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wheelsup · 3 years ago

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the taming of the shrew | one

he is more a shrew than she

penelope reveals her plan to get you and spencer together. unfortunately, her plan has a few hitches.

A/N: again, big thanks to @homoose for being my helpful beta reader, and to YOU for reading it now.

category: fluff, spencer reid x fem!reader, series

wc: 4.1k

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Penelope came back to your place the following night, bearing a new bottle of wine and a collection of materials she mentioned were integral to executing the plan.

Very quickly into Penelope’s explanation of this Genius Plan –– her words, not yours –– you remembered what it was she did for work. Officially, she was some sort of technical computer-y person for the Federal Bureau. As you knew her, she’s a danger to society and anyone with a traceable digital presence.

She managed to construct a comprehensive list of every place in D.C. and Virginia that her friend liked going to, along with the approximate times in which you were most likely to find him there. Approximate meaning, exactly which days he visits and the roughly time of day, down to a mere one hour margin of error.

You scanned the list over, shocked at its detail. Where he cut his hair, got his coffee, bought his books. His favorite restaurants, the chess clubs he’s a member of, his local hospital.

His local hospital?!

“I’m not going to need to know that, am I?” you paused.

“Probably not, but it comes in handy with this job,” she shrugged with a nonchalance that was rather alarming.

There had to be a dozen more places on the sheet –– ranked, in order of his (assumed) preference for them. Penelope calculated it based on the frequency of his visits, their average duration per session, and how often he’d mentioned about the place.

“What?” she tossed her palms up, taking offense when you asked her if she had evil plans to take over the tristate area. “Hang out with him long enough, you tell me if you pick up a knack for researching or not.”

Researching. Mining private data through questionable methods. It’s a small difference to Penelope.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side, Penelope,” you muttered under your breath, flipping the sheet back and forth. “You could ruin my whole life with ten minutes on a computer.”

“I wanted to be thorough,” she defended, shrugging. “And I’d only need five.”

You laughed through your nose, giving the paper one last scan. “You left out one important thing, though.”

“No, I put his home address on there,” her brows wrinkled together as she pointed it out on the sheet with one hot pink polished finger.

“His name,” you berated. “Jesus, you think I’m going to show up at his home?!”

“Again! I’m thorough,” she cried at your accusatory tone. “His name’s Spencer. You’ll like him when you meet him.”

You didn’t doubt that Penelope’s friend was a likeable guy, but you weren’t exactly dying to go out of your way to meet him. You told her that you’d get around to it when you had a chance and left it at that.

And two weeks later, you found yourself in need of a caffeine fix that your tea kettle wasn’t strong enough to satisfy. You started on a new piece late the previous night, and midnight rolled into four in the morning, which pushed you into the arms of seven o’clock. Reinforcements were needed.

Throwing on a large sweater to cover up your messy clothes and grabbing the closest pair of shoes you could find, you originally planned on heading to your usual spot just around your street corner. Just as you were leaving, the list, still sitting untouched in the exact spot that Penelope left it in, caught your eye.

It’d been a while since you told Penelope you’d help her out. Enough time had passed that you now felt like there was an invisible deadline over your head.

Maybe it won’t hurt to try something new?

Besides, meeting someone at a coffee shop seemed like an easy, foolproof way to go about this. From all the movies and romance novels, you knew that cafes are the pinnacle of meet-cute situations. Or, in your case, a meet-forced.

Regardless, it should’ve been simple enough, and it would’ve gotten the favor off your shoulder.

You scanned the sheet for the cafe Spencer would be at on a Thursday at 8 a.m., and got there with barely five minutes to spare before he was expected to show.

It was just your luck that he had to pick a cafe practically as far from your home as he could get, and the transfer train had to have a delay that made you walk the last three-quarters of a mile there. Call it crazy, but you didn’t expect to actually have to put in work for this. You expected it better be worth the hassle.

You took a seat in the back of the cafe to catch your breath as you waited for him to show up. Sitting in the booth, with your head down so you coudn’t be seen, the plan started to feel stupid all over again. You were running around the city, spying on this stranger, and for what?

The silver bell hung over the door frame interrupted before your thoughts could travel down that path of questioning. It rang each time a new patron enters, and within the next twenty minutes it rang only eight or nine times. None of them appeared to be Spencer.

You were prepared to call this one a failure and leave, when you realized your colossal mistake. You only had his name, and no idea what he looks like. So unless he happened to wear a name tag around you could’ve already missed him. You realized then that there were more than a few flaws in this plan.

Keeping an eye on the door, you dialed Penelope’s contact as a swarm of new patrons flooded in.

“How am I supposed to know what he looks like?” you whispered into the phone, failing to cover it with a hand cupped over the speaker. Penelope was confused for only a second by the apparent lack of context.

“Oh! He’s tall, has mousy brown hair but he cut it recently. It’s like… missing on the sides, but it’s all there in the front!” she explained.

What the hell does she mean missing?

“Pen, brunette? That’s like all the guys in here…” You took a look around the full cafe; various men typing on computers, taking calls. All of them looked the same, from their brown hair to their khakis and puffer coats. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than brown hair.”

Penelope struggled to explain and with each new feature she gave you, your mental picture of him got more clouded. “He’s skinny! Dresses like a vintage teddy bear!”

“Does he have kind of like… a hot English teacher vibe?” you quirked your head, spying a man approaching from the sidewalk and drinking him in with your eyes. Tall, brunette, clad in corduroy head to toe with a plaid sweater vest underneath. Vintage Teddy Bear F/W 1978 collection.

“Yes! He teaches sometimes! And you think he’s hot?”

Your mouth gaped even though she couldn’t see you. “No, I - I didn’t say that. I said he had the vibes of a hot teacher.”

“And how different is that from saying he’s––”

“Pen, I gotta go. Your guy’s walking in.” You put the phone away before she could pick apart what you said.

The bell on the front door rang as he came in and you stared intently at his face. If this was like the movies, he’d turn his head right then, at the perfect time, and make eye contact. He’d fall madly in love from the first look, and your work would be done. You sat at the edge of your seat, burning holes into his skull, waiting for that moment.

But alas, he never looked up from the linoleum flooring as he walked up to the counter. With a groan, you slid out of your booth and quickly hopped into the line before anyone else could claim the spot behind him.

New plan: eavesdrop, order the same coffee as him, and pretend to go for the cup at the same time. Laugh about the coincidence, how if you share the same coffee order you must certainly have a lot in common, and have him fall in love with you.

But you overheard him rattle off his order and were absolutely horrified. Black coffee, extra sugar. Like, extra, extra sugar.

You were going to need a second change of plans.

You eyed him up and down, searching for something you could approach him about. He was donning black converse under a fitted pair of dark brown corduroy trousers, with a blazer to match, and a deep green plaid vest underneath. On paper, this outfit shouldn’t work. In practice, it… really did.

A little too well, given how good he looks in it. More fashionable than a federal agent ought to be as required by dress codes, right?

“Can I help you?” you heard, and it poked the bubble of your thoughts. Your head shot up to meet his for the first time, eyes wide as heat crawled up your face.

“Uh. No ––” Shit. You didn’t even realize how long you were staring at his legs. Long, long legs. And shit, why did you say no? That was your opening to talk to him.

The man –– Spencer –– nodded his head slowly, uncomfortably, and turned away with a forced grin. He grabbed the coffee cup placed on the counter and you thought now was the time to say something. But by the time you thought of it, he’d already picked up his cup and made his way to the door.

The stupid silver bell mocked you as he left.

The first attempt left you slightly jilted, but a few days later you found yourself in need of a few grocery items. You just happened to be in his neighborhood that day, and though it was very much out of the way of your own, you didn’t plan on it being a problem. He’d never see where you lived anyways, and he’d never need to know how unlikely this chance encounter really was.

You had Penelope text you the address of his regular grocery store, and upon arrival, felt immediate concern. It was not a grocery store. It was a convenience mart slash liquor store at the corner of the street, below a building of worn apartments.

As you walked through the aisles, the only things you found were a large assortment of wines that took up half the small store space, an aisle of candy packets and chips, a section for household supplies, and one measly aisle for canned and boxed foods.

Cereal, instant noodles, soup cans, pancake mix… nothing very fresh.

Spencer seemed like a pretty scrawny guy. You now believed it might’ve been from the fact that his food choices were so off-putting that he simply didn’t eat. It wasn’t your place to be concerned, but you decided that if you ever ended up taking him out, a farmer’s market might be good for him.

You loitered around for perhaps longer than necessary. The inquisitive shop attendant asked if you need help –– as in, why are you still here, get out of my store –– and you told her you were just really conflicted on which detergent brand you needed. Finally, the man you were after arrived at the scene.

“Hi, Dolores,” he greete with a small wave. The attendant, Dolores, greets back with a positivity that she sorely lacked when talking to you. Dolores has favorites, apparently.

An unexpected panic settled in your stomach and you quickly turned back to your selection of fabric softeners. You weren’t hiding, you just didn’t want him to catch you staring again. You picked up your two props, pretending to read the labels on the back and compare the chemical formulas on each of them, when you saw him out of the corner of your eyes.

He went into the aisle in front of yours, and over the short shelves you saw the back of his head sweeping over the modest food section. He turned around to inspect the other side of the aisle, and you ducked your head even lower. It was in vain. He spotted you anyway.

You fixed your eyes even harder onto the bottles, afraid to look anywhere else. He shuffled out of his aisle and turned the corner into yours. You started sweating a little.

“Uhm. Excuse me,” he said.

“Yeah?” You looked up from your bottles, putting on your best caught-off-guard face. Like you were a girl in a movie, reading a book on the beach (not detergent labels in a liquor store) and your romantic interest just noticed how beautiful you looked doing it, deciding he had to introduce himself.

“Can you… can you move…” he asked, gesturing to the section of cleaners that you’re blocking.

Never mind.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry.” You burned up, moving out of his way. He reached for what he needed and you peeked down to inspect the contents of his basket. Organic whole wheat bread, cream of mushroom soup, and somehow, he’d managed to find the only two apples this place must carry. At least there was light at the end of the dark, dark tunnel.

He tossed a bottle of Snuggle fabric softener and you raised your brows. Given that he was “grocery shopping’’ in a three-piece suit –– a good one, too, black trousers, vest and blazer with an eggplant purple shirt and lavender tie –– you would’ve expected him to simply send his clothes out for dry cleaning.

“Snuggle, huh?” you said. He gave you a confused look. “Oh, uh. I was looking at these. Couldn’t pick between the two.” You raised your two bottles of softener; Snuggle and Tide.

You needed him to know you weren’t just saying Snuggle to insinuate that you would like to do that to him. You remembered Penelope telling you he had a degree in chemistry or some sort of science field, and asked, “Is… is that one like, more organic? I was trying to read the formulas but I don’t… I don’t recognize the chemicals,” you trailed off. You could see yourself losing his interest the more you spoke. He barely looked at you as he grabbed whatever else he needed.

“I don’t know… I just like it,” he bristled. You looked down at the bottle and flipped it over to the front. It had a drawing of a teddy bear on it. How fitting.

You go to comment on it but yet again he’d made an escape, already at the checkout counter and unloading his basket by the time you looked up again. You rolled your eyes, wondering if it’s even worth it to follow him into line and see if he sparks up a conversation this time.

You could tell that he wouldn’t. So you gave him the space to buy his items and leave.

You didn’t really need the detergent, but Dolores gave you a pointed look before you could even think about putting it back on the shelf. You ended up buying the detergent, a loaf of bread, and two packets of sweets out of guilt.

As you took the train home, digging into your packet of sour peach rings, you began to doubt if you can carry out Penelope’s request.

After two failed attempts, you were prepared to tell Penelope that this just wasn’t going to work out. You didn’t expect it to be this difficult to talk to Spencer nor did you see yourself getting closer to him anytime soon. It would be best if she just found someone else to do it.

You caught her in the hallway, leaving her apartment just as you came home from the store. It seemed like as good of a time as any to let her know how unsuccessful your escapades were going. With your tail between your legs, you approached her with the intention of breaking the plan off.

But the second she saw you, it was like she could read through you. She clocked what you were about to say and before you could, she gave you a warm hug. It was the first one you’d ever received from her, actually. And she thanked you for trying.

It didn’t make you feel guilty, per se, but it definitely made you feel weird about telling her the news. So you bit back on telling her what you were really going to say. She didn’t need to know the details of your failure, or the fact that you were seconds away from giving up on her friend.

Maybe you didn’t need to give up right away.

After all, you did only talk to the guy twice. Don’t they always say the third time’s the charm?

You left the conversation at just that –– letting her know that you’re happy to do this for her, even if you aren’t really –– and slinked back into your apartment. The list, buried under the magazines and paint tubes and half-full cups of cold coffee on your table, called for you.

If by any stroke of luck you happened to share one interest with this guy, you promised yourself to give it one more try.

According to the list, that overlapping interest was the wonderful world of Gatsby Books –– a small, locally owned bookstore residing in the heart of D.C. ’s arts district. That neighborhood was smack in the middle of your’s and Spencer’s, and it was where the gallery you showcase at was.

You’d been meaning to get down there for a while now, anyways. It really was the cutest bookstore in the world; inside it lived a white, bushy-furred cat named Gatsby, and he was always there. After all, it was his bookstore.

It wasn’t such a burden to make your visit fit Spencer’s schedule, really. And it would make Penelope happy if you did. So on Saturday afternoon, you took a lovely walk through the sunny arts district of D.C., a smile on your face and a tote in hand for all the books you were planning on hauling back.

The smell of paper and coffee greeted your nose at the door, and you practically fell into a trance, letting it lead you through the aisles of the store without much thought of where you wandered. Not that it mattered, you could’ve roamed the shelves aimlessly all day long.

In the mystery and thrillers section, you found Gatsby. He jumped down from his perch on a step stool and weaved between your legs, greeting one of his long-time regulars. He was such a good shop owner.

“Hi, Mr. Gatsby.” You smiled and bent down to give him a little head scratch when he started running off in the other direction, taunting you into following him.

He rounded the corner and came to a stop at a pair of boot-clad feet; your eyes moved up to find your favorite employee (after Gatsby, of course) restocking the shelves.

“Miles!” you whispered, but he still jumped out of his skin. He turned around, hand still over his chest, and sighed when he realized it was just you. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” you laughed.

“Hey, long time, no see. Back for some more recommendations?” You ‘ooh’ed at his offer.

“I was just gonna say, the ones you gave me last time were so good. I finished them in, like, a week.”

“Really?” He smiled, brows happily up his forehead. You nodded in assent. “Okay, well I’ll give you more this time, see if the list’ll last you a little longer than that.”

You grinned eagerly, following him to the shop counter where he pulled out a stack of bright green post-its and a pen.

“I’ve actually been waiting for you to come in, I already had these in mind for you,” he mumbled, scrawling across the paper quickly. He handed the note over, and it took a moment to decipher the chicken scratches.

“Okay, first you gave me Al-Shayk and Bradbury. Now you’re giving me Chaucer, Dickens, and Doyle,” you recited the note, giving him a teasing look. “Are we just going through the alphabet, Miles?” you joked.

“Honest mistake. But I’d be happy to give you all the other twenty-two letters of the alphabet if needed.”

“I might hold you to that.” You nodded, folding the post-it in your palm to prevent the sticky backing from gunking up. It’d make quite the good bookmark for later. “Thanks for these!”

“No problem, just a part of the job.”

Nonetheless, you thanked him again before disappearing back into the aisles. You found Miles’ books as well as a few of your own and nearly lost yourself in the rows of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, until you made a turn. Standing in the middle of the next aisle was Spencer.

A week ago, he was the whole point of coming to the store. That day, you completely forgot about it, and it stopped you in your tracks to see him there. He was just standing in the middle of the walkway, staring blankly at the shelf in front of him.

“Excuse me,” you grinned, “Could you move?”

You thought it was a cute reference back to the laundry detergent fiasco, a chance for you to turn the tables, but he had no reaction to it whatsoever. His face was straight as he merely pivoted his shoulder out of your way as you reached for the book you needed; The Narrative of John Smith.

His eyes narrowed at you and his nostrils flared, and you wondered if it was called for because you grabbed the last copy they had in stock.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want this?” you asked, waving the book in his face. He was just standing there for so long, you didn’t think he actually wanted anything since he never picked it up.

“No,” he said coldly.

Contrary to Penelope’s review, he didn’t actually seem that warm of a person. But you smiled tightly at him, letting a forced laugh fill the stale air.

“I… I swear I’m not stalking you,” you laughed, rubbing the back of your neck. Technically it was a bit of a lie, but he didn’t need to know. It’s just something people say when they have the happy coincidence of running into a stranger so often.

“What did you say to me?” he bit. His tone was sharper than you felt like this conversation deserves.

“I mean, I’ve just been seeing you around a lot… it was, like, a joke? Like, ‘ahh watch out, I’m stalking you!’ you know?” With each second he stared you down, you felt your throat dry out, getting more flustered as you felt the need to over explain yourself.

“Maybe you should work on your comedy routine,” he barked, his voice just faintly cracking. He shoulder-checked you as he rushed out of the store in long strides and a brisk pace.

What in the absolute fuck.

You couldn’t stay in the shop for another minute. You dropped your stack of books at the counter with Miles, giving him a rushed apology for leaving them behind as you stormed out of the shop and headed in the opposite direction of where Spencer ran off to.

The air outside was now frosty as the sun disappeared behind the horizon; the wind nipped at your hot cheeks as you charged home. There weren’t enough words to quantify the anger you felt. Your mind ran rampant with how much you now hated this man.

Not only did he bite your head off for no good reason, but he publicly embarrassed you at your favorite place and had gone so far as to bruise your shoulder to make a point. And you know what? If he really wanted you out of his way, you were more than happy to leave him the hell alone for the rest of your life.

You reached into your jacket pocket for your phone and dialed Penelope.

“Hey! How are––” she cheered.

“It’s off.”

“What?”

“It’s off. I’m not dating your fucking friend.”

“What happened? I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding––” she started in a panic. She pleaded that you overlook whatever went wrong and promised that she’d have a talk with Spencer about it. She’d try to encourage him into the direction that you need.

None of that registered in your brain, hot blood filling your ears instead of her words.

“He’s a fucking ass,” you spat. “The more I see of him, the less I like him, and… I’m pretty sure we’d rather kill each other than date at this point. So yeah, I’m done.”

☆

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suncakie · 3 years ago

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[Haikyuu boys reacting to you calling them “Clingy”]

w/ Hinata, Osamu, Iwaizumi

Warnings. Cussing, Timeskip spoilers! (for Iwa & Hinata), sad attempt at crack, angst (if you squint), Fluff at the end, Characters are probably Oc.

Notes. Omg this took sooo long than I expected it to be, I’m fricking trying to get all their personality correct so if they are Oc pls don’t hesitate to tell me<3

—Hinata Shoyo

Hinata had a rough day today, training became harder when the 1st season of the world league came running along.

He really enjoyed spending time with his high school friends, but he realized that he shouldn't have joined in with Bokuto's and Atsumu's antics today so that he wouldn't run 120 times around the gym and serve 150 times in a row.

When he sprinted home, he was happy to see your shoes laid on the shoe rack.

He was excited to get his midnight cuddles.

But college reports gotta be done within the night since the deadline is in the first thing in the morning.

And Hinata's goofy personality doesn't really help out that much.

You've been drunk with caffeine since you woke up this morning, you didn't bother to go to your minor classes that were scheduled today, since you and your unhealthy lifestyle of procrastination decided to do your research paper the day before the heavenly deadline.

It doesn't even help when the Wi-Fi was dying every hour, you groaned when you heard a short "tadaima" and the door shutting close alerting you that your boyfriend just came home from practice. Damn, for the first time in your relationship you couldn't help but wished he came home late.

"Y/n-chan! Have you already eaten? If not, I brought some take-out for you! I already ate so I could just sit with you while you are eating" Hinata beamed at you as he laid the food on the kitchen counter, taking a glance at your study space on the living room floor he stole a worried glance at the cups of coffee he assumed you bought scattered around the table and on the carpet.

You also had your unrevised papers on the floor with scribbles of red pen encircling all the things you read as wrong, Hinata hummed at thought as he decided to pick up the scattered cups and papers on the floor and placed them on the table "I know you still have this research paper to do but it wouldn't hurt to stop and continue this tomorrow yeah?" Hinata suggested as he counted the number of used coffee cups in his hands.

It was at least 27- and you even have a mug of coffee in your hands and you should have had at least 5 coffee flavored Boba that was emptied out and was already in the garbage.

"Thank you for the offer but no thanks, but you could at least give me more coffee?" You said without even batting an eye to the redhead as you raised your now empty cup of coffee "What? ok I'm sorry but you should at least eat something rather than drinking more caffeine" Hinata tried to converse but took the cup nonetheless

"I'm good, I’ll eat later when I'm done" You waved him off as Hinata stole a worried glance at you before responding "I know that research is important for you so that you could graduate but you should really prioritize your health-!" You sighed which cut him off from his scolding.

"Look, I'm really stressed right now and I Can't get this done if you keep smothering me like this, can you, I don't know bother someone else? You'll have my full attention tomorrow I promise, but not now please?"

Hinata's breath hitched when you called him a bother- (since his past relationships ended since he was so clingy) -but nonetheless hummed and placed your cup of coffee in your desk, took his duffle bag, and closed the door shut.

When Hinata woke up, the first thing he noticed was that you weren't by his side, your bag was also not on its usual spot so he assumed you already left for college "'morning Shoyo-kun!" Hinata flinched at the voice and turned to his left, to see a note, Two neatly wrapped sandwiches, and his phone charging on the desk.

"Atsumu-kun?" The redhead mumbled sleepily as he took his phone out of the charger and placed it near his ear "mhm? Oh! Y/n told me that she said she's sorry for calling you a bother" The blonde commented as the memories of last night flooded Hinata's brain.

Ah, right. You called him a bother.

