebook post was? Her saying anti asian racism is bad. She said racism is bad and got attacked because of a selfie she posted prior that showed she is Jewish.

I have disconnected myself so far from Judaism due to fear of being hated, of losing friends, of being hurt. It got to the point where I started going to church and convinced myself i could be Christian, because that was safe. I haven't so much as acknowledged a Jewish holiday in years because I told myself I couldnt be Jewish. If it were up to me and it was safe I would wear a kippah every day. I would go to synagogue, i would pray, i would say "no thanks" when offered non-kosher food. But instead, i do none of those things. I will eat the ham sandwich or whatever it is, because im scared of the questions ill be asked if i say no. I wouldn't dare wear a kippah or dress in anyway that signifies im Jewish in public, because in this city there are posters everywhere you turn about boycotting israel, Palestinian flags everywhere, big israeli flags with ❌ over them. I know that isn't necessarily anti Jewish, but what you must understand is that in this city, the people who put those posters up, do not like Jewish people. They are the people that glare at pride when my mum walks past in her hebrew pride shirt. The majority of them will treat me like shit. Not to mention my home town, an hour out of the big city, is full of neo nazis. The kids i went to school with walk around the town and spray paint swastikas on every bus stop, they wind down their windows and scream nazi shit out the window at passers by. It got to the point where my mother said we had to hide any obviously Jewish stuff from outside view, and we had to keep our heads down in public because we could be hatecrimed on our own street. Luckily that has calmed down now and we're a bit safer, but its still scary.

If Jewish people were a privileged group in Aotearoa, Id be safe in my own city would I not? Id feel comfortable refusing non-kosher food and being visibly Jewish.

Read those stories and tell me Jewish people dont experience antisemitism in this country and that we're privileged.

Marilyn is incredibly privileged and said herself she doesnt connect with the Jewish community, so why is she speaking for us?

Sorry for the rant, i just read that article and was appalled. The spinoff sucks half the time anyway, but to see their guest author being someone i know denying the prejudice our people face? That hurt.

I urge anyone else who is in Aotearoa and is Jewish to speak up and show this person that she is wrong and clearly out of touch from the reality we face as Jews. In fact, even if you're not Jewish, if you experience(d) antisemitism, feel free to share, because i know that not just Jews, but anyone perceived as Jewish, faces antisemitism.

This is the biggest crock of shit to come out

I know plenty of poor jews, who have housing issues and food issues, but the community rallies together to help them so they can survive. The government and other community groups do not help, it's people at synagogue who help. I actually know people who have had a harder time getting help from the government with benefits as "because they're jewish, they should be rich and are likely trying to scam the government". - real thing said to a jew I know who tried to get on the benefit (social welfare).

Also she is literally pushing the jews are all rich antisemitism trope

It is not privileged to live life being seen as sub human, which I had gone through. Literally no joke, I was treated as sub human for years at school because I was jewish and no one did anything about it.

I know a jew who is currently being discriminated against at work for being jewish.

Then on the topic of her being excluded from synagogue, all the reform synagogues in the country pray for people in Gaza, they denounce Israel's actions. Even a few of the orthodox synagogues do too!

The only way you would be excluded is if you wished harm upon those in Israel, which is a valid reason to be excluded as there are plenty of jews with family in Israel, and you would be wishing harm on your fellow shul goers family.

Whilst I am glad that her experience has mainly been a positive one as a jew in Aotearoa, it is not reflective of the overall jewish communities' experience.

As she said herself, she does not connect with the majority of the Jewish community, so she should not speak on experiences of the wider jewish community as a whole.

[violetsystems]

I want to get my cat a Christmas present. Nobody really celebrates Christmas or my birthday at all with me anymore and they're around the same time. Haven't for years. My parents make phone calls and send cards. Nobody else. So my cat is about the only immediate entity that I share the holidays with. I don't know why that is. Maybe I'm being punished by my past for not wanting to let them into my life to abuse me again. People have been flippant the last few years about even acknowledging I exist. It's like they rub it in on my birthday especially. My old boss and CIO made me fill out an award application for an employee of mine on my day off one year. They knew it was my birthday. They just wanted to be mean I guess. it's this low key abuse where people you were friends with just pretend you betrayed them somehow and do these weird gestures that seem suspect but will never admit to it. This was before I talked so much shit about them so it's always been there. You call it out and it just becomes evident just like how you are a low key target of the memes they post on instagram after you've disappeared from their life. But they were always bullies no doubt. They just hid it well socially. Maybe even got off on it behind your back. My old boss was the one who invited me out to a bar one Christmas with my ex girlfriend to punk me into meeting her new boyfriend. I didn't know at the time but she warned me my ex would be there because we all worked together. I got so many people a job there including her it isn't even funny. Which is why it's so awkward all those people just ghosted me. But in this case I just walked up to the bar when we got there and saw this guy I hadn't seen in forever and was like "Oh hey dude! I'm here with my boss." And then he walked over with me to the table all smiling and sat next to my ex. That guy met her a long time ago through a person I ran a record label with. Biggest punk promoter in Chicago. Also a major low key drug dealer so it made sense why she'd gravitate towards him. I just sat there in silence and nodded my head wanting to leave in the back of my head. I guess me leaving them all behind is me standing up for myself when I couldn't that day. That was precisely the day I knew those people were never my friends to begin with. So Christmas has this sting to it and probably intentionally so. Not to mention I moved out of my apartment from that long term relationship on New Year's Eve. So these people always knew when to shove the knife back in around the holidays. At least I'm used to being alone because of it. It sounds depressing but I'm over it and would rather focus on moving forward now even if people around me have me at some secret standstill. It's like being held hostage by nostalgia. At least nobody is around to joke about you getting older. My cat can be kind of demanding of course as well. But I have a dry food dispenser. I want to get a wet food dispenser for when I go back to work hopefully. They have one that holds six feedings with two ice packs. So you basically freeze the ice packs overnight and load the food up in the morning. I'm sure it's easier to portion out the food she gets too that way. But I have to go back to work at some point. And I keep getting fake job offers while I wait for the one I've been on hold with since August. More bullying in disguise it feels like. But maybe I'll get a real job for Christmas this year.

[blueskrugs]

closure | Sidney Crosby

happy (belated) birthday sid, sorry your present is an angsty fic. 

I started this one a year and a half ago, picked it back up a few weeks ago to try and get it done by 8/7, wrote 2000 words, decided to change half of it, went to summer camp for a week, got writer’s block for one last scene, and now we’re here. finally.

length: 4.5k words

It’s been a long time And seeing the shape of your name Still spells out pain

Margaret Thomas didn’t hate Sidney Crosby. No, that required too much energy. Margaret would just rather not think about him, which was easier said than done. He was no longer “Sid the Kid,” but he was still a force to be reckoned with on the ice. Sometimes he seemed inescapable—there were commercials featuring him running on ESPN, and it seemed like at least once a week he pulled off some ridiculous feat that only Sidney Crosby could do that was in all the highlight reels for days. It wasn’t for lack of trying on her part, though; Margaret didn’t watch much hockey these days, and her ties with the hockey world had been severed as abruptly as their relationship. Margaret hadn’t quite moved on, but she was okay again. 

Margaret wondered sometimes who knew all of the details of their breakup all those years ago. Her relationship with Sid had been as quiet as Sid could keep it, but she had been there for the Cups, for the gold medals. Those memories, those pictures, would go down in history alongside his name, engraved in silver and gold. It had been a cute story once, the boy who saved the Penguins falls in love with a girl from Pittsburgh, settles down and sticks around. That’s how it was supposed to go, at least.

Margaret is surprised when she gets a letter in the mail, mixed in amongst junk and bills. Who sends letters anymore? The return address is unfamiliar, but the careful, spidery handwriting spelling out her name and the little “SPC” in the corner is as familiar as her own.

Of course Sid would send a letter, after all these years, after cutting off all contact after the break-up, stubbornly old-fashioned person that he was. She was annoyed that that thought was still laced with fondness underneath the bitterness. Margaret wondered, too, how he’d gotten her address; Margaret had moved since the breakup, and she didn’t keep in contact with anyone on the team or their wives enough to warrant ever sending a Christmas card. 

Margaret carefully slides her finger under the flap of the envelope and pulls out the letter inside. It, too, was handwritten, because of course it was. Margaret takes a deep breath and begins to read.

I’m sure you’re surprised to be hearing from me after all these years. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve thought about reaching out, but I didn’t think you’d ever want to hear from me. I’ve even started writing this a few times, but I could never get the words right.

Margaret scoffs, more than a little bitter. She wonders what was so important to finally make him reach out after all these years. She briefly thinks of crumpling up the letter and tossing it in the trash, but her curiosity got the better of her. Margaret keeps reading.

I wanted to say that I’m sorry for the way things ended between us. It wasn’t fair to you. I wish I could’ve done it differently, or not done it at all, but there’s no way to change the past, is there? I didn’t realize it at the time, but I probably really hurt you. I should’ve apologized a long time ago.

Sid’s words were uncovering a hurt Margaret thought she’d buried deep long ago. He was right, though, there was no changing the past. She brushes away a tear before it can land on the sheet of paper in her hand. There was more to the letter.

I’ll be playing in my 1250th game soon. They’re treating it like a big milestone. Jen’s been talking about rounding up some people for interviews or something. I saw your name on a list and wanted to give you a head’s up before she called. 

Margaret remembered the videos from Sid’s 1000th game. No one had reached out to her to make a video for Sid that time. She doesn’t know what she would’ve said, anyway.

I don’t know what she’ll ask you to do, but I want you to know that you’re not obligated to do anything. You certainly don’t owe me anything. 

He had that right. He hadn’t even offered Margaret a proper explanation for why he ended a years-long relationship, or a proper goodbye.  

It happened the day of Sid’s Cup party in 2017. Sid pulled Margaret aside as the party was wrapping up, nothing more than a few drunken stragglers and friends and family sticking around to clean up. Sid looked nervous as she followed him into a quiet room. 

“What’s up?” Margaret asked.

Sid didn’t make any move to sit and neither did Margaret. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I think this needs to stop,” he said. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“What?” Margaret asked. Drunk on summer sun and champagne, she wasn't following. 

“I-” Sid looked uncertain for a moment. “I think we need to break up.”

“What?” she said again. Margaret didn’t know what she was expecting when Sid asked her to come with him, but it certainly wasn’t this.

“I want to break up,” Sid said firmly. “I need some space.”

Margaret had lied. She knew exactly what she’d been expecting. A ring, a future and a life together. They’d talked about it, even. Margaret felt like Sid had punched her in the gut. She almost wished he had, actually. That would hurt less than this.

“I don’t understand, Sid,” Margaret said. She thought they were happy. She thought Sid loved her. She had been wrong about both, apparently.

“I’m sorry,” was all Sid said as he brushed past Margaret and went back outside. She faintly heard a cheer go up as he reemerged. Margaret slipped upstairs. Despite all the people milling around, Sid still valued his privacy, and he didn’t have anyone staying in any of the guest bedrooms. It was easy to move her things into one down the hall while the party wrapped up outside. 

Margaret flew out from Halifax the next morning. Her things were cleaned out of Sid’s house and into a new apartment of her own before Sid was back in Pittsburgh for training camp in September. She deleted his phone number in October. She never saw him again. It was probably for the best that way.

Margaret’s hands shake. Frustrated, she throws the piece of paper, but it simply flutters to the ground at her feet. She isn’t sure who she’s more upset with—Sid, for still holding a piece of her heart, or herself, for still allowing Sid to break her heart after all these years. Margaret steps over the paper and wanders into her kitchen. She pulls open the fridge and stares aimlessly into it for a long moment. On the floor behind her, Sid’s letter sits, only half read, taunting her. Margaret slams the fridge shut. The rattling of the things on the door is only satisfying for a moment. 

She walks back over and picks up the letter again. She slides to the floor to read the last few lines.

I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s too much to ask that you could forgive me one day, but I do hope that we can talk about it sometime. But I guess you don’t really owe me that either. 

There was no closing, no autograph signature either, just “Sid” scrawled in messy cursive at the bottom of the page. 

Margaret crumples up the letter and throws it again. It lands somewhere behind her couch. It, too, doesn’t feel as satisfying as she’d like. 

Margaret carefully puts it out of her mind. Or tries to, at least. The letter stays crumpled on the floor of her living room, but it doesn’t matter because it feels like she's committed Sid’s careful words to memory, echoing in her head when her guard was down. 

Margaret’s phone rings a week after the letter arrives. It’s a Pittsburgh area code, a number she doesn’t have saved to her contacts, and she answers it warily. 

“Hello?”

“Hi, Maggie,  this is Jen with the Penguins communications department, do you remember me?”

Of course Margaret remembers Jen. Jen was solely responsible for keeping the team from making fools of themselves most of the time. 

“Of course,” Margaret tells her. She knows why Jen is calling. 

“Well, I’m sure you know that Sid’s coming up on a new milestone soon, and we’ve been tracking down some friends from over the years for some more videos like we had for his 1000th game, and maybe to get some stories about Sid when he was younger,” Jen says, as businesslike as ever. She doesn’t mention the fact that Margaret had been left off the list of friends for Sid’s 1000th game, and neither does she.

“Yeah, uh, Sid gave me a heads up that you might be calling,” Margaret says without thinking.

Jen pauses. “I didn’t realize you two were still in touch.”

“Something like that,” she says wryly.

Jen continues. “We’d love to have you come out to PPG one day soon to get some footage, whenever it works for you.”

Margaret hesitates. Even with Sid’s heads up, she somehow wasn't prepared to be asked for an in-person interview. She had thought Jen would just have her record something in her apartment and send it back to Jen. It would give Margaret unlimited takes to cuss out her ex in the privacy of her own home before she could string together enough warm and complimentary words. Driving down to PPG came with the risk of running into Sid, and Margaret wasn't sure there was ever enough time to prepare herself for that.

“Can I think about it? It’s been a long time,” Margaret hears herself say. 

She hears Jen’s sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, but when she speaks again, she sounds unbothered. “Sure! I’ll leave you be for now, but get back to me in a few days, alright?” Margaret wonders briefly what Sid told Jen about their breakup. He had to have some explanation, some warning, for her, in case she’d taken the “crazy jilted ex” route and exposed him on social media or something. Lucky for him, that had never been Margaret’s style. 

