#do accented letters count on tumblr???

[yyamssoup]

the king of fighterrrrrr (in the same cadence as the squirterrrrrrrrrr)

[intoxicated-chan]

Letters Keep Me Warm

♡o。.✿ฺ Paring // Simon “Ghost” Riley x GN!Reader

♡o。.✿ฺ Summary // Johnny catches sight of Ghost writing to a special someone.

♡o。.✿ฺ (A/n) // Inspired by “Gunslinger” by Avenged Sevenfold. Again Tumblr is being a huge pain. Is anyone else having problems with Tumblr?

♡o。.✿ฺ Word Count // 413

♡o。.✿ฺ Content Warnings // Gender neutral reader, established relationship, very fluffy…

“For someone who seems cold…” Johnny peers over Ghost’s shoulder, “You do love writing letters to this (Y/n).” He dodges Ghost’s fist, “Sorry mate!” He nervously laughs, keeping a good distance between him and Ghost.

“What do you want, Johnny?”

“Jus’ wanted to see what was keepin’ you busy.”

Ghost continues to ignore Johnny’s questions, whacking him whenever he gets too close. He sealed the letter, writing the address and sending it off. It wasn’t long before Johnny began telling Gaz about his findings, but it was only him who had the nerve to pester Ghost about it. That’s until…

“Letter for Ghost!” A soldier shouted, the letter in hand. Ghost didn’t bother to silence the soldier, all he cared about was the letter.

He found a private spot, ripping open the envelope.

Sorry for writing so late. I would’ve written sooner if it wasn’t severe weather. Don’t worry, everything is perfectly fine. Now I hope this letter arrives on time. I got your book that you ordered, should’ve known you were into the sickening love story of friends to lovers. Classic Simon. The puppy you brought before is doing well, she’s quite an eater.

But I’m sure you didn’t wait months for my letter just to hear about the puppy, even though you do have a soft spot for her. I miss you, Simon, and even though it’s your job, I can’t help but worry. I trust you, and I know you always come home. I’ll be waiting for you.

With love, (N/n)

P.S, a ‘friend’ of yours stopped by, it was hard to understand what he was saying because of his scottish accent.

“You’re not a lap dog!” You wince and laugh, watching the large dog get comfortable on your lap. You didn’t have the heart to tell her to get down, she was too cute!

Simon’s letter, you held tightly onto that, afraid to let it go.

Hey love, I know I was supposed to arrive weeks ago but we got held back. This will probably be the last letter before I have to go dark again. I know it’s difficult for you, and I’m sorry. I’m just happy that you are willing to wait for me. You know writing small isn’t my best ability and with this small paper, there’s only so much I can tell you but, I will forever love you.

From, Ghost

It was clear from the start how little information Ghost tries to leave behind, he’s worried about enemies intercepting the letters. Which is why you sighed with a nickname and not your full name.

P.S, the ‘friend’ won’t bother you anymore.

“What?” You stared at the letter, confused, flipping around trying to find out what he meant.

“I don’t know what yer talking about.” Johnny silently snickers, “I haven’t left the base in the past week.”

“I ain’t talking about the past week, I’m talking about the past few months.” Ghost crosses arms as he glares at Johnny, “How’d you find her?”

Johnny jumps to his feet with a cocky smile on his face, “Let’s just say it’s a brother’s intuition.”

© Intoxicated-Chan, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without permission.

…

[cramberrytea]

How Could an Angel Break My Heart?

Characters: Kaidan x Kimiya (Original Character)

Summary: Doesn't absence make the heart grow fonder? For Kimiya's sake she hoped that wasn't the case. She hoped that those several years apart would assist her in forgetting about their shared past. However, upon seeing her childhood friend chained and shackled in an abandoned prison those hopes were turned to ash.

Word Count: 1,716

Warnings: Slight Angst, Kimiya being slightly hungover. (am i doing this right?)

A few wee notes:

first off i'm ngl this is my first time posting on here. Please give me grace while I try to be aesthetic, and learn tumblr etiquette.

second, the main character is a redguard woman (she's black y'all). while i describe her in detail please feel free to envision her however you'd like.

first few chapters are on the shorter side! sorry!

title is from the song "How Could an Angel Break My Heart" by toni braxton and babyface

Chapter 1 (Kimiya)

⋆｡‧˚ʚChapter 2ɞ˚‧｡⋆

───✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧────✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧────✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧────✩₊⁺⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧───

　

With trembling hands, she gripped the parchment. The words were blurry from the tears in her eyes obscuring the image. But that didn’t matter, as she read the letter five times over. She knew, even through blurry eyes, exactly what each word said.

Even when the tears began to fall onto the words, smudging them beyond recognition, she knew what they said. She slid down the wall, her naked body trembling. Her cheeks and neck wet with fresh tears. Her wails bounced off the wood walls, as she clawed at her chest. The pain was so deep, too deep to get to. That didn’t stop her from trying.

She looked back down at the letter in her hands. It was torture reading this over and over again, but she had to understand. There had to be something she missed. So she read it again…’Dear—‘

“Kimiya” A loud voice with an accent called out. At the sound of her name, the said woman jolted up out of her modest single bed. Her voluminous hair slanted into the shape the pillow forced it into. Several loose pieces of hay protrude outwards from her curly tresses in various locations. Under normal circumstances she would have applied her moisturizer and oils and braided her hair back. However last night was anything but a normal circumstance. Well, it actually was.

The soft clink of empty bottles of mead colliding helped remind her of the events from last night.

“By the Nine lass, this place is a sty. You really oughta clean up around here” Kimiya pried her eyes open. Crust from the intense sleep she had, and the tears she let out while unconscious, made it hard to finally open her eyes. Her eyes turned directly towards the red headed figure at the door to her room.

She whines, throwing herself back onto her pillow, attempting to go back to sleep.

“Fuck off Brynjolf. It’s your fault.” She grumbles out, her words muffled by the pillow covering her entire face.

“How so?” He teased leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t recall doing anything.”

“You were the one who challenged me to that stupid…hhhuhhm…challenge!” Kimiya tiredly argued. “You claimed you could drink me under the table! No way was I gonn…a let that slide! That’s defamation of character!” She continued pointing at him lazily.

“Speaking of, I believe I am owed 20 gold.” He says walking closer into the room. Stepping over the several bottles of Black-Briar Mead, and the occasional Honningbrew. Kimiya slaps a small sack of 20 gold into Brynjolf’s calloused hands, with way more force than necessary.

“You can add it to the grocery fund.” She says venomously from the same position on her bed.

He retraced his steps, over the empty bottles and back to the doorway.

“Great idea, I’m running to the market. Need anything?” He asks before he exits the room.

“More sleep.”

“It’s past noon, lass.”

“What that got to do with me?”

Brynjolf nodded. “Noted.”

Everything was quiet once Brynjolf left the house. As much as Kimiya tried her best to drift back off to sleep, her eyes remained locked on the wooden beams above her head. Another dream. Her eyes drifted down towards the wall, and her eyebrows furrowed as images from her dream resurfaced. The dream was closer to a memory than an actual dream. It makes sense that it would manifest in such a way, she thinks about what happened every day.

She hadn’t realized she’d been laying in bed so long until she heard rapid footsteps coming closer and closer to her room. Her door swung open, slamming into the wall beside it. At the sound of the collision Kimiya bolted up in her bed, her hand sliding under her pillow and grabbing her dagger in one fell swoop. She was ready to attack, until she saw her roommate.

“Maven’s here.” He says basically hanging on the doorknob of Kimiya’s room, before running back out.

At the realization that her employer was present at her house she jumped out of bed. Immediately running to her dresser, grabbing a pair of brown pants. She haphazardly stepped into her pair of pants, flopping onto the corner of her bed tugging her pants up to her waist. However at the sound of Brynjolf’s voice she stopped halfway.

“Maven, it’s a pleasure to see you—“

“Cut the pleasantries Brynjolf, where’s Kimiya?” Maven’s icy voice replies.

“She’s—“

Kimiya comes hastily jogging down the steps, into the dining room, where Maven and Brynjolf were located. The sound of thumping and colliding against furniture could be heard by the two in the dining room. Finally Kimiya bolts straight into the dining room. Her pants were hanging just below her butt, however her long flowy shirt covered it completely. Kimiya kept her legs wide in an attempt to keep her pants from sliding down her legs.

“Right here.” Brynjolf finishes.

“Kimiya,” Maven starts, turning her attention towards the woman who just entered the room.

The raven haired woman eyes Kimiya with a raised brow.

“Your stance is uncomfortably wide this morning.” She finishes before continuing on as if it was beneath her to notice. Brynjolf looked at his roommate with a look that read “what are you doing?!”

“I need you in Whiterun.” The air in the room grew stale as Kimiya’s heart dropped at the command, it would be a surprise if anyone didn’t hear it. “Sabjorn has once again declined my generous offer for a merger. I need you to gather information and report back to me. Do you understand me?”

Kimiya nods, soaking in the information.

“Loud and clear, ma’am.”

Maven nods in acknowledgement before turning towards the front door, however before she exited she turned towards Kimiya.

“And, do clean yourself up. You smell like the inside of an empty bottle of mead.” She finishes, glancing over at Kimiya with a quirked eyebrow. She didn’t miss the way Kimiya’s nostrils flared and the corners of her lips turned downwards into a slight scowl. Maven directed her brief attention which was on Kimiya back towards the door before gracefully exiting the home.

Kimiya bore into the door where Maven was previously, attempting to shoot a laser out of her eyes and into the unsuspecting skull of said woman. Sadly such things were impossible, so she had to use her imagination.

Kimiya let out an exasperated sigh once so tired herself out with the mental image of frying Maven’s head off, she leaned back onto the wall beside her. The slight shift in her body caused her loose hanging pants to slide down to her ankles with a plop.

Brynjolf watched as the pair of pants pooled at her ankles, he stared for a moment before looking up at his roommate with a deadpan look on his face.

“You couldn’t even put your pants on right, lass?”

Kimiya scoffed, stepping out her pants. “I was in a time crunch. Would you rather have me come down with no pants at all?” She grabbed the pair off the ground.

The lack of an answer from Brynjolf, was an answer within itself.

“Stop that.”

“I mean three years ago that would have been a definite yes.”

Before he could finish his sentence Kimiya was already walking up the steps back to her room

“I’m not listening to you!” She yells back. At the sound of her door slamming he let out a snicker.

Kimiya fell on her bed with a grunt. Maven’s words “I need you in Whiterun.” echoed in her mind, almost tauntingly. Her heart hammered in her chest at the thought of being… there. There’s no way to get around it, negotiating with Maven is futile and a waste of energy. She stared at the wood walls beside her. Memories flooded her mind and her lips crinkle into a frown, however she sits up and pushes herself up off the bed, stone faced.

After about 2 hours Kimiya finally came back down. She plopped her brown and gold pack on the table next to where Brynjolf was eating. She grabbed a few apples from the table, stuffing them in the bag.

“Headed out already?” He asked looking up from his plate, and towards the woman in light leather armor. A corset hugged her torso, not tight enough to be uncomfortable or anything. Her sleeves came down to her wrists, however the front part came to her knuckles. The sleeves were split down the middle and bound together by string, from her shoulders down to her wrists. Her boots came up to her mid thigh, stopping before her harness which sat on her upper thigh. Her voluminous hair was parted into several braids, which ran down her chest.

“Yeah, pretty sure Mavens orders weren’t to be done at my leisure.” She sighs, shrugging her bow over her shoulder, and shoving a dress in her pack with unneeded force. Brynjolf nods knowingly, attempting to take her mind elsewhere he starts on his list.

“Health potions?”

“Yeah, got five.”

“Stamina potions?”

“Also five.”

“Change of clothes”

“Yup.”

“Water skin?”

“Got it…wait.”

Brynjolf gave Kimiya a knowing look as she jogged upstairs to her room to grab her empty waterskin. Once she finally came down the steps she hooked the water skin onto her belt. “Got it.” She says with a triumphant smile.

“I see that.” He nods with a small amused smirk.

After the two had finally finished up their impromptu checklist Kimiya swung her bag over her shoulder.

“Well, roomie, I’m off.” she says as she extends an arm out towards Brynjolf. The redhead stands up from his chair wrapping his arm around her waist bringing her into a side hug. However before she could pull away, he put his hands on her shoulders holding her steady. His emerald eyes looking into her brown ones.

“You’ll be fine, you won't be there for long.” He says looking into her eyes, as if he was trying to force what he was saying into her brain. Kimiya pressed her lips into a firm line as she recalls her job, the task ahead, and the strenuous emotional regulation ahead. Brynjolf squeezes her shoulder as he looks down at her despondent expression. He exhales through his nose, rubbing her arm in comfort.

[purplesurveys]

1785

Do you know a James? I have a second cousin named James! He lives in New Zealand, though, and only visits home every few years. I first met him when he was a few weeks old, then the next time he was already like 10. I haven't seen him again since and I'm guessing he'll be in college or whatever the third time they come back to the Philippines.

Have you ever been to Australia? If not, would you like to? I haven't and I'd love to, but tbh it's also not really at the top of my list. I'm not really sure what I'd want to see/experience there.

Have you ever been diagnosed with a mental illness? Haven't been diagnosed but I'm sure I have one or two hanging out in my head lol.

If you had to choose to have a different accent than the one you have now, what accent would you choose and why? Idk, I'm fine with the accent I have.

New York or California? New York, easily.

Have you ever or do you currently live in a Gated Community? I do and always have.

Who was your last text from? An incredibly late automated OTP that I don't even need anymore.

Do you know how to use a DSLR camera? Yes, I owned one as a teenager. Tumblr made photography this super hip hipster thing in the early 2010s lol and it made me beg my dad to get me a DSLR camera, even though I didn't have a clue how to use one. Long story short I found photography boring and I ultimately passed the camera to my sister, who ended up as the one into arts.

If you had to choose one instrument to perfect, what instrument would you choose? Piano.

Have you ever owned an Axolotl? Nope.

What has been the longest amount of time you’ve spent on a plane? Bali was around 4 hours. As much as I'd love to travel the rest of the world, those 20+ hour flights PLUS LAYOVERS sound dreadful.

How often do you use Snapchat? Whoa. I haven't used Snapchat since college, around 2017ish. I remember Angela and I trying to bring it back when the pandemic had *just* started but it didn't catch on.

What does your last text say? It's just an automated message that sent me an OTP.

Have you ever played Habbo? I saw the ads like a million times but never played it.

What about Runescape? Nope.

Have you ever heard of the band Mumford & Sons? If yes, do you like their music? I have, but I've never heard anything of theirs.

Have you ever kissed anyone starting with the letter A, C, N, T or K? No.

Have you ever used Valium before? I have not.

What time is it where you’re from? 11:39 PM.

Have you ever adopted an animal from an animal shelter? Yes, Arlee was from PAWS.

Where do you usually find Surveys from? On my dash. I used to look for surveys on Bzoink, but there was a period this year where I couldn't take surveys for a couple of weeks and by the time I came back there were tons of new, interesting ones on my dash. Ever since then I've always just been playing catch-up on my feed and I haven't opened Bzoink in months now.