Even if he was just worried about your well-being.

"Mm, yeah sure, Oh! I'm sorry for calling you last night Atsumu-kun!" Atsumu scoffed "Nah nah, s'fine, by the way! Iwaizumi wanted us to come to practice around 6:30! I’ll see ‘ya there"

You on the other hand came to school at 5 in the morning, since the Wi-Fi is being a dumb b!tch past midnight and you couldn't get your work done properly, so you ate, showered, made your boyfriend breakfast, and went straight to the school using a bike.

The two of you haven't talked properly since that night, exams said hello the moment you passed your research and Hinata dedicated his time on volleyball since the 1st season of the world league was coming up, the boy came home past midnight to see you lazily sleeping on the couch, books in hand and he had to carry you to the bedroom.

While you wake up to him sleeping on the bed, showered, made him breakfast, placed a note on the desk, and went to school.

Today was different though, the 1st season of the world league finally ended and Exams were finally given and the two of you coincidentally had a rest day on the same day.

The sun rolled around as it went passed your grey curtains, you groaned and rolled over to Hinata's side of the bed, cuddling up at him as he slowly became sober "Good morning 'Sho" you mumbled as you cuddled closer to the boy Hinata on the other hand, thought that cuddling you back is overwhelming, sat up and did some stretches while mumbling a short reply back.

"Are you busy today? What do you say if we go on a date?" You suggested and sat up as well "sure, where to?" You grinned and took out a poster from your school bag "the amusement park!"

The whole day Hinata avoided touching you like you were a plague, whenever you held his hand he would casually shrug it off with an alibi of wanting to get a corndog, whenever you wanted a kiss, he would run off to some ride that he claimed he wanted to ride with you.

The ride back home was filled with your own rants, Hinata was unusually quiet the whole time, only giving side comments when needed until you stopped rambling. "Why'd you stop?" You sighed ad faced your boyfriend "are you mad at me?" Hinata abruptly stopped the car just beside the house, his eyes wide as saucers "what? No! What gave you that idea?"

"It feels like your avoiding me" you reasoned while fiddling with your shirt "I'm sorry, I thought you hate me for being a bother" The redhead mumbled sarcastically under his breath as you starred at him guiltily.

Damn, who knew Hinata could talk like that.

But then again, Words hurt more than actions.

"Oh my gosh- I'm so sorry 'Sho, you know I didn't mean that, right?" You apologized and moved to hold the redhead in your arms while shrugging away from the hands that held the steering wheel tightly.

Hinata suddenly sobbed on your shoulder, as he remembered the reason why his past girlfriends left him since he was identified as 'clingy' and 'overwhelming'

You patted his back as a reassurance that you’re with him and mumbled apologies and compliments in his ear while pecking his cheeks or lips once in a while, you are sure Hinata will forgive you for what you said, though you are sure he will never forget that you, the one he loves and trusts the most, called him a bother.

—Miya Osamu

Inarizaki lost today.

And Osamu couldn't help but blame himself for the lost, if he didn't put so much force in his spike- maybe just maybe they could have won?

Damn, where are you when Osamu needs you the most- oh right your back at Sendai, visiting your grandparents with the excuse of being sick to not go to school.

Osamu decided to call you that night, but you never answered.

On that same night you sent a voice mail to him, that was stuck in his head.

"hi baby! I'm sorry I couldn't tend to your needs right now! Granny is teaching me how to make ice cream, maybe I could make it with you back there in hyogo? Oh! I'm sorry for your loss today! I'm sorry I couldn't be right there for you now! But if you don't mind, can you please be clingy on another day? I really just can't right now- n/n-chan where are you? -coming granny! I’ll be texting you after this, I love ya 'Samu!"

The word "clingy" was stuck in his head- you thought he was clingy?

·He knows he is being overdramatic, you never once said he is being too touchy- heck he isn't even that touchy in general- but he just suffered a lost today and the poor boy couldn't help but let his insecurities wash over him.

You happily skipped to the Miya residence, a bag of mochi in your hand and phone on the other, today's the weekend, approximately a week or so after the lost Inarizaki has encountered, and you couldn't be happier to be with your boyfriend after the week you two have been apart.

You took a moment to double check if the house does belong to the Miya's and walked towards the front door, attempting to knock until the door slid open on its own, your eyes glancing up to see a familiar looking duo " Ah hello there Y/n-san, just came back from hyogo?" Your eyes brightened up at the gorgeous lady in front of you "Mr and Mrs Miya! It’s been a month haven't it?" You quickly bowed in front of them.

"Are the Twins- ow!" "How many times am I gonna tell ya' to call me okaasan hm?" The older lady teasingly scolded you by pinching your cheeks as the older male just stood by and gestured to the twins’ room "Osamu's in his room probably playing video games while Atsumu's out" After prying away the hands of the lady you said your goodbyes and headed to the twins shared bedroom.

"Baby I got mochi!" You slammed the door open making Osamu flinch, resulting a loss from the game, diverting his attention from the screen to you, you could see the tips pf his mouth quirks up a bit "back from hyogo?" You happily pecked his forehead which Osamu tried so much to not peck you on yours before you answered "yeah! I also got mochi, do you wanna cuddle as an apology for not being there last week? The grey-haired boy's eyes lit up until it faded away remembering the time you called him clingy.

"How about a movie instead?" He suggested while walking past you, grabbing the mochi out of your hold, you looked confused as to why he has rejected your offer but nonetheless answered "Sure!" As the two of you sat down, you opened the television while Osamu opened the bag to munch on some of the mochi.

"Hey! Don't eat without me!" Osamu raised his brow and contemplated to whether or not he should give you a bite on his or give you the bag instead "here" you turned your face to the side, mouth open while scrolling through Netflix, you frowned and turned to Osamu, only to realize he is handing the bag you brought out, awkwardly popping one to your mouth you turned back to the screen and played the movie.

You were disappointed, the Tv has been playing over an hour now and Osamu isn't showing any signs of wanting to lay his head on your lap, usually around 10 or 30 minutes in The grey head would lay his head on your lap while you play with his hair, but now it looks like he doesn't plan on laying down soon, seeing the way the two of you are at least 10 inches apart.

When the ending credits rolled in a pair of voices were heard from the front yard and the sound of the keys jiggling caught the both of your attention "tadaima~" Atsumu called out while Suna trailed behind "okaeri" the both of you called out while the both newcomers snapped their attention to you.

"Ah Y/n your back-" "Y/N-CHANNNN!" Atsumu sobbed and took your hand in his, knowing he would be killed by his younger brother if he hugged you "e-eh?! You okay Atsumu?" The blonde shook his head and starred at you "he's been grumpy after we lost! He won't even talk to me anymore!" You starred at the blonde confusingly as your gaze setted on your cousin, who only shrugged but you could see his smirk behind the camera he was holding.

"Who's 'he'?" The blonde accusingly pointed towards his younger twin a pout grazing his features "'Samu?? He's not grumpy though? More like less affectionate" you mumbled under your breath, but it was loud enough for the three of them to hear "wait, I thought ya' don't like it when I'm clingy?!" Ignoring his twin Osamu made his way to you a puzzled expression on his handsome face.

"what? I never said that, if it’s about the voice message grandma hates people who bother her plans, I love the touchy side of you, is that why you didn't cuddle me today?" Osamu pouted and mumbled an "I don’t know what yer' talking about" while Atsumu stared at the grey head dumbfounded.

"Wait so yer' telling me you've been grumpy the past week since yer' (s/o) called ya' clingy??? 'Samu what the fvck" the boy in question scoffed as an irk mark appeared on his forehead as his attention was sent to his sadly blood related twin "I'm sorry you can't feel what I feel, maybe if your (s/o) called you clingy- oh wait you don't have one"

"Waddya mean I don’t have one!? I can grab anyone right now and call them my (s/o)!" Deadpanning Osamu stared at his twin "Then why don't you have one then?" Atsumu froze, thinking a good reason until he smirked "because Volleyball is my first priority!" Osamu smirked back, inching closer to the blonde "playing volleyball is fine n'all but ya' can play better if ya' had a personal cheerleader y'know?"

You on the other hand, stood by behind the screen, just beside Suna while he records the bickering (that is slowly turning to a fight) in front of the two of you "aren't we gonna stop them?" You asked while you tugged at his black baggy shirt "mhm? Nah, leave them be" placing his phone in a corner that could record everything in front of it he dragged his cousin out of the door, with you saying something about having black mail to your other related volleyball player (Aka Oikawa)

—Iwaizumi Hajime

The both of you are tired as fvck.

You didn't know that attending an anime convention can be so tiring, talking to fans all day, voicing impressions of their favorite anime characters that you voiced, and those little interviews with your fellow voice actors in different anime’s that were scheduled beforehand.

Iwaizumi on the other hand was searching for training techniques the day before for the upcoming season of the world league. He needs to make sure all of the players are in top shape.

But damn, the younger members- mostly Bokuto, Atsumu, and Hinata couldn't keep their pants to themselves and accidentally hitted his written notes using a volleyball that he assumed was supposed to hit Bokuto's chest- which it did- and went straight to his head.

He easily dodged it of course, but what did it cause? His notes since the clipboard went shoosh outside the gym and landed in a puddle.

What nice luck you have there Iwa-chan! Cue the rambling of Iwaizumi to Oikawa on the phone about throwing a 100 pounds barbell to his head.

And since the two of you are tired as fvck.

He thought he could cuddle with you today to re-charge both of your energies.

But it seems the house has a different idea:(

You got home just after Iwaizumi went in, your hands were occupied with a box of fan mails and gifts from fans around the globe that was dying to meet you, you also plan on reading some of the fan mails you got tonight but your exhausted body says otherwise.

"Tadaima~" you called out after you placed the box down, eyes roaming around the room when you spot a plastic bag on the counter and a note attached to it.

'Hi! This is Hinata! We're sorry for the mess me and the others made:( and as an apology Bokuto, Atsumu, and myself had bought you pudding! And no, we didn't break in, L/n-chan gave me the spare keys of your house for emergencies! Speaking of L/n, make sure to give them Pudding too! She helped me a lot back in brazil tell her it’s a thank you gift'

And a little blue paper sticked just beside it.

'Pls place it in the fridge, I still have to shower, thanks<3'

You hummed after reading it and placed the cups inside the fridge and headed to the bedroom, usually, you would shower before sleeping but after carrying a bunch of heavyweight to prove that you are physically strong to your fans and fellow VA’s, you are physically and mentally tired- mentally since you had to answer multiple questions on the same day on the spot.

You shuffled in a more comfortable position as you felt your eyelids becoming heavy until a sigh woke you up from your half-asleep state "Y/n, the laundry hasn't been washed in the last two weeks ago its already piling up" you poked your eye out from the comfiness of the pillow "I’ll do it next week, my schedule is packed this week"

Iwaizumi groaned and that made you raise your whole body up "what?" You questioned "you also said that last week and the week before! Can you be useful once in a while?" Your eyes glossed over as sleeping was long forgotten "excuse me? Haji I already told you how busy I will be this month! And how about YOU be useful?! You're depending too much on me, I also have a job to take care of!"

Iwaizumi slung the towel on his neck and defended himself " I also have a job to take care of! And I'm not depending on you-!" "Then why you didn't put the pudding in the fridge?! If you’re not depending on me you should have placed it inside yourself!" The boy tched and reasoned with another pitiful explanation "I was tired and I still have things to do!" You pointed to yourself "I'm tired too!"

Your boyfriend pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed "let’s talk about this tomorrow, we're both tired and we need sleep" you chuckled and waved your hand around "no, no, no, c'mon let’s finish what you started, besides we're gonna be tired again tomorrow" Iwaizumi grunted as he sat down ears patiently waiting for your rambling.

"I haven't done the laundry the past weeks since I had to do a lot of retakes in the studio since whenever I said I needed to practice you would practically drag me to the bed to cuddle or watch movies with you! It’s your fault that I wasn't able to do the chores normally!" Iwaizumi offendedly stared back at you before defending himself "what?! Don't put the blame on me! It’s your fault! You took too many roles to the point you couldn't fix your g0dd*mn schedule!"

You tched, grabbing your phone from your pocket and tossing it to Iwa, your schedule flashed on the screen "I did have a fixed schedule! You should be thankful I give my time to you when I'm so overly busy! It’s your d*mn fault for being too clingy!" Iwaizumi didn't answer back, and you knew you fvcked up.

"Hey..um I'm sorry I didn't mean it, I really love it when your clingy" Iwaizumi nodded but you could see the flash of hurt in his eyes "yeah, its fine" and the two of you uncomfortably cuddled to sleep.

The next day you got the permission to leave the convention early, which means you skipped the night interviews and radio talks, you have decided to make up for the time you've been at work for house chores and of course for Iwa.

You had your mind racing about the things you could do to make up for what you said last night, even if your boyfriend said 'its fine' heck he isn't even that clingy, he just needs affection from time to time, at first you thought about an apology date until you remembered his team, Japan, will start the 1st season of the world league in a few weeks, so you decided to just do the house chores since that was the source of the fight the two of you had the day before.

You grumbled out a 'tadaima' knowing fully well that Iwaizumi isn't home but stopped midway seeing his shoes on the shoe rack.

Iwaizumi called in sick to help out with the house chores, its the least he could do for you after seeing your organized schedule he ruined, though holding that thought, he also decided to distance himself from you for a bit to come off less clingy, even if you did say you didn't mean it.

"Haji? Your early" Iwaizumi flinched from your voice as he stopped midway from placing the clothes to the dryer "yeah, I called in sick to help out in the house, you?" You hummed and grinned "I skipped the interviews and other sh!t to help in the house too! What do you think about spring cleaning?" Your boyfriend grinned- but it faded right away and only hummed in acknowledgment "sounds nice"

And so, the two of you started your upbeat and joyful disinfecting spring cleaning routine- no it wasn't upbeat and joyful, the both of you could feel the tension underneath the upbeat tune of an American song playing on the background, heck, maybe your neighbors could even feel it.

"M'sorry" you lowly mumbled under your breath when Iwaizumi walked pass you, walking out of the kitchen area when you came in, He paused and threw a questioning gaze towards you, even if your back is turned to him you spoke "I'm sorry I called you clingy" the brunette grunted and walked towards the living room to continue cleaning, "I told you it's fine-"

"It’s not!" Iwaizumi stopped midway from dusting off the dust from the shelf, and stared back at you only to see your back since your back was turned towards him while your cleaning the sink "I made you insecure, I made you feel guilty towards me and I made you think distancing yourself from me can make me think of you as less clingy"

He sighed and placed the duster down and turned to you- to only see you not in your usual place, he felt a sensation in his hand which made him flinch to only see you, cupping your smaller hands against his "I love the clingy side of you, it makes me happy knowing that I’m the only one that could see that side of you, knowing the way you want our cuddle sessions to go through, your favorite cuddle positions and- you know"

Iwaizumi chuckled when you gave him the knowing look and was about to comment on it when you spoke again, but this time your voice held a sense of sincerity "I just really love your affectionate side, I would risk everything to just experience it all over again, so, can you please stop distancing yourself from me?"

The next thing you knew you were laying on the couch, Iwaizumi giving you soft and quick pecks on your face as you giggle "mhm, I'm sorry too, I know you also have a job to do and I'm giving you all the housework" you ruffled his hair and answered "don't worry about it! We'll make it work"

And to that the two of you cuddled to sleep, until you suddenly rose up, pushing your boyfriend to the ground as he groaned in response "Haji! We're still cleaning!" You whined and pouted as the boy only smirked "well then, let’s get it done quickly so I can make up the time without you"

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profestriga · 2 years ago

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What’s weird is that, while this seems like the sort of sentiment that would come from largely a conservative viewpoint—and several of the examples (especially regarding poor folks and money) are common refrains from the right, it’s also a sentiment I hear *a lot* from progressives, trying to disguise it as the counter to ableism.

I have really severe ADHD, and most treatments for it give me cardiac issues. When I have health insurance, I take bupropion, which helps a little bit, but not very much, and supplement with the careful use of caffeine intake. All told, the disorder is still massively debilitating given my field. It takes me far, far longer than my peers in academia to get through my reading, to grade papers, and so on. My students hate how hard it is to get a hold of me through email.

But I very frequently hear persons blather on about how “ADHD is an evolved set of traits that are actually beneficial to the group!” and “The real problem is that we don’t have society structured in such a way that ADHD individuals have the opportunity to work in areas where their neurodivergence is a boon!” But frankly, I’m doing exactly what I want to do. I don’t want to work in a different field. I adore research. I adore teaching. Teaching ethics and logic and political theory to young students and advancing our understanding of such things is exactly what gives me a sense of fulfillment in life. And because of my brain, it’s really hard for me, even though in some ways I have an extreme aptitude for it. As OP says, I don’t get another life to pursue the thing that I love and find my meaning in—just this one.

I want to add also that the difficulties I face aren’t from a lack of accommodation. My department offers me major accommodations. They respect the hours restrictions my comorbid DSPD cause. They are understanding of my being late on administrative deadlines. They work with students when students *aren't* so understanding of my issues (though usually they are). They give me about every accommodation that I could ask for. But there’s not an accommodation for the brute fact that it still takes me a lot more work and effort to get the same results as my peers.

There's a simple concept that is said a lot but I feel like, because of that, people don't always actually examine the implications of. Which is that you only get one life. You only have one body. One set of innate skills. One set of advantages and disadvantages. One time period you live in and class, race, and economic status you were born into.

I have a hand tremor. A pretty bad one. I can't even really take videos on my phone without it being too shaky to see. It causes me to drop things sometimes and makes delicate work difficult to impossible. It's hereditary and benign. It will get worse as I get older, but very slowly. It's nothing I need to be worried about and, according to doctors, it's not anything that should severely affect my life "unless you wanted to be an artist or work with electronics".

The problem is that. I do want to be an artist and work with electronics. I have very few tangible desires in my life, but doing things like working with LEDs and servos and other robotics and electronics things is one of them. And being able to do art is my real only dream I've ever had.

I still try at both these things. I've been drawing and doing other kinds of art for as long as I can remember and before. But I'm never going to be able to do it well and it's never going to be anything less than extremely frustrating and difficult and it makes me incredibly depressed and angry every time I try. I made consistently bad drawings, circuits that fall apart, and I burn myself on soldering irons.

So I get asked why I keep doing it. Especially since I'm pretty vehemently against the whole "anyone can do anything if they just try hard enough! There's no such thing as talent!" idea because it's trivializing at best and outright ableist at worst. So why continue to care so much about and try so hard at things you know you will never really be able to do?

Because I don't get another life where I don't have a hand tremor. Where I don't have visualization and shape recognition problems. Where I don't randomly drop things or have sudden, uncontrolled hand movements. There's no level of acceptance that gets me that. I don't get a life where that isn't the handicaps I'm stuck with just because I deal with it "properly" in this one. I only have this.

This isn't meant to be inspiring. This is meant to be, in at least the way it has been for me, enraging. The concept of an "eternal reward" after death is so pervasive that the idea of life as being something you "get through" is ingrained to the point it's hard to even conceptualize the full implications of the idea of only having one life to live.

There's such an idea that "some people just don't get to do that" that seems like it should be, on all levels, unacceptable, that is wholly accepted.

"People in wheelchairs just don't get to go to this place. They don't get to do this or that". They don't get another go at this. They don't get another life where they don't need a wheelchair. It doesn't all even out in the end. The life they have is their only one and it's the one where they are in a wheelchair and the idea that it's okay with people to just…section off huge parts of life from those people is enraging.

"Poor people shouldn't do this because they don't have money. They should save it." It makes me want to scream. They don't anything else. This person just doesn't get to eat well? This person never gets to do any of these things blocked off by money?

"You can't base everything off the needs of groups that are not the minority". They don't get a life where they're not the minority(not getting into the fact that it's usually not an actual "minority" in the sense of having proportionately fewer people). This is all they get. All any of us get.

I don't know. There's not really a point here. I just think about that sometimes. Playing a zombie game got me thinking about it. Thinking about why people break quarantine because they're afraid to die. About how they put others at risk in a desperate attempt to live. Because they don't get another life where they weren't where the outbreak was. The plot moves on but they don't. They don't get to have another go around where they're the one who is endangered by the actions of others. They only have the one where they started out in danger.

All these varying sizes of tragedy don't go away when they're not being looked at. I don't get a life where I'm an artist. But what can I do, can anyone do, but try their best to keep living as much as they can in the short time we have?

#applied philosophy #disability #adhd

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strikethematch18 · 4 years ago

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Dadzawa x F! Reader - Over Worked & Tired Part 1

It was now reaching the hour of at least 3 in the morning in Japan and you still hadn’t finished your paper proposal that you have been working on for hours on end. It certainly didn’t help that it was weeks overdue with only a few days until the end of the semester for your college courses back in America.

You’re an American based student attending U.A. High, but also completing your bachelor’s degree at a college back in the states. Highly intelligent, as you were a member of Class 3-A and still in high school but only have one more semester until you finish your B.A. in English, about the same time you would graduate high school. Unfortunately, the time difference between the US and Japan has screwed with you reaching deadlines and a symptom of overusing your quirk is a lack of focus, something that you didn’t even tell your homeroom teacher, Mr. Aizawa. You were determined this was something you could do on your own.

Lately, you’ve been feeling like you have something to prove, almost like you’re somehow less than your peers as if your quirk wasn’t as useful or not powerful enough. As if your instant ability to feel empathy and affect emotions as well as being trained in formal combat in a similar fashion to Aizawa and his scarf. In fact, he was the one who worked with you and trained you with it.

None the less you still felt like you were on your own with this and felt like you had to overdo yourself in training exercising. Quite frankly, you were on the serious verge of burn out, you wanted nothing more than to just curl up in your bed and watch a little TV after a nice hot shower. But non the less you had to push those desires aside to finish your college semester out strong.