In the end, Margaret agrees. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t find it in herself to feel so much contempt for Sid to not do this small thing. She wished she could. She hated that she couldn’t make herself hate him. 

Margaret drove downtown to PPG Paints Arena on a Saturday afternoon. Jen had assured her that the players would be cleared out after film review and an optional skate, and that she had no risk of running into anyone. Margaret  wanted to avoid Sid most of all, but she wasn’t sure she could handle having to make small talk with Tanger or Geno, or meeting some young player who didn’t even know who she was, after she and Sid had carefully erased each other from their histories. 

Jen meets Margaret at the door and quickly ushers her into a small, dimly lit room. It isn’t crowded, just a couple of cameras, a camera operator, and Margaret and Jen. Jen shuts the door behind her and takes a seat across from Margaret. She spares a second to be thankful that she was staying, a familiar face. Brighter flights flick on, and Jen smiles as Margaret blinks a few times to adjust.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been around, how have you been?” Jen asks.

Margaret isn’t sure if the cameras are rolling yet. She forces a smile. “Things have been good,” she says. It’s not a lie. Things were better before she found herself back in the story of Sid’s life.

“We’ll start easy,” Jen says. “What’s a story about Sid most people don’t know? You two were so close when he was younger.”

That’s also definitely not a lie. Margaret had tried to prepare herself for anything Jen might ask her, but Margaret still takes a moment to answer, wracking her memory for something to say.

Margaret and Sid had met in a bar, just before the 2009-2010 season started. That wasn’t a cute or wholesome story to tell. Margaret takes a deep breath.

“There was this time I dragged Sid to the animal shelter because I wanted a dog.”

“Maggie, I don���t need a dog,” Sid is saying, gamely allowing himself to be dragged towards the doors of Humane Animal Rescue.

Maggie stops and turns to face Sid, hands on her hips. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve still got Sam back home, I know. But I want a dog, so we’re here.” 

She pulls open the door and lets Sid walk ahead of her inside. He nervously touches the brim of his hat and looks around. A smiling volunteer makes her way over to them.

“Hey guys, what can I help you with today?” she asks. 

Maggie smiles back at her and takes Sid’s hand. “I’ve been thinking about adopting a dog,” she says.

“Perfect, we have plenty of those, hopefully one will be your perfect new friend,” the volunteer says, already turning and heading towards the kennels. She asks Maggie questions as they walk—what exactly she’s looking for, what her apartment is like, if she has any other pets— and Maggie is suddenly overwhelmed. Sid trails a few steps behind, only half listening. Maggie can hear the barking dogs before the volunteer even opens the door to their part of the shelter. 

Maggie glances over her shoulder at Sid. “You sure you don’t want to adopt one, too?” she teases, noticing Sid’s soft smile, always a sucker for a cute face. “I’m sure we could find you a good match.” Sid just shakes his head at her.

The next hour is a blur of meeting dogs and Maggie trying not to fall in love with all of them. Sid ends up on the floor with her, happily cuddling and playing with each new dog that’s brought out to Maggie. In the end, she falls for a sweet Pit mix named Biscuit. Even Sid seems enthralled by her when she licks his face. 

Maggie’s got Biscuit on a leash, and she’s following the volunteer back to the front desk to fill out all the paperwork for adoption when Sid stops short. Maggie stops, too. Sid’s standing next to a glass door labeled Kitten Room, watching a little boy play with a kitten. The little boy notices Sid watching and looks up. Margaret can tell the moment he recognizes Sid as Sidney Crosby by the way his face splits into a grin. He carefully sets the kitten down and runs to open the door.

“Do you wanna play with the kitties, too?” Maggie hears him ask. Sid glances at her. Biscuit, eager to make a new friend, whines and tugs on her leash. The kitten the boy had been playing with is attempting to make an escape.

Sid scoops the kitten up and edges carefully into the Kitten Room. “Of course, bud,” Maggie hears him say. To Maggie, he adds, “I’ll catch up with you, yeah?” The door shuts behind him before she can answer.

By the time Maggie’s finished with the pages and pages of adoption paperwork, Sid still hasn’t caught back up with her. She and Biscuit make their way back towards the Kitten Room to find him. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to the little boy, and there’s a kitten climbing on his shoulder, trying to eat his hat, another one curled up in his hands. Maggie stands next to the glass door and watches them, a smile on her face. Next to her, Biscuit wags her tail at them. The little boy notices them and waves. Sid carefully hands the kitten in his hands to the little boy and disentangles the claws of the other one from his hat. 

He’s grinning as he makes his way back to Maggie, easy and relaxed. He drapes his arm across her shoulders for a moment when comes through the door, and Maggie leans into his side.

“Have fun making some new friends?” she asks. 

“He asked me if I could score a goal for him tomorrow night,” Sid says, laughing a little.

“Y’know, a cat would probably be a better pet for you, with all the travel and stuff,” Maggie says.

Sid digs his elbow into her ribs, but he kisses Maggie quickly against the car before opening the back door for Biscuit. 

Margaret’s eyes were wet when she finished telling her story. She twists around in her seat to dry them before facing Jen again. It’s not even a sad story. She’d almost forgotten the memory altogether. It’s been a few years since Biscuit had passed now, but that sweet little dog had been Margaret’s anchor during the aftermath of their breakup. She should look into adopting another dog, Margaret thinks absently. Jen seems unfazed by, but not unsympathetic to, Margaret’s crying. 

“And what do you want to say to Sid?” she asked. 

Margaret had thought about this part, too. She remembered someone saying that Nathan MacKinnon’s message for Sid’s 100th game was too personal to show on the broadcast. She’d considered saying something vindictive, something petty. Her relationship with Sid had always been personal, and a part of Margaret wanted this last message to be just between them, too. But she worried that Jen would just scrap the footage if she said anything too cruel. 

So Margaret settled for sincere, or as sincere as she could muster.

“Hi, Sid,” she starts awkwardly. “It was such a privilege to be by your side over the years, to be able to watch you grow into an amazing leader. To be there for the Olympics and for the Cups…it’s not something anyone is going to forget. I know it wasn’t easy to get this far, but you did it and you’re still going. I’m proud of you, Sid,” Margaret says. She takes a deep breath. 

There is silence in the room when Margaret finishes speaking. She clears her throat. “Right, is that all, then?” she asks, already standing up. The small room they were in suddenly feels claustrophobic, and Margaret needs out.

Jen stands with her. “It’s perfect, thanks so much for coming in. I’m sure it wasn’t easy…” she says. Margaret wonders, again, how many details of their breakup Jen actually knows. 

Margaret was already opening the door and rushing back into the hallway. She didn’t stop to check if the hallway was clear first, which is how she bumps straight into someone walking down the hall.

“Oof,” she hears, from a voice that was once as familiar as her own. A hand reaches out to steady her elbow. Sid hasn’t seen Margaret’s face yet. 

“No, it’s okay, it was my fault,” she says, carefully not looking up at Sid. She pulls her purse strap back up and tries to edge around Sid before he recognizes her.

“Maggie?” Sid asks 

Margaret freezes. Sid’s still gripping her elbow tightly. “Margaret,” she says.

“What?” “It’s Margaret. No one really calls me Maggie any more,” she tells him. Sid’s grip tightens even more for a moment before he drops his hand back to his side.

Margaret stops peering down the hall behind him and chances a look at his face. Sid’s jaw is tight, and he’s looking at Margaret like he can’t believe he’s actually seeing her. A member of team staff walks past behind Sid— Tags, Margaret is pretty sure— and pats Sid on the back as he goes past. Sid startles a little.

Sid takes Margaret’s arm again, and she lets herself be led into an empty room a few steps down the hall. Sid pushes the door mostly shut behind them.

“I didn’t think you’d actually come out,” Sid admits.

“I was told there wouldn’t be any players here,” Margaret counters. Sid winces, and it’s satisfying to see, briefly. 

“Maggie,” Sid starts, but he doesn’t finish his sentence. He’s still staring at Margaret like he doesn’t believe she’s real. 

“Stop calling me that,” Margaret says. She’s drained after sitting in front of that camera for Sid, and she doesn’t have the patience, suddenly, for whatever Sid’s about to say next. “Look, I should just go,” she says. “I should’ve never even come in the first place.” She finally wrenches her arm free from Sid’s grip. 

Sid blinks at Margaret, confused. “I just thought-” he says, but, again, he doesn’t finish his sentence. “Well, uh, thanks, I guess,” Sid says, taking a step back. “It means a lot, I know it’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Margaret says. “Yeah, well, I guess now we can go back to pretending the other of us doesn’t exist.” She moves to brush past Sid and out the door. 

“Wait,” Sid says. He reaches to grab Margaret again, but thinks better of it. He shuts the door all the way. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? You made it very clear you didn’t want anything to do with me when you broke up with me. We went our separate ways, and I did my best to forget I was ever in love with you,” Margaret says. She makes a move to push past Sid again, but Sid stops her with an arm around her waist. Margaret spins back to face Sid, now boxed in against the closed door. 

“Everything was happening so fast, I didn’t know what to do,” Sid tries, talking fast like he can keep Margaret from leaving by sheer force of will.

“So fast? Sid, we’d been together for almost seven years, when all of a sudden you broke up with me instead of giving me a ring!”

“Exactly! You wanted a ring, and I wasn’t ready for that,” Sid argues. “It was just-”

“Just so overwhelming you couldn’t even talk about it? Fuck, all I got was a ‘I want to breakup,’ and then we never spoke again.” Margaret didn’t think she had it in her to be angry about this after so many years, but Sid standing so close to her was bringing out all sorts of emotions. Fury, longing, heartbreak.

Sid makes a frustrated noise. “You’re the one who cut me out of your life!”

Margaret feels like she could scream. “You broke up with me, what the hell else was I supposed to do?” she says, trying to keep her voice level. She isn’t sure if she’s going to scream or break down crying. 

“I just needed space! I needed time to figure out where we were headed,” Sid says. 

Margaret opens her mouth to respond, but before she can, Sid’s mouth is on hers, kissing her fiercely. She lets herself melt into it for a second—the way Sid’s lips slide against hers, once so familiar, her back pressed against the door, Sid’s hands on her body, one clutching her hip and the other resting on her cheek—before she comes to her senses and pushes Sid away. Sid goes, breathing raggedly and looking stunned. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Margaret asks. Her hand is on the doorknob. 

“I- I don’t know,” Sid says honestly. “I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.”

Margaret should leave. She knows she should leave. She can’t help but ask, “Which part?”

Sid makes a face at her. Margaret hates the fondness she feels for that damn nose scrunch. “All of it. Everything. I’m sorry,” he says again. 

They’re both quiet for a long time. There’s footsteps down the hall. “I should go,” Margaret finally says. 

This time, Sid doesn’t stop her.  Margaret pulls the door open and steps back into the hall. She looks back over her shoulder. Sid hasn’t moved. 

“Goodbye, Sid,” she says softly. 

She doesn’t pass anyone else as she makes her way back to her car. She drives home in silence. She doesn’t ever hear from Sid again. It’s probably for the best that way. 

 A few weeks later, Margaret gets a text from Jen. The game’s tonight, it reads. Margaret still hasn’t decided if she’s going to watch the game or not. She hasn’t seen a Penguins game since they won the Cup in 2017, hasn’t watched one on TV in even longer.

She turns on her TV.

1250 games isn’t nearly as big of a milestone as 1000 games was, but they’ll still be showing some of the pre-recorded clips throughout the game, mixed in with highlights of Sid over the years, or so Potash is saying when Margaret finds the right channel. There’s no pregame ceremony, just Sid blushing when the PA acknowledges the milestone before puck drop. It’s easy to fall back into the rhythm of watching hockey, though Margaret has to keep the roster pulled up on her phone to keep track of who’s who. The team is very different than she remembers, only a handful of players left who’d remember her. 

They play Margaret’s video clip just before the end of the second period. The words underneath her name simply describe her as “friend of Sid’s” which is a bit of a stretch. “Sid’s ex-girlfriend” would certainly have been funnier. She mutes the TV; she already knows what she said, doesn’t need to hear it again. They’ve interspersed the clip with pictures of Margaret and Sid, some she’d even forgotten existed— Margaret and Biscuit and Sid with his dog Sam one summer, one a teammate had taken of them in a rare moment of PDA with Sid’s hips pressing Margaret into a wall in a hall at PPG, Margaret’s arms wound tightly around his neck, and the last one is one from Sid’s day with the Cup in 2017. She remembers that picture being taken, poking fun at Sid’s sunburn to get him to give the camera a real smile. The memory is bittersweet now. Margaret wonders which poor intern had to dig those up, or if Sid had offered them up himself. 

“I’m proud of you,” on-screen Margaret is saying. 

Margaret clicks the TV off. She stands up, stretches. Sid’s letter hasn’t moved from its place of honor on the floor behind the couch. Margaret fishes it out before heading into the kitchen. She smooths it out on the counter. The words are familiar, imprinted on Margaret’s memory. She rereads it anyway, then again. She misses Sid fiercely, all of a sudden, something in her chest aching at the thought. She stares at the letter without really seeing it, Sid’s thin, careful handwriting blurring together until the letters are indistinguishable.

 With a sigh, Margaret crumples the letter back up and throws it in the trash. 

She pours a glass of red wine and starts over on putting Sidney Crosby out of her mind forever.

[forfamily]

“Zio Jojo!” Despite the importance of this first meeting, as the pilots started to unload the supplies, including one backpack that was hers, she went to give the eldest of the group a warm hug, arms going around his middle; even with her heeled boots, the top of her head just reached the middle of his broad chest. There was the faintest of the Italian accent in her voice. “You naughty man, it’s been a decade since Nonno and I have seen you and Zia Suzi; don't you dare tell me Christmas cards and phone calls on my birthday count!”

There was evident affection in her voice, as though she had known Joseph Joestar all her life- and she had, having grown up on the heroic tale of how he and Zio Caesar defeated the Pillar Men so many years before; in her mind, despite her age, he was a hero. The pilots finished their tasks and turned their attention to the group's apparent leader, the eldest. This had her attention shifting to the rest of the group, who were looking at her as though they'd never seen a woman before. Finally, the helicopter departed, so they were able to talk.