Australia or New Zealand? Tbh I'd rather save the money lolol I honestly don't know which one to pick and I don't find either worth the visa hassle. I guess if anything uh New Zealand? then go to the spots BTS visited from Bon Voyage hah.

Have you ever missed a flight? Never.

What is your best friend’s middle name? I'm not sharing that.

How do you feel about the passing of Aretha Franklin? I was shocked, but it didn't affect me heavily.

Did you enjoy any of her music? Can't say I was a passionate fan of her music. It's just not something I was regularly exposed to so I've been largely unfamiliar for the most part.

What is your favourite film from your childhood? Toy Story and it's still my favorite kids' movie.

Kanye West or Drake? If we're doing brutal honesty I'd go with Kanye but all the shit he's said and done equally cancels him out, so I'll go with Drake by default lol.

Do you know anyone who is named after a state? I used to work with a girl named Jersey, if that counts.

What was the reason for your previous doctor’s visit? Shots for a dog bite.

Have you ever been to an outdoor cinema? Nope. Too hot and too many flies LOL.

Have you ever had a “bad trip”? If yes, what happened? Idk if this even counts as one because I blacked out so quickly it was almost embarrassing, but what happened was I took a big puff of that cannabis vape thing after already having downed a ton of alcohol and the next thing I knew I was on my knees in the restroom and then finally carried back to my bed.

How often do you use Instagram? Everyday. I post at least one story a day; my in-feed posts are few and far between though and I only do posts if something super significant happens.

Have you ever smoked a cigarette? Yeah, a few times. It's not something I look for and I haven't done it since before the pandemic.

If so, do you still smoke? Nopes.

What are you up to tomorrow? It's my last working day before our office closes down for the holidays so while I'll be at work I'll be in a pretty damn jolly mood hahaha.

What type of questions do you like being asked during a survey? I like random questions that require more thought. It can be boring encountering what-color-is-your-blahblah all the time, and it also turns me away if questions are too hypothetical/philosophical.

Adam Sandler or Jim Carrey? Adam Sandler.

What is your favourite Ben Stiller movie? I don't have one.

What is your favourite Spotify playlist if you have one? I made a playlist called 'it's raining purple' which are essentially BTS tracks I think are perfect for when it's raining and I open my windows to let the colder air in.

Outside of playlists I've made, I have two favorites – one called 'the tannies love you' which compiles all of BTS' fan songs; and 'standing next to you' which is an SNTY-focused playlist mixed in with a bunch of Michael Jackson songs.

Firefox or Chrome? Chrome.

Do you enjoy learning about conspiracy theories? They're fun to read, yeah! You don't have to believe them; they're just stories to spice up what we already know hahaha. I was obsessed with the Avril Lavigne doppelganger case for a time.

If so, what is your favourite? ^ Oh, well that one.

Do you find hand tattoos attractive on your preferred sex? Depends on the tattoo design/style.

If you had a baby boy, what would you name him? I've always been indecisive about a main name, but I'd love for their second name to be Owen after Owen Hart.

What is your favourite Netflix original series? Is Black Mirror considered one? Let's go with that.

Have you ever owned a Tamagotchi? No, too expensive. I had bootleg ones which were just as fun :)

Do you have a favourite “survey blog” on Tumblr? If so, who? I like everyone! :) Would you rather be 10 minutes late or 20 minutes early? Depends on the situation. If it's a super super super big event with like 1,000 people and my presence doesn't matter, I'd honestly much rather be late. Otherwise I'm always early.

If you could be a member of any TV-Sitcom family, which would it be? Perfect Strangers. Would love to finally be fluent in Myposian.

Tell me about the 6th person in your contact list: College orgmate and ultimately became part of the same friend group in college. Haven't seen her in years. Terrific writer, loves cats, unfortunately shares the exact same music taste as my ex so I always shudder when she shares her song recos. Has curly hair, lives in the south, remains to be one of the few people genuinely interested in journalism and I respect her for that. Great sense of style. I miss Blanch!

Are you waiting for a text back right now? Nope.

Would you rather be able to control fire or water? Water.

[jessybarnes]

Insatiable

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader 

Rating: 18+ Only

Tags: SMUT, fluff, slight angst...like you'll have to squint to see it, oral fixation, oral sex, squirting, multiple orgasms, scratching, spanking, slight dom Chris, unprotected sex, face riding, language, nipple play, choking, hair pulling, and I believe that's it. 

Word Count: 2,136

Beta: T. Thompson 

Title Card: Yours Truly 

Written for: One of my besties. She saw a TikTok of Chris wiping his beard with his hand and her reaction was "Imagine him doing that after going down on you." And thus led to me writing this filthy one shot. Enjoy my fellow sinners. ;)

A/N: I did have a title card on this, but it's too explicit for tumblr's guidelines. If you would still like to see it let me know and I'll send it to you a different way. My apologies that I can't post it here.

"Thank god this day's almost over," you mumbled to yourself, kicking the door shut behind you.

It had definitely been one hell of a day. You slept through your alarm, traffic made you even later to work, you spilled your morning coffee all over your new jacket, and to top it all off you dropped your phone into a puddle. Yeah, today could fuck right the hell off. 

You tossed your car keys into the bowl on the table by the door and kicked your heels off. All you wanted to do was take a long hot bath and cuddle with your boyfriend.

It felt too good to be true whenever you remembered you were in a romantic relationship with a famous actor, but here you were, living the dream.

Chris Evans bumped into you on the sidewalk, catching you before you hit the ground, nearly two years ago. It was like one of those sappy rom coms. Guy runs into the girl, the guy catches the girl as she literally falls for him, the girl gives him her number, and they live happily ever after.

You still couldn't believe Chris fucking Evans was interested in you, but you thanked fate that he continued to be the one you woke up to every morning. 

"Honey? Is that you?"

His smooth Boston accent echoed through the house bringing you back to reality.

"Yeah, baby, it's me."

You draped your jacket over the back of the couch and headed up the stairs to your shared bedroom.

"Come here. I wanna show you so-." Chris stopped mid-sentence, a letter opener hanging loosely from his lips.

You stood in the doorway and raised an eyebrow quizzically. "What? Is there something on my face?"

He blinked slowly, dragging his eyes from your curled hair to your red button-up blouse, the form-fitting pencil skirt hugging your hips, and finally down to your bare feet.

"Fuck, I swear I'm the luckiest man in the goddamn universe."

He climbed off the bed and stalked toward you, a primal hunger in his stormy blue eyes. You didn't have a chance to respond, he was on you in seconds.

Chris slammed his mouth against yours in a bruising kiss, one of his large hands making its way up the back of your neck and into your hair.

"Baby," your hands rested against his chest, "what's gotten into you?"

He smirked against your lips. "Nothin', sweetheart. However, there's gonna be something in you here in a minute." He gave you a sinful wink.

"Christopher!" You shook your head and swatted his shoulder playfully.

He chuckled, trailing kisses along your neck while attempting to unbutton your shirt. "Can't blame me when you look like this…so fuckin' pretty, baby. Just wanna taste you."

Chris growled impatiently, "goddamn buttons…fuck it!" He ripped the thin fabric easily, scattering them in all different directions.

"Ah! Hey! That was my favorite shirt, ya know." You tried to sound angry, but the way he continued to kiss and lick at your pulse point made your voice breathy.

"I'll buy you another one. Shit, I'll buy you two hundred if you'll let me fuck your sweet pussy with my mouth." 

You let out a sinful moan, hands fisting in his short blonde hair as he kissed down your chest. "Oh, god…yes, fuck yes, please whatever you wanna do to me…'m yours."

Chris unzipped your skirt with his teeth, and you felt yourself getting wetter by the second. He pulled it down your legs and helped you step out of it, leaving you in just your white lace bra and panty set. It was one of his favorites and you didn't miss the low groan he made.

His eyes drank you in, a needy whimper falling from your lips. "Please touch me…"

Chris wet his lips, sliding his calloused hands up your thighs to your ass. "Oh, princess, I'm gonna do way more than touch you."

He pushed your legs apart, licking and sucking love bites into your inner thighs.

"Fuck, oh my god, baby please… please I-I need more… Chris, I need more!"

He gave a warning slap to your ass, his mouth continuing its assault just shy of where you wanted him the most. "I'll decide what you need, Y/N." 

Your hand gripped the door frame and you bit your lip as he pushed your panties to the side.

"Jesus, sugar…fuckin' soaking wet. Can't wait to have you come apart over and over again just from my mouth. Wanna hear you make those pretty sounds. Love the way you scream my name, baby."

You swore his words alone could make you come. It was no secret that Chris loved going down on you, and he was damn good at it too.

"Please…"

He finally gave in, hooked your right leg over his shoulder, and held you still as he delved his tongue between your folds.

"Oh-my-fu-! Chris!"

He moaned, his tongue moving back and forth between your clit to your hole expertly. You tried to roll your hips but his grip on you held you right where he wanted you. Chris dipped his tongue inside you, your legs beginning to shake as he devoured you.

"Oh, fuck….fuck-fuck-fuck! Chris! Feels so good! So fuckin' good…please don't stop!"

He slapped your ass again, moving back to wrap his lips around your clit.

"Oh, shit! Oh, shit I'm gonna cum...gonna-cum-oh-my-god!"

Chris locked eyes with you, his tongue flicking your sensitive bud, and the moment he took it between his teeth you lost it. The coil of arousal inside you snapped like a rubber band. He groaned, taking everything you gave him until it got to be too much and you pushed him away.

"Mmm, can never get enough of you, honey. Taste so fuckin delicious." 

Chris stood up and carried you to the bed, laying you down gently on the duvet. "Gonna need you to do that again for me, Y/N. M'still not satisfied."

You looked up at him with wide eyes, "Baby, I… I don't think I can do that again. M'too sensitive."

He got down on his knees and hooked his arms under your thighs pulling you to the edge of the bed. "Oh, I bet you can, doll. Bet you can give me at least three more."

"Three?! Chris, I don't think th-holyfuckingshit!"

He brought his head back between your legs and shoved his tongue inside of you while his hands pinned your hips to the bed.

"Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! OH, FUCK! Chris! Chris, baby, please… please I- oh-my-god yes, right there!"

The combination of his thumb on your clit, his tongue reaching places inside you that you didn't know existed, and his beard hair rubbing against your skin made your vision go white. Your back arched off the bed, the sheets tangling between your fingers as you felt your release gush onto the bed. 

Chris stood and lay next to you, pulling you on top of him as he watched you gasp for breath. "That was the hottest fuckin' thing I've ever seen you do, Y/N. Fuck, I almost came in my pants like a teenage boy."

He lifted his hips, his jean-covered cock brushing your clit making you shiver. "Feel that? Feel how fuckin' hard my cock is, princess? Just wanna fuck you into this mattress and fill you full of my cum."

"Please," you whimpered, "do it, baby. Want you to fuck me so bad."

He kissed you sweetly, the taste of you still on his lips. "Oh, I plan to, sweetheart. I'm gonna fuck you on every piece of furniture in this house, but first," he tapped your left leg, "I want you to sit on my face."

Your moan put every porn star to shame, as you positioned yourself over his head. "Chris, are you sure about this? I mean, how're you gonna breathe?"

He chuckled, "listen, sugar, if I die from having the best thing I've ever tasted smothering my face then oh well. I'll die happy."

Chris didn't waste another second, any rational argument you had disappeared as he pulled you down against his open mouth.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ! Baby, it's too much! Fuck, I can't...I, oh, shit… shit, fuck, oh, GOD!" 

Chris lifted you off him, giving you a brief moment to breathe. "Princess, now that I know you can squirt, I'm hooked. So, you're gonna be a good girl and do it again. Understand?"

You let out a strangled cry as he resumed his assault on your soaked pussy.

"Ch-Chris! Baby, I-..."

Your hands fisted in your hair as your legs shook violently, his hands gripping your ass like a lifeline. The hot spark of arousal coursed through you, straight to your core like a lightning bolt. Chris dipped his tongue into your soaked hole, spreading your wetness to your clit before doing it all over again.

"Oh, baby, just like that...fuck please… please, don't stop! Shit, right there! Oh, fuck right there, oh-my-god- I'm- Chris I'm cumming…Oh my g-CHRIS!"

If he wasn't holding you up you would have collapsed. The force of your third orgasm coated Chris’s face with your release. 

Once you were able to gather your bearings again, Chris had already stripped the rest of his clothes off and was kissing you like he needed you to survive. He cradled you in his arms and hovered over you, smiling at your blissed-out state.

"You alright there, honey?"

You nodded, licking your lips and staring up at the smug look on his face.

"Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I just made you squirt twice with my mouth alone. Pretty impressive, right?"

You giggled and booped his nose. "Very impressive, indeed. Sometimes I think they really did give you that super soldier serum."

He laughed and kissed your lips. "Mmm, I dunno...maybe they did. I think," he pressed his thick cock against your entrance, "we should find out."

You bit your lip. "Show me what you got, Cap." 

Chris buried himself inside you in one smooth motion, both of you moaning loudly. "Christ, sugar, you hear how fuckin' wet you are? Can feel you squeezin' me…fuck. I know you got one more baby. Gimme one more. Wanna feel you soak my cock."

Your eyes rolled back in your head when he pulled out and slammed back in, the feeling of your velvet walls spurring him on. Chris set a brutal pace, fucking you hard and deep, and when the blunt head of his cock hit your spot you screamed.

"Chris! Chris, oh my god! Fuckkk! Harder baby! Don't stop!"

His big hands pulled the white lace of your bra down exposing your tits. He wrapped his lips around one nipple, his fingers rolling the other one deliciously.

"Fuckin' perfect, Y/N…so fuckin' beautiful. Seein' you writhe under me, knowin' I make you feel this good, god baby you're a dream. I know you're close, love. The way your pussy's gripping me like a vice, mmm it's so fuckin' good. C'mon, baby. Come for me, come all over my cock, Y/N." 

His thrusts were relentless, and the moment his right hand wrapped around your throat you dug your nails into his back.

"That's it, fuck, yeah, that's it. Shit, baby, I'm gonna cum...gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Let go, pretty girl. Fuck! Gonna cu-AH!"

Chris came hard, thick ropes of cum coating your walls, just as you felt yourself come all over him, yourself, and the bedsheets. You couldn't move if you tried, your limbs felt like jelly and your breaths came in pants.

Chris trailed a string of open-mouthed kisses from your chest, along your neck, and finally planted a chaste one on your lips. "Baby, you're incredible. Fuck, that was amazing…"

He slowly pulled out of you and grabbed his t-shirt from the floor. "I'll be gentle, honey."

He was mindful of how sensitive you were as he slowly cleaned you up. Once he was finished, he scooped you up and carried you to the living room. He sat down on the couch and held you close to his chest, stroking your hair.

"Mmm, love you, Chris."

He tilted your head back and kissed you sweetly. "I love you too, honey."

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck and sighed happily. "M'gonna sleep right here, kay?"

He laughed and ran his fingertips down your back lightly. "Alright, baby. I'm waking you up in an hour though."

"Why?" You groaned.