You take another drink of your contraband energy drink, as a student at esteemed high school U.A. things like those were highly frowned upon as they were enhancing your energy to perform due to their abnormal amount of caffeine. Right now, you didn’t give a damn, you were going to be up all night and had early morning training with Aizawa and you are exhausted either way. Just trying to pull these long nights to finish on time. The dark circles were aware to you and your sluggish movements during the day meant a lot more effort on your quirk.

The door to your dorm room was still open allowing light from the outside room to shine into your room as well as your small little desk lamp providing you with a little bit of light for you to write and research on your laptop. You had a light but warm blanket wrapped around you as you were cold and it was around you very similarly to Aizawa’s sleeping bag come to think about it. You were generally cold a greater portion of the time but this felt a little different than normal, you were starting to become congested, never a good sign.

You sighed as you dropped your pencil on your papers and took your hands and rubbed your face and sat there for a moment just resting them there. You could hear footsteps down the hall and took it as someone getting up to go to the kitchens for something, it was an often occurrence. It did slip your mind that teachers would take shifts to do monitoring at different times in the night just taking a stroll down the hallways making sure everything was alright. Honestly, most teachers just slacked on it most of the time so it wasn’t a regular thing. It didn’t really dawn on you that the footsteps were getting closer to your room and the kitchen was the opposite direction.

Usually, hallway patrols took around 10 minutes for teachers to complete which is why they were skipped so often, but Aizawa actually decided to do his tonight. And to his surprise, he saw one door open compared to the rest closed. His first thought was thinking about what was wrong and quickened his pace. But when he reached your door he couldn’t help but examine your hunched over posture wrapped in your blanket and head in hands, surrounded by loose papers, post its, pens, books, and laptop.

He knew you had a little extra course load normally but he didn’t realize it was something you would be doing well into the night, he just figured you were about to balance everything extremely well as you never complained and usually performed well in classes. However, thinking back to the last week you have seemed a little more tired and in a daze resulting in more quirk effort. The overuse of quirks segment of your student file was blank and he never made the effort to find out.

He continued to stand at your door for another minute and saw the can of energy drink beside you knowing you were a good kid and wouldn’t resort to something as foolish as that without it being a last resort. Aizawa briefly knocked on your door to alert you of his presence. He did have a soft spot for you compared to Midoria or Bakoguo so he was a little more gentle with you.

“Hey kid, what are you still doing up?”

Startled out your state you did a small jump in your desk chair, “Just trying to write this essay. It’s a few weeks overdue and the end of the semester is soon so I need to get this in.”

He took a few steps into your room and stood behind you, “12th-century convents and monasteries in Italy. Hmm, that doesn’t sound very interesting. What kind of class is this for?”

“It’s for my Origins of western though class, medieval through the renaissance. And trust me, it really isn’t, especially when you can’t focus on it at all,” you replied.

“You’re having trouble focusing?” he asked genuinely concerned, he had never heard those words come from you before.

You put your face back in your hands and simply said, “Quirk overuse.”

Aizawa was taken aback for a short moment, you were never one to complain or let someone know when there was something going on, “God kid how long has this been going on?”

“This time? At least since last week.”

“This time? So this isn’t something new?” he was a little shocked since this was the first time he heard of any of your overuse symptoms.

“God no, there’s also an extra degree of fatigue and the occasional headache. Night terrors are kinda common too.”

“Shit Y\N why have you never mentioned this before?”

“It just never seemed to be all that important really, I’ve handled it by myself for years why start before now?”

“When was the last time you got a decent nights sleep, you’re starting to look like me. You’ve even got the whole blanket thing going for you,” he asked looking at your form sitting at your desk as you shifted in your seat to look at him.

“Uh, you know, that’s a really good question and it’s been long enough that I can’t fully remember. To be truthful, I just want to finish this so I can take a warm shower and go to sleep.”

When you looked at him he got a better look at you. To be truthful you looked horrible and he started to feel bad because it was evident you were working yourself to death, and keeping up with both school lives on top of his added one-on-one training sessions were taking a toll on you. He had also noticed the congestion in your voice, that was never a good sign.

He put his hand on your forehead and you leaned into even though it felt cold to you it still felt nice, “Kid you’re burning up, you have a fever, why don’t you stop for the night and get that shower you want and you can crash on my couch tonight so I can keep an eye on you.”

“With all due respect sir, I need to finish this, my professor has been on me for weeks on end on this. I have to finish it tonight. And I couldn’t possibly bother you with just congestion and small fever.”

Aizawa sighed and took a seat on the edge of your still made bed, “Listen, kid, I’ll let you finish. I'm going to sit here until you're done and you’re coming with me.”

You put your head down as you knew there was no way out of this one. He took a book off your nightstand and began reading it as you continue your work. It took you about 2 more hours and he had managed to doze off wait for you. You look back at him sleeping quietly and simply close your laptop for the night and lay your head down and close your eyes for just a second truthfully, you felt horrible. In the absence of your typing, Aizawa woke up and saw you with your head down and got up and put a hand on your shoulder feeling the elevated body heat from your fever radiating through you.

He quietly sighed and in his general monotone voice said, “Come on kiddo let’s go, grab some comfy clothes and you can shower back at my room.”

You compiled and went to stand up but immediately the word was spinning and you had to grab onto the desk to steady yourself. He had immediately put a hand around your waist and only your shoulder not wanting you to fall in your sick weakened state.

“Okay, new plan, We’re going straight to my room, I’ll just give you some clothes and you can take a sitting down shower. I don’t want you to exert any more energy and risk you falling and hurting yourself, so I’m going to carry you, is that okay?”

You gave a small nod and he put one arm under your knees and one on your mid-back and you put your arms around his neck and snuggled into his chest feeling small. And quite truthfully, Aizawa did notice you were a little nighter and a little bonier than he expected before, almost as if you had been skipping meals.

Walking with you down the hallway still wrapped in your blanket ha=e quietly asked, “Kid I need you to be honest with me, are you eating?”

You give a small groan in response, “I accidentally forgot for a few days I’ve just been too busy and didn’t realize.”

Aizawa sighed and realized how work-oriented you are, stopping for nothing and not accomplishing things for your health, “I’ll make you some soup while you’re in the shower okay, then will you please eat a little bit of it?”

You simply nodded your head in his chest resulting in a lack of verbal response.

Once making it back to his living quarters he opened the door and was greeted by a cat waiting for him to get back. He closed the door behind both of you and took you to the bathroom and sat you down on the toilet and told you to undress and take a shower, and he would leave clothes and some towels for you in a bit.

As you did that and carefully sat down at the bottom of the shower and turned the water on you immediately felt the warm water hitting your skin rinsing some of the sick away and you let out a small cough, which didn’t go unnoticed by your teacher leaving a pair of black sweatpants and a charcoal grey sweater that will be much too large for you but are clean clothes you should find comfortable.

#boku no hero academia #my hero academia #aizawa #shota aizawa #aizawa shota #dadzawa #anime #short stories #myheroacademia #my hero academia short story #boku no hero academia short stories #bnha #mha #aizawa father #aizawa teacher #easerhead #earserhead story

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bytheangell · 4 years ago

Note

If you are still taking prompts, what would you think about writing something(s) based off of this, either/both, the Professor/TA, or the Writer/Editor?

Dedication (modern AU, Herongraystairs, check the link in the ask for full writer/editor prompt, a wonderful plot idea by @high-warlock-of-brooklyn!) (Read on AO3)

This is the first book Will and Tessa are collaborating on. They’ve written plenty of books individually and Jem’s worked with each of them in turn. But this is the first time they’ve co-authored, an experience that’s proving unique and challenging for all of them.

Being with Will and Tessa while they work on a new project is always a blessing and a curse. They’re two of the best writers of their generation and when they work on their own they’re brilliant, but when they work together - well, they’re also brilliant, but that brilliance is coupled with the occasional near-catastrophic clash of opinions and emotions.

Which is where Jem comes in.

Where Will and Tessa are so driven by passion and feelings, Jem finds it much easier to distance himself from their project (and from the writers themselves) enough to see the bigger picture and find solutions before the issues build up. Like many things about the three of them, it’s a perfect balance - they just work, better than anyone (including Will, Tessa, and Jem) ever imagined possible when they first got together.

It’d been a messy start, with Will and Jem already together but both developing serious feelings for Tessa after they met during a book event. The three of them quickly became very close. There were whispers of which of them would end up leaving, then confusion when the answer was none: instead of two of them growing closer and shutting the third out, they all seemed to adjust and adapt naturally around the three of them coexisting. They aren’t perfect, but they are perfect for each other, at least as far as Jem’s concerned.

Jem knows that what they have is special, which he reminds himself of over and over as Will and Tessa sit on opposite sides of the sofa, voices quickly elevating to nearly shouting over an issue with one of the characters Will is in charge of writing: one he’s chosen to give a pretty damning curse from a trickster faerie in this land of magic their current collaboration is set in.

“Tell him he needs to make the changes, Jem,” Tessa insists, the third time she’s repeated the demand now.

“Tell her that this plot adds depth, and without it, he’s boring,” Will counters. “Sometimes people - characters - need to be brutally honest about their own faults and issues. Sometimes people are disappointing.”

That’s how Jem can tell things are spiraling: when Will and Tessa - who have effectively communicated and collaborated on half a dozen bestsellers and who love each other more than Jem’s ever seen two people experience love - refuse to speak directly to one another. The moment they start talking around each other and at Jem instead is when he knows he has to step in and diffuse.

Usually, it’s a matter of taking a break, getting some fresh air, and coming back with clear minds. Jem normally isn’t one to pick sides, but this is different. He isn’t worried about the direction of the book… but after reading the latest draft from Will, which Will wrote while refusing to speak to either of them for a full week, he’s worried about Will. And he knows Tessa is, too.

“Perhaps a good starting point would be admitting this isn’t really about the character at all,” Jem says softly, gazing closely between Will and Tessa. Will looks a bit guilty and Tessa looks away entirely, which tells Jem that he’s right in guessing their concerns are also less plot-based.

“...what else would it be about?” Will asks defensively. But they can all sense how he’s been pushing them away lately, much like the cursed character undeserving of love he’s written in. It’s obvious that Tessa isn’t sure how to bring it up or else she would’ve already. Or maybe she already had and it hadn’t gone well.

“Tessa, would you mind making some tea?” Jem asks, waiting until she’s out of the room to turn back to Will.

“Will… you know this is about you. You barely talk to anyone for a week then come back with this character in such a self-deprecating mindset…”

“That’s ridiculous. He’s just a character,” Will says, but Jem can tell he’s entirely unconvinced of his own words.

“So if Tess came back having written Evangeline that way?” Jem counters, and there’s that look of subtle guilt, right back on Will’s face as he frowns and pieces together why Tessa’s so upset with him.

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” Will sighs.

“We’re not mad at you,” Jem’s quick to point out. “We’re just worried. It’s been a while since you tried to push us away like this, I just want to make sure you’re okay. We both do. Take it out in the writing if you want, but talk with us, too. Alright, my love?”

Jem’s tense as he waits. This has one of two options: Will relents and listens to him and they all have tea and talk this out, or Will storms out and they don’t see him again for another day or two.

Will stays. “I’m just letting the pressure get to me,” he admits. “I’m sure that’s all it is... But yeah. Okay. Tea.”

Tea, meaning ‘I’ll stay. I’ll talk. I’ll try.’ Jem leans over and places a barely-there kiss on Will’s lips before he relaxes back in his seat. Reaching out a hand that Will readily takes, Jem gives it a tight squeeze as they both wait for Tessa to return.

They talk.

In the end, the character arc stays. With a few redeeming modifications at Tessa and Jem’s entirely unbiased suggestion, of course.

---

A little over halfway through the first draft things seem to stall out. They have a progress deadline that week with the publisher and they’re cutting it close - mostly because Tessa keeps tossing everything she writes without giving Jem the chance to look it over. Recently she’s let her curiosity get the best of her, delving into research she should be allowing Jem to help with.

...and when he says ‘delving’, what he really means is stubbornly obsessing over, nitpicking bits of lore to streamline, and doing hours and hours of research for single-line references.

“When was the last time she slept? Like, an actual night of sleep?” Jem asks Will one day after a quick touch-base meeting that went… not terribly, but not particularly great, either.

“You need to get her out of here. No books. No wifi. I tried to kick her out but… well, you can imagine how well that went,” Will admits, and Jem winces in sympathy.

“The Time Out Cottage?” Jem asks, referring to a small cottage they own for unplugged getaways, where the wifi signal is nonexistent and a landline exists for emergency calls. “That means we’ll both be out of easy reach, and with that Friday deadline-”

“I can handle it,” Will cuts him off. “She’s been getting in her own way for days now, but she refuses to listen to me.”

A few minutes later Jem tentatively knocks on the door to the small study that does, in fact, look more like a makeshift research library. He nearly doesn’t see Tessa behind the small mountain of books on the floor, but he hears her pen tapping rapidly against the hardwood. No, not just rapidly - anxiously. He knows that action all too well.

“Tessa, what number is that?” he asks, the question needing no further explanation past his accusatory tone and pointed look at a coffee mug, which is next to a second coffee mug, which is next to a cup of black tea.

“Four? No, wait… what time is it?” she glances around and seems surprised by the height of the sun in the sky. “It’s afternoon already?”

Jem sighs. “It’s nearly four o’clock, Tessa, and your blood is probably about 90% caffeine. Come on, get your things, we’re taking a trip.”

Tessa looks immediately horrified. “No! I can’t, we can’t! The deadline, and I still have to streamline the fae lore between the two-”

“Will has it handled for 24 hours. That’s all we’re asking. 24 hours without research.” “Jem, you know-”

“-that you’ll be twice as productive once we’re back and you’re refreshed instead of running on fumes and fever dreams?” Jem cuts her off, his tone kind but insistent. He bends over and picks up a piece of paper. “Tessa, my love, this is nearly incoherent.”

Tessa reaches up to take the page from him and frowns. “I… okay, I can make out some of this, but I’m pretty sure that bit talks about aliens which isn’t any more reassuring. Will did say I was writing myself in circles, but I thought he was just, well, being Will, so... Yeah. Okay. Maybe I need to step back for a bit.” Tessa sighs. “The Time Out Cottage?”

“I already packed you a bag,” Jem confirms with a soft smile, leaning down to kiss the middle of her forehead before reaching out a hand to help her up off the floor.

When they return exactly 24 hours later, Tessa gets back to work and the lore practically falls into place between the two of them.

They meet the Friday deadline without a problem.

---

Jem spends his free time playing violin while Will and Tessa go through the first draft and begin to brainstorm fixes for plotholes, new minor characters to add to scenes that feel a bit lacking, and other small improvements to really round out the story and the world they’re weaving. They both claim to think clearer with his music in the background so he stays, even if he doesn’t feel particularly useful for this stage of the process until they have a single, coherent draft to hand over to him.

These are the moments Jem’s own insecurities and flaws float to the surface. The moments he watches Will and Tessa, so alike, so perfect for each other, connect on a level he isn’t privy to. He knows it’s a silly thought, that he and Will have their own things, as do he and Tessa. But sometimes he wonders if they truly need him around, or if he’s simply just become too much a part of the routine to actively get rid of.

He watches them sit next to each other with shoulders touching, hunched over a small screen, whispering back and forth. There’s a small smile on his face, one that’s wistful and tinged with hints of longing that, much to his dismay, they pick up on.

“I know that look,” Tessa says, catching Jem’s gaze and drawing Will’s attention before Jem can wipe the expression from his face. “Get over here. I think we’ve done enough work for today.”

Will is the first to move over, making room for Jem in the middle of them. After placing his violin back in its case Jem heads over to join them on the sofa, embracing the way Will and Tessa immediately crowd into his space once he’s settled, both placing a comforting kiss to his temples simultaneously before resting their heads on each of his shoulders and a placing a hand in each of his own.

They talk a bit, not about the book, but about anything and everything else, and fall asleep there, still entwined together.

---

It’s rare for any part of one of their books to be a surprise to Jem upon publication. He sees all the drafts, talks them through the acknowledgments and dedications, double-checks the reference pages against the chaotic piles of books and notes around their home.

So he’s immediately (and rightfully) suspicious the moment they hand him the first advanced copy and tell him to open it, watching his every move with eager expressions. Excited, but anxious.

‘A dedication to the one most dedicated to us:

This book would not be what it is without the kind heart, encouraging words, and infinite patience of James Carstairs. Neither would we. Jem, you are a light in our darkest hours, and we don’t know where we’d be without you.

We hope we’ll never have to find out.

Jem, our love, will you marry us?’

Jem reads, then re-reads the dedication. He closes the book, then opens it again, reading it a third time for good measure.

“Well?” Will asks impatiently, earning himself a nudge in the ribs from Tessa. Will huffs.

“I see you’re as dramatic as always,” Jem says quietly, instead of answering the question posed in the book. He knows his answer. He’s known for a while now what his answer would be, should the topic ever present itself, but he gets a bit of joy from making Will wait in anticipation just a short while longer.

“He wanted to be even more dramatic and show you at the event tomorrow,” Tessa admits. “But we decided against it. We thought you deserved the chance to say no without two hundred sets of eyes on you.”

Jem raises an eyebrow. “You think I’ll say no?”

“You haven’t said ‘yes’ yet,” Will points out, but he doesn’t sound nervous about it. Nor should he be.

“Yes,” Jem says, smiling brightly. “Of course it’s yes.”

#herongraystairs #will herondale #tessa gray #jem carstairs #tsc #thanks to Jay for letting me play around with that prompt!#SORRY THIS TOOK A MILLION YEARS #making prompt progress between weekly codas and bingo fills slowly but surely #i hope you like it my anon friend!#elle writes a few deadbeat lines #anon glamour activated #ask rune #long post #elle talks too much

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spacestationdaedalus · 4 years ago

Text

post-canon JM but make them vigilante monster hunters

never seen a single episode but i think this might be the plot of supernatural? idk i bugged the server with this and now other ppl have to see it.

tw for general monster-related horror and descriptions of it, and very very mild injury

ao3 link here!

...

It's late. Again.

She sighs, rubbing at her eyes until starbursts dance in her vision. If her lab manager knew she was in here at god, is it already 3? in the morning, he would probably have a fit. But it's not her fault her work has been so. Uncooperative. Realistically, she could be doing some of this at home, but the lab computer already has everything she needs, and it's so much easier to focus here.

Well. Most of the time.

Her water bottle is still half full, but she decides a walk to the vending machine at the end of the hall would do her some good. She can stretch her legs and get some caffeine at the same time. Best of both worlds.

Right then, a sound cuts through the air. It's a dull roar, crescendoing to a peak that it maintains for a handful of seconds before fading away. As jumpy as she gets this late, she hardly bats an eye as she digs her wallet out of her backpack. It's a common sound to hear in the building, one that you get used to quickly once you spend some time here. The university has a wind tunnel it uses for classes, as well as research. She's seen it before, used it first hand - even down in the basement of the building, the roar of the compressed air tank when the valve is switched practically shakes the foundation. That's how you tell the first years apart from everyone else. They're the ones who jump when they hear it, looking around in confusion, and sometimes fear. But it doesn't take long for it to become background noise.

She's more concerned about the fact that it's so late. Some poor graduate student, down in the basement in the middle of the night running the tunnel instead of sleeping. Or doing literally anything else. Unfortunately, she can relate.

The door shuts with a weighty slam behind her. The silence of the building is even sharper after the echo of the wind, and she fights down the urge to shudder. The hall is long, dark - the university installed motion activated lights in most of the buildings a few years back, and the effect they create as she walks down the hall is surprisingly eerie. The fluorescents flicker on with the faintest clicks and hums as she walks below them, boots clicking against the tile floor. She's a fast walker, always had been - and the incessant sound of her footfalls in the quiet somehow puts her even more on edge.

The pale light from the vending machine reflects against the linoleum in a way that could be inviting. In theory. But it's really more off-putting than anything else, like the sickly glow of a motel sign off of the interstate, flickering a destitute "no vacancy" into the night. The selection is slim, but she punches in the code for an overpriced iced coffee that feels cool and familiar in her hand.

The scream of the wind tunnel comes and goes again, louder, now that she's outside the lab. She can't help the unease creeping down her spine in the wake of its silence. On one hand, it's a comfort to know at least one other person is in the building with her. But even then, the still quiet it leaves behind is always worse, and it sends the hair on the back of her head standing at attention.

It only gets worse as she walks, and she fights the urge to look over her shoulder. Everyone knows the feeling - when you're a kid, and you sneak into the kitchen in the dead of night to get a drink, only to sprint back up to your room as soon as you can because you're so, so sure something is coming for you.

And now that she's thinking about it, she can't not think about it, which is as futile as it is frustrating. She tries to force it down along with the beating of her heart, but the fear simmers beneath the surface like a pot on the stove, two seconds from boiling over. She's already more than halfway back, just a few more seconds and she can slam the lab door shut behind her and feel almost safe.

The roar of the tunnel, again. She can't help the jump, this time, on edge as she is. Strange, they don't usually run it so many times in so few minutes-

A thought comes to her then, without warning, the way they do when you realize you've forgotten something important. She remembers the conversation with striking clarity - Ajay, her roommate, working on a big research project. He needed to test his prototype in the wind tunnel, and he'd lamented to her over dinner the other day that a replacement part they needed downstairs wouldn't arrive until next week. Which sucked, because he has a deadline for a paper submission coming up and needed more data-

Most of this is useless. But she remembers, now, better than anything she ever has, that the wind tunnel hasn't been working all week. The lab is closed, would be until Wednesday, until the new part comes in.

The roaring shriek comes again, pounding against her eardrums in a way it never has before. Oppressive. Almost hungry. It's closer, it's louder.

It's behind her.

She turns. As she chokes on her own heartbeat and sinking dread, she turns.

And something is behind her.

Thin and wrong, inky black and too many limbs. A long torso with a long head attached, crooked on its neck. Gaping white sockets where eyes would, should, be. It has no mouth, and yet she knows with absolute certainty that it was making that sound. A mocking imitation of something so familiar.