Her right hand lifted, palm over her heart; on her ring finger, what looked like a lion-headed door knocker, just ring-sized. Her left hand remained at her side as she inclined her head respectfully. "Buongiorno, I am Baroness Bianca Zeppeli. My grandfather, Dario Zeppeli, sends his regards- I am here in his stead."

MAYBE IT was from their already long and arduous journey , or the fact they had to spend more downtime waiting for their new arrival - but the men started to show their restless nature. while they all handled their antsy feelings personally - polnareff felt himself particularly becoming agitated by the grating wait. the young adult kept himself occupied by bothering senior - questions endlessly flowing from mouth and falling upon deaf ears. such antics aren't unheard of , and even usually encouraged - but today ... joseph was eager to meet their new arrival , the long awaited meeting of another zeppeli to join their venture. THE SOUND of fluttering propellers drowned out any noise that came from polnareff's mouth , men gathering just out of helicopters reach as they stood witness to the hanger door slide open. the plume of dust and debris obscured shared vision - the first figure coming into view was that of the small dog. ' i thought we were meeting a person , not a dog , mr. joestar. ' a scoff left polnareff's lips . watching how the animal already showed a disdain towards the grey haired fellow. browline furrowed as he made a rather stern look back at the dog. ' we're not meeting just a dog , we're meeting an old friend. ' elder eyed down the other briefly before focusing gaze back onto helicopter , almost stricken by the sound of heels clicking onto stone ground as female form shown through cloud of dust. ' m - mr. joestar ... you said we were meeting a man , is this not who we are suppose to be meeting ...? ' avdol peered through the debris that blurred vision , expression of distrust and concern taking over usually calm and collected composure. polnareff chimed in , seemingly testing everyone's patience. ' w - wait , she's not who we're suppose to meet ?! well ... i guess a woman is better than another man joining. ' THE SILENCE joseph expressed was deafening as they waited with for the obstruction to pass , watching helicopter disappear from view as drudged up dirt finally settled. the elder could feel all eyes pierce the back of his neck as they waited for an answer about the woman's identity. ' no , she's not who we were suppose to meet. but ... no doubt you can trust her , she's a zeppeli , after all. ' it would of been nice to have been given any sort of heads up , but was nonetheless contently surprised to see a familiar face. the eldest of the group waltz up to the woman , arm splayed wide as he offered hearty hug. ' bianca ... it's been awhile since i last saw you. you've grown to be quite the young woman ! it's always good to see another zeppeli after all this time. '

[trantrumsfromthevoid]

Twilight Advent ‘22

Day 13 (12.13.22) - “What college major did each one of Bella's human friends choose?”

Did Bella really have human friends? You sure?? Just kidding. But another time to revisit the ye olde Lexicon to remind myself who her friends were. (Edit: I actually found a couple “friends” I’d completely forgotten about and the movie didn’t include.) I’m only gonna do a couple, though, ‘cause there’s quite a few, actually.

According to the Lexicon Jessica Stanley went to college in California and probably majored in fashion design or interior design for a semester or two and then found her “true” passion. I feel like she probably would’ve done well as an elementary school teacher or some kind of managerial position (wherein she, essentially, gets to boss people around for a living). I feel like during her junior year, though, she met someone who totally swept her off her feet, fell in love, got married, and even had a kid or two; all before her twenty-fifth birthday. I think she still lives in California and really loves her life as a soccer mom. She’s known for her “award-winning” bake sale cakes, has a truly gorgeous husband (who’s a personal trainer - maybe even a legit model), twins, and organizes the cul-de-sac block parties.

I think Mike Newton always felt like he’d eventually take over Newton Outfitters and so he majored in business or economics. He probably went to Washington State or stayed relatively close to home and eventually married some plucky girl after his relationship with Jessica Stanley fizzled out and he realized Bella would never leave Edward for him, lol. I think he’s simply living his “best life” as an All-American, Boy-Next-Door type as the manager of Newton Outfitters; complete with a beautiful trophy wife, three kids, a dog (or two), and has never lived out of Washington State. The furthest he’s ever gone was on his honeymoon. Maybe somewhere like Hawaii or the Bahamas. (Not that there’s anything wrong with living in your home state all your life.)

Ben Cheney, according to the Lexicon, moved with Angela Weber to Seattle and went to the University of Washington. To be quite honest, I’ve always associated him with Eric Yorkie. I don’t think Ben was part of the movies and they just “morphed” him with Eric. But anyway, I fully believe he majored in graphic design. Or some kind of art/comic book design (like an illustrator of comic books; whatever they’re called). I think he’s actually really successful and eventually found a job at Disney and has done a lot of set design/character design for all the Marvel movies. I think he and Angela Weber are still in contact ... in fact I’ll talk about why next.

Angela Weber went to the University of Seattle along with Ben and they also lived together in Seattle. I think she probably majored in photography and minored in English or English lit or something along those lines. I think she probably got a job as a newspaper photographer right out of college and probably eventually found success as, like, an indie filmmaker or something like that, who maybe does wedding photography on the side. I think she and Ben continued dating throughout college (although they did “take a break” for about a year but eventually got back together) and eventually got married when they were twenty-five(ish). I think Angela still keeps in touch with Bella and is really good about sending emails, Christmas cards, etc. But Bella ... well, she’s Bella, you know? She and Ben probably have at least one child, maybe two.

Tyler Crowley (aka the guy who nearly killed Bella with his van) didn’t have a whole lot of “direction” after high school and joined a branch of the armed forces for awhile. He probably remained with (whatever military branch) for like five, maybe ten, years and spent a lot of time traveling stateside. Eventually, though, I think he returned to Forks and went to the local community college where he majored in kinesiology and eventually got a job at Forks High School as the football coach. I think he’s probably had a lot of girlfriends but has never really settled down. He has one kid with an ex-girlfriend, with whom he co-parents. But, again, he’s never been able to settle down.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Gotham Villains x Hotel Owner!Reader || Headcanons

Explanation / Topic: You run one of the cities dingy hotels except this one, in all of its glory, is only ever visited by bad guys. Your hotel is well known as the place rogues hide away in when they're planning or they're just out of action for a while because you refuse to give up information to the police no matter what (Its proprietor-client confidentiality! Ha ha) and you're treat them fairly (Although- on the kinder side of course)

These are the many ways they show their gratitude, no matter how small.

Character involved: Most, if not all, of Fox Gotham's rogues. Except Ra's Al Ghul because he bores me. Nevertheless, not just the Legion Horrible's like the picture might lead you to believe- that's just the picture with the most villains that I could think of.

Warnings: Probably too much fluff. I'll make a sequel to this with the less-then-pretty, nitty grotty details of this hotel too probably XD

Barbara likes to invest every now and then, "Just making sure my affairs are in order baby- gotta make sure my hidey hole's still there when I need it." but she always adds a little something for you to buy yourself 'something pretty' (Since your style is SO plain, according to her but then again who isn't plain compared to her XD). This little something is always upwards of a hundred dollars. She's such a sugar mommy you cant convince me that she isn't-

Butch (Or Cyrus Gold, or Grundy. he has too many names) has made it clear that if you ever need help, you can always call him and he'll be there. Very gangsta about it. He's such a big, tough guy but such a softy on the inside XD When he had Grundy brain, he still had some kind of tracker in his mind like dogs do that took him 'home' (To your hotel), dragging Ed along with him. He gave you a big, bone crushing hug when he got there.

Dr Strange is not allowed in as he'll steal your guests and experiment on them.

You don't know Ecco too well yet and vice versa but when she turned up with Jeremiah and Jervis- you definitely appreciated her presence more then that of Jeremiah's. You were still sore over Jerome and didn't trust this new brother. Still, you complimented the bullet in Ecco's skull, saying it was pretty cool, and now she loves you XD When she's in the neighbourhood she occasionally likes to pop in and say hello; Spread a little chaos, you know the deal.

Honestly you probably new Bridgit long before Strange forcing upon her the heat resistance thing and her becoming Firefly. She of course didn't remember you but soon *warmed* up to you after you gave her one of the few rooms with a fireplace and easily forgave her when she accidentally set the couch in her room on fire (I mean its for sure not the worst thing that has happened within these walls- no worries). She has been known to go around lighting the fireplaces for you under the pretence of having fun (Which is true) but also so that you can worry about one less thing. Firefly is also one to come chat with you if she's bored.

Fish Mooney obviously doesn't stay with you very often at all, because this lady can find better dwellings (As, no offense but your hotel is kiiiiinda dingy. What can you do about it, though? You house rogues and a lot of them don't have a lotta money) but she still absolutely appreciates what you do. She'll send bad guys that she does business with that have deeper pockets then your usual client, your way. She's also kind to you, which to me is even better honestly haha XD

Headhunter stays with you a lot when he's on business and often reminds you that you get a discount from him if you require his services. Hey, you keep him in milkshakes! He's gotta repay you somehow.

Okay, the twins. You knew Jerome first and got off to a bad start with Jeremiah due to that. Still, we aren't talking about relationships; We're talking about nice things. So moving on. Just assume that you warm up to the brainier twin.

These two are hard XD Cuz their 'good' and 'bad' sides kinda blur together as they're so unpredictable and don't really care about anyone.

Still, I can see Jerome being pretty light with you and valuing the fact that you can keep up with his banter- so he keeps you alive. You're basically his mother actually, despite the possible lack of age difference. Like, he wants to show you stuff he does and tell you about chaos he's created.

And Jeremiah honestly appreciates that you'll listen to his long speeches (You've gotten pretty good at just sitting and nodding your head and you've perfected the art of the well placed understanding noises like 'Hmm' and 'Ah!' and 'Oh dear' in your line of work)- so obviously, you're invaluable to him. Must keep you around. I mean, Ecco listens, but does she really understand? That is the question.

When he's around, Jervis is very polite and gracious. He'll duck into the kitchens after dinner and start helping you with the dishes and clear dining tables, he'll ask you how you are and mean it (Like, he'll stand there and discuss it with you), he'll try to keep Jerome from barging into your room in the early hours of the morning, etc. Just nice things like that ^^

Magpie tries not to steal from you... Haha XD Like, she'll pick up a pretty clock off a mantle piece and then go to leave with it... then realise that this is yours and go 'Oops!!' and put it back, giggling nervously.

... When she leaves you still find various items from other places in the hotel, in her room, but still. The fact that she tries is enough!

Mr Freeze is a pleasure to have around, of course!! He's quiet, he nods to you when he passes, and he's there to freeze assholes that harass you (And then take them outside so they don't melt all over your carpet). A respectful dude. He has frozen Jerome multiple times... particularly when Jervis has been unsuccessful in persuading him not to wake you up at 3 in the morning.

Ivy gets so happy whenever she sees you. Lots of hugs and telling you all about how she's been. Her energy is enough to cheer you up, and on your birthdays she always brings you a new plant that has meaning to her. Like, a sunflower for how kind you are, a Ficus for abundance, etc. Always in a pot of course, never dead. So of course, you have to take care of them but its a small price to pay for the sweetness ^^ And the not being murdered thing.

Like Mooney and Barbara, Oswald doesn't stay often due to having that mansion from his father but he remembers your kindness from when he would fall on hard times before that (And after the fact, too of course) and whenever he's making some kind of mafia deal he always ensures your and your hotels safety in the contract.

Pyg / Lazlo (I cant decide which name I like best XD) is just very polite, like Jervis. Gentlemen. Also his impressions- God. Have fun with that. He might just do your favourite Looney Tune character if he's in a good mood.

With Ed... look, if you even try with his riddles without being prompted, he'll do anything for you. It's well documented. I'm not sur about nice deeds, cuz Riddler's kind of a dick, but he'll for sure send you a birthday card every year! Christmas probably too ^^

Scarecrow: I will not spray you today. You: Gee thanks. // No but seriously, he's quiet about his gratitude but he is definitely once of the good ones ^^ Would absolutely take it upon himself to come save your ass if you got abducted.

Tabitha... well, you know how Headhunter will you get a discount if you want someone killed? Tabitha will do it for fucking free.

Hey, if you feed Victor (Zsasz), you have a friend for life. He will bring pizza and just hang out together. He is also willing to murder someone for you.

[thewidowsghost]

Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 1

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

(Y/n) stands in the kitchen of her mother and step-father's apartment, making the bean dip Smelly Gabe liked so much.

(Y/n) fixes her gaze on the counter but then she lets out a yelp as something hits her in between her shoulder blades.

"Hurry it up, girl!" Smelly Gabe snarls.

"Yes sir," (Y/n) murmurs.

A few minutes later, Gabe stalks into the kitchen, takes the dip without so much of a thank you.

(Y/n) fixes her gaze on the shoe on the ground before she moves to her room. She climbs into her bed, getting under her covers. (Y/n) turns, facing the wall.

She closes her eyes, falling to an uneasy sleep.

(Y/n) watches, disconnected from the others in the dream, as one of her brother's teachers turns into something that reminded her of a demon, or something similar that she'd read books about. The woman had bat wings, claws, and a mouth of yellow fangs.

Then (Y/n) looks around, her eyes widening in shock as she sees her brother holding a bronze sword.

Percy swings the sword, the demon exploding into yellow powder, vaporizing on the spot.

A hand on (Y/n)'s shoulder has (Y/n) jolting awake. "Honey? Are you okay?" Sally Jackson asks.

Catching the wide-eyed look of horror on (Y/n)'s face, Sally wraps her daughter in a hug.

(Y/n)'s breathing steadies, and she breathes in her mother's familiar scent - chocolate, licorice, and all the other things she sold at the candy shop in Grand Central Station.

"Did you get all your work done?" Sally asks softly, her thumb brushing over a slightly visible bruise that had appeared at the base of the back of her neck.

(Y/n) hums in reply.

. . .

The next day, (Y/n) is once again lying in her bed, not wanting to have to deal with Gabe throwing more shoes or glass bottles at / near her.

. . .

Percy walks into the apartment, dragging his suitcase behind him, hoping his mom would be home from work. Instead, Smelly Gabe is in the living room, playing poker with his buddies. The television blares ESPN; chips and beer cans are strewn all over the carpet.