Chris rested his hand on your ass and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Well, I figured we'd start on the couch, then move to the dining room table, and end the night with you on the kitchen counter."

You rolled your eyes, pulling back to give him an incredulous look.

You're insatiable.

[thatscarletflycatcher]

This is obnoxious, but this part of Dracula and Tumblr commentary keeps making me think of Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South.

Men in Victorian novels being emotionally open? Besides how dramatic men can be in the Brontëverse, Gaskell didn't famously have John Thornton say in 1854 "I am a man, I claim the right of expressing my feelings" to then proceed to cry and have a mental breakdown because his beloved rejected him and won't even try to understand him, to then go home and tell his mom, with tears, that nobody loves him but her, for you to go and say how new the men doing it on Dracula are.

transcribed accents? Gaskell had them, and yet, instead of going extreme lengths to portray them as Stoker does, like adding them on newspaper chronicles and people's diaries and letters, and for very minor characters, she has the characters that use them be crucial to the plot, shows them as wise and more knowledgeable than the southern protagonist about the things pertaining to their lives, and even has said protagonist incorporate words from their dialect in her speech... because these people don't just speak standard English with an accent, the accent is part of a dialectal variation of the language, which also includes slang words.

People dying like flies? North and South isn't horror or murder mystery and yet it manages to kill over a dozen people, and that is counting at least 4 important characters. And the grief it's real and palpable and it has consequences.

What I'm saying is... Elizabeth Gaskell is slept on and that's a shame, North and South isn't even her best novel.

[naresnani]

on Violence

Chapter 1

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Fandom: Ikemen Prince | Nokto Klein / Adam Kain | Words: 2k

Tags: Scriptfic, screenplay format, Political stuff, Slow burn

Summary :

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

One man's last fight against Obsidian's imperial control drags the Rhodolite 'noble beasts' into the fray. Thinking that he is useful for their own cause, Nokto plays along with his schemes, until both of them are not sure anymore which one of them are playing each other.

Notes: I am officially giving up on tumblr's formatting. Not enough curse words in the english language are enough to describe it. ANYWAY this fic is in AO3 only because GOD BLESS AO3'S FUNCTIONAL HTML AND CSS EDITOR. This post will include some preview of the chapter. thank you stopping by :)

Edit: edited the format and added the entire scene instead of just a snippet. still too lazy to post the full thing tho

.

ACT ONE

INT. DARK ROOM - DAY

Here is a dark dusty room. Here, we can only infer the daytime by the small hole in the wall, streaming sunlight that misses the only furniture standing inside the room, the table and chairs. The two men sitting across from each other could barely see a face in the other person. 

One of them is someone we already know, Nokto Klein the 7th Prince. He is forcing his eyes to be able to see and write under this lighting situation. The other man is his prisoner. He sits leaning forward two hands on top of the table as if he's cuffed (he is not) and the way he tilts his head shrouds his expression in more darkness. However, he is very calm. 

.

NOKTO

Alright, so. You are...

ADAM

Mochammad Adam.

NOKTO

Mochammad Adam... Kain?

ADAM

Kain is my father’s name.

NOKTO

Could you spell out your name, please, it would be helpful for me.

ADAM

M.. O.. C.. H.. A.. two M’s.. A.. D. . and Adam as how you usually spell it.

.

The prisoner has a foreign accent, but the words fall comfortably from his mouth. His countenance and appearance suggests that he comes from a far different culture than the prince. Nokto dutifully nods as he writes each letter into the prisoner's file. His tone and demeanour are unlike his usual bravado. It reeks of fake compassion. Over-pacification of the situation. 

.

ADAM

May I ask, what exactly are your reasons to be here, your Highness?

NOKTO

Well? Like we discussed. I’m here—on behalf of the royal court—to set things straight with your father’s side of the family.

.

A subtle eye roll. 

ADAM

(amused) 

... Sure. Only the two of us. And are we waiting for them, or?

NOKTO

Oh, no. I’m representing them.

ADAM

You?

NOKTO

Yours truly.

ADAM

Is it a prince’s job to...represent noble families?

.

The prince chuckles.

.

NOKTO

If I may be honest–

ADAM

I would prefer it if you do.

NOKTO

I am here since... This counts as a diplomatic matter. You and your mother, as I gather, comes from Obsidian–

ADAM

The Obsidian imperial government has nothing to do with this.

NOKTO

Yes, regardless, this is still, should we say...an inter-state matter.

Adam resigns to the cards he's being dealt with. 

ADAM

Will I ever be talking to my father's family directly?

NOKTO

They may come up in the future.

ADAM

In the future.

NOKTO

Uhuh. Bottom line is, sir Kain, right now all we’re doing is playing catch up. You father's will aside, we don't actually have you yet on our records. Nothing we can do before that, I'm afraid. We’re going to finish this up very quickly though, I promise you.

Clearly, none of this is actually about waiting for his name to be written on some paper. But Adam plays along anyway, as both of the men have silently agreed on doing. Adam points out the suitcase kept under Nokto’s chair.

ADAM

Inside that suitcase you've kindly taken away from me—I’ve brought everything you will need. It’s all translated for you. Record of birth, father, mother...

Nokto wagers the man's intentions before reaching down,  pulling the suitcase up on the table. He tries not to rummage too much but he finds inside it some boxes, one clearly of matches and the other a cold, silver one. Could be of cigarettes. He pulls out the papers filling the rest of the case.

They truly look like documentations of sorts, made with a very rudimentary printing method that doesn't sit the ink well. But in the dark he can make it out enough. 

NOKTO

Oh, so your tribe keeps records like these! That's very impressive. 

We can feel Adam's irritation even through his blank expression. 

NOKTO

Sorry I mean, this is a very helpful–

ADAM

Yes we do, only very recently. We’re starting to document every person that we can.

NOKTO

It’s very handy isn’t it. Although I bet it’s a pain in the ass—excuse the language—to file in that many people all at the same time. God knows how much I hate paperworks even on good days.

ADAM

Well... as I found out, it's not that much work.

As Nokto completes what he needs to fill out, he notices something about Adam's documents. 

NOKTO

The format looks close enough to ours.

ADAM

Hm. That would be because my father taught us from his years of working in the court.

NOKTO

Ah. That would be it. Isn’t that an interesting history for your people.

ADAM

Sure.

Wrong again! Sitting quietly in mutually acknowledged awkwardness, Nokto finishes up the document.

NOKTO

Alright, well, sir Kain–

ADAM

Call me Adam.

NOKTO

Sir and Lord-to-be Adam, before I go, it would be nice if you could tell me... what exactly uh, happened here. What exactly transpired that led to this.

Here it is, the real purpose of their meeting. 

ADAM

I think you’ve heard it all. 

NOKTO 

I heard everything that you've done, but not your perspective.

Raised brow. 'Is that really, actually what you want to know?' 

ADAM

(sigh)

Well, what your Highness needs to understand, is that my father passed away in our home, in Yashpar. You've read his will. We sent messengers to his immediate family but they always replied by kicking us out. After a week has passed, we have no other respectful choice but to bury him.

NOKTO

Yes. This matter. Before all this happened we have received demands from the late Marquis’ family regarding the return of his... remains. However we thought this was clearly not the King's business at all. I believe they strictly want him buried in Rhodolite? 

ADAM

Yes and that cannot happen anymore.

NOKTO

I know Lord Kain made it very clear in his will how he wished to be taken care of after his passing, but um, how should I put this...

Nokto drums his fingers on the table.

NOKTO

Regardless, your actions today risks sparking up international concern.

Adam leans back on his chair. 

ADAM

It happens every other day. I’m merely defending our territory in self-defence. Is that a felony?

NOKTO

Yes, well, we will get to that, we definitely will. 

The door to the dark room is opened, letting out light into what now obviously looks to be a prison cell. Nokto is clearly acting as an interrogator. Not a friend, nor a sympathetic filing clerk. The 'good cop' at best. 

Read more on AO3

[escapetoluna]

How to learn a language when you don’t know where to start:

General Plan:

Weeks 1 and 2: Purpose:

Learn the fundamentals sentence construction

Learn how to spell and count

Start building a phrase stockpile with basic greetings

The Alphabet

Numbers 1 - 100

Subject Pronouns

Common Greetings

Conjugate the Two Most Important Verbs: to be and to have

Basic Definite and Indefinite Articles

Weeks 3 and 4: Purpose:

Learn essential vocabulary for the day-to-day

Start conjugating regular verbs

Days of the Week and Months of the Year

How to tell the time

How to talk about the weather

Family Vocabulary

Present Tense Conjugations Verbs

Weeks 5 and 6: Purpose:

Warm up with the last of the day-to-day vocabulary

Add more complex types of sentences to your grammar

Colours

House vocabulary

How to ask questions

Present Tense Conjugations Verbs

Forming negatives

Weeks 7 and 8: Purpose:

Learn how to navigate basic situations in a region of your target language country

Finish memorising regular conjugation rules

Food Vocabulary and Ordering at Restaurants

Money and Shopping Phrases

Present Tense Conjugations Verbs

Weeks 9 and 10: Purpose:

Start constructing descriptive and more complex sentences

Adjectives

Reflective verbs

Places vocabulary

Weeks 11 and 12: Purpose:

Add more complex descriptions to your sentences with adverbs

Wrap up vocabulary essentials

Adverbs

Parts of the body and medical vocabulary

Tips for Learning a Foreign Language:

Learning Vocabulary:

What vocabulary should I be learning?

There are hundreds of thousands of words in every language, and the large majority of them won’t be immediately relevant to you when you’re starting out.Typically, the most frequent 3000 words make up 90% of the language that a native speaker uses on any given day. Instead try to learn the most useful words in a language, and then expand outwards from there according to your needs and interests.

Choose the words you want/need to learn.

Relate them to what you already know.

Review them until they’ve reached your long-term memory.

Record them so learning is never lost.

Use them in meaningful human conversation and communication.

How should I record the vocabulary?

Learners need to see and/or hear a new word of phrase 6 to 17 times before they really know a piece of vocabulary.

Keep a careful record of new vocabulary.

Record the vocabulary in a way that is helpful to you and will ensure that you will practice the vocabulary, e.g. flashcards.

Vocabulary should be organised so that words are easier to find, e.g. alphabetically or according to topic.

Ideally when noting vocabulary you should write down not only the meaning, but the grammatical class, and example in a sentence, and where needed information about structure.

How should I practice using the vocabulary?

Look, Say, Cover, Write and Check - Use this method for learning and remembering vocabulary. This method is really good for learning spellings.

Make flashcards. Write the vocabulary on the front with the definition and examples on the back.

Draw mind maps or make visual representations of the new vocabulary groups.

Stick labels or post it notes on corresponding objects, e.g when learning kitchen vocabulary you could label items in your house.

How often should I be practising vocabulary?

A valuable technique is ‘the principle of expanding rehearsal’. This means reviewing vocabulary shortly after first learning them then at increasingly longer intervals.

Ideally, words should be reviewed:

5-10 minutes later

24 hours later

One week later

1-2 months later

6 months later

Knowing a vocabulary item well enough to use it productively means knowing:

Its written and spoken forms (spelling and pronunciation).

Its grammatical category and other grammatical information

Related words and word families, e.g. adjective, adverb, verb, noun.

Common collocations (Words that often come before or after it).

Receptive Skills: Listening and Reading

Reading is probably one of the most effective ways of building vocabulary knowledge.

Listening is also important because it occupies a big chunk of the time we spend communicating.

Tips for reading in a foreign language:

Start basic and small.  Children’s books are great practice for beginners. Don’t try to dive into a novel or newspaper too early, since it can be discouraging and time consuming if you have to look up every other word.

Read things you’ve already read in your native language. The fact that you at least know the gist of the story will help you to pick up context clues, learn new vocabulary and grammatical constructions.

Read books with their accompanying audio books. Reading a book while listening to the accompanying audio will improve your “ear training”. It will also help you to learn the pronunciation of words.

Tips for listening in a foreign language:

Watch films in your target language.

Read a book while also listening along to the audio book version.

Listen to the radio in your target language.

Watch videos online in your target language.

Activities to do to show that you’ve understood what you’ve been listening to:

Try drawing a picture of what was said.

Ask yourself some questions about it and try to answer them.

Provide a summary of what was said.

Suggest what might come next in the “story.”

Translate what was said into another language.

“Talk back” to the speaker to engage in imaginary conversation.

Productive Skills: Speaking and Writing

Tips for speaking in a foreign language:

If you can, try to speak the language every day either out loud to yourself or chat to another native speaker whether it is a colleague, a friend, a tutor or a language exchange partner. 

Write a list of topics and think about what you could say about each one. First you could write out your thoughts and then read them out loud. Look up the words you don’t know. You could also come up with questions at the end to ask someone else.

A really good way to improve your own speaking is to listen to how native speakers talk and imitate their accent, their rhythm of speech and tone of voice. Watch how their lips move and pay attention to the stressed sounds. You could watch interviews on YouTube or online news websites and pause every so often to copy what you have just heard. You could even sing along to songs sung in the target language.

Walk around the house and describe what you say. Say what you like or dislike about the room or the furniture or the decor. Talk about what you want to change.This gets you to practise every day vocabulary.

Tips for writing in a foreign language:

Practice writing in your target language. Keep it simple to start with. Beginner vocabulary and grammar concepts are generally very descriptive and concrete.

Practice writing by hand. Here are some things you can write out by hand:

Diary entries

Shopping lists

Reminders

What could I write about?

Write about your day, an interesting event, how you're feeling, or what you're thinking.

Make up a conversation between two people. 

Write a letter to a friend, yourself, or a celebrity. You don't need to send it; just writing it will be helpful.

Translate a text you've written in your native language into your foreign language.

Write a review or a book you've recently read or a film you've recently watched.

Write Facebook statuses, Tweets or Tumblr posts (whether you post them or not will be up to you).

Write a short story or poem.

Writing is one of the hardest things to do well as a non-native speaker of a language, because there’s no room to hide. 

There are lots of ways to improve your writing ability, but they can be essentially boiled down to three key components:

Read a lot

Write a lot

Get your writing corrected

[tropes-and-tales]

A Christmas Tradition

Day 16 - Mistletoe || Warm lights, smoke, and friends. (Colonel Horacio Carrillo x F!Reader)

(For the 2021 December Challenge.  The event masterlist is here.)  

CW:  Fluff.

Word Count:  2128

AN:  Late and unedited.  Also, I f*cked around and found out with my computer, and now I can’t make accented letters, so sorry in advance on the Colombian place names without accent marks.

Requested by: the lovely @cursedtobe, who is unable to be tagged, thanks to Tumblr!

Colonel Horacio Carrillo unilaterally hated embassy parties.  He hated wearing his dress uniform for a bunch of bureaucrats, and he hated playing politics when the hard work was done in the streets.  But being the head of the Search Bloc came with unpleasant tasks, and that including glad-handing American assholes in ill-fitting suits.

At least it was Christmas.  The alcohol and food should be better than the usual lackluster fare.

And with any luck, you’d be there too.