And she knows, an anchor sinking into pitch black water, that it's going to kill her.

blood blood i need blood your blood your face you

It's in her head, a voice with no mouth to speak it. She opens her own mouth to scream, but it's useless to her. Nothing comes out, not even air. Maybe she can run, she has to run, has to get away. But she can't bring herself to turn even a sliver from the nightmare in front of her. A deep, primal fear convincing her that the second she can't see that thing is the second it will get her.

Maybe she can run, still, with her eyes on it. But one of her feet finds the other in her panic, and she falls to the floor. She thinks she feels a pain in her wrist, but it's dull and far away. Hardly a blip on the radar of fear fear oh my god what is that thing-

It's coming for her, all bending joints like limbs of a puppet, pulled by invisible strings, limping, creaking in unnatural steps and lunges. Its eyes never once leave her, glued to her in hungry determination. The roar comes again, but it's twisted and warped like scrap metal and just as jagged around the edges.

And then it stops. Not more than ten feet from her. Frozen. She doesn't breathe, she doesn't think she could if she wanted to.

"That's enough."

It's a man's voice, from behind her. She doesn't have it in her to turn around, to look away. But it doesn't matter. Whoever it is god she hopes it's a who and not a what steps up next to her, in front of her. It might not be accurate to say he's shielding her, but he's between her and it, and she doesn't feel relief, but she feels. Safer, somehow.

She's never seen him before. His hair is long, streaked with grey, half tied up in a bun at the back of his head. He's wearing a long dark coat over long dark pants, tucked into black combat boots. And that's really all she can see from the floor.

As he steps forward, the creature seems to recoil. It hisses, maybe, and then another sound follows. A sad remixing of its own imitating screech from before, not quite a howl but more of a cry. It sounds pained, almost, creaking and desperate. Limbs rear up, but amount to nothing. It's an uncoordinated movement as it falls back on something like haunches.

"I'm watching you, now. There's nowhere you can hide from me."

The man's voice sounds strange to her. There's a cracking, almost static quality to it. She has no idea what the man could possibly be doing, but it looks like it's working.

Until it isn't.

The thing writhes and shrieks again, louder. She can feel it down into her bones, scraping at her marrow, god she wants to throw up. The man in front of her staggers slightly. He mutters something like a curse under his breath, brings a hand to his head. The thing is moving again, shambling towards them. It looks weaker, shakier than before but no less threatening. No less horrifying. Maybe even more so, with the look of a sick, maimed animal as it staggers down the street.

She thinks she might be about to pass out with the sudden chill that overtakes her. But the fading of her vision never comes, and is that. Her breath? She can see it in the air in front of her, condensing like it does on cold winter mornings. With a blink she realizes there's a fog as well, come seemingly from nothing. It's thick and low-hanging, coating the floor of the hall and swirling upwards. It chills her exposed skin, goosebumps racing up and down her arms.

She assumes the thing must be doing this, a defense mechanism or something, but it's slower than before. Subdued. It's still making its way toward them, but it looks lost, like a fawn trying to walk on new legs.

Until another man comes from an adjoining hallway, and bashes its head in with a baseball bat.

It's a solid hit, and the thing goes down almost immediately. The man, the new one, gives another swing, and another, and a few more, for good measure. His bat is slick with something dark and oily. And then the thing is still.

It's quiet for a second, two, then-

"Excellent timing as always, dear." The staticy click of the first man's voice is gone. He sounds out of breath, even though he hardly moved.

The second man laughs, and the cold and the fog seems to fade with it. He's bigger than the first man, taller. He's wearing a bomber jacket over a nondescript t-shirt, fingerless gloves and jeans frayed at the edges. Like he just walked out of an action movie. Or a horror movie. With the thing laying at his feet, the second might be more fitting.

"That was cutting it a little close, Jon. We knew it was with the Stranger, that it could fight you off-"

"Yes, yes, thank you, Martin. That's what the bat is for, after all. The Lonely was probably a bit overkill, though."

"It's not overkill if we don't get ourselves maimed, Jon-"

The first man - Jon, apparently - turns to her then. His face is scarred, and dark shadows hang under oddly bright green eyes. But his gaze isn't unkind as he looks down at her.

"Sorry, are you alright? I was hoping we could take care of this when everyone was gone, but-" He laughs darkly. "Well, I was in university once, I should have known at least one student would still be here in the middle of the night, even on the weekend."

The man going by Martin walks over, as Jon extends a hand to help her up. She's lost all hope of her brain trying to process what's happening but step one can at least be get off the floor. But she can't even do that properly. The hand she raises is the same one she fell on, and the twinge from her wrist shoots up her arm almost immediately in a shout for attention.

It must show on her face too, because Jon makes a sound and then Martin's asking her, "Oh, are you hurt?"

"Uh, n-no, I mean…'s just, uh, my wrist. Kinda, fell on it funny." Her voice isn't exactly steady, but it's a far cry from where she was expecting it to be. At least she's orbiting the realm of comprehensible.

Martin crouches next to her. Up close she can see his face in more detail - his eyes are a slate grey, like the fog from before. But they're kind, wrinkled at the edges when he smiles softly at her. "Mind if I take a look?"

She's not exactly in a position to say no, so she gingerly holds her arm out. His hands are rough, calloused, but surprisingly gentle as they probe her wrist. She can't stop the trembling, now, completely unrelated to the pain.

"It's a sprain." Jon says, laced with certainty somewhere above her.

Martin sighs, long-suffering. "Thank you, Jon, I was getting to that."

"Just trying to help." She can't see him, but she can practically hear the cheeky smile tacked to the end of that sentence.

"As much as I hate saying it, he's right." Martin eyes her with something close to humor, like they're in on a joke together. He shrugs a backpack off of his shoulders, rummages through it with one hand. "I think we have some elastic bandages left for something like this…"

"Front pocket." Jon says again. He's moved closer to the thing, the corpse, it must be, now. He's turned away from her, and she can't see his face.

"Thank you, love."

"Of course."

"Um-" She cuts in suddenly, her nerves and panic getting the best of her. Martin looks up from her hand, and Jon turns back to glance at her.

"Sorry, uh, I just- what the fuck was that?"

"I'd tell you not to worry yourself over it, but I don't think that's much of an answer." Jon says, coming back towards them. He crouches down before he continues. "Let's just say this is...our day job."

"It is three in the morning, though."

"That would be the, colloquial use of the term, Martin."

"Just saying." With Martin in front of her she can actually see the cheeky grin, this time.

He uses the bandage to wrap her wrist. It smarts a bit, but the pressure helps. He's clearly adept enough to do this and talk at the same time, because he cuts in next. "We're here to make sure things like that-" he gestures with a nod of his head. "-don't hurt anyone."

Her mouth is full of sawdust. "W- what, like, monsters and shit?" She always did swear a lot when she was stressed.

"More or less."

"If it's any consolation," Jon says. "These things aren't exactly...common. You have to have a special kind of luck to run into something like this."

Yeah, luck.

He sighs, then. He looks tired. "I'm so sorry. If it means anything. This isn't the kind of thing you'll be able to just forget, or-"

"That's why we're here." Martin cuts in. He's finished with her wrist, neatly wrapped and held in place with little wire clips. "To try to stop stuff like this from happening, before it happens. Sorry we were late."

It's not a stretch to imagine what would have happened if they hadn't shown up even later, or not at all. But it's something she will try very, very hard not to think about.

She swallows. "I guess...thank you, then."

"Of course."

The adrenaline and sudden lack thereof leaves her with a jittery exhaustion deep in her core. But she has so many questions, how could she not-

A chill, and a rush of wind and waves hit her before she can get another word out. It's gone as quickly as it had come, so much so she thinks she imagined it. But suddenly, she's alone.

The men going by Jon and Martin and the misshapen corpse of that thing are gone. The hall is just as it had been before, dim lights and freshly polished tile. No sign of anything, or anyone. Except for her.

She knows with crushing certainty that it wasn't a dream. Couldn't be a dream. But she knows that's what people will tell her. So she says nothing. She says nothing, and hopes nothing ever leads her to cross paths with those two ever again.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma fics #my writing #wrote this at 4 in the morning and realized i actually vibed w it so here we are

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sophisticated-creepy · 3 years ago

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Lola’s mind was swarming. Although one thought seamlessly bled into the next, there was a supreme lack of a single thread with which to follow, and completely lost in the void of her own mind, she hadn’t noticed she’d walked passed her destination, realizing halfway down the next block she had to double back to reach Curios and Oddities. She was stepping up to the main entrance as Modesta was walking out, holding the door open wide for a customer who had finished purchasing an order of candles and dreamcatchers, the lady’s arms draped in large shopping bags.

“Thanks again, and have a pleasant day,” Modesta told the satisfied shopper. “Lola! I thought I saw you walking by.”

“Hi, Modesta,” Lola chirped, perhaps a tad too sharply to even her own ears. “How was inventory?”

“Fine,” Modesta answered, her eyebrows knitting together in question. Lola’s energy was sporadic and fluctuating, sending out an unsettling vibe despite standing perfectly still in the middle of the sidewalk. Maybe that was the issue: Lola was merely standing. Lola didn’t “stand”, she fluttered, like an overly caffeinated butterfly. If Modesta did find her friend by chance to be in a state of rest, some other part of her was usually moving, whether it were her arms gesturing about grandly during some ostentatious storytelling, or her eyes dancing to absorb the scenery around her. Lola was like the wind, and rarely remained stagnant, so when she noticed the eerie calm in the way Lola remained motionless, staring at nothing, she was immediately on edge and completely creeped out.

“Look, I know Halloween is right around the corner, but you are really starting to freak me out, Lola. Do you need help or something?”

“Sorry,” Lola spoke. She then blinked, her shoulders slouching downwards naturally, shifting back into a more fluid realm of movement and mannerisms. “Sorry,” she repeated. “Yes, actually, I was wondering if you could help me. Are you busy, or can we talk for a moment?”

“I’m not too terribly busy, come on in. What’s on your mind? You were a total zombie on the sidewalk just now.” Lola was ushered into the warmth of the shop, the scent of vanilla and cookies instantly had her relaxing, feeling once more at peace and in control of her rampant thoughts and imagination.

“I’m processing a lot of information,” Lola began as she stepped into the sacred space. “Actually, I’m trying to get some research done on a new story for a writing contest I’m entering.”

Modesta gave a light laugh. “Oh! Another story, huh? That explains your zone-out. What’s your theme this time?”

“The Hobblin’ Goblin.”

“Of course it is,” Modesta laughed harder. “Why did I even bother to ask?”

“Anyway…,” Lola transitioned, giving her friend a look that clearly meant she herself was not amused. “I have a deadline in little over a week, so I need to get as much research done as possible before I can do any actual writing.”

“Do you really need to do research? I thought you knew all there was to your loveable Hobblin’ Goblin.”

“It’s rather quite shocking on how much I don’t know, except for the everyday basics: he’s a goblin, he hobbles, walks with a crutch, and plays pranks. I don’t know the real, tangible origins, so I’m looking for the deeper meaning. I’m looking for his story.”

“I’ve never thought about it from that angle before,” Modesta admitted. “It’s a unique way to portray the legend, that’s for sure.”

Aggrievedly, Lola leaned her hip against a tall table stacked with candles and heaved a sigh. “I want to get some personal testimonies of people experiencing a real run-in with Mr. Goblin as part of my research to get a truer feel of his hauntings, but I’m coming to realize it’s going to be near impossible to sort the differences between a Hobblin’ haunt and a regular haunt.”

“I can help with that!” Jack sprung up from behind the furniture piece Lola and Modesta were talking next to, his boisterous appearance scaring the living daylights out of the two women, having the whole shop of customers stare in their direction as they each let out a scream of fright.

“Jack!” Modesta scolded after catching her breath. “Have you been waiting behind that table this whole time to scare us?”

Laughing, Jack nodded. “I was. But, do you at least get my point?”

“What are you talking about?” Lola asked, still trying to get her racing heartbeat under control.

“I heard you talking about the Hobblin’ Goblin. He pulls pranks, just like me, and like any other prankster, his jokes are mainly for his enjoyment,” Jack informed. “You can’t rely on the typical moans and groans and rattling of chains. You need to look for the fun.”

Lola snapped her fingers in confirmation. “That’s exactly what I said to Stacy. I’m looking for what makes the Hobblin’ Goblin so special, and I believe it lies in the fun. Do you mind if I record you saying that, Jack? From one trickster to another, I’m sure you’ve got some great insight I could borrow.” Eager to get a new perspective on her favorite goblin, Lola began digging around in her purse to renew her quest of investigation.

“Did you hear that, Mo? I get to be recorded,” Jack smugly stated, plastering on a cheesy smile a charlatan of yore would envy.

“I don’t think the world is ready for your mug,” Modesta sarcastically shot back. Lola emerged from her handbag, holding her tape recorder towards Jack’s face, his smile swapping out for a confused pout as he stared down the microphone of the handheld device.

“Tell me again about the motivation of tricksters, Jack,” Lola sweetly requested.

“Yes, Jack,” Modesta agreed, stifling her laughter to the best of her ability. “Tell the audio world all about it.”

“Uh, Lola, when you said ‘record’, I assumed---.” Jack trailed off, not wanting to hurt the wannabe reporter’s feelings, as Lola’s innocent expression at recording him with her archaic equipment weighed heavily against his conscience.

“Oh, shit, hold on,” Lola cursed. “I need to take notes.” Lola’s quick movements to try and free up her hands in order to get a pen and her notebook caused her to jumble and jostle the items in her arm, and she dropped her notepad along with the newspaper straight to the floor in a flurry of commotion. Modesta bent down to help Lola retrieve her items. When her fingertips brushed the newspaper, she hissed, jolted by the sharp sensation, and yanked her arm back, the feeling as if she had touched the coils of a stovetop scorching into her fingers. Looking at the periodical, her eyes fell on the front page, the grainy image of the train yard staring back at her, and Modesta could have sworn she had been punched in the gut.

“Oh, no. Nope. Not okay, and not today. Nada, nope, not happening,” she stammered furiously, and shoved the paper away from her. “I don’t know why you brought that newspaper into my store, but you need to take it outside now.”

Lola reclaimed the newspaper, slowly picking it up off the floor. “Well, that helps answer some of my questions,” she softly stated.

“Everything all right?” asked Jack.

“I was hoping Modesta would take a look at this picture in the newspaper. Even I got a weird vibe from it, and I wanted to get her opinion on the photo, too.” Lola gave the paper to Jack so he could take a look at the cause of excitement.

“Is this the train yard where that attack was made?” he asked, and Lola nodded.

“What attack?” Modesta asked, unconsciously staggering away from Jack as he held the paper out, studying the photo intensely. The residual tingle of being burned lingered on her fingertips, and her hackles were prickling in warry foreboding.

“I heard about it on the radio last night. A security guard was attacked by a demon,” Jack informed, dropping his voice at the end to whisper so as not to alarm nearby customers.

“A demon?” Modesta repeated, crossing her arms and raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Really? Someone approved that statement to be broadcasted all over local radio?”

“Hey, there’s no mention of the demon in the paper,” Jack stated, turning the pages to try and find the rest of the story.

“Why would there be? The article said it was the work of some kids’ prank gone wrong,” Lola interjected.

“What I heard,” Jack began, “was that the security guard was attacked by a hunched over shadow creature he saw lurking just outside the trees of the forest.”

“How would the radio station know that? The newspaper said the guard has a concussion and a fractured skull. He couldn’t make a statement. His partner found him after he fell,” Lola surmised.

“The dates are wrong, too,” Jack continued, his gaze sharp on the paper. “I heard about the attack happening two nights ago, not last night.”

“Maybe the radio got it wrong,” Lola theorized. “Or, maybe the paper has a misprint. Wait!” Jack’s words began to poke at Lola’s mind, helping to fit pieces of the puzzle together from her earlier haphazard thoughts. “Did you say something about a hunched over shadow creature? Here, let me see that again.” Lola reached for the newspaper and turned to the front page, squinting hard once more at the blurry image. “I can’t tell for sure,” she said at last.

“What are you looking for?” Modesta asked, still standing on the outskirts of her friends thanks to the uneasy item of interest.

“I think the photographer caught an image in the forest, but I can’t make it out. I’ll understand if you don’t want to, but could you please take a look for me, Mo? I get the feeling something’s there, but I need you to validate it or not.”

“Oh, there’s something in that photo, all right,” Modesta confirmed, not even having to look at the image, refusing to touch the newspaper.

“Let me take a look in a better light,” Jack requested, and leading the others to the main checkout counter, spread the pages out on the glass surface. Leaning over the image, he peered closely at the tree line. “I think I can make out a shape. Here, right?” Jack pointed to the same shape that first caught Lola’s attention. "It looks cut off, but that might really be a picture of some kind of figure.”

“Oh, my gracious!” Lola gasped. “What if this is proof of the Hobblin’ Goblin?” she asked in a burst of delight. “Isn’t he rumored to have lived in the forest? What if, what if,” she stressed, “this is him?” Her heartrate had picked back up several faster beats per minute, and the pleasant prickle of goosebumps began crawling up her arms, her earlier disposition melting to give way to the wash of excitement lighting her features. “We’ve got to check this place out!”

“No, Lola,” Modesta cut in harshly. “Absolutely not.” Lola turned to her sour friend, the brusque declaration confusing, and her expression must have read as much, for Modesta pointedly tapped a firm finger on the counter where they all hovered above the newspaper. “This is not safe,” the consternated brunette stated evenly.

“I don’t understand,” Lola spoke. “Why are you so spooked?”

“You wanted my opinion? This is it: stay away.”

“What exactly are you picking up on?” Jack questioned.

“I’m all for Lola doing her research on the legend of the Hobblin’ Goblin,” Modesta began to elaborate. “Since you’re looking for the ‘fun’, I suggest you stick to that route. This,” she indicated, waving her hand over the newspaper, “is not him.”

Lola’s excitement quelled as she stared down at the shape in the photo, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth in contemplation as she considered Modesta’s words compared to her impulse to investigate. This article was a tangible lead, a jumping point for her story to breathe life and take flight. She trusted her friend’s opinion, but nothing short of her own prodding could satiate Lola’s curiosity once it had been roused.

“I trust your judgment,” Lola began carefully, “but maybe we should check things out for ourselves. Come out to the train yard with me tonight.”

“Even if I wanted to, I can’t. I’m leading that workshop tonight and Jack is helping run the store, so don’t even bother asking him,” Modesta replied.

“Sorry,” Jack apologized, shrugging his shoulders in pre-obligated surrender.

“Besides, you’d be trespassing. You don’t have the authority to go traipsing around on private property after hours anyway,” Modesta reminded. If it were anymore possible, Lola’s exuberance and spirits deflated with the realization that she wasn’t, in fact, allowed to do her investigating after hours. A rebellious side of her stayed hopeful, however, and the back of her mind was already formulating plans to get the research she so desperately sought.

“Lola,” Modesta drawled in warning, seeing the gleam of trouble brewing behind her friend’s eyes. “Give me your word you’re not going to go after this figure. Leave it alone.”

Lola rolled her eyes, but still held a smile, always appreciative of Modesta’s caring and cautious nature. “I give you my word I won’t go seeking this figure,” she promised.

“Thank you. Now, if you don’t mind, I have customers to tend.” With that, Modesta flicked her eyes upon the newspaper one final time before turning away. A moment passed before Jack cleared his throat.

“You’re going to go after this figure, aren’t you?”

“Now, Jack, I gave my word, you heard me promise,” Lola reiterated.