Hardly looking up, he says around his cigar, "So, you're home."

"Where's my mom? (Y/n)?"

"Mom's working," Gabe says. "The girl's in her room. You got any cash?"

"That's it. No Welcome back. Good to see you. How has your life been the last six months?

Gabe had put on weight since the last time Percy had seen him. Gabe looked like a tuskless walrus in thrift-store clothes. He has about three hairs on his head, all combed over his bald scalp.

"I don't have any cash," Percy replies.

Gabe raises a greasy eyebrow. Gabe could sniff out money like a bloodhound, which is surprising, since his own smell should've covered up everything else.

"You took a taxi from the bus station," he says. "Probably paid with a twenty. Got six, seven bucks in change. Somebody expects to live under this roof, he ought to carry his own weight. Am I right, Eddie?"

Eddie, the super of the apartment building, looks at Percy with a twinge of sympathy. "Come on, Gabe," he says. The guy just got here."

"Am I right?" Gabe repeats.

Eddie scowls into his bowl of pretzels. The two other guys pass gas in harmony.

"Fine," Percy says. He digs a wad of dollars out of his pocket and throws the money on the table. "I hope you lose."

"Your report card came, brain boy!" He shouts back at Percy. "I wouldn't act so snooty!"

Percy slams the door to his room, which isn't really his room. During school months, it is Gabe's 'study.' He doesn't study anything in there except old car magazines, but he loves shoving his stuff in Percy's closet, leaving his muddy boots on the windowsill, and doing his best to make the place smell like his nasty cologne, cigars, and stale beer.

Percy drops his suitcase on the bed. Home sweet home he thinks.

Gabe's smell is almost worse than the nightmares about Mrs. Dodds, or the sound of that old fruit lady's shears snipping the yarn.

Percy sits, lost in his thoughts.

Then he hears his mom's voice, "Percy?" She opens the bedroom door, and his fears melt. "Oh, Percy," she hugs him tight. "I can't believe it. You've grown since Christmas."

Sally had brought Percy a bag of 'free samples' the way she always did whenever he'd come home.

The two sit together on the bed. While Percy attacks the blueberry sour strings, she runs her hands through his hair, demanding to know everything that he hadn't put in his letters. She doesn't mention his getting expelled. She doesn't seem to care about that.

Percy tells his mother that she is smothering him, but secretly, Percy is really, really glad to see her.

From the other room, Gabe yells, "Hey, Sally - how about some bean dip, huh?"

Percy grits his teeth. My mom is the nicest lady in the world. She should be married to a millionaire, not to some jerk like Gabe.

(Y/n) pads into Percy's room, and the dark haired boy brightens at the sight of his younger twin.

"I've got the dip, Mom," (Y/n) says softly. Sally gazes at her daughter for a moment, her gaze sad.

"Wait, (Y/n)," Sally says, and (Y/n) turns back to face her mother. "I've got a surprise for the two of you," she says. "We're going to the beach."

Percy's eyes widen. "Montauk?"

"Three nights - same cabin," Sally replies.

"When?" (Y/n) asks, looking excited.

She smiles, "As soon as I get changed."

(Y/n) can't believe it. Mom, Percy, and I hadn't been to Montauk in the last two summers because Gabe had said that there wasn't enough money.

Gabe appears in the doorway behind (Y/n) and growls, "Bean dip, Sally? Didn't you hear me?"

Percy wants to punch him, but he meets his mother's eyes, and understands that she is offering him a deal: Be nice to Gabe for a little while; just until she's ready to leave for Montauk.

"I've got it, Gabe," (Y/n) says.

"Sorry, honey," Sally says, looking at her husband. "We were just talking about the trip."

Gabe's eyes get small. "The trip? You mean you were serious about that?"

"I knew it," Percy mutters. "He won't let us go."

"Of course he will," Sally says evenly. "Your stepfather is just worried about money."

(Y/n) turns to face Gabe, smiling as kindly as she could. "What if I make a seven-layer dip that'll last the whole weekend?" she asks. "Guacamole. Sour cream. The works."

Gabe softens a bit, then turns back to face Sally. "So, this money for your trip . . . it comes out of your clothes budget, right?"

"Yes, honey," Sally replies.

"And you won't take my car anywhere but there and back."

"We'll be very careful."

Gabe scratches his double chin. "Maybe if the girl hurries up with the seven-layer dip . . . and if the boy apologizes for interrupting my poker game."

Maybe if I kick you in your soft spot, Percy thinks. And make you sing soprano for a week.

"I'm sorry," Percy mutters. "I'm really sorry I interrupted your incredibly important power game. Please go back to it right now."

Gabe's eyes narrow. His tiny brain is probably trying to detect the sarcasm in my statement, Percy thinks.

"Yeah, whatever," Gabe decides; he goes back to his game.

"Thank you, Percy," Sally says. "Once we get to Montauk, we'll talk more about...whatever you've forgotten to tell me, okay?"

For a moment, (Y/n) can see anxiety in her mother's eyes, but then her smile returns, and (Y/n) figures that she must've been mistaken.

. . .

An hour later, the three are ready to leave.

Gabe takes a break from his poker game long enough to watch (Y/n) and Percy lug the bags to his car. He keeps griping and groaning about losing her and (Y/n)'s cooking - and more important, his '78 Camaro - for the whole weekend.

"Not a scratch on this car, brain boy," Gabe warns Percy as he loads the last bag into the car. "Not one little scratch."

Like I'd be the one driving. I'm fourteen, Percy thinks.

Watching Gabe lumbers back towards the apartment building, Percy gets so mad that he does something he can't explain. As Gabe reaches the door, Percy makes the hand gesture he'd seen Grover made on the bus, a soft of warding-off-evil gesture, a clawed hand over his heart, then a shoving movement towards Gabe. The screen door slams so hard it whacks him the the butt and sends him flying up the staircase as if he'd been shot from a cannon.

. . .

(Y/n)'s POV

Our rental cabin is on the south shore, way out at the tip of Long Island. It is a little pastel box with faded curtains, half sunken into the dunes. There's always sand in the sheets, spiders in the cabinets, and most of the time the sea is too cold to swim in.

I loved the place.

Mom, Percy, and I had been going ever since Percy and I'd been a baby. Mom had been coming even longer. She'd never exactly said, but I know why the beach was special to her.

It's the place where she'd met my Dad.

As we get closer to Montauk, Mom seems to grow younger, years of worry and work disappearing from her face. Her eyes turn the color of the sea.

We get there around sunset, open all the cabin's windows, and go through the usual cleaning routine.

Mom, Percy, and I walk on the beach, feed blue corn-chips to the seagulls, and munch on blue jelly beans, blue saltwater taffy, and all the other free samples Mom had brought home from work.

I guess maybe I should explain all the blue food.

Gabe had once told Mom that there was no such thing. They had had this fight, which had seemed like a really small think at the time, but ever since, Mom went out of her way to eat blue. She baked blue birthday cakes, mixed blueberry smoothies, bought blue-corn tortilla chips, and brought home blue candy from the shop. This - along with keeping her maiden name, Jackson, rather than calling herself Mrs. Ugliano - is proof that she isn't totally suckered by Gabe. She did have a rebellious streak, just like Percy.

When it gets dark, we make a fire. We roast hot dogs and marshmallows. Mom tells Percy and me stories about when she was a kid, back before her parents had died in the plane crash. She tells us about the books she wanted to write someday, when she had enough money to quit the candy shop.

Eventually, it seems that Percy gets the nerve to ask about what is always on our minds whenever we come to Montauk - our father. Mom's eyes go all misty. I figure she would tell us the same things she always did, but neither Percy or I ever got tired of hearing them.

"He was kind, Percy," Mom replies. "Tall, handsome, and powerful. But gentle too, like you, (Y/n)." Mom says and I soften. "You have his black hair, Percy, and you both share his green eyes.

Mom fishes a blue jelly bean out of her candy bag. "I wish he could see you two. He would be so proud."

I wonder how she could say that when I'm the girl who cowers from her stepfather. The girl who hides in her room to get away from said stepfather.

"How old were we?" Percy asks, pulling me from my thoughts. "I mean . . . when he left?"

Mom watches the flames. "He was only with me for one summer, Percy. Right here at this beach. This cabin."

"But . . . he knew us as babies."

"No, honey," Mom replies. "He knew I was expecting twins, but he never met you. He had to leave before you were born."

I try to square that with the fact that I seem to remember . . . something about my father. A warm glow, maybe a smile.

Percy and I had always assumed that our father had known us as babies. Mom had never said it outright, but still, I'd felt that it must be true. Now, to be told that he'd never even seen us . . .

I feel angry at my father. Maybe it is stupid, but I resent him for going on that ocean voyage, for not having the guts to marry Mom.

"Are you going to send me away again?" Percy asks. "To another boarding school?"

Mom pulls a marshmallow from the fire.

"I don't know, honey," her voice is heavy. "I think . . . I think we'll have to do something."

"Because you don't want me around?" Percy says and I flinch, avoiding both his and Mom's gazes.

I glance up to see that Mom's eyes had welled up with tears. "Oh, Percy, no. I - I have to, honey. For your own good. I have to send you away."

"But you never send her away," Percy says and I look up, eyes wide with surprise.

Mom looks at Percy, eyes wide with shock.

Finally she says, "I have to keep both of you away from each other as much as possible. I thought you'd finally be safe."

"I tried to keep you as close to me as I could," Mom says. "They told me it was a mistake. But there's only one other option, Percy, (Y/n) - the place your father wanted to send you two. And I just . . . I just can't stand to do it."

"Our father wanted us to go to a special school?" I ask.

"Not a school," Mom replies. "A summer camp."

My head spins. Why would my dad - who hadn't even stayed around to see me and Percy be born - talk to Mom about a summer camp?

"I'm sorry, (Y/n)," Mom says, seeing the look in my eyes. "But I can't talk about it. I - I couldn't send you two to that place. It might mean saying goodbye to you for good."

"For good?" Percy asks. "But if it's only a summer camp . . ."

Mom turns towards the fire, and I know from her expression, that if we asked any more questions, she would start to cry.

Word Count: 2413 words

[songbirdstyles]

white wedding.

summary: your estranged aunt leaves you her estate in her will with the stipulation that you have to be married to receive your inheritance. luckily, harry is more than willing to help.

pairing: best friend!harry styles x reader

warnings: fluff, smut, angst if you squint.

song inspo.: white wedding - billy idol

word count: 13.4k

You weren’t too close to your Aunt Alice for the entirety of your life - there’s a picture, you think, hung in your parents’ house of her and some of your other family members, crowding around your bassinet when you were just a baby, her face turned up into a scowl amid everyone else’s gleaming grins, and it was a lovely foreshadow into your relationship with her. She sent you $10 on your birthdays and Christmas (an amount that your father had always scoffed at when he thought you weren’t listening - ‘she’s a goddamn millionaire,’ he’d hiss to your mother, ‘and the most she can spare her only niece is $10?’)  and you could remember, when you were 9, seeing her at a family reunion where she sat at a table pressed into a back corner and nursed glasses of wine during the entire event.

It goes without saying, you suppose, that she wasn’t the kindest lady. Your mother had told you how Aunt Alice cut off your father for some reason nobody could quite discern and, so, she never held a much larger place in your life than a mere branch on your second grade family tree project -

But, still. It’s rather difficult to regard the dead in such a negative manner so you try and focus on the good parts of your late aunt. Twice, she wrote ‘love u’ in your Christmas card. And, at said family reunion, when you walked over to her table to say goodbye before you left, she delivered a sloppy, strangely wet kiss to the side of your face that smelled distinctly of chardonnay (a scent you hadn’t quite been able to place until years later.) And - 

“Are you alright?”

Harry’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts, gazing out the rain-streaked car window at the night sky with an odd air of sadness surrounding you. You had been trying to hide the slight dash of sadness you feel at the memory of your aunt by disguising it with a mask of sleepiness that has you leaning your forehead against the cold window, eyes squeezed shut. But Harry can read you like a goddamn book - like the back of his hand. It’s what best friends are for, you suppose.

“I’m fine,” you tell him, tilting your head away from the window to glance at him in the driver’s seat. And, the truth is, you are fine. It’s not as though you’re entirely too saddened with the news of Aunt Alice’s passing. She’d always had health issues, according to your parents, and you’re not sure what, exactly, has sealed her fate - you’re simply more confused by it all. “Well - when we were leaving the movies, I got a call from my dad. My aunt died.”

You can hear Harry’s sharp intake of breath and there’s a brief hesitation where you know he’s trying to gauge how you feel about it. “Oh,” he settles on, turning to look at you in the eye when the car rolls to a stop at a red light. “M’sorry, love.”

You shrug, glancing down to squint at your fingernails in the darkness of Harry’s car. You’d begun to pick at the baby blue nail polish he’d delicately applied the night before (they matched his, naturally) and it really is a nervous habit you should work on, but you can’t be bothered right now. “We weren’t close,” you admit, leaning back against the headrest. “It’s just weird, is all.”

“Are y’sad about it?”

“Not quite,” and it’s the truth. “She was wealthy, though. I think she wrote novels or plays or something - I’m not sure. And I was, apparently, her closest living relative that she didn’t despise.”

He clicks his tongue softly, making a left when the light finally switches to green, and his eyes shift back towards the road. “Left y’somethin’ in her will, did she?”

“Her countryside estate,” you confess, voice soft - it’s not the climax of your story but it certainly sounds like it should be, and you can see the confused crease in Harry’s eyebrows when you look up at him. “I looked the address up online, Har - it’s gorgeous, 6 beds and 7 bathrooms. I guess we had similar tastes in that regard.”

“Y’don’t sound too thrilled, for someone who jus’ got their dream house handed to ‘em on a platter.”

“There’s a stipulation in the will.”

“Ah.”

You smile tightly. “I’ll only inherit the house if I’m married.”

It’s something you’ll never understand. Aunt Alice never married and lived in that grand old house (your dream house) all by herself, and if you’d known about your role in her will perhaps you’d have argued it with her in person - the hypocrisy of it all, how goddamn unfair it was. And it’ll kill you - truly kill you - to see that house go to whoever her next closest living relative is who she doesn’t hate. Probably some third cousin twice removed, considering how great she was at cutting people off.