You should be there.  You worked for the Embassy, after all, though not in any part that should have ever touched Carrillo’s life or work.  You worked on the education side of U.S. and Colombia relations, the sort of person who helped bright Colombians find a place in U.S. universities – and vice versa.  

He had met you at one of these embassy parties, actually.  You hadn’t had a clue who he was, cloistered away from the drug war as you were.  You had told him he looked nice in his uniform, though, and it had set a warm flush he hadn’t felt in a long time.  When he made the mistake of asking about your own work that time…well, he found himself under your spell.

You’d told him all of it.  You were enchantingly optimistic, talking about knowledge not being bound by borders.  You talked about the scholars you’d helped, all the things they had discovered and learned, and you gestured wildly as you talked excitedly.  

You were the first American he’d ever met who talked about Colombia as a place full of wonder and scholarship and potential.  Of course he was infatuated by the end of that party.

That should have been the extent of it, but the war against the cartel had a way of corrupting everything pure and sunny.  You—unfortunately, it seemed—had a knack for some of the indigenous languages of the region.  The knowledge had come to you naturally in the course of your work, but when the Search Bloc found itself struggling with messages from the cartel coded in some language they didn’t know, the Embassy had offered you up like a lamb to slaughter.

You, not knowing any better, had identified the language right away.

“Oh, that’s the Awa Pit language,” you had said, chipper as always, and so your fate was sealed:  for the past three months, you’d sat in the open space right outside of Carrillo’s office, sifting through any intel that wasn’t in English or Spanish.

Carrillo thought you’d lose your sunniness.  Three months in, there was no sign of it dimming.

In fact, it seemed to brighten everyone around you, just as the sun casts its light on the moon.  Of course his infatuation deepened into a painful, unrequited love.  Moreover, it was a possessive, protective sort of love.  He felt responsible for you, shepherded you to and from your new apartment, and he convinced himself it was only for your safety and not for the way he felt when he was near you.

Now, at the Christmas party, he scanned the crowd for you.  He didn’t see you at first, and he felt the heavy stone of disappointment in his gut.  Maybe you skipped it, maybe you were still in Medellin, spending a night in—

“Colonel,” said a familiar voice behind him, and he turned, already knowing it was you.  Sure enough, there you were.  You had the same sunny smile as always, but you’d traded in your sedate skirts and blouses for a lovely slip dress in a deep crimson that matched the lipstick on your curved lips.

He nodded at you, replied to you.  Offered you a smile and ignored the way the heaviness in his gut transformed to a fluttery feeling in his chest.

“You look nice,” he said.  

You looked down at yourself, swiveled your hips a little to make the hem of your skirt swish.  “I felt stupid, packing this dress when I moved down here,” you told him.  “This is the first chance I’ve gotten to wear it.”

At that, Carrillo’s mind spun out a million scenarios where you could wear that dress again:  out to a romantic dinner with him, out dancing, at his house for a glass of wine…a million scenes where he was brave enough to ask you out. Funny, how the courage in the war against the cartel didn’t seem to translate to asking a cheerful embassy employee out on a date.

“You look nice too,” you continued.  You studied him from the top of his head to his shoes, and you nodded as if to yourself.  “The Colombian Army should do a calendar.  I know a whole demographic of women who love a man in uniform.”

Just like the first time he met you, your frank admission that you thought he looked nice gave him that big-headed, light-headed feeling.  If he were anyone but Horacio Carrillo, he might blush.

Instead, he flagged down a passing waiter and took two glasses of wine from him.  He handed one to you and kept one for himself, and he turned to study the assembled crowd.  

“Does this remind you of home?” he asked.  “Does it feel particularly American to you?”

“How do you mean?”

He pointed at some of the decorations, at the embassy employee dressed up in a ratty Santa costume.  “Are these specific American traditions?”

You laughed lightly.  “That’s a hard question to answer.  There’s a lot of diverse American traditions.”

“What are your family’s traditions then?”

You nudged him with your elbow lightly (making that fluttery feeling intensify), and then you started a circuit of the room with him by your side.  

“Well,” you told him, “we get a tree, obviously.  Usually in the beginning of December, and we don’t take it down until the Epiphany in early January.”

“Obviously,” he echoed.

“And we put up lights outside.”  You glanced at him and smiled.  “That usually ends in tears.  My dad has a very precise idea of how the lights should look, and he gets irritated pretty quickly.”

You chattered on and on, just as that first party, your face lit up and grinning at the memories you were obviously reliving.  Carrillo smiled too.  He nodded at Javier and Steve, but he didn’t stop to chat with them.  He only found a table with you set off to the side, and the two of you drank more and ate from the table of food and talked.

Sometimes other people stopped over—sometimes for the face time with him, sometimes to chat with you.  Javier plopped down in the seat beside you, and Carrillo gritted his teeth to see the DEA’s resident lothario being so amiable with you.  You, of course, were friendly with him, but when he got up to leave, you turned right back to face Carrillo with that smile of yours.

The hours slipped by effortlessly.  Didn’t they always, with you?  Carrillo switched from that first glass of wine to whiskey, and while he wasn’t drunk, he did feel looser than usual.

“I’m going to go have a cigarette,” he told you.  “Would you like to join me outside?”

You did, so you did.  At the doorway outside, you skipped ahead of him, a light-hearted little sprint that made him huff in laughter.

Out on the balcony, it was quieter:  the din of the crowd and the Christmas music was muted.  Carrillo lit his cigarette, and he moved downwind of you, mindful of the smoke.

Neither of you spoke, and that was another thing about you:  you could be chatty, but you could sit in comfortable silence too.  A rare thing, a combination of two extremes.  He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye—you looked beautiful, and he felt that painful twist of love in his chest.

And not just the painful twist.  He felt an out-of-place hope.  It was probably the alcohol and now the nicotine, and the music and the warm lights of the holiday, and the balmy wind caressing him, and the perfect Colombian evening with you.  He felt hopeful and reckless, like he was a teenaged boy again.

“What’s that there?” he asked, pointing at the archway to the balcony.  The arch was festooned in lights, but a ball of leaves hung from the middle.

“Oh, that’s mistletoe,” you told him.

“What is that?”

You laughed.  “Well, it’s…if you stand under it with another person, you have to kiss.”

He snorted at that.  “That’s a Christmas tradition?”

“Apparently.  When I was a kid, it was a game to run through doorways so that no one could kiss you.”

“Is that why you sprinted through the doorway when we came out here?” he asked, putting it together in his head.  He turned to look at you, and he caught your embarrassed shrug.

“It’s just a habit at this point,” you explained.  “You see mistletoe, you dodge it.  You have to understand, Colonel:  it was traumatizing.  My grandpa had dentures, and he’d lurk near doorways with mistletoe.  He’d clack his fake teeth at you…”  You trailed off and shuddered at the memory.

“I won’t take it personally then,” he replied dryly, but he was rewarded with another light elbow to his side.  

“Please don’t,” you said.  “It’s just a dumb tradition anyway.”  Your voice was uncharacteristically quiet, and it almost sounded shy.  Interesting.

When he finished his cigarette, he gestured at the doorway.  “You first,” he said, and yes—he was feeling something, some light quality that made his voice come out with a playful lilt.  “I won’t lurk and traumatize you.”

You laughed at that, and you went first, and maybe nothing would have ever happened in any other version of that moment.  But a pair of waiters with a laden bar cart appeared on the other side of the doorway just as you were passing through it, and they blocked your path.

And Horacio, his forward momentum already carrying him through the doorway, ran right into you.

Both of you underneath the mistletoe.  He settled his hands on your arms to steady you as you teetered in your heels, and you swayed against him.  Your bare arms were warm under his hands; aside from your little nudges and the occasional accidental touch, this was the first time he’d touched you.  Horacio wondered if some greater power was pushing the two of you together in an inelegant way.

Because you turned in his arms and tilted your head up at him, and he knew that if he didn’t take this moment—even with the entire American embassy inside—he’d regret it the rest of his life.

“So is this the part when we kiss?” he asked, his voice low and a near-whisper.

“Do you have dentures and are you going to clack them at me?” you asked back.

He chuckled.  “I promise I do not and would not even if I did.”

“Then yes,” you replied with a smile.

It was an easy thing, kissing you.  Easy to bend his head, easy to press his lips against yours.  As far as kisses went, it was extremely tame—he didn’t open his mouth, he didn’t try to deepen it.  Just a careful, closed-mouth kiss, entirely chaste.  When he broke away a short moment later, you opened your eyes to gaze at him.  You smiled at him, but it wasn’t your usual bright grin.  This smile was softer, dreamier.  Like you were some fairy tale princess under a spell, and his lips on yours had awoken you.

Then you reached up with a gentle finger and wiped away the bit of crimson lipstick your mouth had left on him.

“That color hardly goes with your uniform,” you joked quietly, and it was enough to make him dip his head a second time for a second kiss, just as chaste as the first.

It was your first and second kiss that night.  No one saw other than the pair of waiters with the bar cart.  They didn’t care, of course.  