“Just…please take Raph with you. I know you are more than capable of handling things on your own, but…if there really is something demonic out there, it’s best if you don’t face it alone.” He gave his friend a comforting squeeze on her shoulder before going to help Modesta with the store. Lola remained silent, thankful of her friends’ concerns, however, the desire to figure out this growing mystery of ghosts and goblins staring back at her from a newspaper headline had her solidifying in her mind what she needed to do in order to properly tell a story.

~~~~~~~~~~

Oh, that Lola. Always getting into trouble.

#newberry at night #adventure #fantasy #romance #love #magic #witches #ghosts #goblins #ghost stories #paranormal #paranormal investigation

3 notes · View notes

soysauceharry · 6 years ago

Text

all the things yet to come: one

five years shared between two people: you, a psychology doctoral student, and your advisor, Dr. Harry Styles, PhD. (also known as ‘post doc harry’)

word count: 9.7k

Year Two: December

From: Styles, Harry Edward <[email protected]> Subject: Lit Review Meeting

Hi,

Sorry to be the bearer of bad news on your Sunday--spoke to Dr. Johnston and she wants us to meet about your lit review Tuesday morning. 8AM, Coker conference room. The whole committee will be there. Go ahead and send me what you’ve got and maybe I can suggest some edits to help you prep.

Hope you had a good weekend.

-HES __

Harry Styles, PhD | Postdoctoral Research Fellow Behavioral and Integrative Neuroscience Laboratory Department of Psychology

-*-

The blaring of your alarm is unforgiving as it startles you awake.

You bolt up in bed, inhaling sharply through your nose. The light filtering through the open crack in your curtains is bright enough to make your eyes throb. It takes a moment for you to get your limbs to work--you grab your phone and turn off your alarm, ears ringing in the sudden silence of your bedroom.

It doesn’t feel like it should be morning. It doesn’t feel like it should be as sunny as it is--the sight of actual sun coming through your window takes a while for you to comprehend. For the last two weeks, it’s been raining. The worst kind of rain--the kind that settles with a deep chill in your bones, the mountain air not doing you any favors every time you had to leave your apartment. The kind of rain that makes you homesick, makes you long for something you haven’t had in so long.

You try to blink the sleep out of your eyes. It doesn’t work--in fact, the sunlight seems to make things worse. Your room feels too bright, the air too crisp. Your bedsheets are too warm, your skin too tacky with sweat. It’s everything you don’t except to wake up to, but then your eyes fall on your open laptop on your desk across the room, and it feels like the world settles its weight back on top of your shoulders after a night off.

Harry’s email had sent you into a frenzy the previous afternoon. You’ve been dreadfully behind on your literature review and now it seems like everyone on your committee knows it. At least Harry was kind enough to warn you they’d all be there to tear into it come Tuesday morning.

So, instead of doing laundry and cleaning your bathroom, you spent your Sunday holed up in your room with the piercing screen of your laptop as your only company. Your meals consisted of endless amounts of caffeine and soggy cereal. By the time you’d sent Harry an ugly version of your review close to 3AM, you had started going cross-eyed from exhaustion.

And now Monday has hit you with its full force of draining tasks, refusing to give you a break. The 8 o’clock Cognitive Psychology lecture you TA for is the first thing on your list. As you drag yourself out of bed, you wonder how much editing you can get away with during the fifty-minute class. It isn’t like the professor gives you much to do other than hand out papers on exam days.

It doesn’t take long for you to get ready for the day. In between eating a bagel slathered in cream cheese and chugging your coffee, you check your email. When you see Harry’s name in bold at the top of your inbox, you slowly stop chewing. It’s a reply to your review--you frown as you scroll back up to see when you’d sent it.

Sent: 3:12 AM

Harry’s email came in not even 10 minutes ago. You wonder if he suffered a similarly sleepless night--he was notorious for rushing to meet deadlines, just like you.

That’s probably where the similarities start and end, you think to yourself as you grab your coat and keys. Though you regard your advisor with fondness and a deep sense of gratitude for everything he’s done for your academic career so far, you’ve still yet to crack that outer shell he maintains. It’s not a cold exterior--more like a quiet sort of disposition that never reveals too much.

Curious, you open the attachment with the edits to your review. The first few pages are fairly clean, just a few grammatical changes here and there. But there’s a clear distinction between what you had written before yesterday and what you attempted during last night’s disaster. From the fourth page onward, everything is covered in red.

You sigh, a horribly defeated feeling spreading through your chest. Monday won’t be letting you off the hook, it seems.

-*-

To: Styles, Harry Edward <[email protected]> Subject: RE: Lit Review Meeting

Thanks for the quick edits, Harry! Hope you got at least a little bit of sleep!

Will try my best to get something relatively coherent together for the committee by tomorrow. See you bright and early in the morning!

-*-

Tuesday morning brings another blinding sunny day. When you step outside, a blast of cool, crisp mountain air greets you. You have half a mind to run back inside and swap your cardigan for a proper winter jacket, but the walk to campus is a good 20 minutes and you’d rather not be late to the committee meeting.

A steady pot of nerves has been brewing in your stomach since yesterday. You can’t pinpoint why, though--it’s almost like your subconscious is warning you to brace yourself for the storm that’s about to hit. You exhale with a huff, shaking your head to try and clear your mind as you get to the edge of campus.

You pass the arboretum along your right, its trees and bushes barren. Their branches vibrate with every gust of wind. The sounds of this little piece of nature filter through your ears, maintaining the presence of the world around you. It’s easy to focus on them rather than the tornado of thoughts racing around in your head.

A few minutes later, you’re trudging up the hill that’s part of the last bit of your walk to campus. Every part of you wants to run away from the steps of the building and toward the quad on campus so you can soak up the winter sunshine and the crisp mountain air that’s descended upon your sleepy little college town, but it’s nearing 8 AM and your window of escape has already closed.

When you push open the doors to the building, you’re greeted with a burst of humid air--a signal that the heat has been kicked on. The ancient building’s units seem to have two settings: off, and full blast. Around the corner and up the stairs--your feet take you to the familiar conference room on the third floor automatically. When you push open the door, you see three of your four committee members already in their seats.

“Morning, everyone,” you greet with what you hope is a smile. In reality, you try to ignore the feeling of your stomach dropping. Shutting the door behind you, you let your bag drop from your shoulder into the crook of your elbow. “Happy Tuesday.”

“Too cold to be happy,” Dr. Johnston, the woman sitting at the head of the table, replies. She’s from Florida, so being at a school in the mountains doesn’t do much good for her. The scowl on her face softens slightly when you make eye contact. “Have a good weekend?”

The question of the century, you think to yourself. “Could’ve been more productive, but overall, I did, thank you.” Pulling out a chair, you sit down and set your bag on the floor next to you. JT, another one of your committee members, is on your right. “Did you all watch the game?”

JT breathes a laugh. “My newborn wanted all the attention, so I only managed to watch the highlights. Can’t believe I missed Coach Manley getting thrown out.”

Your third member, Bhavni, snorts. “Probably won’t be the only time that happens this season, JT,” she says to him.

“Very true,” JT agrees.

You pull out your laptop and planner, setting them on the table. The others are starting to discuss making plans to watch the next basketball game at the Ale House as you get your things in order. Your laptop screen still shows the document with your literature review on it. It doesn’t look much different than when you opened it after getting Harry’s comments back. You resist the urge to scowl at it.

Glancing at the clock, you see that it’s 3 minutes past the hour. The chair across from you is still empty. “Where’s Harry?” you ask.

“Hm?” Dr. Johnston looks up from her laptop, glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “Not sure. But we can go ahead and get started. I’m sure he’ll be in soon.”

It’s not really up for discussion, so you simply nod. The document on your screen seems to taunt you as you scroll to where you left off the previous evening. The section is still pretty incomplete, but at least there are a few finished paragraphs.

You swallow thickly. “I’m not sure where to start.”

When Dr. Johnston emits a barely-concealed sigh, you almost let your forehead bang against the table. The idea of being stuck in this conference room for the next three hours suddenly feels a bit nauseating. As Dr. Johnston’s labeled cursor highlights and strikes through an entire paragraph of text, you bite the inside of your cheek a little too hard.

It goes on like this for a while. Sentence by sentence, your review gets picked apart by your committee. Half an hour in and you’ve already lost 150 words from your draft. Some ideas get tossed around with your half-hearted input, but ultimately you agree to everything with a resigned nod every so often.

The open blinds tease you with thoughts of escaping the room and getting outside to the cold winter breeze. Every tap of the giant oak tree’s branch against the window is like a friend knocking on your door, itching to pull you out of the room. The sound is soothing enough to make you fully tune out whatever JT is saying, but then--

--SLAM!

You startle in your chair at the sound of the door banging open, your back straightening immediately. “Sorry--Christ. Sorry I’m late, everyone. Good morning.”

Harry looks incredibly disheveled--hair all over the place, cardigan falling off his shoulder, papers in one hand and the strap of his bag in the other. His glasses are askew on his face and even their frames can’t conceal the dark shadows under his eyes, a lack of a good night’s sleep clearly evident. You raise your eyebrows in mild disbelief at the state of him. The noise of him getting into his seat seems to pervade the silence of the room.

It’s like every movement Harry makes is in stark contrast to his usual collected self. His laptop nearly clatters to the table as he almost loses grip of it. The papers he pulls out of his bag are in a haphazard stack, clearly disorganized and out of order. You even notice a stain on his white shirt--red, probably ketchup. Your face scrunches up a little at the thought of Harry showing up to the meeting in his clothes from yesterday.

“Harry, glad you could join us.” Dr. Johnston sounds less than impressed. “We’re on page four.”

“Thanks, Dr. J,” he mumbles with a nod of his head, eyes already flitting across his laptop screen. His gaze flicks to you for a split second, and he mouths a quick sorry. You just acknowledge his apology with a discreet shake of your head, brows furrowed in concern as Dr. Johnson starts speaking again.

Now that everyone is present, a sense of normalcy settles around the table. You go section by section, highlighting sentences and pulling out the studies you’ve referenced in the development of the foundation of your paper. JT, Bhavni, and Harry provide helpful commentary and you jot down all of their comments in earnest as Dr. Johnston directs the discussion.

Unfortunately for you, because of your document’s lack of length and depth, you all reach the end fairly quickly--an entire hour and a half earlier than normal. A pang of disappointment hits you. The feeling strengthens when Dr. Johnston shuts her computer with a sigh. “Not as much to go through as I’d hoped,” she says to you. Her tone isn’t scolding, but you can feel the obvious disapproval permeate through the room. Even Bhavni looks at you a bit sadly. “I hope next week will be better.”

You and me both, you think to yourself. That seed of inferiority and inadequacy that’s been planted in your chest for as long as you can remember feels like it’s starting to sprout again. Hardly a stranger to negative feedback, you try not to let yourself get too bogged down with the outcome of today’s meeting. It seems your week is going to consist of more late nights than you’d previously anticipated.

Even so, it feels like a blessing in disguise. Not even 11 AM and you’re suddenly faced with a free day until the one class you teach on Tuesday afternoons. The logical side of you knows you should get a head start on your review before the information absorbed during the meeting leaves your brain, but that thought is fleeting. You already know you’ll be going outside to sit in the pavilion and enjoy the crisp morning before you’re forced to shut yourself in the departmental library later in the day. The winter breeze is practically shouting your name.

Everyone starts to pack up then, sliding out of their chairs and standing up. You’re quick to finish jotting down the last of your notes before saving your document and closing out of it. In your brain, you shove it away in the deepest, darkest corner until later.

Bhavni, JT, and Dr. Johnston all wish you a good rest of your day. JT gives you a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he passes by. You manage a half-hearted wave as they filter out of the room. Shutting your computer, you stand from you seat and reach up to the ceiling, arms coming over your head for a delicious back stretch.

You breathe out a sigh, blinking a few times to clear some of the haziness from your eyes. The room comes back into focus and there’s Harry, still seated with his attention focused on his computer screen. You appraise his rumpled self once again, wondering what could’ve possibly happened over the short weekend to render him so bedraggled.

But you’ve never been one to pry, so you decide against asking. It isn’t like Harry would tell you anything, anyways. Instead, you move to pack up your things so you aren’t disturbing him any longer. He’s still typing away on his keyboard when you finally slide in your chair and start putting on your coat.

The movement seems to break Harry’s concentrated gaze. “Hey, wait,” he says to you, looking up. You glance back at him, eyebrows raised in question. “Do you have a class or anything right now?”

“No, I’m free until 1,” you reply. “Why?”

Harry clicks around on his laptop a few times before closing it and saying, “I wanted to get a second set of eyes on the data. Something about how I ran the stats doesn’t feel right to me. Would you mind?”

“You already ran the stats?”

Harry blinks. “I--um, I had some extra time this weekend, so I went ahead.”

You’re aware of the way he’s letting his eyes drift around the room, then back to you, then away from you. Like he’s attempting to be unconcerned with how you answer, but you know this look. This is the look of a Dr. Styles who really needs to get his manuscript finished so it can be submitted for edits.

You sigh, relenting. “Can we do it outside?”

His eyes flit to the window. His nose scrunches as if the idea isn’t appealing, but you’re fully ready to drag him outside by the arm even if he rejects your suggestion. A little fresh air would probably do him good, too.

“Yeah, I guess,” he finally says, and you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Just need to stop by my office first, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, yeah.”

As the toes of your boots tap against the linoleum floor, you hope you don’t seem impatient as you wait for Harry to gather his things. Luckily, he doesn’t drag his feet and you’re soon trailing him slightly as you both walk down toward his office.

Things have changed since the first time you walked toward Harry’s office a little over a year ago. You remember instantly becoming fascinated by his very existence--the quiet, glasses-wearing man who spent a lot of time in his office and never said much of anything, really. In addition to being your departmental advisor and sitting on your thesis committee, he was also your research experience mentor--though, this designation came by choice a few weeks into the semester when he realized you were interested in the same field of research as him.

But even while working in his lab, you had hardly seen him for the first few months--there was always a list of things to do for you each week depending on the current stage of whatever study he was conducting, but no sign of Harry at all. Midway through the semester, you’d encountered a question about the eligibility of a participant that needed an immediate answer--on a whim, you’d decided to go to his office to see if he could help you.

That day, you’d knocked and opened the door to find Harry hunched over his computer in a room that looked like it had been torn up by a tornado. Turns out, he’d been late in submitting a manuscript and needed all the time he could to get it finished so it could be reviewed. It wouldn’t be the first time you encountered him missing a deadline--in fact, that moment reminds you a lot of how Harry looks right now.

Harry’s office is located in a quiet corner that faces north, the location giving him two large windows instead of one. When he unlocks the door and pushes it open, you shuffle into the space. Your eyes flit over the familiar overflowing bookshelf to the right, the open blinds, the diplomas on the far wall that bear his name and title.

“Sorry for the mess,” Harry says offhandedly as he makes his way behind his desk--covered in papers, which isn’t anything unusual. He has little else other than paper on his L-shaped desk; two computer monitors sit on the side against the wall, along with a stress ball and an organizer with various office supplies in it. There’s a picture frame with a photo of himself and two other women who bear striking resemblance--you’ve never asked, but you assume it’s his mother and sister.

You shut the door behind you and lean against it, pursing your lips. “I’m getting you a filing cabinet one day.”

Harry turns to look at you over his shoulder. His eyebrows raise, as if challenging your statement. “As if I’d ever let you clean my office.”

“This is chaos, Harry.”

“Organized chaos. My organized chaos that I know how to navigate, thank you very much,” he counters with a quirk of his lips. He pulls open a drawer, rifling through it for a moment before letting out a little groan and shutting it. “Can’t bloody find them…”

You watch on as he shuffles around his workspace, clearly frustrated because he can’t find whatever he’s looking for. Harry exists as a quiet dilemma--you’ve hardly scratched the surface of trying to figure him out. Each time you think you have an answer, he shows another side of himself that leaves you guessing yet again.

Like now, as he’s struggling to find whatever he’s looking for and looks a far cry from his normal self. It’s almost amusing to watch him look so puzzled as he nearlys knocks over his pen holder.

“Is everything okay?”

This causes Harry to stop abruptly. “What? Why do you ask?”

“You just look… a little frazzled. And you were late this morning, which is…”

His gaze is focused on you--there’s a slight furrow to his brows that makes you wonder if your question is out of line.

“...A bit out of character, I guess?” you finish with a shrug.

Harry frowns--you don’t know if you’ve crossed some sort of invisible boundary or if he’s just thinking about the answer to your prodding question. It’s a weird mentor-mentee relationship you both have; not quite teacher-student, as Harry’s only two years older than you, but still not quite at the peer level. You want to call him a friend, but you’ve only ever gotten as close as arm’s length to him. Whether that’s due to his quiet nature or his academic superiority, you’re not sure.

“Everything’s… fine,” Harry finally says, though you can detect the hesitation in his voice. “I just had a--a rough night. Was up late, had some stuff going on.”

He stifles a burp, eyebrows furrowing when he blows out a breath and puts a hand on his stomach. His slow, lethargic movements are so reminiscent of an exact feeling you’re quite familiar with. Then, it clicks--you can’t believe it’s taken you this long to recognize it.

“Harry.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you hungover?”

There’s a split second where nothing happens. Then, Harry slowly raises his eyes to look up at you through his lashes. You feel your breath catch in your throat, immediately opening your mouth to apologize.

But before you can, all of the rigidity in Harry’s posture disappears. He slumps forward like he’s a marionette puppet that’s just gotten its strings cut. His nostrils flare with his exhale--it’s such a quick shift in his demeanor that you feel a bit blindsided.

“I… had a bit to drink last night, yes,” he says finally. The lack of expressiveness in his voice makes it obvious that he doesn’t want to be having this conversation. He blinks at you a few times, hands resting on his hips. “It wasn’t…” He stops himself with a half-hearted scoff, closing his eyes as he shakes his head minutely. “I don’t usually partake in drinking like that very often, though. Just a one-off, I guess.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me. I-- I probably shouldn’t have asked,” you rush out in an effort to resolve the blanket of tension that’s surrounded you two. “Sorry, that wasn’t--it’s none of my business. I don’t mean to intrude.”

Harry nods like he accepts your fruitless apology, but you know better. You feel restive, uneasy about navigating this vexing situation. Feeling massively foolish, you bite back the urge to try and smooth over the lingering awkwardness permeating through the room.

But Harry isn’t anything if not perceptive. “You’re not intruding,” he placates. “I made it your business the minute I showed up at your committee meeting. I should be apologizing to you.”

And there it is--the trademark consideration that you’ve come to learn is as unequivocally Harry as the DNA that makes up his very being. You simply gaze at him in incredulity, wondering how your feelings of unease have instantly dissipated, leaving nothing but a vague sense of admiration.

“There’s no need,” you insist, crossing your arms over your chest. “It happens sometimes. I get that.”

“Still.” Harry’s lips quirk to the side, like he’s thinking hard about something. “Not very professional, is it?”

You huff out a breath, crinkling your nose as a smile fights its way onto your face. “At least Dr. Johnston didn’t call you out for it. Remember what happened with JT last spring?”

At that, Harry lets out a bark of laughter, his full dimpled smile showing. You remember the first time you noticed those dimples--it was like he transformed into a different person when he let them show in those rare, full-bellied laughs of his. Even now, after so much time spent together, you get a little tingle in your spine when you’re the reason for his laughter.

When his laughter subsides, you push yourself off the door and walk over to his desk. “What are you looking for, anyways?” you ask as he pulls open another drawer.

He rifles through it for a few seconds without answering your question. You peer over the side of the desk curiously when he makes a little noise of triumph and pulls out a pair of sunglasses.

“Now we can sit outside.” He swaps his clear frames for the black Wayfarers. You have to press your lips together to keep yourself from snorting--if it wasn’t obvious enough before, it’s definitely obvious now that he’s wearing the tinted frames indoors.

“Subtle,” you note with a faux-serious expression.

Harry simply walks past you toward the door, shouldering his messenger bag and calling out behind him, “You want to go to the pavilion or what?”

-*-

It’s later that week that you find yourself walking back toward Harry’s office once again. This time, you have a stack of consent forms in one hand and a drink tray in the other. Shifting the papers to the other arm, you rap your knuckles on the door a few times before turning the knob.

“Hey,” you greet Harry as you step into the darkened office. Though it’s barely 6PM, winter in the mountains means the sun has long since disappeared. Harry’s space is cast in a warm glow coming from the few lamps he has scattered around the room. “I just finished up with the last subject.”

Harry looks up from his computer screen. His glasses are perched on the end of his nose, threatening to fall off. You notice the way his shoulders are hunched forward, the way his hair flops over his forehead in an unkempt manner. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, the sleeves are rolled up to expose his forearms. The dim light of the lamps make his eyes glow behind the lenses of his tortoise-colored frames.

“Is this the hunger and emotion study?” he asks as you cross the room after shutting the door. You deposit the stack of forms on a relatively clean corner of his desk before handing him his drink--a coffee, black with just a little bit of sugar.

You nod as you sit across from him in the chair on the other side of his desk, crossing your legs as you sink into the worn cushion. “Managed to squeeze in a few more participants. So many undergrads still need their psych research requirements, looks like.”

Harry stifles a laugh, exhaling through his nose as his lips curl. You watch as he takes a sip of his coffee--his eyes close for a brief moment as if savoring the taste. A part of you wants to ask how long he’s been holed up in this office--how long it’s been since he’s seen the actual light of day outside of these four walls--but you keep your mouth shut. Instead, you lean back in the chair and sip quietly on your drink as Harry starts flipping through the consent forms.

“This is a lot more than we’d anticipated,” he notes after a few moments of silence. “I didn’t… I didn’t expect this many, actually.”

He almost sounds like he’s speaking to himself with the way his eyes go a bit unfocused as he regards the papers in front of him. You can practically see the cogs in his mind whirring, changing gears abruptly to try and accommodate this new task. But this isn’t new or unfamiliar--you step in like you always have before Harry gets swept away in the details of it all.

“I can start putting everything into a spreadsheet tonight,” you tell him, already standing up to take the forms away from his sight. Harry blinks up at you owlishly, his lips parting most likely to object. But you level him with a look, not giving him any chance to refute you on this. “I already have all the data on my laptop anyway, Harry. And you know how annoying it is for me to export everything.”