And Harry sits for a moment in silence, considering it. “Seems very - very - can’t think of the word.”

“Sexist? Unfair? Dumb?”

“All true,” he agrees, giving you a sympathetic smile, and it makes you feel the tiniest bit better, even if it’s just for a moment. “Barbaric, maybe.”

“I hate her,” you declare, crossing your arms over your hoodie-clad chest, and you most certainly don’t, but you’re angry enough to mean it in the moment. When your father had told you, you hadn’t thought about it too much - besides being confused by the entire thing, being left a house by a relative you hardly knew - but saying it out loud makes you angrier, squeezing your eyes shut. “Would you know she never married? How does that make sense?” “It doesn’t,” Harry repeats, and you glance out the window, lifting your palm to wipe at the cloudy stain your forehead had made against the glass - you’re just less a minute away from your apartment building, and you rip your phone from Harry’s charger and shove it into the pocket of your hoodie. “She left you time, right? T’get married? Tha’ seems only fair.”

You snort, ignoring the way his lips turn up into a smile at the noise. “She gave me a year. I mean, I’m 23 - I wasn’t intending on settling down for another couple of years.”

If you were less distracted, perhaps you’d see his responding silence for what it is - time to think, gears grinding in his head, as he pulls into the parking lot of your apartment building and leans over the center console to wrap you in a hug. Harry’s a talkative person and he’s only really quiet when he’s got something on his mind, but you’ve got something on yours too (probably more than he does) so you ignore it. And his soft murmur into your hair of ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow for breakfast’ sounds every bit as distracted as you feel so you simply pay it no mind.

It’s easier that way, for now.

 --

 “I’ve been thinkin’ about your situation.”

You raise your eyebrows at Harry, bent over his plate of French toast as though he hadn’t spoken at all. His sunglasses are perched at the end of his nose so you can see his eyes - which, in your opinion, defeats the purpose of even wearing the stupid things in public. But, whenever you two go out together, he insists on wearing them, along with a grey beanie protecting his infamous head of curls from any wandering eyes, and the bizarre attempt at a disguise always makes you feel like you’re having breakfast with a burglar. 

“Not much to think about,” you shrug, popping a forkful of omelet into your mouth and chewing thoughtfully. “I was just mad about it last night, you know. Heat of the moment, sort of thing.”

“I’d be mad, too,” Harry tells you, and it’s getting more difficult to ignore the way his words send heat creeping up your neck, and you glance down at your plate of eggs with a small smile gracing your face. “Not jus’ heat of the moment, either. Really mad. S’bullshit.”

A second of silence passes, and you let his reassurance settle over you - simply having him agree with you on the stupidity of the entire situation makes you feel a thousand times better. Even if you don’t get the house (and you’ve already progressed into the last stage of grief over almost certainly losing it - acceptance) at least you’ll always have Harry, and maybe that’s enough.

But the house would be nice, too.

“What were you thinking about?” You question, lifting your eyes back up to meet his through his tinted glasses, and if there wasn’t the barrier between your gazes you’d be able to note the nearly shameful glint in his eyes as he digs into his stack of sugary sweet toast, doused with maple syrup and towered high with fruit. “About the situation, I mean.”

Harry begins to speak once more just as you reach over with your fork to nab a piece of banana, and he swats at your wrist as you pop the slice of fruit into your mouth. “Don’ steal my banana, babe,” he tells you, eyes narrowing in mock anger, and you roll your eyes at the name. “Anyway. S’not totally crazy, that you could get married in less than a year.”

Yes, it is, you want to reply back, but you can tell he’s ramping up to something important, so you rest your fork on your plate and furrow your eyebrows at him pointedly. Truthfully, even if the love of your life happened to be sitting in front of you, you’re not sure you could go through with marrying them, anyway. It’s such a heavy commitment and, God, you thought you’d have more time. Time to explore and experiment and not settle down (in your dream house) just for the sake of it.

“What if we got married?”

And that - is not what you were expecting him to say.

You’re not sure if he’s kidding or not so you give it a minute before responding in any capacity. Just stare at him, and he makes a point of hooking his pinkie in the center of his sunglasses and tugging them down his nose just a bit so you can see the absolute lack of amusement in his eyes. He’s all business, goddammit, as if he hadn’t just basically proposed to you in the middle of eating your fucking omelet.

But you can’t be sure he’s serious, and you also can’t be sure that the way your stomach flipped wasn’t because of a particularly egregious sip of chocolate milk and not the prospect of marrying your best friend. So you lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Are you kidding?”

Harry just shakes his head, grey beanie sliding up just a bit for one chocolate coloured lock of hair to escape the confines of the dumb hat. “M’being dead serious, babe. I’ll get down on one knee an’ prove it, too.”

“Don’t do that,” you beg him, reaching out to grab at his wrist when he makes to push himself out of his chair, and his wide grin only sends your stomach into another set of somersaults. “Jesus, Har.”

“Horrible idea?”

You don’t respond right away, grabbing your glass of chocolate milk and wrapping your lips around the straw. It’s a few seconds to process the request in all its glory - marrying your best friend, even if it’s just for show, is a lot. Sure, all you’d really have to do is head down to a courthouse (you could do it today, even - if you wanted to, and you’re not sure you do.) It’d be easier than searching hopelessly for the love of your life and arrange a wedding in less than a year, and you’d be able to walk the halls of your aunt’s gorgeous estate, decorate it how you please, and - ideally - your relationship with Harry wouldn’t quiver in the slightest.

Well, maybe that’s why you’re hesitant to begin with. Because it would quiver - or because it wouldn’t - or because it’s plain weird to marry your best friend. Even if it’s for a good cause (your dream home) and even if he suggested it in the first place, because he cares about you and wants you to be happy.

That’s sweet.

Maybe it would be a glorious fuck you to Aunt Alice in death. It isn’t as though anyone would know about the inauthenticity of the union but you would, and that’s all the revenge you need for her adding such a silly stipulation to her will, anyway. A marriage born not out of love, but out of need - sure, it’s not exactly how you wanted your life to go, but it’s better than watching the estate go to someone you’d never met before. You could get married and get divorced in the time frame she’d given you to find love in the first place and it would hardly be a blip in your life plans, and certainly not in Harry’s. It isn’t as though he’d suggest it if the marriage would ruin anything for him. 

Sure, you’d prance around family parties with him on your arm to sell your faux romance to your family. Only one or two, though, his arm around your waist, and it wasn’t as if your parents hadn’t already begun to question whether your close friendship with Harry ventured into something further. And, when it’s all said and done, when the house is officially in your name and you can begin shopping for furniture to make it your own, it’ll be easy to sell the divorce - he’s touring, you’d tearfully proclaim, and the stress was just too much on our relationship. And then you’d both be happy, right? For the most part, anyway. Still best friends with no hassle at all, and you get your house and he gets the popstar life without the settling down part.

When you’ve swallowed your gulp of chocolate milk, it’s nearly worrying how much you’ve thought about the proposal.

“It’s not a horrible idea,” you begin, eyes diverting downward to where Harry’s fingers are fiddling with a straw wrapper. “I mean, it could be pretty easy.”

“Very easy.”

“We just elope -”

“Could do it today, even -”

“I haven’t agreed yet, Mr. Styles - but we would elope, and then I’d get the house, and maybe I’d bring you to a family reunion, just to sell it, and then we’re divorced.”

He raises his eyebrows, glasses sliding further down the bridge of his nose until their purpose has been completely obliterated, and his eyes are on display for the goddamn world to see. “Unless we fall in love an’ live happily ever after - no divorce necessary, m’love.”

Bastard. Your stomach flips again but you just roll your eyes, picking up your fork and lifting a shaky bite of eggs up to your mouth. “Shut up.”

You’re almost certain you’ve made up your mind but you still make a show of thinking about it, slowly chewing on your omelet and focusing your gaze on a paper napkin resting on the ground beside Harry’s chair. It’s almost too easy, the entire process, and maybe that should make you nervous, just a little bit, that the idea of marrying him feels so relaxing. But - well - if you had to choose anyone in the world to marry in order to fulfill a stipulation in your aunt’s will, it would have to be Harry.

He’s looking at you eagerly when you look back up at him, and you’re not sure why he’s so excited about it - not like there’s anything in it for him - but it’s something you’ll think about later.

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” you tell him, watching the way his grin spreads across his face like wildfire, and you can’t help yourself from smiling, too, “but I am.”

In seconds, Harry’s reaching across the table, grabbing your hand in his larger one, and just the way your heart jumps at the feeling of your palms pressed together should certainly have you rethinking your enthusiastic yes. But then he’s picking up the straw wrapper he’d been fiddling with, and it’s twisted into a makeshift wedding ring, and he’s sliding it onto your ring finger with a wide smile like a fucking puppy -

God. You’re in too deep already, and you’ve only just agreed.

 --

 For the record, you’d rethought your decision many, many times since agreeing.

You’d drafted out the text for Harry for when you inevitably will change your mind - a block of words confessing to him that you’d reacted too quickly and you think it would be best if you simply forfeit your inheritance, but you can never quite gather the guts to do it. And every time you copy and paste the note from your notes to your text thread with your best friend, something always stops you -

The photos of the house from the real estate website you’d seen it on.

Harry’s wide grin as you accepted his offer.

FIngers delicately sliding on an engagement ring made of a paper straw wrapper, and the next day when he’d shown up at your door with an actual, real engagement ring.

Naturally, you hadn’t sent it. You’d deleted the note entirely, too, embarrassed with even looking at your words of defeat sprawled on your phone screen. Sometimes, though, you wish you had fucking sent it. Nearly two weeks after accepting the proposal that still hasn’t progressed from feeling like an absolute fever dream, you’re sitting with Harry at Aunt Alice’s funeral, his arm hooked around the back of your chair and the other clutching a glass of wine that he’s hardly taken two sips of.

You’re on your second glass already, and it’s barely been an hour. You’d signed the guestbook and hooked your arm with Harry’s and introduced him as your fiance to exactly one of your great-aunts, and you’d been so nervous that Aunt Shirley could see right through your faux-engagement that you’d practically downed your glass the second her back turned. 

“This is so weird,” you confess to Harry, shifting closer to him so no one else around you can hear. Not that there is, per se, anyone else around you - not many other people are sitting down, but you and Harry were one of the first people to arrive, so you’ve given yourselves a pass to sit down for a while. “Isn’t it weird, Har?”

“S’only weird if you make it weird,” he murmurs back, and you would roll your eyes at how maddeningly calm he is if you weren’t desperate to keep up your pretense as loving fiance to the funeral goers whose wandering eyes may turn to you two. “And, babe, you’re makin’ it weird.”

Your lips spread into a smile and you lift your glass of wine to your lips, taking a small sip before bringing it back down to your lap. No matter how many times you scream at yourself, internally, that nobody knows you’re not engaged and to calm the fuck down, you can’t stop your leg from bouncing up and down, showcasing your nerves in the most outward way you possibly could. “Wonder when my parents are getting here - should’ve texted them and told them separately. Did you tell your mum?”

“Told her the truth,” Harry tells you, tilting his head into yours in a way that feels so natural you swear you could stay this way forever. “You’re not tellin’ your parents the truth?”

“Bless my mum,” you sigh, “but she can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

Harry exhales a soft laugh, eyes darting around the room full of people before landing back on yours, and your gazes lock for just the briefest of seconds before he’s glancing down at your lap. “Y’don’t have t’do this if you’re uncomfortable, y’know. We can jus’ say - the pressure of m’job was too much.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” you tell him, which is true. You’re nervous, for sure, but he could never make you uncomfortable. “And, ironically enough, that’s my excuse for when we divorce.”

Your voice drops to a near breath on the last word and Harry’s head drops back with a bark of laughter that’s entirely too loud for the setting you’re at but you can’t bring yourself to reprimand him. “Always talkin’ ‘bout our divorce,” Harry breathes, tilting his head closer to yours so his mouth is close enough to your ear that you can feel his breath, hot against your skin. “What if we fall in love, babe? No divorce then. Don’ y’want us t’live happily ever after?”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” you roll your eyes, even if you’re almost positive you will (or already have) and shake your head at Harry’s resulting chuckle. “Been best friends for nearly five years, haven’t we? If we were going to fall in love, I reckon it would’ve happened already, Har.” 

“You’re right,” he agrees, voice oddly soft and sounding just sentimental enough for you to narrow your eyes suspiciously at him - but before you can question him further, his eyes dart down to where your leg is still frantically bouncing up and down. “Bloody hell, love - bouncin’ your leg so much. Y’look like a nervous wreck.”

“Thanks,” you begin, and whatever else you’d been meaning to say dies in your throat as Harry’s arm shifts from around the back of your chair and his hand comes down firm on your leg. His fingertips brush your knee and his palm lays soft against your thigh, just high enough to gently brush the end of your black dress and you wish you could control the way your stomach flips again and again like a fucking gymnast.

It’s to keep up appearances, you tell yourself. So people don’t think I’m so nervous. But it feels so nice, so natural in a way you hadn’t expected, feeling his hand resting on your thigh like it belongs there, fingertips drumming against your knee which most certainly isn’t bouncing anymore.

Your eyes flit up to his, narrowing them ever so slightly as if to sniff out his intentions, and out of the corner of your eye you can see two familiar figures walking in the high arched doors of Aunt Alice’s service. Your parents break off from each other nearly the second they enter, your father skirting off to greet some of his cousins and your mother’s eyes scan the room filled with relatives before landing on you and Harry.

“Mum’s here,” you tell Harry, pushing yourself to stand, and the feeling of his hand dropping off your thigh is a sensation you absolutely despise. He stands soon after you, adjusting the cuffs of his black button down shirt, and for the first time since the funeral began, you can see the beginnings of nervousness creeping upon him. A light pink flush works its way up his neck to his cheeks and he brings his hand up to run through his hair, inhaling a shaky breath. “You look nervous, Har. You’ve met my mum before.”

“S’different. Now we’re engaged.”

“Not too different.” You hook your arm with Harry’s, patting his hand with yours, and he gives you one grateful fleeting grin before you begin walking over to your mother. She’s bent over the guestbook, scribbling her name with the feather pen resting beside the log. You stop walking when you’re just a couple paces behind her, waiting for her to turn around and see you two - and your voice drops to a hushed tone as you reassure Harry. “I think she already sort of thought we were dating anyway - so she won’t care too much.”