They weren’t your last kisses either.  By the time the two of you had exchanged…. say, well over a hundred kisses of varying duration and intensity, then you disclosed your relationship to both the Colombian Army and the U.S. Embassy.  There was no official fallout beyond a stern talking to from your supervisor, but by then it hardly mattered:  the U.S. Government couldn’t do much in the way of disciplining you.  By then, months and months later, you already had his abuela’s ring on your finger as a promise of his love for you.  To some, maybe you were moving fast, but it didn’t feel that way to Horacio or you.  After all, he had loved you the first time he met you, and he came to find out that you’d felt the exact same way for him.

~~~Tag List~~~ @bananas-pajamas  @rachelxwayne​   @stardust-fray   @massivecolorspygiant​   @imspillingcoffee​   @amneris21​  @paintballkid711​   @mad-girl-without-a-box​   @bestattempt​   @rosiefridayrogersunday​   @strawberrydragon​   @hoeforthefictional​   @greeneyedblondie44​  @leannawithacapitala​   @stardust-galaxies​  @melaniecraig80​   @thesandbeneathmytoes​

[everythingquenya]

Hiya, I'm a classical / film score / OC score composer and I'm writing an SATB choral piece for the Ainulindale and I'm having trouble understanding the stressed syllables on the words. I know in general the rule is if there's 3 or more syllables you accent the third to last syllable, unless there's an acute accent (which I think doesn't include the fun dots). But I'm not 100% sure and I don't want to write a whole piece with the wrong emphasis on the wrong syllable. Lmk if you have a recording of you reading the Quenya version of the Ainulindale or how to do that! I'm using the one written on https://www.elvish.org/gwaith/ainulindale.htm by Ryszard Derdzinski. Lmk if this is the wrong one XD

Yoooo wow tumblr thank you for never showing me this ask! I hate this hellsite sometimes.

Sorry it took me so long to respond! 🥲

So, according to my books when you have a word with two syllables, then the focus is on the first syllable. E.g. Anor ['a.nor], parma ['par.ma]

With three syllable words there are two options.

A. The second to last syllable is long

In this case the second to last syllable is the main focus. A long syllable contains either a long vowel (á, é, í, o´, ú), a diphtong (ai, oi, ui, au, eu, iu) or multiple consonants after a vowel.

Examples:

Olórin (long vowel: ó)

Úlairi (Diphtong: ai)

Isildur (two consonants after the vowel: ld)

Menelya (the y counts as a consonant: ly)

B. The second to last syllable is short

If the second to last syllable is short, the third to last syllable is emphasized. A short syllable contains a short vowel or one or no consonants.

Examples:

Orome (second to last syllable is -ro: short vowel followed by a consonant)

Anárion (second to last syllable is -ri: short vowel, not followed by a consonant)

By adding endings such as -ndil, -rdur, -rdil, ldur the emphasis can be shifted. Such as the word "isil" (moon, a noun) and "Isildur" (servant of the moon, a name). In "isil" the emphasis is on the first vowel. In "Isildur" the emphasis is on "sil".

Concerning the fun dots, in tengwar the dots and dashes indicate vowels. It's very similar to Arabic in that regard. The larger letters are generally consonants while the dots and dashes are vowels.

I don't have a recording of myself reading the Ainulindale, but I've been speaking it from what I've heard from the movies and listened from songs. There's a German singer/songwriter called Oonagh and a lot of her songs have Quenya in them! Since German pronunciation is very similar to Quenya, that helps quite a bit with pronunciation. Here are three songs of hers that feature quite a bit of Quenya. Song 1. Song 2. Song 3. (You’ll usually have to wait for the chorus, sorry. 😅)

Another thing I would point out is that the elves are very lyrical. They will forgive emphasis if it works better for the song. (At least that's what I remember reading somewhere) I don't think you need to worry to much about emphasis. My personal pet peeve would be pronunciation more than emphasis of the correct syllable.

I really hope this helps and good luck with your project! I'd love to hear it when it's finished! 🥰

[colorpuffball]

Prompt: Sentimental

WHOOP guess this is going to be a three part series.

Anyways please ignore me just describing Jackstones for the flashback HHXNHJKFVUNID

Also please I am BEGGING if anyone knows how to make Tumblr not remove enter enter spacing please share your wisdom T_T

Part 1 here: Backpack

Part 3 here: Shade + Homemade Lemonade

That night, as Klee falls asleep, two things happen at the same time.

Diluc arrives at the Angel’s Share. His eyes are immediately caught by the blue blob on one of the barrels.

“Charles, what’s that?”

He got there first, as he usually does. He checks out what Diluc is looking at before shrugging.

“It was by the back doorstep, I brought it in so it wouldn’t get in the way. I don’t know what it is or who gave it though.”

He eyes it, his eyebrows furrowing once he realises exactly who it’s meant to look like.

On the other hand, Kaeya merely laughs. A fire red Dodoco, what could this be about?

Unlike his brother, he wastes no time picking it up. He tosses it up, catches it, and repeat. It’s very different from his usual coin, but there’s something tugging at his heart as he watches it fly.

It takes him back to a time so distant, he can’t tell whether it is a memory or merely a dream. Without Crepus around, they’re usually left to their own devices (at least that’s what they think. In reality a maid is always keeping watch, wherever they go). On that particular day, the two boys were incredibly, painfully bored.

“I want to be doing something.” At that age, Kaeya’s words are still overshadowed by his foreign accent (Khaenri’an, but Diluc didn’t know that yet). He’s stretched out on the floor, no doubt getting his white shirt dirty. He tugs at his brother’s shorts while adding a quick “please”.

Diluc is sitting on the rug beside him. His spaced-out expression quickly gives way to a patient smile, just the way his Papa does. “No Kaeya, it’s ‘I want to do something’. But we can do that! I’m just thinking first on what’s fun.”

Kaeya nods, getting up off of the floor. He stretches out a hand, offering to help Diluc stand (It’s a touching gesture, especially since Diluc is much bigger than him).

“I know. Let’s play a game.”

Diluc brightens up. “You know a game? Okay!” He accepts Kaeya’s hand, but he’s careful not to put all his weight on him. Not noticing, Kaeya pulls him to go outside.

He lets go, leaving Diluc to stand on his own for a while. Recalling the game he used to play with the other children in his homeland, he looks for a ball as big as his palm.

The moment he does, he comes running back to Diluc. He stayed put, rocking on his heels.

“What’re we going to play Kaeya?”

After a moment of thought, he shrugs. He wasn’t supposed to talk about his homeland, he remembers. This doesn’t count though. Playing shouldn’t count.

“Just a fun game.”

Diluc grins, anticipation getting the better of him. “Come on, show me, show me!”

Sitting down in the garden, Kaeya picks up a handful of pebbles from the landscaping (the maid held her breath, but didn’t stop him. Kids will be kids after all). Then, he tosses them onto the ground between him and his brother.

Kaeya starts to sit, so Diluc follows suit. With a wave of his hands, Kaeya grabs his attention to the ball in his hand.

“Watch me.”

Kaeya tosses the ball upwards, and with a lightning quick hand, picks up most of the stones before catching the ball on its descent.

“You can only use one hand, and you have to catch the ball. Okay?”

Dilucs eyes are wide, amazed at how fast he was. All he does for the moment is nod.

Diluc opted not to deal with… whatever is going on. Throughout the night he works as hard as he can, but can’t seem to keep it out of his mind.

His resolve breaks eventually, and when the customers start to thin (both from those responsible enough to go home for the night, and those who’ve drunk themselves to sleep) he steps away to take another look at it.

Diluc tries not to touch the Dodoco as much as possible. Instead, he directs his focus onto the letter underneath it. With a little wiggling, he frees it from the Dodoco’s grasp and tears it open.

He may not recognize it that night, but the handwriting is one that he’s seen before.

The letter reads:

“Dear Captain Kaeya,

Here’s a Dodoco my Mom made specially for you. Don’t worry, it’s not the exploding kind.

I hope you like it, I even got to deliver it all by myself!

Tomorrow at noon my mom and I will be waiting for you at the big tree at Windrise for a picnic. Please don’t forget to come, and don’t say you’re busy. I’ll know that you’re tricking me because my mom says you won't be busy tomorrow. Me and Dodoco will be very sad if we have to eat all the food by ourselves : (

Signed, Klee”

Diluc mutters under his breath, “it’s addressed to him, huh.”

In the time it took Diluc to give in and read the letter, Kaeya had fallen in, then reluctantly pulled himself out, of reminiscing. After reading it he drops the paper onto the table, a smile tugging at his lips.

“A letter, and a Dodoco, delivered to the wrong address. Our Klee wouldn’t make that obvious of a mistake.”

He slowly shakes his head, ever so sure of himself. With such an obvious plot, he’s almost offended by its simplicity.

But for Klee, he would play along with anything.

At the end of his shift, Diluc, ever thoughtful, comes to the conclusion that he ought to go tell Klee tomorrow that her letter didn’t reach its intended recipient. He puts the letter back in the envelope and tucks it into his coat pocket. As for the Dodoco, he grabs it with two fingers by the tail. That’s how he holds it, with his arm outstretched, the whole way back home.

The maids at the winery that stayed awake for his return had to hold their tongues (and laughter) once they saw him. They didn’t utter a word about his posture, and for that Diluc is thankful.

Once he enters the winery, he gingerly sets it onto the table by the entrance, and turns in for the night.

Kaeya leaves his sitting on his desk chair, shutting his office door for the night.

As they’re both laying in bed, their thoughts align:

Tomorrow, noontime they’d head to Windrise and go see Klee and her mother.

[whosscruffylooking]

The Purest Things-A New Home

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

a/n: this is a repost considering it didn’t show up in any of the tags yesterday. have i mentioned how much i despise tumblr sometimes :) again, i want to give a special shoutout to @avengersbau for giving me a second set of eyes on this one.

word count: 2k

warnings: canon-typical violence and descriptions of injury.

The Purest Things Masterlist

gif is not mine! credit goes to @hqtchner

au! october 2007

Bookend: “It’s never too late to become who you want to be. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald

++++

"I am SSA Hotchner. Welcome to the team Agent Y/L/N," his voice reminds you of the transatlantic accents of Hollywood stars of old. The kind you used to hear in the old black and white movies you would watch as a child.

"It's an honor to be here sir," you stare directly into his brown, soulfully deep eyes.

"J.J., get us started, please," SSA Hotchner suggests.

Sitting down, you look to the screen that displays the frightful footage of bombs detonating in various locations.

"Yesterday, an 81-year-old woman was severely injured when a bomb exploded in the toilet of a women's restroom," J.J. informs.

"Interesting spot to hide a bomb," Agent Prentiss sneers.

Jennifer flips through the slides and shows another bombsight located in a subway station, "Last year a similar bomb that had been attached to a phone box detonated. No outstanding injuries were reported. However, the bombs' similar makeup alerted detectives to dig into other bombings throughout the years. They have positively identified attacks over the past twelve years as perpetrated by the same bomber."

Spencer adds, "His M.O. is similar to George Peter Metesky, better known as the Mad Bomber. He terrorized New York City over a period of 16 years. He planted bombs in theaters, subway stations, libraries, and offices. They were left in phone booths, storage lockers and restrooms."

"Do you think we are looking at a copycat?" Derek questions.

"If we are, we need to stop him soon," declared David.

"He's escalating-becoming bolder and more vicious," you say, scanning the report.

"Tell Boston we can be there by 9:30," Hotch notifies J.J...

++++

"It seems like he's a textbook paranoid schizophrenic. People suffering from this disorder may think that other people are regulating them or plotting against them. They tend to be reclusive, antisocial, and obsessed Hwith hatred for their presumed enemies," you twist a loose string from your shirt around your finger, unwind it, then repeat the process.

It's a nervous tick you developed over the years that has worn down numerous tops before achieving their intended lifespan. You glance at Agent Hotchner, seeking a sign of approval. His eyes meet yours, and he poignantly nods.

Did I say too much? No. Don’t overthink this. They can probably smell fear.

"In his letters left at the bombsights, he uses words like 'broad' and 'chick' to signify women," Dr. Reid chimes in.

"Do you think the unsub is motivated by hostility towards women? "

"It's possible," he continues, "These speech patterns age him significantly, however. Phrases such as these were mainly used in the 30's, 40's, and 50's."

Agent Hotchner begins to delegate tasks before the jet lands, "Morgan and Reid, I want you to head to the bombsights and see if you can't work out the motive. J.J. and Prentiss talk to the victim's families, determine our victimology. Y/L/N, Rossi, and I will head to the precinct and familiarize ourselves with the lay of the land and see if we can't formulate a geographical profile."

++++

At the precinct, you observe Agent Hotchner's ability to singlehandedly transition an entire police force's obligation to under his jurisdiction.

"Captain Moreno, this is SSA David Rossi and SSA Y/F/N Y/L/N," the Unit Chief introduces you.

The captain tilts his head at you, "Aren't you a little young to be in the FBI? How old are you anyway?"

You nail him with a you're-full-of-crap look. 

Everyone gets to be young once; your turn is over, old man.

Choosing to take the high road, you say, "I'd like to get my hands on the bombers handwritten notes. There has to be something in those letters that can give us a clue into the who, what, when, and where of this case."

Skeptical of your request, he narrows his eyes and looks to David and Agent Hotchner.

"You hear her," Dave exclaims, "Lead the way!"

Your enigmatic smirk no doubt gives away the great pleasure Dave's gibe brings you.

++++

"Agent Hotchner," you hand him your preliminary geographical profile. With his arms crossed, he intimidatingly peers into your research.

Don't burn a hole in my paperwork; I worked hard on that.

He is impressed by your work, taking in your comprehensive outline of proof that details the unsubs point of origin. For someone so young, your attention to detail puts even his most observant profilers to shame. "How did you come to this conclusion?"

"My family is from Chicago. When I was little, I used to read through my grandfather's old newspapers that he collected throughout the 1950's. On the jet, I knew some of the phrasings that Dr. Reid was using sounded familiar, so I cross-referenced it with some of the particular articles I remember from my childhood and found his wording to be exact iterations of the Chicago Crier."

Without taking his eyes off of the paperwork, he commends you, "Impressive use of your prior knowledge. Often, the information drilled into us through education is lackluster compared to that of real-world experience."

You turn to walk back to your makeshift desk when he calls out to you, "And Y/L/N, call me Hotch."

Your shoulders relax from the tension you hadn't even realized you'd been clinging onto, "Alright. Hotch."

++++

You immediately regretted your decision. In pursuit of the unsub, you had wandered off down an abandoned subway tunnel and cornered him.

"Harold Watts, FBI. Gently place the remote detonator on the ground," You shout. Grappling to keep your gun from slipping between your clammy palms, you grip the weapon tighter.

Ordinary people's first days of work are uneventful; they're given a series of mundane tasks at most. Me? Of course, my first day involves being secluded in a subway tunnel facing down a man decked from head to toe in explosives and wires.

"D-don't come any closer. I have my finger on the trigger! I'm not afraid to die, and I will not hesitate to take you up in flames with me," he stammers.

The stampede of footsteps, no doubt from your colleagues and half of the Boston police force, resonate through the echo chamber you're standing in. Watts spooks and loses his balance. You begin shouting for the people behind you to stand down.

"The tracks are live, one wrong step, and we all blow up. I repeat, stand down!"

Turning your attention back to Watts, you attempt to soothe his irrationality. You slowly return your gun to its holster, raising your hands up in surrender. Hotch yells something unintelligible from behind you, but your focus is on the unsub and trying to prevent any more casualties.

"Harold, let's just talk this through for a couple of minutes. My men behind me will leave us alone. It's you and me now. Before this, you never wanted to hurt yourself. You wanted to be heard. All of your life you felt like you were forced into the shadows, and you began to fester there in your pain and rage."

He tenses up; you have his attention now.

"Those girls who teased you and ripped your masculinity from you needed to be taught a lesson. But you didn't just stop there; you decided to do all women a favor and demonstrate to them the kind of pain they could cause, hoping to prevent them from making the same mistakes. In fact, you helped me to see what I can do better. I never want to make someone feel the way you did."

"Y-you learned that...f-from me?" Harold quietly sobs.

You nod, "Yes! Yes, Harold. And you can still be heard, but not if you die today. I could be your greatest advocate. If we walk out of here right now, think of how famous you could be. Harold, you will never be stuck in the shadows again."

It is crucial to your survival and your teams that you are brave just long enough to analyze the situation and keep your self-control. Panic won't do anyone any good right now.

Your mouth dries as you await Harold's next move. Suddenly, he hunches over, extending the hand gripping the detonator. Pausing for a moment to be sure he isn't making any drastic moves, you promptly hurry to his side and gently pull it from his clutch.

As the police officers and your colleagues rush to your aid, Harold looks up at you with hopeful eyes.

"Make me famous," he murmurs with a grin that churns your stomach.

Hotch ushers you away from the unsub, backing you up against the wall of the tunnel, "You actively defied my orders."

Searching every inch of his face for an accurate reading of his emotions, you are unsure of how to respond.

"I'd like to think it won't happen again," his eyes studying you just as intently.

You swallow hard, aware of the lump in your throat and take a deep breath, "You have my word, Agent Hotchner."

"Good," he affirms, eventually freeing his hold on your arm.

You let out a shaky sigh of relief and relax your spinning head against the wall.

Opening your eyes, you observe your new team tieing up all loose ends. They're safe. You are safe. Despite this first day not being as mundane as others, you wouldn't have it any other way. This feeling is what you signed up for, and it's already fulfilling you in ways you couldn't fathom before stepping inside the BAU office this morning.