“I know, I just--”

“--Let me do this for you.” You easily pile all the forms into a neat stack and shift them into your arms. “That’s what these office hours are for, remember?”

Without glancing at him, you move your things across the room and settle into the plush armchair that sits in the corner across from his desk. You can feel his eyes on you the entire time. He observes you stoically, his face giving nothing away. You almost want to challenge him a bit, maybe engage in some sort of meaningless staring competition. But instead you feign an air of nonchalance, opting for settling comfortably in your spot with your laptop balanced on your crossed legs and the stack of consent forms perched on the arm of the chair.

For a while, you two work in silence. The sound of Harry typing brings a certain sense of comfort you’ve grown quite attached to. The wintery mountain night envelopes both of you in its embrace, keeping you quarantined from the world in a tiny pocket of solitude. In the back of your mind, you wonder when the first snow will finally hit--it’s already December without a single flurry, much to everyone’s surprise.

Your work progresses systematically--you cross reference the consent forms with the participant number, making sure everything is accounted for. You tally up their scores from the surveys administered during the course of the study. You’ve been sucked so deeply into the depths of your spreadsheet that you don’t notice Harry saying your name until he repeats it again, much louder this time.

You look up, finger still poised over your trackpad. “Yeah?”

There’s something off in the way Harry looks at you. The careful contemplation that doesn’t reveal much, but just enough for you to know he wants to say something meaningful. The sudden gravity descending upon the room has you closing the lid of your computer halfway, giving Harry your full attention.

“I just… I wanted to make sure you knew how sorry I am about earlier this week,” Harry says. Your brows pull in a bit--you wonder why he’s chosen to rehash what you thought had been resolved. “I didn’t mean to put you in that position in front of the committee. I should’ve been more tactful. I’m really sorry.”

“I told you it was fine,” you say. Your voice feels inert, climbing out of your throat at a sluggish pace. “We’re past that now, yeah?”

Harry doesn’t say anything. Though he’s across the room, his gaze feels heavy through his round frames. You notice the way he twirls his pen between the fingers of his left hand, the practiced movement serving as a nervous tick for him.

“I feel… I feel as though I owe you an explanation.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You have to swallow to let some moisture back into your mouth. “You’re not obligated to give me one,” you reply. “You don’t owe me anything.”

The two of you stare each other down like you’re on the precipice of a battle. A game of tug-of-war with each side pulling as hard as possible in the opposite direction. His steely resolve has you digging your heels into the dirt, trying to forge some semblance of an anchor to keep you tethered to the ground.

“I was supposed to go to my… now ex-girlfriend’s parents’ anniversary party over the weekend,” Harry begins. Your lips involuntarily part at the sudden bomb he’s just dropped on you. “I missed it because I was here. She called me a workaholic--said I was married to my job. Broke up with me Sunday afternoon.”

It’s a rare sight of a vulnerable Harry--so rare that, in fact, it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him like this and you’re a bit at a loss for words. Of course you’d known about his girlfriend--they’d been together for nearly a year. You’d met her a few times when she’d stop by his office to drop off dinner on occasion. She’d seemed pleasant enough--they had looked happy together.

“I…” You struggle to find words that can even attempt to convey the churning emotions coursing through you. “I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he says to you firmly. “I just… it’s been sitting on my chest. Needed to tell someone, I guess.”

“I wish I could do something to make you feel better.”

“S’alright,” he replies, his eyes meeting yours once again. They’re heavy with a certain dullness you’ve never seen before--irises red-rimmed and bags carved deeply underneath his lower lash line. “Getting day drunk on a Monday worked just fine for me.”

His behavior from earlier in the week makes sense now, you think to yourself. But, regardless, it’s clear he’s hurting and you want nothing more to help him. He’s never been anything but the cool, calm, and collected advisor who keeps you guessing as to what truly lies in his heart. But now it’s here, carved out of his ribcage and bleeding on his desk, and all you can do is stare.

“I should ask if you feel the same way.”

You frown, puzzled. “About what?”

“Do you think I work too much?” He taps his finger against his desk, his eyes trained on you. “Am I a workaholic?” he asks seriously, not a single ounce of humor in his tone. “Am I married to my job?”

The sudden barrage of questions makes you anxious. The direction of this entire conversation has gone awry--you almost wish Harry hadn't insisted on telling you details of his personal life. Now it feels like you’re intruding on something sacred--like your opinion on Harry’s character as a human being is unsound, ill-fitted when coming from his mere coworker.

“I’d have to disagree with your… ex,” you say after a few moments of strained silence. “I think you’re passionate about what you do, and anyone who cares about you should recognize and support that.”

When Harry doesn’t respond immediately, you wonder if that wasn’t the right thing to say. You hold your breath, waiting as Harry keeps his gaze trained on you, a contemplative look passing over his face. But as quickly as it appears, it’s gone--replaced with an aloof disposition. An obvious sign of him locking his heart back up in his chest where it belongs.

He clears his throat, shifting forward in his chair. He pushes his glasses back up his nose and flips through some documents. “I appreciate that from you,” he says quietly.

Suddenly, the room assumes its former temperament, as if you’d just imagined the previous ten minutes. Mind racing with thousands of questions, you turn your unfocused gaze back to your computer screen as you try to make sense of what you just witnessed.

-*-

From: Styles, Harry Edward <[email protected]> Subject: Cancelled office hours

Hi,

Unfortunately I’m going to have to cancel our last two sessions of the semester. I’ll see you at the first committee meeting in January. As always, send me your review drafts as you make revisions and I’ll be happy to leave you comments.

Have a good winter break.

-HES __

Harry Styles, PhD | Postdoctoral Research Fellow Behavioral and Integrative Neuroscience Laboratory Department of Psychology

-*-

Year Two: January

The semester wraps up quickly. Before you know it, you’re hopping on a flight back to your hometown for a short two weeks. You try to see as much family as you can, but the majority of your break is spent trudging forward through your paper like you’re wading chest-deep through a slough of mud.

Christmas comes and goes without much fanfare. You celebrate New Years in front of your fireplace, watching the ball drop with your family and nursing a cup of leftover eggnog as you mindlessly scroll through your document. There’s a few comments here and there from Harry, but for the most part you haven’t heard from him.

It’s safe to say that when you’re back in your apartment at school preparing for the first day back, you’re unsure of where you stand with him. It feels like the previous semester ended with both of you in an awkward state of tug-of-war, and this time you tugged too hard and pulled him past his limit.

You know it wasn’t a coincidence that Harry cancelled the rest of your sessions before the break. You know him well enough to infer that he didn’t want to see you. And a little part of your heart crumples at the thought of your friendship being reduced to something superficial in nature.

It’s difficult to find the will get out of bed the Wednesday classes begin. A new semester means new classes to teach--you spent the previous evening preparing for the new seminar you’ve been assigned to instruct. Usually, syllabus week is your favorite since it requires minimal effort on both yours and the students’ ends. But the thought of dealing with first-years still sleep-heavy from three weeks of no classes sounds a bit dreadful right now.

Time moves slowly, crawling forward with each second feeling longer than the last. It’s one of the most lethargic starts to a new semester that you can recall. Your class drags on, your students are antsy. The nervous energy you feel seems to be contagious, infecting everyone you interact with.

After a quick lunch, you decide to head over to the library in the Psychology department building. It’s usually quiet and you figure it’s as good a time as any to sit and crank out a few more pages of your review. You’re armed with a cup of coffee and a few snacks as you make your way into the building, heading straight to the elevators.

You’re alone when they arrive. You step in and punch the button for the fourth floor then the button to close the doors. The silence is welcome, finally allowing you to let your shoulders drop a bit. Your gaze goes a bit unfocused at some nondescript scuff on the floor as the doors start to slide shut.

“Wait--hold it, please!”

A hand slams against the metal. You physically jolt, head whipping up sharply. It’s Harry--because, of course it is. Out of breath, face flushed and eyes bright. He’s got a stack of papers in one arm and a blazer draped across the other.

No words pass between you. His lips part slightly as a little divot forms between his brows. The only movement comes from the doors sliding open again, the elevator giving a little ding as you regard each other quietly.

Then, he snaps into action. You see him swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly with the motion. He steps into the space and turns so you’re both facing the door. He’s a foot away from you, but the distance feels like a mile.

“Good break?”

You blink but keep your gaze trained forward. “Yeah, was nice. Saw some family, slept a lot. Yours?”

“Same. Happy to be back, though.”

You hum in reply. The air feels too thick with this stilted conversation. As the elevator takes you both to the fourth floor, you retreat further into your brain as you search for something, anything to say. And maybe you’re the only one who feels like this--maybe Harry doesn’t expect you to say anything at all because he thinks nothing is wrong. But still, the overwhelming desire to apologize sits in your chest, trying to claw its way out.

The ding of the elevator is deafening. The doors slide open. Harry gestures for you to exit first. The library is to the left and Harry’s office is to the right.

Logically, you should bid Harry a cordial farewell and march straight toward your unofficial spot in the secluded corner of the library. And yet, there’s something hindering you from doing so. Whatever unseen force is at work causes you to linger at the junction of the hallway for a split second.

You turn to look over your shoulder. Harry’s stock still just a few paces behind you. The floor is empty, no one around you to observe the awkward air that permeates the space between the two of you.

He’s clutching the papers to his chest like a lifeline. His eyes remain steady and unwavering on yours. You feel off balance, like the world is tilting on its axis. The intensity of his stare makes you want to dissolve into the floor, disappearing from sight.

“I--” he starts, his shoulders heaving with a heavy breath. You wait for it, the bubble of discomfort expanding around you two with every second that passes. He looks down, his expression going tense. You almost want to step closer, as if somehow decreasing the distance between you will dissipate the edginess that surrounds you.

But then the elevator dings again and the bubble pops. A few people exit and sidestep the two of you. Harry looks back up--this time, there’s a smile on his face that seems like it’s stretching his skin out too thinly.

“I’ll see you later. Have a good rest of your day.”

With that, he stalks off to the right. All you can do is watch him leave, your eyes not missing the way his shoulders curl forward into his body as he rounds the corner and disappears from your sight.

-*-

Year Two: February

The arches of your feet ache as you step out of the auditorium, trailing after the other members of your cohort. After a long day of listening to research presentations for one of the symposiums put on by the department each February, you’re thoroughly ready to ditch your heels in the first trash can you find. You stop for a moment, leaning against the wall as you slip your shoes off, hissing slightly as your feet get their first stretch of the day.

It was previously decided that you all would be heading out for drinks after the symposium ended. Part of you just wants to skip and head straight back to your apartment, maybe take a warm bath and massage some feeling back into your feet. But you also owe yourself a little treat after a successful presentation with the other members of your group.

“Fitzgerald’s or Backbar?” Elena, your closest friend in the program, loops her arm through yours as she asks you the question. “Which place does the Friday shot special?”

The thought of taking shots makes your stomach roll a bit. “That’s Goodfellows,” you reply as the two of you fall into step. “But I’d honestly be fine with skipping shots tonight. Anyone else agree?”

“Oh, please. You need to get drunk tonight,” Elena chuckles. “We all do, especially after today.”

The group trails down the hallway at a leisurely pace, not in a rush to get out of the building and get downtown to the bars. You get caught up in a discussion about one of the presentations from visiting doctoral students with Elena, shoes dangling from the fingers of one hand. The coolness of the tiled floor feels refreshing under the soles of your feet.

Your eyes trail along the speckled tiles as you move along the hallway. Elena says something that causes everyone to laugh, but you hardly register it as a wave of exhaustion overtakes you. You feel distracted now that you’re brain isn’t required to focus on behavioral psychology research. You’ve open the gates and now the influx of thoughts swirling around your mind is causing your head to spin.

They drift toward one individual in particular, whose office you’re quickly approaching. The group is heading toward the elevators so they turn left--if you were to keep going straight, however, you’d reach Harry’s office. The thought causes you to look up, sparing a quick glance at the door to the room you’ve spent a very minimal amount of time in since the semester started.

Much to your surprise, the door is cracked and a tiny sliver of light filters out into the hallway. Involuntarily, you stop in your tracks. There’s a knot lodged in your throat that you try to swallow around.

Your arm is tugged a bit--it’s Elena, saying your name gently. Her brows are pinched in a bit as she pauses next to you. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just--” You glance back at the door, wondering what Harry could possibly be doing in his office at nearly 10 PM on a Friday night. It doesn’t sit well with you--the overwhelming urge to push past the brick wall of uneasiness that he’s built between you two spurs you into movement. You squeeze Elena’s hand, gently prying it off your forearm. “Will you text me where you guys end up? I just need to ask Harry something.”

Elena levels you with a look you know means she’ll be asking questions later. But she relents, telling you not to take long before she hurries off to catch up to the rest of the group.

The hallway suddenly feels miles long. Each step you take makes you feel like the walls are closing in on you, like you’ve suddenly been transported to Wonderland. In a way, that’s what it feels like--you have no idea what you’ll find behind the door but your curiosity has gotten the best of you.

Your knock echoes through the empty hall. You peek through the doorway and push forward, immediately taking in Harry’s hunched over figure. He’s got his gaze trained on his computer screen as his pen moves furiously across a sheet of paper. Instead of a normal button down, he looks to be in a soft t-shirt with a cardigan thrown on top. All of his lamps are on, giving off the illusion of daylight.

Everything seems to still when he looks over his shoulder. Your eyes meet--his are red-rimmed behind his lenses, bags clearly evident. His lips have lost their pinkish tint, looking slightly dry. His hair looks a bit stringy like he’s been running his fingers through it all day. A part of you breaks inside as his words echo through your mind.

Am I a workaholic? Am I married to my job?

“Hello,” he says simply. “You’re still here?”

You almost laugh at the fact that he’s the one asking you that question. “My cohort presented at the symposium today.” You risk a step into his office. The smell of the oak furniture mixed with faint notes of Harry’s cologne envelops you, like hugging an old friend after some time away. “Bit surprised that you’re still here, though.”

Harry sets down his pen and turns so he faces you fully. His hands are clasped and his forearms rest on top of his desk, shoulders hunched forward slightly. “Had a few revisions to make and I wanted to get them done before the weekend.” He gives you a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still need to submit our manuscript for the hunger study, but I was just finishing up for the night.”

“And all of that was due today?”

“No, but.” Harry shrugs. “Didn’t really have anything better to do.”

You imagine outsiders to be whipping their heads left and right watching the two of you interact. There’s no give and take--your game of tug-of-war has just been both of you pulling equally as hard on either ends of the rope. And the one time you pulled too hard, Harry yanked back just enough to send you sprawling into the ground.

You lean against the doorframe, crossing one leg over the other. Regarding each other quietly, you search for some way to convince Harry he shouldn’t be spending hours upon hours in his office, that the weekend started nearly five hours ago and he should be taking advantage of it. That shutting himself inside these four walls is only going to confirm what others have said about him--the worst kind of self-fulfilling prophecy.

“Plans for the rest of the evening?” Harry asks you, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Few of us are getting some drinks,” you reply. “I was just heading down there, actually, but I saw your light on.”

Harry hums. His eyes squint in a way that makes you self-conscious. You’ve never been the subject of his unwavering scrutiny before, not in a way that makes you feel like you’re being studied like a research subject. “Well, thank you for stopping by.”

It feels like a dismissal. A part of you can’t help but feel disappointed. This entire conversation has felt pointless; you’ve accomplished nothing and Harry clearly has no intentions of addressing what he’d let slip that night in his office.

Feeling defeated, you push yourself off the doorframe. You shoes dangle uselessly in your left hand. Harry’s already turned back to face his computer, his hand idly tapping against the wooden surface of his desk. Your heart thuds in your ears as you chew on the inside of your lip. When Harry shuts the lid of his laptop, you find your voice.

“Can I at least call you an Uber?”

It’s a last-ditch effort to do something, but it clearly takes both of you by surprise. Harry’s lips part as he turns to you, one brow slightly raised. He blinks, head cocking to the side a bit. “If… if that’ll make you feel better,” he starts slowly. “I guess you can.”

The air suddenly feels different. Fragile, almost, like you’re treading on dangerously thin ice. You’re not entirely sure of the appropriateness of the gesture but you can’t find it in yourself to care. “It doesn’t matter how I feel,” you say. “I just want to make sure you get home safe.”

Something shifts in the way Harry’s looking at you. His eyes soften imperceptibly, but you notice the way the tight purse of his lips relaxes and his shoulders lose their stiffness. He exhales a deep breath. The steady beating of your heart doesn’t let up.

“Yeah, s’alright,” he finally says. You swallow to clear some of the dryness from your mouth. The knot in your stomach seems to loosen. “Thank you.”

You shoot him a quick smile, already pulling out your phone and navigating to the Uber app. You put in the address to the department quickly and soon enough, the driver is on his way. “It’ll be here in seven minutes,” you tell Harry, who’s already started packing up his things. “Can I share his information with you?”

Harry glances at you as he’s putting his laptop in his bag. He nods, pushing his glasses up his nose as he recites his number. You’re quick to send him the driver’s information, locking your phone and quickly shoving it back into your pocket to hide your shaking hands. Harry flips his bag closed and grabs his scarf, looping it around his neck deftly.

“There you go,” you murmur, nodding toward his phone on his desk. “I’ll… um. I’ll see you next week?”

Harry’s face is blank for a split second before his eyes crinkle. The green of his irises seem to flash in the dim light of his office. “Yeah, of course. Have a good night--be safe, yeah?”

You return the warmth that you feel coming from him, the corners of your lips kinking upward. The motion feels easier than it has in weeks.

-*-

The next morning as you’re enjoying a mid-morning cup of coffee, your phone vibrates with a text.

Hi, good morning. Thanks for calling me the Uber last night. I’ll pay you back.

Your eyes widen when you realize who it is. Setting your cup down, you shift on the couch and hold your phone with both hands. Your thumbs are poised over the screen, ready to type as soon as your mind stops whirring at a hundred miles per hour.

No trouble at all. And you don’t need to pay me back, don’t even worry about it

It’s a perfectly neutral answer. You set your phone down, breathing out a shaky breath. Texting Harry is a weird mixture of excitement and apprehension. Like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, but no part of you ever wants to stop.

You phone buzzes again. You snatch it up--it buzzes again in your hands.

I insist.

I also wanted to apologize for my behavior these last few weeks. It wasn’t right for me to treat you like that. You’ve been nothing but supportive and I’m really grateful to call you a friend. I’m truly sorry.

Stupidly, your mouth drops. You bring your phone closer to your face as if you hadn’t read the text correctly the first time. Harry’s taken a hammer and swung at the brick wall--not breaking it entirely, but enough to feel like it would only take a few more hits for it to crumble.

It makes you feel lighter than you have in weeks. You bite the inside of your lip to keep your smile from overtaking your face. And in the grand scheme of things, it’s really insignificant--a few sentences of overly formal text is all you’ve received. But even then, the world suddenly tilts back upright on its axis and your chest loosens a bit, each breath feeling easier than the last.

Teeth digging into your bottom lip, your thumbs fly over the screen.

I appreciate the apology. I hope things are going better for you now

Have a good rest of your weekend :)

Same to you. x

-*-

Year Two: March

The bar is loud as you walk in alongside JT and Bhavni. You see Dr. Johnston waving her arms from a booth in the back corner. The three of you make your way down to her as the volume in the bar sways with each shot that plays on the flat screen televisions.

“You guys missed tip-off!” Dr. Johnston exclaims with a pint of beer in her raised left hand. “I couldn’t leave the booth to get drinks so you’re all on your own.”

Though it’s not the first time you’ve come to the ale house with your committee to watch a basketball game, you’ll never get used to the sight of your Dr. Johnston downing beers like it’s her job. “I’ll get everyone’s first round,” you say to the table. JT claps a hand on your shoulder in thanks as he and Bhavni slide into their seats. They tell you their drink orders and you’re quick to push your way to the bar. There’s an open space near the entrance to the restaurant and you slot yourself in quickly.

As you wait to get the bartender’s attention, your eyes are focused on the screen above you. The score is tied and your school is playing one of their big conference rivals. The crowd in the restaurant is appropriate--every other bar on the street is likely filled to the brim, too. The environment is always infectious--the tension in the air during a close game is electrostatic, crackling through the room with every shout and cheer from the crowd.

It takes a few minutes, but you finally catch the attention of the bartender while he’s helping some other customers. He nods at you in acknowledgement, so you settle back with your elbows resting on the sticky countertop. Your attention is drawn back to the screen as one of the opposing players lines up to shoot a free throw.

Then there’s a hand on your shoulder and you’re startled out of the moment. You turn around abruptly and your eyes widen in surprise.

“Hi… sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” Harry’s got his lips quirked to the left, eyes glimmering from the neon lights above the back wall of the bar. “You okay?”

“You actually came?” you blurt without thinking.

Internally, you cringe at the way it sounds. Harry’s never taken up an invitation to come watch a game at the ale house in the nearly two years you’ve known him. He’s quite a sight amongst the other patrons decked out in your school colors--underneath a cardigan is a faded t-shirt with the school name printed on it tucked into a pair of black trousers. Vans and white socks adorn his feet and his trusty glasses sit on the bridge of his nose. You feel a bit indistinguishable in your own replica basketball jersey, but a grin spreads across your lips regardless.

“Thought I’d make an appearance.” He shrugs one shoulder noncommittally. “Is everyone else here?”

You nod, looking back over your shoulder and pointed toward the booth. “They’re all sitting back there. I was just getting the first round.” Harry lets out a quiet ah in understanding.

The stool next to yours has opened up. Harry makes a move to sit and all the while you’re holding your breath. It’s been a bit scary how you two have seamlessly flowed back into your friendship. The brief hiccup hasn’t quite been addressed, but you’ve found it becomes easy to forget during his office hours when you’re bouncing ideas off each other or your writing conclusions together. And now, as he stands in front of you in a room that isn’t his office, in a space where he doesn’t quite fit, you suddenly feel inundated with feelings you’re too scared to recognize.