“Wait - she did?”

“Hey, mum!”

 --

 You’re getting married in a week.

And, sure, you’d known that the entire process would move quicker than you could imagine but it still feels surreal and you still reckon you haven’t thought it through enough. It’s worsened (or, in some way, bettered) by the absolute adoration your family had immediately adopted towards Harry after meeting him just a few days ago, your aunts pulling you aside at the funeral and the repast that occurred after and whispering in your ear about what a handsome man he is! 

Well, they’ll certainly be disappointed when, in a month or two, you pop in to the next family gathering and announce that you two had gotten divorced as quickly as you’d been wed. Harry will be your ex husband and, at that point, surely people would be suspicious at the speed of which everything had happened but - hey - you’ll have your house and your best friend and that’s all you really need, isn’t it.

Yeah.

Slowly but surely, you’re coming to peace with it, and Harry’s certainly making it easier by being so zen about it all. His nerves at the funeral had been just about eradicated because your mum loves him, which you knew, and your father had seemed positively overjoyed at the news of your engagement, but they’d both seemed rather disappointed at your decision to elope instead of spending the time planning a big white wedding. And you’d expected that, but you figure that, by the time your second marriage inevitably rolls around, it’ll be real (realer than whatever you’re feeling for Harry, because you’re still not sure) and your father will walk you down the aisle and you’ll be able to go shopping for a big gorgeous wedding dress like you’d always dreamt of wearing.

You haven't even bought a dress. The one you’re wearing now, staring at yourself in the floor length mirror propped against your bedroom wall, is one you’d purchased for your college graduation to wear beneath your gown - simple and flowy, falling to just about your mid-thigh, and the only redeeming quality for even being considered a wedding dress is its white color. Still - it isn’t as though it’s a real wedding, in the traditional sense, so it doesn’t make sense for you to spend too much on a gown you’ll don for a trip to the courthouse and then get sad whenever you look at it again, post-divorce.

No, you don’t think you like it. You’d liked it for your graduation but for a wedding (your wedding) you wish you had something just a bit nicer, and you want to strip out of it and change back into your jeans but Harry’s sitting in your living room, waiting for you to model the stupid thing for him, and you’d hate to disappoint him. So you inhale softly, run your hand down the fabric, soft beneath your fingers, and reach for the door.

Harry’s on his phone when you step out of your bedroom, slowly shutting the door behind you, his body looking strangely large where he’s perched on the small loveseat in your living room. Everything in your apartment seems too small for him - or just too small in general - and it’ll be a nice change to live in a house where you can hold gatherings of more than 5 people without feeling like sardines in a can.

“Har,” you call, reaching down to tug the ends of your dress just a bit further down your thighs as you step further into the living room, bare feet padding against the plush rug your parents had gotten you as a Christmas gift the year prior. “What do you think of the dress?” You can hear the click of his phone as he turns it off, dropping it on the cushion beside him, and heat creeps up your cheeks as his gaze turns to you - you should feel self conscious, the way his eyes roll up and down your body, drinking in every bit of your dress, but you fucking love it. Love the way his lips part into a small o and upturn into a grin, how he pushes himself to stand and close the distance between you two until he’s hardly two inches away from you, how he reaches down to pick up the end of your dress as though examining the fabric.

“Do you like it?” You question as Harry drops your dress, letting the fabric fall back down around your thighs. “Wasn’t sure if I did.”

“I love it,” he tells you, immediate and forceful and you can tell he means it with his whole chest - maybe you love it, too. “Y’look beautiful.”

“You don’t think it’s too simple, do you?” Maybe you’re fishing for more compliments but you allow yourself to do it shamelessly. “It was my graduation dress - remember?”

“I do remember,” Harry grins, tugging at the bottom of your dress, and keeping his hands busy is a nervous habit of his that you’ve grown to recognize from a hundred miles away, but you can’t think of why, exactly, he’d be nervous now. “Looked so pretty, walkin’ across tha’ stage. I was so proud.”

You smile, gaze dropping down to where his fingers are fiddling with the skirt of your dress, and you think you’ll wear this dress every single goddamn day if he reacts as positively to it as he is now. “You sound like my dad.”

His nose scrunches when you look back up at him, and your heart twists inside your chest. “Don’ make it gross.” You simply shrug, bringing your fingers up to drum against his shoulders through the fabric of his Fleetwood Mac shirt, his muscles flexing ever so slightly beneath your touch. “M’being serious, though. I love the dress. Y’make the prettiest bride on the planet - m’a lucky man, aren’t I.”

From the moment you walked out of your room you’ve been feeling heat burning your cheeks but it doesn’t stop you from gently smacking his shoulder. “Stop it - you’re gonna make me blush.”

“Looks like y’already are, Mrs. Styles.”

Should that name make your stomach as topsy-turvy as it does? 

You shake your head, smoothing your palms over the front of your dress to both eradicate the wrinkles that adorn the fabric and to wipe off the sweat cropping up on your hands. You don’t think you’ve ever been so nervous around Harry before and you can’t quite place your finger on why, but it’s getting more difficult to look him in the eye with your heart pounding as fast as it is. “I’m not gonna be Mrs. Styles for another week.” 

Harry exhales softly, fingertips tapping against your hip and you hadn’t even realized how close his hands were to that spot of your body - but it feels comforting, his touch on an oddly intimate part of you. “I can’t wait,” he says, and you can’t, either. “Makin’ me a very lucky groom, babe.”

Hearing him call you babe could make you go crazy if you focus on it for too long, so you don’t - and it’s hard to focus on much other than Harry himself as his head drops down, forehead pressed to yours, and oh God you can smell his fucking gum, and if you tilt your head up ever so slightly -

Is he going to kiss you? You think your heart will explode but you’ve never wanted anything more so you tilt your head up, just a bit, grip tightening on his shoulder, and you can feel his breath growing warmer against your face -

The sound of Harry’s phone ringing in his pocket snaps you out of your haze.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands dropping off your hips, and your head drops downwards with a soft groan. It was so close. You could feel his breath against your face and how did that fucking opportunity pass you by? - “S’my mum. Fuck - m’sorry.” And you’re not sure if he’s apologizing for the call or what had (or, rather, had not) happened but it doesn’t matter.

One glance at the phone he’s tugged out of his pocket shows that he’s right - Anne’s contact photo smiles up at you and you give Harry a small nod, faking the smile you’re not feeling, before taking a step back against your plush carpet as he turns around, back to you, phone pressed to his ear.

“I’m gonna change,” you whisper to no one in particular. Harry’s head turns just a bit so you can catch the apologetic look on his face before he’s loudly greeting Anne, and you’ve never liked eavesdropping on their calls. So you turn and head to your bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind you and turning to stare at yourself, wide-eyed, in your mirror.

He almost kissed you.

He didn’t - but would he have? If Anne hadn’t rung him - would he have leaned down, breathing shaky, like how it always is when he’s nervous, and ever so gently pressed his lips to yours? And you would’ve known exactly how it feels to be kissed by him, whether it would be as dream-like as all the times you’ve dreamt of it. His hands on your hips, yours on his shoulders, bodies slotted together until your hands are roaming and you’re pushing him on to the couch, sliding into his lap and his hands would roam to your thighs -

It doesn’t do well to think about it now. You don’t want to get yourself too worked up about it - that doesn’t do anyone much good - and you don’t want to take too long to change. So you inhale a soft breath, smooth your clammy palms back over the front of your wedding dress, and you allow yourself one final glance in the mirror at the attire you’ll be donning in a week’s time before reaching around to your back, fiddling with the zipper until you can begin to tug it down.

 --

 You and Harry haven’t talked too much since you showed him your dress, and it’s probably not very great etiquette for an engaged couple, but you two have never been normal anyway.

He sent you a picture of the suit he’s wearing and it’s as every bit unconventional as your excuse of a wedding dress, and you told him that - how you would be a pair for the books, the opposite of what a regular married couple looks like. And you texted him just yesterday and asked if he would make you two a reservation at your favourite restaurant for dinner after the elopement (he always tended to get the nicer tables, and you don’t pretend not to know why) and he sent you back two thumbs-up emojis in response.

You’re getting married in three days, though. It would probably be best to talk about it with him before you cross that bridge but it’s never been one of your stronger areas, so you leave it be for now.

“Are you alright?” Your friend questions, tilting her head in so you can hear her against the thumping music of the club. Your friends had insisted on dragging you out for a bachelorette party the second they hard of your engagement and it would be out of character for you to refuse a night of drinks on them - even if you’d rather stay home and think about Harry and all the things you should’ve done when he was at your apartment. Getting drunk out of your mind does seem preferable to wallowing, though, now that you’re out and about and well on your way to getting smashed - so you turn to Olivia and nod once, a simple jerk of your head.

“I’m fine,” you tell her, reaching over to grab the cocktail Amy had gotten for you and bringing the straw to your lips. “Just thinking about Harry.”

Amy snorts from her spot across the booth, dipping her finger into her empty shot glass and licking up the droplet she collected. “Can’t believe it took you two so long to get together.”

“And I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about it,” interjects Olivia, reaching over to grab your glass out of your hand and taking a sip of your drink. “How long have you two been together again?”

Fuck. You’re in the grey area between being tipsy and being drunk and you can’t remember how long you and Harry had claimed to be together. Was it a year or two years? You think it’s a year - you’d wanted to go as low as possible with your answer. Did we say six months? That seems too low. “I’ve liked him since I’ve known him,” you answer instead, which is absolutely the truth, and Amy and Olivia are both too drunk to ponder about your evasion of the question. “Loved him, even.”

Your fingers brush against your phone, sitting on the table face down, as your friends playfully swoon - the last time you’d texted Harry was to tell him you were going to the club, and you hadn’t checked to see if he responded. It’s always been a habit between the two of you to text where you’re going, in case something happens, which seems oddly barbaric at times but you’ve always appreciated it.

“You’re so lucky,” Amy informs you, reaching across the booth to intertwine your fingers. She gets sappy when she’s drunk and you can tell from the distinct crack in her voice that she’s mere seconds away from bursting into tears and professing how much she loves you and Olivia - you don’t ever quite enjoy being around to see that. “I mean, really. You and Harry - we always knew it would happen -”

“I should call him real quick,” you mumble, watching as her eyes water over, and Olivia rolls her eyes with a grin as she scoots around the other side of the booth so Amy can throw her arms around her. You grab your phone and push yourself out of the booth, maneuvering through the crowd of people until you’ve reached the bathroom.

It's a single stall and the club is small enough that you only have to wait a minute or two before a thoroughly shitfaced woman stumbles out of the bathroom, a piece of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of her shoes, but she’s gone before you can point it out to her. You brush it off with a shrug and shut the door behind you once you’re inside the bathroom - it smells like Febreze and mint soap, and the scent of the mint reminds you of Harry’s breath and you really need to call him, don’t you.

You’re scrolling through your call log before you can wonder if calling your best friend who you’re in love with while you may be quite drunk is a bad idea - the phone is ringing just as you begin to - and he’s picked it up just when you realize you’ve made a mistake.

“Hey, babe,” Harry says from the other end, voice crackling with the poor reception in the club. He sounds groggy and raspy and you can tell you’ve either woken him up or he’s trying to go to sleep, and you don’t actually know what time it is, you realize. “What’re you up to?”

“I’m at a club,” you tell him, and you can hear his soft exhale of air and you can practically picture the slow smile spreading across his lips. “I’m out with Amy and Olivia - they wanted to take me out for a bachelorette party or something - s’kinda dumb, I dunno -”

“Are y’drunk? S’just, you’re slurrin’ a lot -”

“I’m tipsy,” as you sit back on the closed toilet seat, fingernails digging into your thigh. You don’t actually know what you’d called him to say but four days without talking to Harry seems like it’s setting some sort of record and you hate it. “Just wanted to call because - um - well, I miss you.”

For a second you think the call may have broken up - you can’t hear much beside his soft breathing, and you pull the phone away to check if it’s still connected. But then he sighs softly, and you’re quick to press your phone back to your ear. “I miss y’too, m’love - ‘course I do.”

“That’s sweet.” You hum softly, kicking your toes against the tiled bathroom floor. “I thought you might be mad at me.”

“Why would I be mad?”

“Dunno,” you shrug. “That’s why I was confused. But you haven’t texted me much.”

You can fucking sense him rolling his eyes. “Well, y’didn’t text me either. I thought you were mad at me -”

“I’ve been thinkin’ about what happened the other day,” you interject, and you know you wouldn’t be telling him this if you weren’t teetering more towards being drunk instead of tipsy, “and I really wanted to kiss you, you know. I mean, I thought you were going to - and then it didn’t happen.”

“Well, m’mum called.”

“Would you have done it if she didn’t?”

There’s a pause for only the briefest of seconds before Harry says, “‘Course I would have.”

Your heart flutters inside your chest and you lean your head back against the wall, nails digging further into your thigh and it’s difficult to hold back the grin that threatens to split your goddamn face in two. God, he would have. He would have kissed you - does he love you like how you love him? It seems fucking unreal, like something you’d dream up in your deepest sleep. You’d never thought Harry would ever feel the same way, even as you got a fucking marriage license together and planned out the dinner you’d eat after your elopement and -

You can’t think of a single other one of your friends who would fucking marry you for any reason, house or no house, life or death. And who would you do it for? Not Amy, not Olivia, even if they asked you nicely. It’s a commitment - a huge one - one that you wouldn’t be willing to do for anyone.

But you’d do it for Harry, in a heartbeat. You know you would. You’d have the fucking dress on before he could finish asking, and isn’t that what you had done, really? He hadn’t had to convince you much at all. You’d been willing from the get-go.

“Really?” Your voice is barely a breath, a soft exhale of air, reeking of the giddy joy you’re feeling at his proclamation. “Don’t lie to me.”

“Y’know I never lie to you.” Harry sounds nearly offended at the mere idea. “You are m’fiance. Comes with a code of conduct.”