++++

Aboard the jet, you tuck your legs underneath you and open up a book to read.

A cup of steaming hot coffee appears on the table in front of you.

Hotch sits across from you with a similar cup and offers you a subtle smile, "Impressive work out there today. I'm sorry your first day of work couldn't be more eventful."

A joke? I didn't take him as the joking kind.

Rolling your eyes, you put on a disappointed tone, "God...if you guys drag your feet like this every day, I might have to consider a transfer."

In a more serious nature, he asks, "How are you feeling?"

"Alright, I guess. You were right, you know, no amount of studying or lectures can truly prepare you for what it's like when you're staring into the eyes of a killer. I've learned the negotiation techniques and memorized the textbook 'put the gun down' speech, but all of that flies out the window when you're in the moment."

"You will find that improvisation at times is the key to success in this job. Just know that this team is a family. You will never face this alone or be at a loss for anything. Your career is in its infancy, but I can tell you have a long and triumphant journey ahead of you. We will do whatever we can to ensure that you are at home here and can use this team as an opportunity to refine your abilities. All I ask in return is that you work with us, not against us. You have nothing to prove. They see your resourcefulness. So do I. You are one of us now."

Some gazes are the promise of protection; his is all that and more. The words "at home" resonate in your mind. You've spent your whole life searching for a home, and here it is, its doors being opened to you. After a lifetime of running from place to place, perhaps this is where you can finally settle down.

"Get some rest," Hotch whispers to you. And with that, you lean your head against the chilled window and shut your eyes.

++++

Tag List 🏷

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[luminescencefics]

fade in, fade out - part six

story page // chapter moodboard // read on wattpad // banner credit

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A/N: Since this chapter is quite long, mobile viewing is probably not the best option because Tumblr can sometimes be finicky! I would recommend viewing in a browser. Happy reading, loves! x

***

The Climax

January 2013 

Marcus and Nora break up during the spring of her second year.

He wanted things to move much faster than they were, and Nora was far too comfortable with their normal—the normal in which Marcus lived a floor above her and they could wrap around each other in his tiny twin bed without worrying about things outside of their protective bubble. Because this normal was easy, it was simple, it was safe—and doing anything different, switching up their normal, would make it the complete opposite.

So when he tells her that he found a small studio apartment in the West Village one April afternoon underneath a budding black tupelo tree in Central Park, and he would love more than anything for Nora to move in, she immediately declines. She wasn’t ready for that step—wasn’t ready to not live with Ebony and switch up her normal and pop their bubble.

Breaking up wasn’t in Nora’s plan, but she knew that it was bound to happen. It was an amicable split, something that didn’t shake her world or leave her feeling lost at sea without an anchor in the unforgiving rough waters. And two months later, when she’s spending her final summer at home with her mother, Nora wonders if there’s something wrong with her heart when it still feels intact and the still-beating flesh isn’t ripping apart at the seams.

But life moves on, and so does Nora.

When she arrives back on campus at the start of her third year, Nora finds that she has room in her schedule for extracurriculars due to her influx of AP credits from Townbridge. On a whim, she decides to fill in the gaps with Film Study classes, and Nora finds that her heart is thumping in a way that it never has before—in a way that makes her feel that she’s finally found purpose, finally found her passion, finally found something close to unadulterated happiness.

Her favorite film professor is an older woman named Suzanne Davies who insists she be called Sue, or more radically, Suzy. She’s built of thin bones and worn skin, mahogany eyes that have seen almost everything that Nora wishes she could, with grey curly hair that twists at the nape of her neck and covers a brain that Nora wishes she could pry apart and indulge in every memory like a film projector reel on a thin hanging sheet.

She teaches Film Theory & Criticism, and when Nora listens to her thick British accent work through Apparatus theory and Structuralist theory, she can’t help but think of London—a city that feels an entire world away, and how badly she wishes she could visit, if only for a short amount of time.

One dreary November afternoon when Nora is the last one to leave the lecture hall, Suzy stops her and asks her what she wants to do with her life. Nora is instantly brought back to a time in December three years ago, in a different state with a boy she thinks about every now and then, who asked her this very same question as the snow was falling outside and they were laying down on concrete steps, eyes facing the cracked ceiling above. She was honest then, not even hesitating when spilling the words freely from her lips, because for some odd reason, she trusted him entirely in that small moment in time.

She feels the same now, and suddenly, she’s telling her professor about the pressure she feels of choosing a stable career, of how she needs her mother to be proud of her, of how she studies Communications but craves Film, of how she’s never been happier than when she’s watching old movies and dreaming up plots of her own. She tells Suzy how she’s never left the country, of how she wishes to see places that aren’t coastal Newport or rural Connecticut or bustling New York City.

When Nora sits in her usual seat in the middle row for her next class a week later, she finds an application for Columbia’s exchange program with University College London on her desk. She skims through the pages, finding that Suzy has filled in most of the basic information, leaving the personal questions for Nora to finish. And when she looks up at her professor just as she’s beginning the lecture, Suzy feels her gaze warm her wrinkled cheek and shoots her wink, going right back to discussing human nature as a fundamental theme in A Clockwork Orange.

Nora sends in her application right after class, and receives her acceptance letter the week before Christmas break. She feels as if she’s floating through thin air, and the only thing keeping her from floating into the stratosphere is the glossy folder from UCL with the words Congratulations! and welcome and 4 January 2013 printed on thick paper. Her mother might possibly be more thrilled than Nora, and when she’s back in Newport folding thick sweaters and knitted scarves and thrifted trench coats into her suitcases on New Year’s Eve, Nora can’t help but think that if moments could be bottled, she would pick this one to cherish forever.

Time seems to pass much faster for Harry. His first year meshes into his second year without hesitation, his afternoon’s at his internship with his father fall into nights spent with his mates almost thoughtlessly—and it’s only once he’s been doing the same thing for almost an entire year when he feels himself growing tired of it all. He’s sick of this routine. Sick of drinking himself into a place where he doesn’t have any feelings, doesn’t think of all of his past mistakes, doesn’t do anything else except simply exist for a few hours. And when he falls into his bed the next morning feeling his brain throb against his skill in agony, he comes to the conclusion that he’s completely and utterly exhausted from this meaningless lifestyle.

When his third and final year comes along, he decides to stop answering his mates when they call. He doesn’t show up to their penthouse parties anymore, he doesn’t frequent the same claustrophobic clubs he knows they’ll be at. Harry keeps to himself, and when he sees a flyer after his Business Ethics lecture about intramural football tryouts, he brings his old kit to the pitch the next afternoon. He’s a bit rusty, but Harry finds that most of the lads are, and that thought alone makes him start to feel something other than emptiness.

He makes the team and meets a boy named Niall. He’s from Ireland and drinks like a fish, but he’s kind and easygoing and doesn’t care that Harry’s surname is Styles—and it’s a refreshing change from the incessant partying and shallow people he wasted away with his first two years. Niall is warm and comfortable, and reminds Harry of slipping on that warm jumper he’s had for years in the back of his closet whenever the weather gets cold, and it’s nice having a real friend for once in his life.

As October changes into November, Harry feels a change within himself, too. It’s subtle, the smallest of shifts that allows his icy heart to thaw ever so slowly, and he finds that he welcomes it with open arms.

He meets Niall’s girlfriend just as the long stretch of autumn begins. Her name is Piper and she’s practically made for Niall, in the way that the top of her head reaches just under Niall’s chin so that he can rest it there whenever they’re talking to other people, in the way that his hand practically swallows her much smaller one whenever they’re walking from pub to pub, in the way that she instinctively makes him a cup of tea whenever she brews her own, knowing exactly how he takes it. It makes Harry a little bit jealous, because for the first time in years, he finds that he yearns to wrap a body part around another warm person just to inform them that he hasn’t forgotten their presence, yearns to swallow palms with his own, yearns to have another person think of him while doing the most mundane of tasks.

Yearns to have somebody want him in a way he hasn’t ever been wanted before.

Piper is in her third year at UCL, and she met Niall at a house party during their first year hosted by a mutual friend. They fell in love quickly and seamlessly, and after three weeks Niall told her that she was the one for him, and it all sort of made sense.

She welcomes Harry into their eclectic group, filled with a few lads from footie and a few girls from Piper’s dorm, and they’re the fastest friends Harry’s ever made. They spend their fall semester at a small pub in Camden on Wednesdays that plays live music and is filled with seemingly normal people like Harry’s new mates, and busy house parties hosted by UCL students on the weekends, with the occasional club sprinkled in between.

As autumn trickles into winter, Harry finds that he’s quite sad to watch Niall leave for Ireland for the holiday break. He’s not sure how time passed so quickly, and as December fades into January, Harry’s counting down the days until his loud brown-haired mate is back in London, showing up on his doorstep to drag him to the pub around the corner for a pint.

When Nora exits Heathrow during one of the coldest days of the year, she finds that not even the weather can dull her perpetual shine. She barely slept the entire flight, her excitement of being on a plane for the first time and receiving her first official passport stamp keeping her wide awake throughout the entire seven hour journey.

During the car ride from Heathrow to her residence hall in Central London, Nora’s face is glued to the window pane, her eyes taking in every sight that flashes by. Her mouth is close enough to the glass that her humid breaths are causing the window to fog over, but she can’t even think about how rude that probably is. All she can think about is the fact that she’s in another country, in a brand new city, experiencing all of this for the very first time.

When the black car finally pulls up to a brick building, Nora clutches her two suitcases in each hand, her leather backpack strapped tightly against the wool material of her trench coat, and makes her way to the sixth floor.

Nora’s room is small but homely, a single twin bed against one wall with a wooden wardrobe on the other. A white desk sits underneath the decently-sized window straight against the back wall, and when she looks around and takes everything in, she feels herself breathe properly for the first time since stepping on English soil.

Her floor is quiet, but before Nora can begin to explore, she decides to be smart and starts unpacking, knowing that the longer she puts it off, the less inclined she’ll be to put her clothes away properly. 

After about an hour, she decides to venture down the hallway into the common room where a small kitchen and lounge area reside. Nora notices a few coats thrown over the back of the couch haphazardly, and before she can build up the courage to turn down the other adjacent hallway and meet her new floormates, she decides to brew a cup of coffee to push past the jet lag attempting to invade her insides.

When she turns the kettle on and rummages through the cupboards to try and find some instant coffee, Nora discovers nothing but various tea flavors. Disgruntled, Nora plucks a package of Earl Grey and places it inside a mug she grabbed from the shelf, moving the plaid tea towel a little bit further down the countertop as she waits for the hot water to boil.

Nora leans her right hip on the counter while she waits, drumming her fingertips against the laminate material as she tries to remember if she even likes the taste of tea to begin with. She drank chamomile tea once after studying for finals so that she could sleep, and whenever she was sick with a cold, her mother would make her a cup with a dollop of honey to soothe her scratchy throat. She wonders if she’s allowed to put milk inside so the color isn’t a deep murky brown, or if sugar would help with the bitter taste.

Suddenly, Nora detects something that smells distinctly of burning. She springs upright, wondering what on earth she could have possibly done. Water can’t burn, right?

But before her fuzzy brain can start functioning properly, she looks down to her right and notices that the edges of the plaid tea towel have charred, and when she blinks, Nora realizes that the red light on the hot plate has been turned on.

“Shit!” Nora squeals, flicking the switch off that she must have accidentally turned on when she lazily rested her hip against the edge of the counter moments ago.

Just as she makes a reach for the burning tea towel, she hears a high-pitched accented voice behind her shriek, and suddenly, freckled arms are appearing in her periphery, snatching up the ruined tea towel as she yells, “Oi! No tea towels on the hot plate!”

With a flick of her wrist, the girl throws the tea towel into the sink, turning the cold water on while Nora’s cheeks burn bright. “I’m sorry! I didn’t even realize—Christ,” she splutters, tearing her eyes away from the wet fabric inside the steel basin and focusing them on the smaller girl in front of her.

“Ah, you’re the new American exchange student.” The girl says it in a way that makes Nora wonder if it’s a good or bad thing, as if her identifier explains why she nearly burned their residence hall down a mere three hours after being allowed in the country.

Before Nora can apologize or worse, make an even bigger fool of herself, the pretty girl in front of her chuckles in a way that makes Nora breathe in a deep sigh of relief. And before she can even realize what she’s doing, Nora starts to laugh along with her—loud enough until her cheeks feel bruised from smiling so brightly and her ribs hurt from the lack of air pumping through her lungs. The kettle starts to whistle, forcing them to break their eye contact.

Just as Nora reaches over to turn it off, the girl’s freckled arm beats her to the punch, knocking her hip against Nora’s with a bright smile, “Let’s keep you away from any more potential fire hazards, yeah?”

The lightness in her tone makes Nora believe that she’s being genuine, and when the girl begins to pour the hot water into the mug and shoots a kind smile over her shoulder, Nora takes a step back and feels a bit more at ease.

“I’m Nora, by the way,” Nora announces, watching the pretty girl with auburn hair dunk the tea bag exactly seven times into the water.

“I’m Piper. How do you take your tea?” she asks, looking over her shoulder again. Nora gets a bit distracted by the smattering of freckles covering the bridge of her nose and falling onto the apples of her cheeks. Her eyes are the brightest shade of green Nora’s ever seen, and when the girl tilts her head to the side in question, Nora shakes her head, realizing that she has no idea how to properly drink tea.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” she admits sheepishly. Piper gives her a soft smile, before reaching into the refrigerator and grabbing a small carton of milk.

“You’ll take it like me, then. Reckon I’ll convert you into a proper tea drinker by the time your exchange is over, Rah,” Piper calls out, pouring a dash of milk and plopping one sugar cube inside the cup, stirring it another seven times. Nora wonders if that changes the taste or if it’s just a little quirk her new floormate does.

Nora’s eyebrows furrow at the unfamiliar name that falls from Piper’s pink lips. “Rah?”

Piper hands over the mug with twinkling eyes. “Gotta give you a nickname if we’re meant to be proper mates, right?”

It’s a question that seems to not need an answer, because Piper is the type of girl that says things with an air of unbridled assurance. Piper could tell you that the glowing star in the sky wasn’t the sun, instead, it was a dripping egg yolk that warmed everything underneath, and you would believe it. So when she calls Nora by her nickname, she doesn’t even bat an eye, because if being called Rah means she has a new friend in this unfamiliar place, then Nora will accept it without hesitation.

“Let’s get you all settled in then, yeah? I’ll have my boyfriend bring us some dinner. I think you’ll like him,” Piper says, grabbing Nora’s hand and dragging her into her bedroom at the other end of the hall.

A few hours later, when a brown-haired boy with matching blue eyes and a thick Irish accent shows up with two bags of Thai takeaway in one hand and a twelve-pack of Fosters beer in the other, Nora finds that Piper was right—she likes him quite a bit. They seem to get on like a house on fire, and when he cracks open a beer for her and tells her that he thinks she has a funny accent, Nora laughs and throws his comment right back in his face. The three of them end up eating too much food and drinking too much beer, but Nora doesn’t mind the bellyache when she falls into bed later that night, thinking all of it was worth it, because she made two new friends on her first night.

The next evening, Piper swings open Nora’s door without knocking, and begins rummaging through her wardrobe and pulling out her nicest pair of blue jeans, a cute sweater she got on the clearance rack at some New York City boutique, and one of her thrifted trench coats. She tells Nora to get ready because they’re going out tonight, and before she can decline, she hears Niall yell over from the common room, “Get yer arse dressed, Rah! It’s pub night!”

Barely thirty minutes later, Nora finds herself sandwiched between Niall and Piper in the cold January air, heels stomping against the pavement as they zigzag their way through the crowded streets of Camden Town.

Niall’s phone begins to ring, and before Nora’s head can snap in his direction, the sleek black device is already pressed against his ear as he begins speaking loudly into the night air. “Curly! How’re ya, mate? What? Yes, of course we’re goin’ to the pub. It’s Wednesday! Late? What d’ya mean, late? Oh. Yeah, sure, take yer time, Pipes and I have our hands full breakin’ in Rah over here. What’s that? Rah? Pipes and I adopted her. Yer gonna love her. Right, see ya later!”