You try not to let it mean anything when Harry fits himself by your side, shooting you a smile that involves his entire face. You don’t overthink it when he offers to buy you a drink before going back to the table and you accept without even blinking an eye. You end up spending the entire first half of the game at the bar sitting next to Harry with your shoulders pressed up against each other due to the crowd, all the places where his body touches yours alight with the same crackle that pervades the room. And it doesn’t mean anything, but every time Harry cheers with the crowd or sneaks you a timid grin, it’s like he’s yanking you closer toward him in your game of tug-of-war.

It’ll only be a matter of time before he pulls you across the line.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

special thank you to my betas @stylishmuser and @smokeinherperfume for helping me out!

tag list: @slayer79 @drunkbyynoon @shhh-you @beingsenseless @younghearts-stories @hxxefics @socraticjunkie @belladonna-styles @complicatedbabyhoneyfreak @hardcandydrippingonhazza @flooome @infinitiae @stylesfics-xx @clorenafila @190624 @stylishmuser @staceystoleyourheart @angelicamariaaa @quintessentially-weird @adoremp3 @heart4harreh @craic-head-horan @harriexstyles @mellamolayla @thelittlemia @aweebitofharry

#Harry Styles Fan Fiction #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #1dff #one direction fanfiction #post doc harry

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vaguelybohemian · 5 years ago

Text

Baldwin Montclair/OC

Chapter Three - De rerum natura

Baldwin passed my notebook to me to review. I looked over my glasses to glance at how much was on the page. I had to assume the translations of the manuscript were accurate. At the bottom of the page he had left me several doodles, one of which was me holding a glass in one hand and what looked like a pair of sunglasses in the other.

I looked up at him, smiling without humour. “Focus please.” I turned back to my work, gently turning over the next page to reveal another set of beautifully preserved pages.

“Oh, I am focused,” he said huskily. “Wish I could say the same for you.”

My heart thudded once, very hard, at the statement. He wasn’t wrong, but I did not want to give him an ounce of satisfaction.

I had spent ample amounts of the night sneaking glances at where his knee barely touched mine, and how the muscles beneath his trousers twitched each time my palazzo pants brushed up against him. I had caught him glancing up at me also, only once but I could feel his cold gaze once in a while, and he would rub his bottom lip against his teeth as he held my gaze briefly. I’d quickly draw my gaze back to the manuscript.

We were in a moment of peeking at one another when a knock came at the door.

I leaned back in my seat, pulling open the door. My colleague, Dr. Henry Ashton, reared his head into the room. His mop of chestnut hair made him look exceptionally boyish, as did his round glasses and casual attire. He insisted in teaching classes in Iron Maiden shirts and Birkenstocks, which set him apart in the department already. It made him fit better with many of the sociology profs, not with the old-school philosophers. He was the youngest, but one of the sharpest professors I had experienced in a long time.

His smile faded a tad when he spied Baldwin.

“Oh, Nora, I didn’t realize you had a research aid,” Henry said, rolling the sleeve of his cardigan up absently.

“He’s no one, just a friend helping me with translation work,” I said, waving in his direction. I practically felt Baldwin bristle at the statement.

“Could I steal Dr. Germaine? Two secs,” Henry pulled at my blouse gently as I rose. I felt Baldwin’s glare on my back as I shut the door on him.

Henry turned on me quickly, whispering madly. “Are you crazy?!”

“Having a translator? Henry it’s just some etymological w-“

“That’s. Not. The point. He is bad news, Nora. Like bad news bears,” Henry said, tapping my hand with each word to add emphasis. I pulled my hand away, feeling a gentle zap with each point of contact.

“He’s… Odd. And new. But he has already helped me get back on track with this research. I really appreciate it,” I said, surprising myself at coming to this man’s defense.

Henry bit into his thumbnail. “How often have you seen him around? Like has he shown up at your office, or your grocery store? Seen you at the gym?”

I sighed. “I forgot to tell you; my leg has been acting up again. My physio said no gym for a while,” I said, putting my hands in my pockets. “Anyway, no, not really. He spoke to me about my studies last time I was in to work with the primaries, and that’s how it came up that he was a translator.”

I felt bad for lying, but really, Henry was over reacting.

Henry glared at me, knowing I was not being truthful with him. I didn’t think it good to be an effective liar, but life had made me into someone regrettably well-versed in twisting the truth. Henry managed to call me out, even in a flustered state.

“You should know you can’t lie to me. Why would you try? He’s basically stalking you, isn’t he?”, Henry snapped at me, and I felt my hair float with static. “You fucked your leg again, and now this… Man is coming around like you’re a wounded deer. Listen to my reasoning!”

I crossed my arms, growing agitated from his anger. “Henry, I am fine. I can deal with one guy.”

Baldwin chose that moment to open the sliding door. “I think you need to go,” he said coldly to Henry.

Henry sputtered but couldn’t get out a word as he was dwarfed by Baldwin’s height. He gazed up him defiantly, but with much less of the gusto he had possessed prior to the third party making himself known.

“Ashton, I really just need to get my work done. I’ll be here for months without aid. Just let it be, please.”

He looked at me briefly, then adjusted his shoulder bag roughly. “Fine. Just remember I warned you.”

“Talk to you later?”

“Not likely. Bye, Nora,” he said gruffly as he walked into the shelves beyond the study rooms.

I noticed a group of younger students poking their heads around the corner at the scene, one of them quickly ducking away when I looked their way. Drama on floor three was not unheard of when students had become stressed enough, but some of them would surely recognise us as staff. Great.

I turned on my heel and sat back down at my chair with a huff, trying to appear engrossed in my work yet again.

Baldwin remained at the door. “…Are you alright?

“No, I’m bloody well not. What of it?”, I said quietly, bouncing my knee.

“Well, that was pretty heated. Also, you’re in my seat.” He put a hand where his jacket was across the back of the chair. The seat wasn’t warm considering he had been sitting there only moments before, which was certainly odd. I shrugged and moved the other chair to where he had been sitting.

He quirked an eyebrow.

“What?”

“I think it’s time for supper. Maybe a tall glass of something strong,” he chuckled, taking my sweater from the back of the other chair.

“I really can’t. I still have-“

“A deadline, yes, but you should never work this stressed. We can come right back, monk’s honour,” Baldwin was practically trying to lift me by my armpits as I swatted him away, taking my sweater from him and shrugging reluctantly.

“I feel like you’re constantly getting me to eat,” I say, shutting off the light to the study room as we leave.

He chuckles as he locks the door and hands me the tiny key. “Someone has to. You would certainly waste away attended to your tomes like you do.”

“A true aesthetic, am I,” I snorted bitterly. Considering I lived off of scones and caffeine and had admittedly been eying the (annoying) redhead that had become my companion I was certainly anything but.

As if reading my mind, said redhead grinned wickedly. “You truly are Anthony of the Desert.”

“Oh, Jesus H Christ, I hate that,” I chuckled a little too girlishly. I frowned at the thought of Baldwin growing on me in just a few hours of working together.

Turns out getting me to drink something strong hadn’t taken much work. Baldwin had been rather surprised at my choice of the café around the corner from the university, one that served a broad selection of both vegan dishes and Argentinian wines. Such was the way when providing for a campus of young academics.

We walked into the café just after the evening rush had left, a barista welcoming us as she bussed tables.

“Sit wherever you like, love,” the barista called, totting an oval full of dishes away to the kitchen.

“After you,” Baldwin said, putting out an arm toward the front where overstuffed leather chairs sat by the large windows. It was still warm enough outside that the wrap around porch was still filled with patrons, and so inside was the best for a semi-private dining experience. I had often eaten there out of convenience during times that the only places to put a drink or plate was a stand-alone bar meant for leaning rather than sitting.

I crossed my legs as I sat, a motion I did not miss his eyes following the movement as he sat down gracefully across the squat table from me.

“This is certainly not what I expected from what you told me. You are certain they sell decent vintages here, not just Strawberry Hill and whatnot?”

“Hey, you shouldn’t mock Boons, it has a place in the hearts of many broke students,” I said, flipping idly through the menu as if I did not know what I would be getting. “Should we just get a charcutier to start? They have two different ones to choose.”

He hummed a yes to that, eyes quickly scanning the menu. “They don’t have anything older than 2008,” he said, resting his head against his fist like a frustrated toddler.

I tilted my head. “Well golly, milord, what shall we do?”

He frowned at that, to which I allowed myself a grin.

I looked out the window at just the right moment to see Henry walking quickly past on the opposite side of the street. My stomach turned and I slouched in the seat.

“He probably hates me,” I thought, regretted the odd interaction with my friend. He was usually so level-headed and understanding, certainly already becoming a father figure despite his recent introduction to nurturing undergraduates. I caught Baldwin’s gaze just as the server came to our table, cutting off what interaction may have occurred in that moment.

“What can I get y’all,” the server asked, pen and paper in hand.

#all souls trilogy #a discovery of witches #baldwin de clermont #Baldwin montclair #Diana bishop #original female character #my writing #romance #Matthew clairmont #vampire #witch #slow burn #vaguelybohemian #fan fiction #archive of our own

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qobiin · 5 years ago

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when i fill them, they’ll shine forever | ch 2

pairing: todobakudeku (bakugou x midoriya x todoroki)

genre: angst, fluff | abo au, growing up au, canon-compliant

warnings: swearing, puberty, trans male character, gender dysphoria, blood

word count: 4035

summary: Katsuki being an omega from birth changes a few things.

chapter two of when i fill them, they’ll shine forever

Katsuki wakes up to blood spilling between his legs one morning when he is twelve.

He ends up burning the sheets and searing a hole into his carpet once he realizes what is going on.

His mom yells at him about it, but it’s half-hearted at best. Eventually, she sighs and disappears from his doorway before returning with something purple gripped tight in her hand. She gives him the pad and he looks at the stupid flowers covering it, wanting to scream. He wants to kick and yell and bite and cry.

His life is the fucking worst.

Deku catches onto his bad mood as soon as Katsuki has stepped out the front door but he says nothing as they walk to school. Katsuki would prefer it if he did though, at least it would stop him from getting irritated by feeling Deku’s eyes on him the entire fucking day.

Katsuki’s mood drops during the lunch hour when he has to change his pad and almost has a breakdown right there in the girl’s bathroom. He gets a grip on himself quickly though, absolutely refusing to cry in public. When he emerges from the bathroom - double-checking that no one saw him - and makes his way to their usual table, Deku is already there waiting for him.

His alpha still doesn’t say a word as he sits down, just puts a lunch box in front of him and starts to eat from his own. Katsuki feels like he’s going to vomit, but he pushes his rolling nausea down and brightens considerably once he catches sight of the leafy greens, pomegranate seeds and meat that Auntie Inko prepared for him. There are two rice balls as well, but compared to the six that Deku has in his lunch, it’s not a lot. Which is exactly how Katsuki likes it.

He digs his phone out of his pocket and sends a thank you text to Auntie before he begins to eat.

Deku finishes first and quickly packs up his lunch box. From there, it is almost impossible to ignore Deku’s staring.

“What?” Katsuki asks between bites of his rice ball.

“Do you wanna get ice cream with me after school?”

Katsuki blinks, taken by surprise. “No.”

Deku frowns. “But you’re not busy today, so why not?”

“Because,” Katsuki starts with, mumbling the rest of his sentence.

“Huh?”

Katsuki takes in a deep breath and makes sure his voice is steady. “Because I can’t have dairy products for the next couple of days. Or spicy food. Or caffeinated things.”

Silence greets him, allowing him to drown in nervousness, but it doesn't last for long.

“Okay. Let’s go to the store and buy some fruit instead. I bet Mom will prepare it all for us if we ask nicely,” Deku pipes up, one sole finger tapping against his chin. “If not, then it would be a great time for me to learn. I know you avoid chocolate, but let’s get some of that too. Dark chocolate and bananas sound good, don’t they?”

“I guess,” Katsuki mumbles, picking at his food. “I don’t care.”

Deku hums. “Do you need any aspirin? We could pick that up at the store too if we need to. Or I’m sure Mom wouldn’t mind giving you a few of hers. She gets really painful headaches, so she always keeps aspirin on hand.”

Katsuki sets his chopsticks down, glaring at the table. “Fine.”

“Okay, see you later! I need to go to the library and you need to finish eating or Mom will be disappointed. Bye, Kacchan!” Deku says while picking up his lunch box and scurrying away from the table.

Katsuki watches him go, glad for the time alone and the space that Deku is granting him right now. Deku always knows when Katsuki needs something and always gives it to him if he can. It’s just that Katsuki can’t help but feel guilty.

He never knows what Deku needs and if he does, then he never knows how to give it to him. He’s always left bumbling around, feeling useless and stupid. Katsuki understands that he is not a good omega in the traditional sense and that has never bothered Deku in the least, but sometimes, Katsuki wishes that he was a good, traditional omega. That he knew how to comfort his alpha and when to do it.

Maybe their roles should have been in reverse instead. Maybe-

Katsuki stops that line of thinking in its tracks. He doesn’t want to be Deku’s alpha. He wants to belong to someone, to have a place in a pack and have his mate watching his back. He wants to know without a doubt that he will be taken care of and that the same will be expected of him in return.

He doesn’t know what he would do if he was an alpha instead. Well, that's not right either. He does know what would have happened if he and Deku had been born with each other’s secondary gender. He would have fucked everything up, made things irreparable to the point that Deku would give up. Deku would be his hurt and damaged omega and it would be all Katsuki’s fault. Everything would have fallen into shambles, would have broken and never be glued back together again.

Things are better this way. At least if Katsuki goes too far, he knows that Deku will be able to rein him back in easily.

With his lunch finished, Katsuki packs up and makes his way to the library in search of his alpha.

“Hey, do you want your gift now or in the morning?” Deku asks on Katsuki’s thirteenth birthday.

They’re having a sleepover, sleepy and warm after stuffing themselves full during Katsuki’s party earlier.

Deku had forced him to invite people from school and from the few that actually showed up, they managed to have an alright time. No one was mean or worded things in a way that would make Katsuki bristle with anger. People were nice to his alpha and they even cleared out an hour before Katsuki’s set deadline of kicking them out.

All in all, his birthday was fine. He opened his presents after everyone left and managed to convince their parents to let Deku spend the night. He had pulled out the futon his parents got him soon after he and Deku got too big to share Katsuki’s bed during sleepovers as kids and gave him his favorite pillow. They brushed their teeth side by side in front of the bathroom mirror and Deku changed in the bathroom while Katsuki changed in his room. Deku knocked and waited for a reply before he walked back in and they both climbed under the covers.

Now they are looking up at the ceiling in silence. Katsuki feels tired enough to fall asleep right now but Deku had pulled him aside in the morning and told him that he had a secret surprise for him that he would give to him after the party ended and they got a moment alone together.

“Now, before I fall asleep. We’ll forget about it in the morning,” Katsuki answers, rubbing at his eyes as he sits up in bed.

Deku gets onto his knees and crawls over to his backpack, pulling a long, flat box from it. It’s wrapped in red paper with bombs scattered across it periodically and Katsuki grins at those details before he rips into it.

Beside him, Deku snorts in amusement but doesn’t comment. Katsuki spares him a glance, still grinning and opens the box.

In it is a piece of shiny, black fabric.

“Deku, if you got me a fucking dress, I am going to decapitate you,” Katsuki growls, glaring over his shoulder at his alpha.

Deku only smiles back in reassurance. “Lift it up. Unfold it and you’ll see it’s not a dress. I would never insult you like that.”

Katsuki pulls his lips back and bares his teeth. “It better not be.”

He turns back to the box and picks up the fabric. It’s smooth and shimmery, but not in the way that he expects. When he holds it up in the moonlight, confusion swarms him. He detests dresses and skirts, but a crop top? Seriously? Just what kind of game is Deku playing here? Does he want Katsuki to kill him?

“Did you really wait until we were alone to give me a fucking crop top? Do you have a death wish, you fucking idiot?”

Deku shifts beside him, nervous and twitchy. “It’s not a crop top, Kacchan. It’s a binder.”

The binder falls from his hands and lands back in the box unceremoniously. Katsuki can barely remember to breathe as Deku goes terribly still beside him, the beginning of a mumbling storm already on the tip of his tongue. Katsuki looks at his alpha from the corner of his eye, watching as his face flushes in the dark and the moonlight falls across his hair. Deku's hands twist in his lap, the mumbling storm roaring to life within another instant of silence between them.

“If you don’t like it, I can return it and give you the money I used instead. I just thought you might like it since I overheard Auntie talking to Mom about you outgrowing another sports bra, so I started researching and found out that it’s okay to bind at any age as long as you do it safely. I started saving up then because the good ones are really expensive and I knew a cheap one wouldn’t work and would probably mess with your lungs or something even worse. This one had really great reviews and I didn’t think you would like a full tank top kind of binder, but then I had to wait because they ran out in black and I know you would have hated the other colors available. So then I started worrying that I wasn’t going to be able to get it in time for your birthday, but then two weeks ago, they re-stocked it and I bought it! It came to my house last week and Mom knows because the package got there while we were at school and she opened it to make sure it wasn’t like a bomb or something since you know how paranoid she can be. Which I don’t blame her for ‘cause sometimes villains target random people and it’s better to be safe than sorry, but yeah. She asked if it was for you and I can’t lie to her, so she knows, but she promised she wouldn’t mention it and she asked me if you were thinking about starting hormonal treatment when you’re old enough and I told her I didn’t know. I started doing research on that too and found out you can’t start those until you’re sixteen and only with parent’s permission and only if your doctor isn’t mean about it, which sucks because I don’t think doctors should have that kind of power over people who are trying to be okay with their bodies if they aren’t going to treat those people respectfully and such. I get it if it’s something that would put a person’s life in danger, but I just don’t- Ah!”

Deku only cuts off his long spiel when Katsuki turns and lunges at him. He squeaks in terror and stills as Katsuki throws his arms around him. Katsuki grips him tight, pressing his face into his alpha’s shoulder and inhaling deeply, feeling his eyes burn dangerously.

Another moment passes before Deku’s arms come down around him gently and suddenly Katsuki can’t fight the stupid tears that have been trying to escape him for the last five minutes. He knows Deku starts crying when his alpha sniffs and shifts until they end up lying on the floor, holding onto one another.

Katsuki is quiet as he cries, but Deku tightens his hold on him anyway when he starts shaking and runs a hand through his spiky hair.

“It’s okay. You’re amazing and you deserve to be happy, Kacchan. It’s okay. You can cry. You can be sad if you want to be. I know it hurts, it’s okay. I’m sorry,” Deku chants under his breath, voice cracking multiple times in between sentences.

He almost wants to tell his alpha to shut the fuck up and just let him cry, but the words, his scent, and his embrace are all comforting enough for Katsuki to allow it. Just this once.

Katsuki curls himself further into his alpha and cries himself out, hoping that if he does it now then he won’t do it again when he tries the binder on for the first time.

(He does.)

“You can go straight home today, Kacchan. I have to stay after school for another talk with the school counselor.”

Katsuki frowns at Deku, raising one brow in silent question.

Deku shuffles awkwardly on his side of the lunch table, gaze stuck on the food that he has been picking at for the last twenty minutes instead of actually eating. “She wants me to consider other schools.”

In the sudden silence that befalls their table, Katsuki’s chopsticks snapping in half seem to echo around them. He’s so overcome with an indescribable wave of anger that he barely notices the fact that his palms are starting to smoke too.

“Kacchan, you’re gonna set off the fire alarm again,” Deku’s voice filters in through the omega’s haze of anger.

“I’m going to kill that bitch,” is Katsuki’s only answer.

Deku sighs, continuing to pick at his food now that Katsuki isn’t in danger of exploding their table (again). “Please, don’t. I already told her that it’s where you’re going and I plan to be with my mate, but she keeps insisting. She wants me to either pick more schools to apply to or apply to UA’s general course instead.”

“She can go die for all I fucking care,” Katsuki spits out. “Watch when you become the first fucking quirkless hero and at a stupid interview they ask about your childhood and you bring up that bitch’s name and this stupid, shitty school. They’ll regret the way they’re treating my alpha like he’s some weak, defenseless piece of shit!”

“I think that’s one of the nicest things you have ever said about me, Kacchan,” Deku murmurs, but there is a smile slowly blossoming on his face so Katsuki can hardly feel embarrassed about his outburst.

“Shut the fuck up, nerd. Go tell her that she can fucking suck it.”

Deku laughs, some of his normal behavior beginning to bleed through. Katsuki pats himself on the back for a job well done when Deku acts like he usually does for the rest of the lunch hour.

Once the final bell rings, Katsuki walks over to Deku’s desk and hauls them away into a secluded hallway where no one will bother them. Deku looks confused and smells nervous, but he calms considerably after Katsuki glares at him then pulls him into a tight hug.

They stand there embracing one another while subtly scenting the other, then Katsuki growls under his breath and breaks away.

“See you later, nerd! Mom’s making your favorite tonight, so you better fucking be there,” Katsuki yells over his shoulder.

Deku’s voice is light behind him. “Bye, Kacchan!”

“Why the fuck did I have to fucking come and get it?” Katsuki mutters to himself, kicking a can angrily against the alley wall. “Fucking Deku and his stupid shitty taste in food!”

He knows he doesn’t mean it. He’s just angry his homework time is being cut into right now. All because his mom didn’t have the ingredients she needed for katsudon, Deku’s favorite, which Katsuki had angrily texted her about making tonight under the lunch table when Deku wasn't paying attention.

Whatever. As long as it makes Deku happy.

That’s his last cohesive thought before something dark and sludge-like crawls out of the shadows and engulfs him whole.

After it is all said and done and the stupid heroes have finished ripping Deku a new one, Katsuki finds that he can barely even look at his alpha.

The heroes insist that Katsuki should be looked over by a medical professional, but he’s furious and the last thing he wants to do is take his shirt off in such a public space.

It doesn’t help matters that All Might is smiling and conversing with police and reporters alike, trying to make everything cheery as all hell. It doesn’t accomplish anything except making Katsuki even angrier than before.

Finally, when he is allowed to leave, Katsuki books it. Deku was allowed to leave first and probably decided to not wait up for him, thinking that Katsuki would actually let a paramedic check him out first. Fuck that.

In the distance, a familiar head of dark, curly hair appears and Katsuki kicks it into high gear, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“DEKU!”

He hates how his voice cracks, but there’s no helping it. There is no time either since Deku turns immediately to look at him.

“K-Kacchan! What are you doing?” Deku stutters, face turning bright red as Katsuki advances.

“You’re lucky you’re not dead, you stupid fucking nerd!” Katsuki yells, not caring about how loud he is. “But I’m still going to kill you!”

Deku takes a step back, flushing and stuttering again. “W-What but-?”

Katsuki can feel his hands beginning to smoke and if Deku’s eyes looking down then flickering back up are any indication, then his alpha knows it too, but Katsuki doesn’t give a fuck.

He’s so fucking angry. So pissed off that those heroes were so fucking useless that his quirkless alpha had to jump in to try and save him. They are the reason his alpha thought it was necessary to throw himself into danger and Katsuki was close to blowing his top back in that alley, but in front of his alpha, he can’t keep it together anymore.