You roll your eyes, and just then there’s a loud knock against the door - you jump violently, phone nearly slipping from your grasp. For a minute you’d forgotten you’re in a club bathroom and you know you’ve been here far too long to be appropriate - you’ll give yourself just one more minute to talk to Harry. “What about when we get divorced? Gonna lie to me then?”

“Always talkin’ about the divorce,” he murmurs, and his voice sounds so full of adoration that you’re nearly overwhelmed by it. “D’you have such little confidence about the strength of our relationship?”

If it were up to you, you’d be with Harry forever - but you can’t tell him that, not yet. “It’s not as though it’s a traditional relationship, you know. I don’t think most marriages that began for the sake of a house inheritance last too long,” you smile, feeling heat burning up your face even if he can’t see you. “Just generally speaking.”

“Hope y’got the statistics t’back that one up -”

Another louder knock shakes you again, and you jump up as though someone had set you aflame. Your phone nearly slips out of your clammy grasp once more and you clear your throat, lowering the device to your shoulder and calling, “Just a second!” to whoever’s waiting impatiently outside. You raise your phone back to your ear and clear your throat again. “I’ve gotta go, Har. I’m in the bathroom at the club - been in here a bit too long.”

“Aright,” Harry says, and you can hear soft shuffling from the other end, audio still crackled by the reception. “Breakfast tomorrow?”

You tilt your head to the side, scrunching your nose up before remembering he can’t see you. “I think it’s tradition for the bride and groom not to see each other before the wedding, isn’t it?”

“Now you’re a stickler for tradition?”

“I’ll see you at the courthouse, Har,” you tell him, before pulling the phone from your ear and hanging up. For a second you can’t move, staring down at Harry’s contact in your phone with a giddy grin that surely makes you look like some child in a candy store - and, in a way, you are - and it’s only a third knock at the bathroom door that has you scrambling out the door, giving an apologetic grin to the girl waiting impatiently.

 --

 Being married - for the record - doesn’t feel too much different than before.

There’s a shiny ring on your finger that Harry had bought, and when you glance across the table where he’s sitting, clutching his menu, you can see the similar wedding ring on his left hand - it’s simplistic and small and contrasts with the rest of his clunky rings and it makes you feel strangely warm inside when you spend too long looking at it. And, even after you and Harry had talked at the club, your ‘post-elopement’ dinner doesn’t feel entirely different than all of the other dinner dates you’d shared before the entire situation began. It’s familiar and sweet and his ankle is hooked around yours under the table, forcing a permanent heat onto your cheeks.

Harry rests his menu on the table, fingertips drumming against the laminated paper, and you similarly drop yours to look at him. “Think m’gonna get the spaghetti.”

It’s a testament to the slight air of awkwardness surrounding you both that the only thing he can think to talk about is the food he’s getting - but you’ll play along. “I like the raviolis,” you tell him. “Think I’ll get those.”

He hums softly, pushing his menu further into the table. “Can y’believe tha’ we’re married? I can’t. Seems so weird.”

“Doesn’t feel that different,” you disagree, toes tapping against his ankle beneath the table. “It’s not like we didn’t go out for dinner together before we got hitched.”

“We’re playin’ footsies under the table, babe.”

You grin down at your napkin, resting on your lap on top of your wedding dress. “Be careful or I’ll kick you, Har.”

His ankle tightens just a bit around yours beneath the table and you could watch that small smile spreading across his face for the rest of your life. “Y’wouldn’t dare - don’t y’love me?”

Yes, you do, so you resist the urge to unhook your ankle from around his and deliver a swift kick to his calf - just rest your palms on the table, scratching lightly at the rustic wood of the table. It’s hard for you to even pretend to be mad at him when all you can think about is how much you want to climb over the table and straddle him - as his wife you suppose it isn’t an insane thought, and you’re nearly certain he’s feeling the same way. Hadn’t he told you he would have kissed you if he hadn’t been called by Anne? Maybe you’ll get a chance to do it again - later. You’ll never give up the opportunity again.

“When d’you get t’move into the house?” Harry questions, leaning in just a bit in his seat. 

“A few months, I think.” You shrug. “Reckon I’ll start redecorating before then, though. I’m already looking at furniture - I’ve gotta save up for most of it, though. Might sell my apartment before then.” There’s a pause, and then you shrug once more, picking at a crack in the table. “I’ll probably move back in with my parents.”

Harry’s eyebrows are raised when you glance up at him, fingers paused in their drumming on the menu. “Are y’kidding? We’re married. You can move in wit’ me.”

“I can’t ask you to do that -”

“Not asking, are you? Even if we didn’t just elope at a courthouse, you’re still m’best friend. Can’t have you moving in t’your mum’s basement.”

You smile softly, flattening your palms against the table and craning your neck to examine the ring - proof that it had really happened, that you’re really married. It still doesn’t feel quite real, no matter how many times you and Harry casually talk about it. “Was gonna live in her attic, actually.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay f’the furniture, too. Don’t look at me like tha’ - s’our house. Needs t’be ready f’when we move in.”

You hesitate, trying poorly to conceal the way your grin is arching further upwards at the mere prospect of what he’s hinting at. Living with Harry? Jesus, even if you weren’t in love with him, living with him sounds like an absolute dream, only made better by your feelings for him. And picturing walking through an Ikea, searching for furniture, feeling his arm around your shoulders as you two look online for decorations - if heaven were a place on Earth, it would be your Aunt Alice’s estate, soon inhabited by you and your husband. “Well, we’ll talk about it, alright?” you land on as your response. 

For a moment, neither of you say anything, and the silence isn’t as stifling with awkwardness as it had been before. Then Harry reaches over, resting his hand overtop of yours, fingers instinctively intertwining, and your heart nearly splits itself in two - he initiated it, holding your hand, and maybe you shouldn’t feel so surprised but you can’t fucking help it. Your scalp is tingling and you swear your eyes are going to bubble over and his hand feels just as soft and beautiful as you’d expected - as you’d always dreamed of.

You’re not sure when, exactly, there would ever be a better time to tell him than now, so you clear your throat and squeeze his hand and confess, “I’ve liked you for a really long time, Har.”

Sharing your feelings isn’t necessarily your strongest spot but you’re feeling egged on by absolutely everything, and the way Harry brushes his thumb against your palm encourages you to continue. “I mean - since we met, basically - but I never told you. Never thought you would like me back.”

“I did,” he interjects, and you look up at him with furrowed brows. “Liked you back, I mean. Clearly - hope y’didn’t think I’d run off an’ marry anybody this fast.”

“I just thought you were being nice.”

“You’re silly, then.”

“A real idiot,” you proclaim, rubbing soft circles into the back of Harry’s hand, and you swear you’ll never let go unless someone fucking rips you away. “Guess I should’ve figured it out, then - seems like we did everything in the wrong order, right?”

Harry snorts, a noise that draws the slightest attention from an older couple sitting at a table beside you, but neither of you pay them any attention. “Get married first, fall in love second.”

“I was already in love,” and you’re not sure why, exactly, you had said that but it feels right and true falling off your tongue so you decide, pointedly, not to regret it.

There’s no hesitation when Harry responds, voice laced with the authenticity you’re so desperately craving - “Reckon I was, too.” You barely get a minute to process that and how it’s making your stomach do flips and turns like an Olympic medalist before he’s standing up, fingers still interlocked with yours to pull you up with him. “How d’you feel ‘bout a sleepover tonight?”

“A sleepover?”

He barely looks at you as he fishes through the pocket of his dress pants to pull out his wallet. “Not like we haven’t had them before.”

That’s true - you’ve slept over at Harry’s house so many times, it’s like a second home to you - but you have a distinct idea that, based off of your previous conversation and the wedding rings shining on both of your fingers, this sleepover will be just a bit different. 

“Skipping out on the reservation, then?” you question, squeezing Harry’s hand as he tosses a $50 onto the table - a significant overkill for your lemonade and his Coke but you suppose he’s feeling rather generous today. “I am rather hungry.”

“We’ll eat at my house,” he insists, leading you through the maze of tables with a grip that’s so tight, you wonder if he’s having the same qualms as you are about never letting go. “Y’like pizza, don’t you?”

 --

 You’ve been in Harry’s house more times than you can count, but it’s never been like this.

His hand is still firm in yours and it’s a feeling you adore - even if his palm has gotten clammier with every second, every step you took closer to his front door, and you can practically smell the nervousness rolling off of him. It’s not unlike the worry that’s overtaken you because you’re not quite sure what he’s expecting - only know what you want to happen and you pray to any god above that your desires align with his.

The sound of Harry shutting the door is the only crack of noise burning through the otherwise thick silence surrounding you. Neither of you had known what to say and the car ride was taken in comfortable silence, hands clasped and heads bobbing to soft music playing on the radio, but being in his house is different - there’s no music, no excuse for Harry to keep his eyes off of you, nowhere to lean your head and pretend to be resting your eyes while your heart uncontrollably thumps against your chest.

In ways, it’s better. Most ways, in fact.

Slowly, you turn to face Harry, fingers drumming against the back of his hand. His breathing is heavy and his eyes never leave yours, and you’re reminded remarkably of trying on your dress for the first time in front of him and your position hadn’t been too unlike this one - maybe now you can do it right.

It feels entirely natural, tilting your head up until you can easily slot your lips to Harry’s. They’re soft and plump and he kisses you back with a vigor you hadn’t quite expected - deepening it before you have the chance to react, his free hand that’s not clutching yours roaming to your neck and you can’t ignore the way your stomach flips at the feeling of his hand on your throat. But then his hand keeps moving up, palm pressing to your cheek in such a sweet gesture that doesn’t at all match the intensity with which he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth - your hand lands on his waist, gripping the flowy material of his dress shirt, pulling his body as close to yours as you can get.

You only pull away to catch your breath, grip tightening on his shirt to ensure he won’t move away - you need him close to you, need to feel his body against yours - the bulge near his thigh that you can feel against your pelvis, hardening with every second that passes.

“Why’d you move?” Harry questions, voice soft and vulnerable and you can’t help but lean up and land another kiss to his mouth. 

“Had to breathe, Har,” you murmur, smoothing your hands against his waist and the wrinkles you’ve surely created in the fabric. His fingers brush the edge of your jawline and you can feel your skin growing goosebumps beneath his touch.

He simply hums in response, ducking his head down to kiss you again. It’s sweeter this time, soft and fluffy but you don’t want that now - God, you want his hand around your neck and his knee between your thighs but perhaps that’ll have to wait for another time. You’re needy for just about anything you can get and if that’s sugary sweet kisses, a touch so gentle you could trick yourself into believing it isn’t there, then you’re more than grateful.

Harry’s teeth dig into your bottom lip, hard enough to have you moaning into his mouth and your nails dig into his through his shirt - the resulting whine into your mouth has you smirking against his lips, pushing your hips further into his. It’s the clearest way you can think of to tell him that you need him beyond kisses and touches.

“Jesus,” he breathes and you can feel his cock, twitching against your thigh and it’s a sensation you never thought you’d be able to experience outside of your deepest dreams - it feels twice as good as you’d imagined. “Gonna make me go crazy, babe.”

That’s exactly what you want.

“Hey,” and you pull away from him, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath still hot on your face, “don’t we have to fulfill the tradition of consummating the marriage?”

He laughs, a loud exhalation of air rather than his true barking laugh, but you smile anyway at the sound. “S’not the middle ages - no one’s expecting us to, if y’don’t want to.”

“Of course I want to.” Harry’s hand slides backwards into your hair, pulling the strands into a ponytail and tugging and your resulting moan has him smirking like a smug bastard against your lips. “God, Har. I really want to.”

It seems that that was the exact response he’d wanted - you get one last lingering kiss to your lips before Harry’s pulling away, hand falling away from your hair and other still interlocked with your own. You don’t have a second to question where, exactly, he’s leading you but then he’s tugging you through the foyer and down the halls and up the staircase you’ve grown to know so well - the trek to his bedroom has never seemed so viciously long until now, but by the time Harry swings open the door, you feel as though you’ve been walking for hours instead of barely a minute.

“On the bed, babe,” he directs you, all raspy tone and dominance lacing every last syllable and you can’t ignore the gush of arousal you can feel rushing straight to your core. It’s the stuff that makes up dreams, really, his fucking voice, and you know just the four simple words would be enough to get you off for years from now. “C’mon.”

You wouldn’t dream of disobeying - your footsteps are nearly completely silent on the carpet as you walk over to the end of Harry’s bed, pushing yourself up to sit on the plush duvet, sinking into the mattress that feels like an absolute cloud compared to the rock you’re used to sleeping on. For a brief second, he doesn’t move - just stands and stares at you, chest heaving through the baby blue dress shirt that your needy grasp had wrinkled. Then he moves, shutting the door with a barely perceptible click before making his way over to you, gazing up at him with heat blazing in your eyes.

Perhaps you’re expecting him to push you onto the bed, to fulfill the dominant tone he’d held before, so it is a bit of a surprise to see your best friend (your husband) dropping to his knees before you, fingertips ever so gently trailing up and down your calves.

The bedroom is so silent, save for your panting breaths and Harry’s shaky ones and you reckon he may be more nervous than you are - you’d expected him to handle all of the confidence between you two but his fingers are shaking as he pulls off your heels, resting them side by side on the carpet at the end of the bed. Chills crop up over your skin as his gentle touch roams up your legs, landing on your knee, and your breath hitches in your throat as the man you’ve loved for nearly 5 years leans in, lips landing a soft kiss to the top of your calf.

This isn’t what you had expected - him fucking worshipping you, on his knees - you’d never pictured it in a million years. And maybe it’s proof of the difference between him and the other guys you’d been with - your ex-boyfriends and flings had always been worried about their pleasure, never paying you any attention, and Harry couldn’t be closer to the end of the spectrum. Your entire body feels warm beneath his watchful gaze and touch, how he brings one hand up to snap firmly when your eyes flutter shut. 

“Look at me,” Harry directs, and despite the slight strain in his actions, his words still hold a never-faltering dominance that he’d had before. “C’mon, babe. I don’ want you to look away from me - can y’do that?”

It’s a task that’s easier said than done, but you nod anyway, swallowing thickly as Harry redirects his attention back to your legs. His hand, resting delicately on your left knee as though you’d break if he put too much pressure, slides down the length of your leg until he’s grasping your ankle, kneading the soft skin in his grasp while his lips linger at the top of your knee.