He looks over at Nora as he slides his phone into his back pocket. The question is at the tip of her tongue, but when she takes in the mischievous twinkle in his eyes and finds that Piper’s are matching, she just shakes her head softly before muttering, “Do I even want to know?”

Niall flings his arm around her shoulder and Piper’s much smaller one wraps around Nora’s waist. “Best not to know anything,” Piper whispers into her ear, giggling as they make their way around the corner to the brick-faced pub at the end of the street.

When they finally pull Nora inside, it takes her a few moments to get adjusted to the unfamiliar setting. She’s only been twenty-one for two months now, and even though she knows the legal drinking age here is eighteen, she’s still only been inside a handful of bars in her short existence.

Bars in New York City are nothing like the place Nora currently finds herself in. She’s used to proper lighting, sleek bar tops, upholstered seating, and fancy liquor bottles lining the mirrored walls. Instead, she finds herself surrounded by chipped wood, sticky paneled flooring, and string lights fastened to original crown molding. The bar itself has more beer taps than she’s ever seen another place have before, and instead of ornate tequila bottles on thick glass panes, Nora finds numerous bottles of dark liquor haphazardly placed on oak shelving. It’s all wooden stools and high-top tables and stained rims on old surfaces, and when she notices an elevated platform along the farthest wall with musical instruments placed a bit too close together to make up for the lack of room the space provides, Nora finds that she likes this place a little bit more than the ones back home.

Instead of asking Nora what she’d like to drink, Niall just bends down and speaks into her ear, “You trust me, right?” And when she nods and finds that she surprisingly does trust this friendly stranger after only twenty-four hours, he grins and smacks a kiss to the crown of her head, prancing over to the bar with a giddy smile on his face.

Piper just shakes her head with a chuckle, grabbing Nora by the hand and dragging her over to a high-top closer to the empty stage. “Come meet the gang, Rah,” she says, squeezing her palm a little tighter when she notices the nervous look washing over Nora’s features.

With her palm in Piper’s, Nora is happily introduced to a group of five people clutching pint glasses with two plates of chips in the middle of the table. She recognizes two of the girls from her residence hall, and smiles when they compliment her boots and coat. The rest are names Nora tries her hardest to file into her memory, and when she slips into a stool with Piper sliding into the one on her right, she finds herself feeling much more comfortable.

Niall appears with a black tray covered in spilled beer and shorter glasses filled with a deep brown liquid Nora can only assume to be whiskey inside. She gulps, attempting to alleviate her dry throat, mentally preparing herself because she did tell him moments ago that she trusted him. And when she slides the liquor down her throat and feels it burn her insides, she chases the warmth with cold beer and hears Niall’s loud cheer across from her.

“Way to go, Rah! Yer a natural!” Nora feels Piper squeeze her shoulder affectionately, and before Niall can slide another shot glass in her direction, Nora watches his eyes lift over the top of her head to something behind her. His blue eyes suddenly widen and his teeth rip through his skin, grinning widely as he calls out, “Curly! Just in time, mate!”

Nora hears a deep chuckle behind her, and for some strange reason, it sounds all too familiar. 

She’s instantly brought back to a time three years ago in the dead of winter, the rolling green Connecticut hills covered in thick white blankets of snow, in which a boy and a girl spent ten days together without any interruptions. She heard that chuckle enough times in those ten days to permanently have it imprinted in her memory, and suddenly, Nora feels her stomach clench uncomfortably, because how, after all of this time, can Nora still remember that sound?

But then she hears it. His voice—much deeper now, but still gravelly and throaty, forming words slowly with his accent tilting at the end of specific phrases. It’s much thicker now, no doubt from his time spent in his home country, and all at once, Nora feels her face pucker with discomfort. She wonders if anybody else can notice the inner-turmoil wreaking havoc underneath her skin, but then he speaks again, and it’s close enough to cause her to momentarily forget how to breathe.

“What do we have here, then?” Nora can’t bring herself to move. She feels as if her bum is glued to the wooden seat, the soles of her boots are transfixed to the legs of the stool, and her upper body has lost all proper motor function. Nora is almost certain that she’s panicking, but then she’s brought back into focus when Niall’s cheerful voice echoes off the walls of the crowded pub surrounding her.

“This is our Rah! Came all the way from America on exchange, so don’t go and scare her off,” Niall calls out, his grin faltering a little when he notices the alarmed look covering Nora’s face.

“Came all this way and the first person she meets is you? Well, let me formally apologize for that disappointment—” Nora gulps one last time and swivels around in the old stool, finally revealing herself, causing his words to fall flat.

When their eyes finally meet, Nora’s relieved she isn’t holding the pint glass in her hand, because if she were, she’s certain that it would fall to the floor below her, breaking with a resounding crack when she finally faces Harry Styles for the first time in three years.

It feels like everything is happening in slow motion. Sea green eyes widen in shock, and Nora watches as his neck pushes his face outward, as if his body was forcing him to take in every inch of her face to re-familiarize himself with it. He’s a bit taller now, still wearing an expensive dark-colored trench coat, still choosing an inappropriately thin t-shirt underneath. He seems to have grown up in every sense of the word—with the way his chest is a bit fuller and his arms are a bit thicker and his stomach is a bit tighter. His jawline seems to be more pronounced, the bone practically slicing through his skin with the way the lines effortlessly sculpt his face that is still annoyingly perfect. She notices that his hair is pushed back into a low bun, the curls escaping the thin hair tie just kissing the nape of his neck. She can’t help but wonder what the tendrils would look like if she pulled the knotted elastic from his hair, allowing them to fall freely down his back.

“Nora Priestley?” Harry barely calls out. He feels as if he’s hallucinating.

Because the last time he saw Nora Priestley in the flesh, she was all blonde hair and skinny limbs and knobby knees. There’s no denying that this is still her, considering her blue eyes are practically tattooed underneath his eyelids whenever he tries to fall asleep at night, and nobody else can steal that shade. She’s practically a fully-blossomed woman sitting in front of him—all slender legs and tiny waist, long torso that has rigidified over time, undulating hips that truly show a level of maturity that didn’t exist three years ago back in Connecticut. Her face is still angular, her nose is still buttoned, her lips are still pouty, her cheekbones are still high on her face and tinted pink. But when he looks at her hair, he notices that the blonde is gone. In its place is a deep shade of brown, nearly black, flowing over her shoulders and down her back languidly. Her fringe is still there, all messy strands framing a face that she’s finally grown into, and Harry finds a calming sense of familiarity in that.

She’s beautiful—she’s always been this effortlessly cool type of beautiful, and Harry can’t actually believe that she’s sitting in front of him. Can’t actually believe that her lips are moving on her face, forming his two-syllable name. Can’t actually believe that he’s been staring at her hearing white noise flood through his ear canals, blocking whatever else is falling from her mouth.

“Your hair. It’s different,” are the words Harry chooses to say once he realizes her mouth is closed, mentally berating himself for being so wrapped up in this New Nora that he seemingly forgot how to hold a normal conversation.

She seems to be on the same page, with the way she slowly tears her eyes from his own, staring blankly at the wall over his shoulder when an odd sense of déjà vu clouds her vision, before nodding absently.

“Yeah,” she finally voices, bringing her forlorn gaze back to his. “I could say the same for you.”

He smiles a bit, wondering how to maneuver through these unfamiliar waters with her. But before he can even properly locate his mooring, Niall interrupts, causing Nora to swivel back in his direction so that her back is once again facing Harry.

“I’m confused—have you two met?” Niall asks, observing the two with wide eyes, a crinkle in his forehead as he tries to dissect the interaction unfolding across the table.

“Uh, yeah. We went to boarding school together,” Nora explains, filling in the gaps. She sees the pint glass in her periphery and grabs it tightly, bringing it to her lips and gulping three heavy swallows of the bitter liquid to slow down her erratic heartbeat.

“Wait—here? I thought you said you’ve never been on a plane before, Nora!” Piper calls out from Nora’s right side, her auburn hair flicking back and forth when she notices the tension radiating off of their bodies.

“No, in America,” Harry answers for Nora when he realizes her mouth is preoccupied with downing her entire pint in one go. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are darting in every direction that isn’t the blue of Niall’s eyes or the bright green of Piper’s, and Harry can conclude that Nora is uncomfortable.

“Well, that’s a plot twist I didn’t see comin’,” Niall says through a chuckle, moving his eyes away from Nora’s as he takes a long swig of his drink, shaking his head at the uncanniness of it all.

The whole group seems to be a bit shocked by this revelation, and before Nora can suffocate under the unnatural silence surrounding the table, Piper asks the rest of the group a question about the new band performing tonight, and just like that, all is forgotten.

Nora can feel the body behind her disappear, and when she sees black wool material flutter past her eyesight, she breathes in a sigh of relief when she notices the only chair available is the one diagonal from her, almost conveniently out of her line of vision.

She looks up when she sees a fresh pint glass being pushed in her direction, and when her eyes lock with Niall’s and she realizes that he’s given her the second beer he originally saved for himself, she smiles appreciatively before bringing the cool glass to her lips, swallowing deeply with her eyes shut tight.

If Nora’s meant to endure this entire evening, she’s going to need all of the liquid courage she can muster. Because the universe must be playing some sort of sick-twisted game with her, giving her the opportunity to travel to a new city while simultaneously thrusting the boy who almost broke her heart right in the epicenter of it all. She wonders if this is her karma for ending things with Marcus, for not agreeing to move in with him and take the next steps in their relationship.

Nora sighs, wanting so badly to laugh at her situation, but knows deep down that she can’t. Because London is supposed to be a big city—filled with nine million people and her chances of potentially running into Harry were meant to be astronomically low. The numbers should have been on her side—considering Oxford University is sixty miles away from UCL, and Oxfordshire is an hour and a half away from Central London, and out of the three hundred pubs in all of Camden, the probability of running into him at this very one in this exact moment in time is far too outstanding to even be considered a possibility.

But it is, and it’s happening all around her, and suddenly—Nora needs to leave.

She can’t be sat so close to him after all this time and act like everything’s okay. Because it’s not okay and she’s not okay and this whole fucking scenario will never be okay, and in order to be okay, Nora needs to locate the closest escape route and disappear.

Her head is swivelling and she’s not listening to any of the conversations happening around her, and as if the gods were pitying her, sensing her panic attack all the way from the heavens above, they send her a sign in the form of Niall grabbing Harry and bringing him over to the bar with the guys for another round.  

Once they’ve left, Nora abandons her half-emptied glass and grabs her coat, flinging it on her body without even buttoning it properly. Piper looks over, realizing that Nora’s face is flushed and her eyes are a bit widened, and before she can get too far, she asks, “Rah, you alright?”

Shit, Nora thinks, I forgot about Piper.

“Uh, yeah. Just need a smoke,” Nora lies, teeth forming a barely-there smile to try and prove to her new friend that she’ll be okay and doesn’t need to be followed.

Piper warily falls for it, and when Nora watches her freckled face turn back towards the girls at the table, Nora sighs in relief and hurries over to the front door, flying out into the cold January air as she tries to navigate her shaking feet back towards the Underground.

She doesn’t make it very far, barely rounds the corner of the street before she hears her name being roughly called from raspberry lips she’s too terrified to face. But his legs are longer than hers and his strides are more purposeful, because just as Nora’s identified the Underground entranceway, Harry’s large palm wraps around her tensed bicep and suddenly, she’s spinning on the heels of her boots, officially caught trying to run away in the middle of a busy sidewalk surrounded by throngs of people.

Nora immediately flinches, shaking his hand off her body before she becomes familiar with the warmth that encapsulates the fabric adorning her skin. Harry gets the hint and dejectedly brings his hand back down to his side, shuffling in his brown suede shoes as he tries to form the correct words to say to her.

“You don’t have to leave,” he starts, trying his hardest to identify the wary look in her eyes. Because he’s never seen her look like this—so completely and utterly defeated, and Harry almost wishes she would lash out instead of continue to look at him the way she is doing right now.

“I do,” Nora says, moving her eyes down to the cracked pavement. She can’t bring herself to look at his face anymore.

“Piper said you were having a smoke. I didn’t think you did that.” Harry’s words cause her head to lift abruptly, and she’s not sure if it’s because his voice sounds so broken and dejected, or if it’s because he’s insinuating that he still knows things about her.

“You don’t know me anymore, Harry,” Nora spits out, leveling her blues with his greens in a standoff that she doesn’t feel ready for.

Harry frowns, rubbing his palm against the back of his neck, choosing to back down. “I know.”

It’s sad. The whole situation is terribly sad, because suddenly, Pandora’s box has been ripped open—the lid practically flung across the pavement as feelings that have been buried underneath the surface for so long are unforgivingly being unearthed right in front of their eyes.

Nora turns away, knowing there’s really nothing left to be said between the two of them. Not until she’s properly processed it all. Not until she’s dealt with her emotions the right way instead of screaming in his face and never looking back.

“Nora,” Harry tries, his voice pleading with hers. He waits until she turns around before saying, “My birthday is in a few weeks. The first. Niall’s throwing me a party and all that, and uh—” he takes a massive gulp, his entire body riddled with nerves, “I’d really like for you to come.”

“I’ll think about it,” Nora says after a moment’s pause, offering him a shaky smile in hopes that it’ll be enough for him to allow her to enter the Underground without another interruption.

“And Nora?” her eyes find his one last time before he says, “It’s really great to see you.”

The next Wednesday pub night, Nora decides to stay home. It’s not that she doesn’t want to hang out with everyone, because she does—she just knows that Harry will definitely be in attendance, and she still isn’t really sure how to feel about everything. The last thing Nora wants to do is make things awkward with this new group of friends she just met, so staying in was the easiest option.

On the Wednesday after that, Harry decides to skip out. He doesn’t want Nora to feel like she has to avoid her new friends because their relationship (or lack thereof) is stuck in limbo. Traveling to a new country, especially for the first time, is never fun to do alone—and Harry would hate himself if he made her feel that isolating herself is the best option. So he stays home, and tries not to text Niall and ask him if Nora decided to show up (even though he stalks his mates’ social media and finds that she did, in fact, go).

Niall and Piper try not to ask the invasive questions that are dancing on the tip of their tongues, because it’s so blatantly obvious that Nora and Harry were never “just” mates from school. Nora never explicitly tells her new friends about what happened, but Piper can figure it out, because she’s a girl, and girl’s know what Nora’s eyes mean when they twinkle and break at the mention of Harry’s name. Harry, on the other hand, drunkenly spilled anecdotes to Niall in the past about a girl who deserved so much better than what he could offer her, and with one look at the bruised skin underneath Harry’s vacant eyes in the days that follow their reunion, Niall understands then that the girl in question is none other than his special Rah.

The first of February comes along with a dip in temperature, and before Nora can mull over Harry’s birthday party invitation any longer, she decides to throw caution to the wind and go. She shops for a pretty dress with Piper, and when she finds a discounted Topshop number that pairs excellently with the only pair of heels she stuffed into her suitcase, she purchases it without a second thought.

The girls get ready together and Nora lets Piper curl her hair, and when the rest of their friends make cocktails in their tiny shared kitchenette, Nora feels her worries wash away with each sip of fruity liquor that slides down her throat.

When they arrive at the club Niall organizes all their mates to meet at, Nora barely has time to try and locate the birthday boy. Because suddenly, she’s meeting a handful of new people and being dragged to the dancefloor against her will, and after her second (or third?) Sex on the Beach, she’s in that perfect state of drunkenness in which she feels light and airy and nothing but happiness radiates off her sticky skin.

Harry, oppositely, is in that state of drunkenness in which his words are slurring together and his eyes are glossy. He feels airy, practically lightheaded at this point, and his teeth stretch the skin around his mouth wide as he laughs along to whatever his friends are saying.

He’s barely had time to make the rounds, because people kept approaching him left and right with birthday praises and a shot glass filled with pungent liquor for him to shoot back. Niall finally rejoins him at the U-shaped leather booth in their corner of the club, and when Harry asks him something that sounds like Piper, Niall points in the direction of his girlfriend twirling around the dancefloor with a group of her friends.