See this is the thing. Katsuki isn’t angry that he had to be saved. Well, maybe a little, but it isn't the reason he wants to blow up this entire neighborhood then run back to that alley and beat the shit out of those pro heroes and one sludge villain in particular.

Katsuki is angry because his alpha threw himself into danger that Katsuki could barely handle. He has a powerful quirk, but it did absolutely fucking nothing to stop that villain earlier. Deku is quirkless. Deku is soft and gentle and incapable of not lending someone a helping hand. He’s an alpha, yes, but Deku is so, so fragile. Katsuki knows that his alpha can grow a spine when he fucking wants to and that he can throw a mean punch, especially since they started working out together. Katsuki knows everything about his alpha and that is exactly why when their eyes met, Katsuki was struck dumb with terror because he knew what was going to happen next.

He knew and he was terrified for his alpha.

“You could have gotten hurt, you idiot!” Katsuki spits out, growing angrier when his eyes start burning.

He turns his face away, letting out a deep breath and fighting back the stupid fucking tears. Deku has gone still in front of him. His panicked scent has turned towards confusion and slowly, so slowly that Katsuki can barely recognize it, a growing sense of horror. Both of them do not speak and Katsuki has never felt further apart from his alpha than at this moment.

“You were going to die,” Deku eventually says, finally breaking the stifling silence that had befallen them.

Katsuki feels his hackles rise in defiance and anger again. “You don’t know that! You don’t know shit, you stupid nerd! You had no reason to put yourself in danger like that because of me, Deku!”

Deku steps back like he has been struck, his expression and scent changing quickly. “You’re my mate, Kacchan. I will always do my best to take care of you in any way that I can. Me being quirkless doesn’t change that.”

“That has nothing to do with it! You said I could take care of you, you fucking promised, shithead!” Katsuki growls, advancing rapidly on his alpha with his palms smoking then coming to an abrupt halt as Deku flinches.

Katsuki draws back, looking at the street instead of Deku’s emerald eyes. “I am not more important than you, fucktard. There were heroes there and you didn’t have to do that. Why did you do that? I didn’t need your fucking help and you know that! So why did you run into it anyway?”

He keeps his gaze on Deku’s bright red shoes, his eyes burning fiercer than before. Katsuki does not know what he expects his alpha to say, but it isn’t what he ends up hearing at all.

“You’re my heart, Kacchan,” Deku murmurs, his voice so soft and gentle and Katsuki can’t help the fucking tears that fall down his face then. “That villain attacked me earlier and I almost died. I know firsthand that it might have killed you too. The only thing I could think to myself at the moment was, what am I supposed to do you without you?”

Katsuki feels his head snap up and meets Deku’s watery gaze with his own, suddenly frothing at the mouth angry again. He hates this. He hates this so much and he hates how it’s his alpha who always manages to bring this stupid emotional bullshit out of him when he would rather ignore it all and suffer in silence. But no, Deku has to force it out of him and make him talk about feelings otherwise Katsuki just feels guilty and shitty.

Fuck Deku honestly and fuck stupid ass feelings too!

As if Katsuki wouldn’t have done the same thing. As if Katsuki would not be terrified of losing his mate, alpha, and best friend all in one fell swoop! As if Deku is so fucking noble for throwing himself into danger when all it did was make the situation worse and scare ten years off Katsuki’s life.

“WELL, WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITHOUT YOU? This is a two-way street, motherfucker, and you can’t fucking assume that I would ever want you to get fucking hurt because of me!” Katsuki all but screams, shaking and trembling as tears continue to trail down his cheeks.

Deku is much too calm when he says, “I know. I didn’t mean to imply that your feelings don’t matter, but Kacchan… You would have done the same thing.”

Katsuki doesn’t reply, not deeming that statement worthy of an answer at all because they both know it’s the truth. It is what Katsuki was thinking just mere moments before, what he refuses to speak aloud after all that has already happened today.

He is too tired for this crap. He wants to go home and pretend like the world doesn’t exist for a few hours.

Deku must read it in the slump of his shoulders or the dejected look on his face because soon he’s speaking again and giving Katsuki the escape he needs. “If you want some alone time, I can give you space, Kacchan.”

Katsuki can only make himself nod. Deku gives him a gentle and sincere smile anyway, the kind that makes Katsuki want to punch something.

“Okay… and Kacchan?”

He looks up again, letting their eyes meet. Deku looks rattled and tired, but assured too, something that Katsuki rarely ever sees from his alpha.

“I love you.”

What the fuck?

What.

The.

Fuck.

Absolutely not, Deku can fuck right off with that bullshit. Katsuki wipes his face quickly with the singed sleeve of his uniform and flees.

He runs the rest of the way home, crying again, and when he bursts through his front door, his mom is in the kitchen. His dad isn’t home yet, so he ignores her greeting and runs into his room. Locking the door, he lets his tears fall freely.

He feels so stupid and small, something he abhors with all his might. Ugh.

a/n: if you’re interested about how this is all coming together, check out my #progress-report tag (:

thanks for reading! please remember that my requests are open

#todobakudeku #bakudeku #todobaku #tododeku #bakugou x midoriya x todoroki #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #bnha #chaptered #f:bnha #g:angst #g:fluff #t:chaptered #p:ot3 #p:bakugou/midoriya/todoroki #wifttsf #m: fic

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bluecastleinthesky · 6 years ago

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grad school and adhd feels

Having two planners to just try and make it to things on time and still being late

The rest of your classmates thinking you’re a bit weird/overachiever for starting assignments weeks ahead (because this gives me time to scream at my brain to just do the thing)

Sitting in front of the computer begging your brain to please cooperate so you can write a paper and calling 400 words after 5 hours progress.

The fun game of ‘if I take my meds so I can focus enough to teach I will be hopelessly unable to focus during my night class so how many red bulls must I drink to survive”

The ludicrous amount of money you spend on caffeine

Literally hearing static while trying to follow a group discussion because sensory overload

That fun executive functioning feel when you simply cannot do the thing even thought the thing is important and your advisor is like how can you not do the thing when you can do the other things and its like ???

Laying in bed begging your brain to shut off so you can go the fuck to sleep

Praying you won’t forget a deadline and screw over your students

Questioning the feasibility of writing a thesis because your brain might not cooperate and then you’ll be fucked

Having zero (0) impulse control and ending up in Bolivia or in the future possibly Ireland

Not knowing how to make friends with other grad students because you just can’t focus long enough to commit to a ‘library’ research day and you are too ashamed to have them see you bounce off the walls.

The imminent doom coming from having to get your own insurance which will want to retest you for adhd so you can get your meds that you need to survive or be functional.

#I can't do this #adhd #adhd problems

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my-darkstrangeson · 6 years ago

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And this begins your epilogue, chapter 3

Summary: ever since the fateful day he found his mother’s body, Virgil has been able to interact with ghosts. His newfound sight gives him nothing but strife, so as the years go on he hides his abilities and ignores the ghosts around him. He lives normally, until he moves into his new apartment and finds it's already occupied by some unexpected, incorporeal roommates.

Words: 1223

Tw: descriptions of violence and death (lots of ghosts my dude, lots of ghosts) references to abuse, alcohol mention (I think that’s it but if not let me know!)

A/N: I’m tired rn so the tag list comes tomorrow, sorry y’all

“Doesn't this guy have taste?” He’ll moan, floating upside down as the original Willy wonka and the chocolate factory plays. “Everyone knows that the remake is better!”

Virgil ignores him, choosing to hum along as Gene Wilder sings about imagination. It’s a rare night that he doesn't have any essays or papers due, and he intends to enjoy it before going back to caffeine filled, deadline induced stress.

“I mean, come on!” The ghost continues dramatically. “Just look at the oompa-loompas!”

“Roman.” The other ghost says, slightly annoyed, “are you actually complaining about the visual aesthetic of this movie?”

Roman shushes him loudly, but he falls silent after that.

_____

A few weeks after moving in, Virgil is finishing a paper that should have been done yesterday when he senses the presence over his shoulder. He inwardly groans, expecting more of Roman’s antics, but instead there’s just silence for a few seconds until a voice mutters next to him.

“That's an interesting interpretation of the text.” The voice Virgil recognizes as Logan says quietly, “though, I have to wonder if additional reading of…”

The ghost continues on as Virgil types, and Virgil is silently remembering some of the books Logan mentions, because he seems to know his literature, and Virgil needs an A in this class.

He spends an hour the next day researching the writers and philosophers that Logan mentioned, citing them in his paper. There’s actually a lot of interesting ideas, ones that go in-depth on concepts his professor mentioned. He adds at least two pages to his paper with the information gained.

When his essay is handed back, a large red “A” followed by a smiley face is scrawled just above the title.

_____

Virgil is going crazy trying to find where his headphones went. He’s searched everywhere: in his car, under his mattress, in his bag, behind the toilet, inside the fridge. They’re just gone, poof! Out of existence. He suspects the ghosts; it seems like something Roman would do to annoy him. But he hadn't boasted about how clever he was, or how good he hid the headphones, which is suspicious because Roman lives to brag. He’s about to give up, when the aforementioned ghost throws his hands in the air.

“That’s it! I’m going to help him look!” The ghost says, and sure enough he begins to float around, lifting pillows and opening cabinet doors. “This is far too frustrating to watch!”

Together they search every last nook and cranny, and just as Virgil is about to call it quits and buy another pair Roman lets out a triumphant yell.

“Found them!” He says, floating over Virgil’s desk. The pencil jar that sits there behind to wobble, and Roman pushes it off the edge of the table with a loud clang!

Sure enough, Virgil’s headphones spill out amongst the brightly colored assortment of pens and pencils. How they got there Virgil doesn't know, but he’s glad to finally fund them. Pretending to be curious, he slowly approaches the spilled contents of the jar and picks of the headphones. He gives a fake “huh” of confusion, before shrugging and tucking the headphones into his bag.

“There,” Roman says, satisfied, floating inches from his face. “Now we don't have to watch him pace about. It was beginning to grate on my nerves.”

“It sounds more like your growing fond of him.” Logan says from some part of the apartment. Sometimes Logan will seem to disappear, sinking into the walls in another room for an hour or two before reappearing. Whatever he does, it doesn't cause Virgil trouble, so he pays it no mind when Logan isn't to be found.

“I am not!” Roman objects loudly, turning away from Virgil. “It’s simply ridiculous to think that I would be growing fond of anyone!”

Logan hums, unconvinced. Virgil brushes the exchange off as the two just bickering, but he does have to wonder if Roman’s reason for helping was actually the truth.

_____

It’s dark, far too dark, and Virgil feels like iron chains are strapped around his chest, tightening with each breath he takes. The nightmare he managed to rip himself out of is still replaying over in his mind, roiling and frothing like a vengeful wave out to drag him under and keep him there.

You’re okay. He whispers to himself in the unnerving silence of his room. You’re okay, you're okay, your okay.

But words don't stop the visions creeping into the torn edges of his mind, demanding to be seen. He’s drowning in his fears, black liquid seeping into his lungs, stealing his breath and choking his lungs like overgrown weeds.

There’s a sound from the kitchen, a slamming door and the sound of the tap switching on and off. He can't deal with their antics right now, not when he’s drowning in his own mind, not when the monsters of his dreams are grabbing at his sheets like desperate men thrown into the sea, fighting through a raging storm, drowning, drowning, drowning.

Breathe, he tells himself, just breathe and it’ll be okay. He shuts his eyes tight, curls up where the bed meets the corner of the wall, and tries to quiet his mind.

A thump on the cardboard box he uses for a bedside table draws his attention, and when he looks up a steaming mug is sitting there. The door shuts with a click as Virgil reaches for the cup. The gentle scent of chamomile greats him and he takes a sip, letting the warmth soak into him.

_____

“Hey Logan, look at this!”

Virgil is tapping away at his laptop when Roman shouts from the kitchen. Moments later, a loud crash resounds through the small apartment, and Virgil sighs, pulling himself up to survey the damage.

When he gets to the kitchen, Roman is hovering over the ground, shattered bits of porcelain scattered in the kitchen tile.

“Roman!” Logan scolds, floating in to view the mess. “Petty pranks are harmless, but destruction of property is going too far!”

“I didn't mean to!” Roman exclaims. He sounds genuinely distressed. “I was trying to see if I could still juggle! And I could, by the way, I just got distracted.”

Virgil shakes his head and kneels down to pick up the shattered remains of the mug, but he’s interrupted by a spectral hand scooping up the remains and depositing them in the garbage.

“Sorry.” Roman whispers, low enough to escape Logan’s ears, but not Virgil’s. Than the ghost is back to his jubilant self, loudly proclaiming “there! I cleaned it up! Happy now, Microsoft nerd?”

Virgil doesn't acknowledge the quiet apology, but he appreciates it all the same.

#logan sanders #roman sanders #patton sanders #virgil sanders #sanders sides #ghost au

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some-cookie-crumbz · 7 years ago

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What a Brew-Tiful Night

What a Brew-Tiful Night Fandom: Naruto Pairing: SasuSaku Summary: Coffee Shop AU. Sasuke works at a local coffee shop and hates basically everything about it. Except for the cheery, polite young woman that comes in. She’s okay. AN: This is the first snippet of the infamous Coffee Shop AU that my dear friend, @jaz-draws-stuff, drew some absolutely amazing art work for, which you can find [here], [here], [here], [here], [here] and [here]! Give her a follow and check her out all of her amazing artwork (if you haven’t already because she is so, so, so fucking amazing I swear she should have everyone on this site eating from her palm~!!)

He doesn’t normally get invested in the lives or well-being of his customers.

This is primarily because he normally hates the customers that come in to Bean Time of Youth. They are stupid, rude, bossy, picky, or any mash up of the four options. Most of his customers are the kind that will cut him off midway through a question or greeting because they are impatient. Most of his customers don’t know how many shots of what they want in their drinks, or what size they want, or what different flavor variables they offer. Most of his customers come in on cell phones and then have the nerve to shush him when he tries to take their order when they shouldn’t have even come up to the register if whining about some trivial bullshit was that important.

This woman is nothing like the rest of his customers.

She always comes in practically glowing, like the moon and stars on a clear evening in summer, regardless of the time of day. Hell, even when she comes in after using the campus gym to crank out a quick session she looks and sounds fresh as a daisy. She always waits for his prompts and is always polite yet concise with her responses. He knows what her three preferred menus items are - Cinnamon Dolce Latte, Caramel Raspberry Macchiato, and the house brew coffee with one shot of French Vanilla creamer and two scoops of Splenda – and he can typically get a read on what kind of day she’s going to have based on her request – classes all day, two classes and a few hours interning at the local hospital, and a heavy assignment load from her classes with deadlines pressed together in a claustrophobic time frame from one another, respectively – because he genuinely likes getting to engage with her. He actually even remembers her name and always spells it right.

Sakura. It suits her well, with her floral colored hair and leafy tinted eyes.

He’s just getting ready to end his shift when she comes up to place her order. She’s normally not in so late – the clock reads that it’s eight pm and the latest he’s seen her is four – and she actually looks tired. She plasters on a smile and greets him in a voice that still carries some of her usual cheer, but it seems significantly muted. He can get a better look at her as he writes down her name and order – a pure black coffee with two shots of espresso – and he can see the bags starting up under her eyes. They’re in the faintest stages of turning from purplish-grey to black and easily overlooked by someone who isn’t paying attention.

Not that Sasuke Uchiha was paying attention to some random girl. That would be absurd.

She keeps staring out at the darkened streets as she waits, shifting her weight and biting her lower lip slightly – shifting because both legs are worn down from her working and gnawing on her lower lip to keep a yawn under wraps. He knows the tell-tale signs of exhaustion all-too well. He mixes the drink up and pauses, taking a beat to think, before scrawling a small note just a bit below her name. He covers it up with the cardboard overlay used to keep the coffee’s heat from burning the customer’s hands.

Not that he doesn’t want her to see the note; he just doesn’t want her to see it while he’s around.

“Sakura,” He calls calmly, resisting the urge to snicker at how she actually flinches out of surprise. She walks over and doesn’t bear a hint of embarrassment; either pretending she didn’t just jump, pretending he didn’t see her jump, or honestly not knowing he witnessed the jump, he figures. She takes the cup carefully with a smile and muttered thanks, and he decides to bite the bullet. “You waiting for someone?”

She perks up, blinking twice in slight surprise at the question, before smiling again and shaking her head. “Nah. Just dreading the walk to the campus library,” She says.

He quirks an eyebrow. “You’re going to the campus library at eight at night?”

“Hm. I have two research papers due a week from today and need to have at least six sources per paper. Plus the library is open until eleven, so I figure why not take advantage?” She hums back, taking a sip of her coffee. She doesn’t even flinch from the taste.

He knows she can take care of herself. He’s seen the light muscle definition on her arms and legs when she comes in from the gym or when it’s warmer outside – again, not that he was looking or anything – so she could protect herself from any potential attackers. Even still, he can’t stop himself from opening his mouth to ask, “Want some company on the walk there?”

“Oh, I should be fine. I wouldn’t want to be a nuisance,” She says with a small laugh, but what he can’t help but think is a note of hope resides there, as if she’s trying to be polite but actually wants him to insist on escorting her.

He’s figures he may as well take what he thinks is an invitation and see where it gets him.

“I actually live in the dorms so it’s on the way. As long as you don’t mind waiting for a few while I clock out and finish something in the back,” He explains just as he hears the restroom door open. Suigetsu had ditched Sasuke up front to clean the bathroom before he had a chance to protest.

Admittedly, it seemed it had worked out in his favor in this case.

“As long as you’re sure you’re okay, I don’t mind waiting,” She beams, her smile back to its usual level of vibrancy. He turns away and nods to hide the blush creeping up along his cheeks, Suigetsu waltzing back behind the counter with a knowing grin on his lips.

It takes him less than five minutes to punch his time card and ditch his work smock. When he steps out, Sakura is giggling about something Suigetsu said that must have been about him with how they both go silent when he steps out. They watch him for a moment before Suigetsu disappears to start taking apart one of the machines, whistling inconspicuously, and Sakura turns her full attention to him. “Ready?” He asks.

“Hm,” She agrees. He makes sure to hold the door for her as they leave, pausing to send a warning glare at Suigetsu. The other male grins cheekily and blows him a kiss.

Because of course he would, the smug prick.

They walk in silence for the first block, Sasuke with his hands shoved in his pockets and Sakura still cradling the coffee she’s been nursing slowly. He glances at her sideways. “How do you stomach that stuff?”

She perks up, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. “What? You mean the coffee?”

He nods. “I can get why you have your usual drinks because they have flavors and creams and things to make them have an actual taste. But just the black coffee… I wasn’t expecting it,” He admits calmly.

“Well,” She says after taking another quick sip, “it’s not my first choice, honestly. When I actually go out and pick up a coffee I normally prefer getting the mixed drinks. But I really need the caffeine since I need to get this research started and have an early morning shift tomorrow.”

“Your internship, right? How’s that going for you?” He remembers they had talked about it a handful of times over the last few weeks. Monday’s were Sasuke’s longest days, where he worked from opening at six to five in the evening, which earned him a thirty minute lunch break. The last three Monday’s, when he was on his break, Sakura had been settled in the café working on homework and some documents for her internship. Because Monday’s were ridiculously busy, Sasuke had been forced to take the available seat at her table – and Kiba made more than his fair share of comments about how Sasuke had never complained about sitting with her – and from there they’d talked a little bit to fill the time. Specifically, he remembers being impressed when she admitted to having a part-time job, taking six classes, and working an internship under a Dr. Kato.

“Really good! A lot of the kids have been feeling better and had a lot more energy to play, which is so great! Little kids shouldn’t be stuck in hospital beds on machines and stuff, you know?” She gushes excitedly. He nods slightly, keeping his surprise well masked. He hadn’t known that she worked in the children’s ward, but it did make sense to him. Someone like her, with boundless energy and patience; a woman who carried herself with confidence and had a sincere smile for anyone she crossed paths with? Children would absolutely respond and benefit from that kind of genuine warmth. “It’s just… It feels good to see them acting like children. Getting to see them play around with their parents and each other, seeing the relief and joy in the parent’s face, being able to give others that sense of security that things are going to be okay... It feels good to know you can help make their lives a little brighter.”

He smiles at her, feeling warmth at the enthusiasm and sincerity to her words. “You’re really passionate about your work,” He comments.

“Well, it makes sense, I think. If you aren’t passionate about the field you’re studying, then what’s the point in going for that career?” She answers lightly. She then waves one hand and takes another swig from her coffee. “But what about you? You live in the dorms so you must be a student here. Why hadn’t you mentioned that to me before? And what are you studying?”

“I don’t really want to talk about that,” He snaps, his tone much harsher than he intended. She winces a bit and her smile falls but she doesn’t look away from him. He averts his gaze for a moment to try and regain himself. He shouldn’t lash out at her for asking innocent questions and keep the conversation going. She’s not the one that frustrates him, after all. “Ah, sorry. I just… It’s kind of a touchy subject,” He mumbles softly, not even daring to look back over at her. He should have known this would happen, really, and its his own fault. He always gets pissed when people ask about this, regardless of how they phrase it. He expects they’ll enjoy awkward silence the rest of the walk to the campus and then she’ll start avoiding coming in during his shifts.

Instead she sips her coffee again and says, voice calm and understanding, “It’s okay. So, have any funny customer stories from today?”

They fall into easy, casual chatter after that, talking about various topics from the obnoxious customers of the day to Sakura’s childhood incident that left her terrified of clowns. It all comes so natural and easy, like relaxing with a cup of warm tea after a particularly rough day. He feels immensely grateful that she didn’t take his bark personally and was so eager to let the matter drop, to have someone not try to push and press answers out of him. They part ways once they get about halfway across the quad, the dorms and library being on opposite ends from one another, but as he heads off he notices her removing the little cardboard cover on her coffee cup. He ducks around a nearby corner, just barely watching over to see her reaction.

She’s dropping the cardboard cover into the trash when she spots the black ink marks of a note on her cup, just under her name.

Sakura

Doing a good job shouldn’t mean you neglect your own well-being. Don’t forget to look after yourself every now and then.

She blinks three times before giggling, a faint blush reaching her cheeks. “I knew he was a sweetheart under that grumpy face,” She mused happily, readjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder before heading toward the library. Around the corner, Sasuke can feel the rush of heat signaling that a blush is settling over his cheeks and the tips of his ears, but there’s a smile there too.

After all, she thinks he’s a sweetheart.

#Naruto #SasuSaku #Sakura Haruno #Sasuke Uchiha #Coffee Shop AU #my fics

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