Using his grip on your ankle, Harry hoists your leg up onto the bed without warning, your toes digging into the end of the bed - uses his other hand to push your thigh outward so you’re on display for him like a goddamn feast and his smug grin proves that he can see just how wet you are, soaking through the white lace panties you’d chosen for the occasion. Heat blooms up your cheeks as he presses an open mouthed kiss to your thigh, teeth grazing your soft skin, and then he gives a dramatic inhale and - that’s -

You reach down, bracing both palms on the side of his face and forcing your husband (husband!) to look at you in the eye. He looks confused by your interjection and apologetic and that isn’t what you were going for but you hadn’t expected him to want to eat you out - most guys didn’t.

“You don’t have to do that, Har,” you murmur, giving a pointed glance to your lap that he’s been eyeing like it’s his dessert. “I won’t be mad.”

And Harry looks almost offended by the prospect of not wanting to, like you’d insulted him - “I want to. D’you not want me to?”

“Yes,” you reply, your voice hardly above a breath, and when he begins to pull away you continue. “No! I mean - yes, I want you to.”

He grins, wide and toothy and reminding you of exactly why you’d fallen for him in the first place, and you settle back into your spot on the bed with your nerves almost completely eradicated. He wants to - he’s not doing it because he feels obligated - it’s already a step up from any other guy you’d ever been with.

Fingers trail up your thighs as Harry’s lips close around the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, cheeks hollowing as he sucks a deep purple hickey, and you lift your hips just a bit so he can hook his fingers in the waistband of your panties and begin to tug them down. The crotch area is practically dripping with your arousal and it takes a bit more force to tug it away from your cunt but once they’re gone, Harry grabs your ankle again and straightens out your leg, making it easier for him to tug the offending material down your body and toss them away from the bed before resting your foot back on the edge.

You can hear his shaky breathing as he pulls his lips away from your thigh, thumb smoothing over the mark he’d left as if to prove it exists. You’d get it fucking tattooed if you could - to forever commemorate this experience - his mark in such a secretive place, just a breath away from where you need him most.

“Jus’ - jus’ tell me if y’want me t’stop,” Harry tells you, eyes interlocking with yours once more, and you jerk your head up and down once. “Lean back f’me, then - not too far, jus’ a bit - still need t’see you.”

So you lean back, propping yourself up on your arms, a barely reclined position from how you’d been sitting before. It’s easier to see him as he grabs the hem of your dress, tugs it up just a bit, but when you lift your hips so he can pull it out from under your ass he doesn’t comply - well, perhaps he has other plans with it, doesn’t want the dress to come off just yet, and you can respect that.

The time it takes for Harry to duck his head beneath your dress, tongue flicking against your overly sensitive folds, seems like fucking years even if it’s hardly a second, but when he does your hips instinctively jerk forward into his mouth. His eyes are flashing when he looks up at you and you breathe out a stream of apologies, heart thumping in your chest, fingernails digging into the comforter beneath you. “Don’ move,” he directs, and you nod again and again and you don’t stop until his lips close in around your clit.

Your head drops back with a low moan as Harry’s teeth graze your clit, cheeks hollowing as he sucks the sensitive nub like it’s what he was born to do. The bottom of your dress covers the top of his head so you can’t see what he’s doing - you have no idea what his next move is and it makes the pleasure rolling through your body that much better.

“Fuck - fuck, Har -” the only two words you can think to moan roll off your tongue like a mantra, your back arching upwards despite his warning not to move but he doesn’t mention it - just drags one hand up, fingertips light and dancing on your thighs until he can splay his forearm across your lower stomach, effectively pinning you to the bed. Your hand moves from digging into the sheets to digging into his scalp, tugging at the loose strands of hair that smell ever so slightly of gel and it makes your heart swell to imagine him putting product in his hair for the elopement - but before you have time to dwell on the sweetness of the sentiment, that talented tongue is licking a thin stripe up your folds before flicking your clit and you’re brought back to reality. “Fuck.”

“Feel good?” Harry mumbles, muffled where his face is pressed firm to your pussy and the vibrations of his words reverberate against your clit, sending a chill up your spine, and you let out a low whine at the sensation. 

“Yes,” you breathe in return, tugging at his hair just a bit, the strands forming a makeshift ponytail like he’d done to you before. “Feels so good, Harry, god -”

His head pulls back just a bit, hem of your dress dropping to just the tip of his nose so you can see his eyes - smug and glinting and you’re sure that, if you could see his mouth, those lips would be upturned into a smirk and practically dripping with your arousal - but he goes back in just as soon as he’d pulled out, burying his face in the apex of your thighs and you collapse back against the bed with a shout.

Whatever order he’d given you to maintain eye contact disappears. It isn’t as though you can see his eyes anyway, and you couldn’t stop yours from rolling back into your head if you tried. Ecstasy rolls through your body and, God, you know you’re close already, thighs tensing under where Harry’s palm kneads the soft skin, hard enough that you’re sure you’ll see bruises tomorrow. Your cunt clenches and flutters around the emptiness you’re yearning to get rid of and your back arches up again, Harry’s restraint on your torso not enough to stop it now, and you’re so fucking close.

“Harry -” you moan, digging your fingernails into Harry’s scalp and relishing in his responding moan to your clit - “gonna cum, Har -”

He doesn’t say anything - but you can feel his tongue continuing its work, up and down your folds and circling your clit and that’s response enough. Your hips jerk into his face, back arching as you grasp his hair tight enough that it has to fucking hurt but then you’re cumming and -

“Oh, fuck!”

Your voice is high pitched, cracked with a desperate sob right in the middle of your words before you’re holding Harry’s head to your pussy, his tongue working your clit like he was born for it, his low moans muffled against you. The hand previously holding down your torso slides up your body until he can shove his hand into the top of your dress, tugging it down so your chest is. He plucks at your nipple before grasping your tit, full in his palm, and the added stimulation prolongs your orgasm, hips rolling against Harry’s working mouth.

You can’t see straight when Harry pulls his head out from the bottom of your chest but when your vision focuses you’re beyond thankful. His chin is glistening with your arousal, tongue poking out to lap at the moisture on his lips and he dons that shit-eating grin you’ve grown to know so well. You usually see it when he wins a board game or when you’re celebrating something - seeing it on his face after he’s finished giving you the best orgasm you’ve ever gotten is certainly different but not unwelcome by anyone’s standards.

There’s a second where all you do is lie back and catch your breath - staring up at the ceiling above you, chest heaving as the aftershocks race through your body. Harry, meanwhile, pushes himself to his feet, muttering a small groan about God, m’fuckin knees and gettin’ too old for this, aren’t I?

Lazily you hold your hand out towards him, wiggling your fingers, and he reaches out to interlock your fingers again. “How was that?” he questions, voice soft and almost insecure and it’s a sharp contrast from the dominance he held before, but you know it’ll come back.

“I think you’re a natural at that, Mr. Styles,” you tell him, squeezing his hand in reassurance as you pull him closer to you until his knees hit the bed and he’s forced to collapse on top of you, grin cracking onto his face. “Gonna undress me?”

“‘Course,” Harry murmurs, leaning down to place a brief kiss to your lips, but before you can lift your head to deepen it he’s rolling off of you, shifting onto his side and shuffling upwards so his head rests on the stack of pillows. You raise your eyebrows at him - it isn’t as though he can take your dress off from that position - but, as though he can read your mind, he raises his hand and pats his lower stomach pointedly. “Climb up, babe.”

For what seems like the millionth time today, you can feel heat pulsing in your cheeks but you hope it doesn’t show - just sit up, swing your legs around so you’re straddling Harry, hands on his chest and gazing down at him like the God he seems to be. His hair is splayed out on the pillows beneath him, bottom lip tugged between his teeth, and you can’t help yourself - lean down to land your lips to his again, and this time both of you allow it to deepen. His hand starts at your cheek like it had before but you reach for it, fingers wrapping around his wrist and maneuvering it downwards until his palm is wrapped around the column of your throat, and he squeezes once experimentally.

You moan softly, hips rolling against the pointed bulge in his dress pants, and Harry’s eyebrows raise. “No fuckin’ way,” he breathes, squeezing again just to hear the way your breath catches. “Gonna be th’fuckin’ death f’me.”

You’re fine with that, and you reckon he is too.

You reach behind you, tapping along your back until you can reach the zipper. You’ve only tugged it down an inch or two before Harry’s free hand replaces yours, dragging the zipper down as far as it can go before reaching for the bottom of the dress. It’s gone in an instant - tossed off the edge of the bed, to be worried about later - and you can feel his fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it comes undone, and then you’re naked.

You’d expected yourself to feel more embarrassed, or perhaps just nervous, and maybe it’s the effects of your previous orgasm but you’re feeling surprisingly calm - or maybe it’s how Harry looks up at you like you’re some sort of goddess sent from above, as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

It does wonders for your self esteem, truthfully.

“Gonna undress me, then?” Harry questions, hands smoothing up and down your thighs, eyes drinking in every bit of your exposed body on top of him.

You hum softly, pinching at the soft material of his shirt. “I don’t think so - want you to fuck me in your fancy clothes.”

“Well, if I’d known tha’ was an option -”

“Do you want me to put the dress back on?”

“No!”

You grin down at him before rolling your hips over his again, and it’s the last thing you manage to do before his grip lands on your hips and he’s flipping you over - your head lands dangerously close to hitting the headboard but it’s worth it, seeing him above you, fully clothed, pupils lust-blown and wide.

It hardly takes a second for Harry to undo the button to his pants and the sound of the zipper being undone is like music to your fucking ears - you spread your legs, letting him slot his body between them and oh, you can feel the tip of his fucking cock it’s right there and -

The first movement, Harry pushing himself inside of you, has you throwing your head back against the pillow, the moan coming from your throat mixing with a cry. He’s big - certainly bigger than you’d ever expected and bigger than any guy you’d been with - feels like he could split you in half if he wanted to but he stops, hands smoothing up and down your body, and you make a point of reaching for his hand and interlocking your fingers.

You’ll never grow tired of holding his hand, you think. Not for a while, anyway.

“How’re you doin’?” he questions, voice strained, and when your eyes shift back to him you can see the droplets of sweat beaded on his face. “Jus’ - jus’ tell me when, alright?”

“When,” you breathe almost immediately. You hadn’t needed too much time to adjust but you need him to move - you’re so pent up and you know it won’t take long to take you to your second orgasm but, God, he needs to fucking move. “Please, Har - please, fuck me.”

It doesn’t seem he needed much more encouragement than that. With one final move of wrapping his free hand firm around your neck and giving another small squeeze, Harry pulls out agonizingly slowly until just the tip of his cock remains in your heat. Just as you open your mouth to beg him to move again he slams back in with a force you hadn’t anticipated, your body rocking backwards of its own accord with the weight behind the thrust.

It’s exactly what you’d needed, though - fast and rough and his hand, cutting off your airflow just a bit, just enough to have you quivering beneath him. The low groan that rips out of his throat, reverberating through the humid bedroom has you pushing your hips up to his, trying to deepen where he’s buried inside of you to the hilt but you’re not sure how much deeper he could get. Feels like he could split you in half with every desperate thrust, every rut of his hips into yours and yours back into his.

“Oh - god - m’fuckin’ good girl, so tight around m’cock -”

Another rush of arousal gushes straight to your core with his filthy words and your head falls back into the pillow with a high whine, nails digging into the back of his hand as his other one tightens grip around your neck. It makes every desperate moan and cry that much airier and you can tell Harry likes it, staring down at you as his hips pound yours with absolutely no mercy and you don’t want any, anyway. It’s the subject of every single fantasy you’ve ever had about him, rough and hard and the sound of skin slapping skin overpowering your needy noises.

You’d never dreamt it would feel so good.

“Oh god, Harry!” Your eyes are rolling back into your head as your free hand trails down your stomach, shaking fingers focusing on your ignored clit and beginning tight circles around the nub. The jolts of pleasure that run through your body are - god, fucking amazing and you know you’re close, hardly need anything else to tip you over the edge. “Gonna - gonna cum, Har -”

It’s a testament to, perhaps, the long-growing tension between the two of you that his head drops backwards with a cry of me, too in a tone that’s so desperately vulnerable and it’s exactly what you’d needed - the reminder, in the midst of the rough thrusts and desperate moans, that this isn’t a one time thing. If you both allow it, it’s the rest of your life, just like this - and, God, you’ll allow it.

Your cunt clenches around your cock as you cum, eyes rolling back into your head and body spasming beneath him. In the midst of it Harry pulls out and you don’t get a second to question the sudden emptiness before you feel a familiar warmth hitting your lower stomach, and you open your eyes in time to see your husband, hand working at his cock as ribbons of cum spurt onto your stomach.

(You think you could cum again just from the sight but - well, you’ll hold back.)

His breathing is choppy and desperate, broken occasionally by a needy moan until he’s finished and he collapses on his back beside you, hands still intertwined with no intention of letting go. Nothing needs to be said - not yet - not for a little while, where you’ll talk about it more. 

A little while ends up merely being a minute or two before Harry swings his legs over the edge of the bed, hand still clasped in yours, and makes to stand up - it’s only your tightening grasp on his hand that forces him to stop, glancing behind him to look at you.

“Don’t,” you plead, throat already feeling sore and voice raspy. “Just - another minute, alright? Then clean up.”

He hums softly but you know he won’t resist the prospect of just a brief cuddle - one of the few things you hadn’t done often when you were just friends, because you knew that, if Harry held you as close to him as he is now, lips pressed to your forehead, you wouldn’t be able to resist telling him how you felt about him.

Doesn’t matter now, though. And his arms feel so warm around you, clammy palm still pressed to yours like a fucking couple in middle school but you wouldn’t dream of letting go. It’s all so - so peaceful, lying with him and listening to his heartbeat as you rest your head to his chest, listening to his heartbeat thumping as fast and hard as yours is.

And - well. Barely a month ago you were convinced your Aunt Alice was the worst woman in the world - a hypocrite and an asshole, set out to taunt you by lording your dream home over you and snatching it away when you couldn’t find a husband in time. But now? Feeling Harry, landing soft kisses again and again to your forehead, you figure she’s not so bad, after all.