When he refocuses his blurry vision on the group, Harry instantly notices brown hair floating through the air. The curls seem to have fallen a bit as the night dragged on, and when the girl turns around to mouth the lyrics of the upbeat song to Piper, Harry grins when he recognizes the pouty lips that are painted a refreshing shade of sherbert. Her cheeks are tinged and Harry wonders if it’s from exertion or alcohol, and when she spins back around to shake her hips to the beat of the overplayed pop song, he can’t tear his eyes away. It’s only once her hands scoop the hair at the back of her neck, pushing it upwards to let the prickling skin underneath breathe for a bit, when Harry notices the new etchings of ink on her body.

Three equally-sized birds are tattooed on the back of her right shoulder, swirling on her ivory skin whenever her arms move above her head as she dances. Harry can’t seem to look away—suddenly wondering if there’s anything else about her that has changed in three years. He finds that he wants to know everything about her within the time period when they weren’t in each other’s lives, and it’s that startling realization that causes him to ignore the advances of the yellow-haired girl sitting across the table from him.

“Y’alright, Curly?” Niall asks after Harry waves the girl away, and he nods distractedly, bringing his whiskey and ginger to his mouth to gulp back heavily. Niall shakes his head and tells him that he’s going to go dance with Piper, and Harry just watches idly as his friend saunters away.

For some reason, Harry doesn’t get up. Instead, he pulls more sips from the liquor at his table, watching in curiosity as Nora mingles with his mates and dances with Niall and Piper. He thinks it’s fascinating, thinks that in a parallel universe he and Nora would be doing this every night, and instead of random girls vying for his attention, Nora would undoubtedly have all of it.

With that thought running through his head, he sloppily gets up from his seat, drunkenly hobbling over to his group of friends on the dancefloor near the bar. When he approaches them, he flings an unsteady arm around Niall’s neck for extra support, grinning widely when everyone calls him the birthday boy and pinches his cheeks in drunken adoration.

“Mm, think ‘ve had enough, mate,” Harry slurs in Niall’s direction, resting a good portion of his weight on his shorter friend who has to tighten his grip around Harry’s waist.

“I’ll call a car, have ‘em bring you home. Need me t’come with?” Niall asks, and when Harry looks at each of his mates in their small circle, he shakes his head cheekily and smiles in Nora’s direction.

“No, I want Nora to.” It’s innocent in the way that he just wants to spend time with her, because he hasn’t even had the chance to speak to her tonight, and all he can think about is how much time has passed between them and that he misses her in a way he didn’t think was possible.

Nora watches Harry whine in Niall’s ear, and even though the music is too loud for her to make out everything he’s saying, she somehow manages to hear the words want and Nora and please. Niall looks over in her direction, and when he asks her if she’ll take him home, she considers accepting for some odd reason. Because he’s drunk and needy, and she’s never seen a needy Harry Styles before, and as if the time frame has blurred right in front of her, Nora finds herself in the backseat of a fancy town car driving off into a quieter part of the city.

They sit on opposite ends of the car with the middle seat unused between them, and after a few minutes of silence, Harry decides to break it by saying, “‘M really happy you came tonight.”

Nora’s not nearly as drunk as he is, and she finds it quite adorable the way his deep voice cracks over the slurred syllables, and his lips are bright red from his teeth gnawing into them, and his cheeks are almost a deeper shade from the alcohol surging through his veins.

“It’s your birthday. It would have been mean of me not to,” Nora says softly, watching as Harry tears his eyes away from the blurred streets and onto her face.

He grins. “I don’t think y’know how t’be mean, Nora. Not sure there’s a mean bone in your body.”

Nora just smiles back gently, unsure of how exactly to respond. Thankfully, the car pulls to a stop on a quiet street just in front of a white stucco townhouse. There’s a small iron-clad gate on the sidewalk that comes about waist-high, and when Harry unlocks it and begins his wobbly trek to the navy blue front door, Nora can’t help but look around his neighborhood in slight awe.

The jostling of keys breaks her out of her reverie, and when she finds Harry struggling to place the correct key into the lock, she calmly pushes him out of the way and flicks her wrist to unlock the door, pushing it open and allowing him to step in first.

She barely gets a chance to take in the interior of his home before he’s grabbing the keys from her hand and dropping them loudly in the bowl on the hallway table, unsteadily stepping out of his shoes and leaving them haphazardly on the floor, reaching for her hand and dragging her up the stairs to the loft bedroom above.

Before Nora can even comprehend what Harry’s doing, he’s suddenly flinging his clothes across different surfaces of his room—starting with his trench coat over his desk chair, his belt on the shoe rack in his closet, his wallet on the bureau nearest to the door. It’s only once he starts fumbling out of his jeans when Nora turns around with a squeak, feeling a bit awkward watching him drunkenly scramble out of his clothes.

“What’re you doin’?” He slurs, the sound of his feet struggling to get out of the tight material ceasing abruptly.

“Giving you privacy,” Nora explains, finding herself counting the knobs on his dresser instead of hyperfocusing on the fact that Harry is undressing behind her.

She can hear him chuckle a bit, and then the sound of a body flopping onto a mattress takes over. Harry grunts in frustration, and it’s only once he’s called Nora’s name when she peeks over her shoulder timidly, finding Harry lying flat on his bed with his shirt still on, his feet firmly planted on the hardwood floor as his jeans seem to be stuck around his knees.

“Can you help me?” He doesn’t seem to be making a pass at her, because his voice is whiny and his neck is strained, and he really seems to be struggling taking off his tight skinny jeans.

Nora laughs a bit before walking over, grabbing his jeans by his knees and forcing him to straighten his legs as she pulls. Harry watches, leaning up on his elbows as he wiggles the material off of his skin, gleaming proudly when they’re off and discarded into his hamper.

With her back to him, Harry reaches for a pair of joggers and shuffles them on, swapping his wrinkled dress shirt for an old band tee that he wore the night before. When she hears him trying to untuck his duvet from underneath the throw pillows on his bed, Nora turns around and places her palm on his back in the place just between his shoulder blades, causing him to freeze.

“Go brush your teeth. I’ll do this before you fall on your face,” Nora says through a giggle, and Harry does as he’s told, watching her through the reflection of his mirror with wide eyes as she delicately places the throw pillows on the bench under his window and pulls back the duvet and sheets pristinely.

After he spits out the mint toothpaste and waddles back into his room, Nora pats the spot on his bed that she’s left untucked for him, smiling softly as she says, “C’mon birthday boy.”

Harry grins sleepily, pushing himself on the mattress and burrowing into his pillows, chuckling when Nora pulls up the sheet and duvet until it’s tucked underneath his chin. She checks his nightstand to make sure that his phone is plugged in, and after confirming that everything seems to be put into place, she tries to wish Harry goodnight before he interrupts and asks, “Will you stay?”

Nora attempts to shake her head, telling him that it isn’t a good idea, causing Harry to try an alternative approach. The whiny, annoying kind, that usually works magnificently on the likes of Niall and Piper.

“Please, Nora! ‘S my birthday. ‘S all I want, and you didn’t get me a gift!”

Nora pauses, reading Harry’s face and finding the ghost of a smile hidden underneath his lips. She admires his tactic and decides to play along, stubbornly adding, “I didn’t know what you’d like! Not quite sure I can compete with all of the nice things your friends already got you.”

Harry scoffs indignantly. “I would’ve loved it anyway. ‘Cos it’s from you.”

“Harry—”

“—Please stay,” Harry interrupts, causing Nora to frown as she’s torn. “We can watch a film! Like we used to! I know y’love films, Nora. I even ‘ave a bunch in a drawer over ‘ere, look—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Nora rushes out, placing her hands gently over the duvet covering Harry’s chest, forcing him to lie back down on his bed. “No need to get up. It just took me ages to get you tucked in!”

“You’re right, ‘m sorry. ‘S over there.” Harry aimlessly points in the direction of his television stand at the far end of the wall. Nora nods, turning on her heel and beginning to walk in that direction, bending at her knees as she opens the drawer in question.

As she scans over the movie titles, she’s surprisingly impressed at his collection. They span across multiple genres, although Nora does note that he owns a decent amount of romantic comedies for a twenty-two year old boy. She almost chooses Ferris Bueller’s Day Off to reminisce, but those memories are jaded now, and she hasn’t seen the film since she sat thigh to thigh with Harry in his twin bed all those years ago, so instead, she plucks 10 Things I Hate About You and places it into the DVD player.

When the title screen loads, she checks on Harry over her shoulder and finds that he’s grinning from his position tucked snugly in his bed.

“Did y’know this was based on Taming of the Shrew?” he asks suddenly.

Nora pauses her act of getting up from the floor, shocked at the fact that Harry is willingly giving her film trivia that she used to provide. And when she stands up after a beat, looking down at him from the end of his bed, she smirks and asks teasingly, “Have you been studying film trivia?”

Harry just shrugs, a shy smile covering his face as his cheeks bloom pink.

She turns around then and hits play, and once the opening credits begin to roll on the screen, she rounds his king-sized bed and lays beside him on the other end, making sure to lay on top of the covers in her dress to keep a safe distance between them. Harry tries his hardest not to pout at the absence.

“Does this mean you’re staying?” Harry whispers just as the opening scene flashes onto the screen.

With her eyes trained on the screen, Nora just nods quietly, trying her hardest not to look over in his direction. And around halfway through the film, just after Patrick belts “Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You” to Kat on the staircase, Harry looks over to find Nora sound asleep on the other side of the mattress. Without waking her up, he grabs the blanket at the end of his bed and throws it over her body, watching as she welcomes the warmth as she snuggles into it.

It’s far too early when Harry wakes up. The sun has barely started to stretch its sunbeams outside of his window, and when he blinks through the dimness of his room, he finds that the first thing he sees is Nora Priestley. They’re both lying on their sides facing each other, a little bit closer than when they first dozed off. Harry can feel their bent knees brushing against the other’s underneath their respective blanket layers, and when Harry focuses on the hand that isn’t buried under his pillow, he realizes that his fingertips are ever so lightly grazing Nora’s much smaller ones. He smiles to himself, and just before falling back asleep, he hooks his pinky finger around Nora’s.

When he wakes up a few hours later, Nora is gone. He looks around his room to see if she’s in the ensuite or banging about downstairs, and finds himself frowning when all he’s met with is silence. Just as his eyes sweep over his nightstand, he finds a note near a glass of water with two paracetamol tablets on top. He scoops up the medication in one hand, and brings the note up to his eyes with the other.

Happy birthday, Harry. Here’s the best I could do on short notice. -Nora

He glances over to his alarm clock and realizes that it’s not even noon yet, and without really thinking, he reaches for his mobile and rings Niall to ask him for directions to Niall and Piper’s residence hall.

“Curly? What’re you doin’ up before noon?” Niall’s loud voice asks through the receiver.

Before Harry can bring himself to respond, he hears a giggle that sounds almost identical to Nora’s in the background, and suddenly he’s asking, “What’re you up to?”

“Hangover brunch, mate. Sunday tradition,” Niall responds easily, the sound of the late morning air ruffling through the speaker.

“Since when?” Harry asks, straining his ear to see if he can try to hear Nora again.

Niall laughs loudly, breaking his focus. “Since always! Yer dead to the world until the afternoon, so Rah always third-wheels with Piper and I—oof! I’m just messin’ around, Rah! You know we love yer company!”

Suddenly, Harry’s springing out of bed, running into the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash cold water onto his face to wake him up. He asks Niall the name of the restaurant, and just as the words leave his mouth, Harry hangs up and throws on the first clean pair of jeans and jumper he can find, shoving a beanie over his mangled hair and flying out the door.

He arrives just as tea gets brought to the table, and when he finds that the only open chair at their table of four is the one across from Nora, he grins and slides right in, watching the way her cheeks blush as her eyes burn holes through the plastic menu.

“Any particular reason why yer up and at ‘em this mornin’, Curly?” Niall asks, a knowing look on his face as his eyes dart between Harry’s and Nora’s accusingly.

“Just felt like waking up, I suppose,” Harry says in Niall’s direction, ordering a cup of tea from the waitress as she passes by. When he realizes that Piper and Niall are indulged in their own conversation, Harry leans forward over the table and asks Nora lowly, “So, what’s good here?”

Nora’s eyebrows dart up in surprise, asking, “You’ve never been here before?”

Harry shakes his head, smiling when he coaxes a pretty giggle out of Nora’s mouth. He finds that she looks cute in the morning, all sleepy eyed and puffed out cheeks. He almost wishes he caught her before she snuck out of his flat. He would have loved to see what she looked like buried in his pillows.

“I usually get a full English and give Niall my tomatoes,” Nora explains, sipping her tea generously.

“Why’s that?” Harry asks.

Nora scrunches her nose. “Not a fan of them.”

Before Harry can say anything else to her, the waitress pops over to take their order, and when their plates arrive and the first thing Nora notices Harry does is eat a bite of his grilled tomato, she pierces her fork through the two on her plate and drops them on his own instead of giving them to Niall.

If anybody at the table notices, they choose not to say anything.

After that Sunday morning, Harry finds that he can’t stay away from Nora. He remembers lurking through her Facebook page a year ago and finding that she has a thing for coffee shops, and after asking Piper for her class schedule, he waits for her outside her lecture hall one dreary Tuesday afternoon and brings her to his favorite café a few miles away from her residence hall.

It’s called the Muddy Cup and Nora’s surprised that it’s a place Harry frequents, considering it’s the complete opposite of his personality. It’s all bright colors and mismatched furniture, uniquely shaped mugs with bluesy, light jazz music playing in the background. It smells of coffee grinds and a hint of vanilla, and after their third trip there, Nora finds that this version of Harry is just like the one she remembers enjoying during their ten days together back in Townbridge—except, it’s heightened here in London. He tells her things without hesitating, he seems to have recognized how wrong his actions were, he seems to have a plan for his life. It’s a lot all at once, but Nora takes it all in stride, constantly reminding herself not to hold grudges and to try to remember that people are continuously changing and evolving, and that if Harry is trying his hardest to let her see this side of her, then she should at least give him the opportunity to allow him to do so.

But she’s not naive. She knows that she can’t just hand him her heart without precautions all because he’s trying to show her how much he’s changed. Because underneath all of her strong walls, all of the barriers she’s constructed to ensure that she doesn’t feel pain again, she knows that if anybody has the power to weave through all of her booby traps and decoys and rattle the infrastructure, it’s him.

Harry knows this, too. Knows that even though this New Nora in front of him changed her hair and grew up a little bit, she is still guarded, and he really can’t blame her for being overly cautious of him. He’s trying though—really trying, because if there’s anybody in this world that can bring out the best version of himself, it’s her.

After a few more coffee dates and a walk around his campus, Harry finally comes up with a plan. He’s not sure why he hadn’t thought of it sooner, because he’s almost positive it’s going to be the best first date Nora Priestley has ever been on. And he wants that for her—so badly, because she deserves it.

Harry schemes with Niall and Piper to make sure that Nora is free on a rare sunny late February afternoon. He shows up outside of her residence hall in his black Range Rover, watching the way she smiles bashfully at him when she notices him leaning against the passenger door of his car, posture nothing but attractive confidence with the way his jean-clad left leg is bent resting on the steel door, the way his emerald green jumper stretches across his chest due to his arms being crossed over the thin material, the way his long hair is free flowing down his shoulders as the wind ruffles the tendrils in the cool air. He weaves his sunglasses atop his head when he sees her exit her building, giving her a one-armed hug as he simultaneously opens the car door with his other hand, allowing Nora to fall into the warm leather interior.

“Where are we going?” Nora asks after they’ve merged onto the motorway. Harry looks over at her then, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other pushes and pulls at the skin covering his lower lip nervously. He offers her a shy smile, before muttering, “A surprise,” causing Nora to blush immediately.

Once the colorful pastel townhouses flood into view, Nora isn’t sure how she didn’t realize it sooner. The streets are winding and her nose is practically glued to the window as she takes in the flashes of raspberry, lilac, peach, coral, and mint lining Notting Hill. She can’t wipe the aching grin covering her face, and when she whips her head around to look over at Harry and finds that he’s already looking at her, it’s almost instinctual when she slips her hand into his and squeezes it in gratitude.

When Harry has to park the car, he almost whines at the fact that the moment he removes his key from the ignition, Nora’s hand will leave his own.

They spend the afternoon weaving through the crowded streets. Harry leads her through Portobello Road Market and watches as Nora’s eyes flick through racks of clothing and tables filled with various antiques and collectables. She notices Harry eyeing a gold ring from a jewelry stand towards the end of the market, and when he offers to buy them a cup of coffee from a small café across the street, Nora sneakily purchases it for him as a way of saying thank you (and maybe for another reason entirely, too.)

As Nora sips through her warm styrofoam cup of hazelnut coffee, she notices a string of bookshops across the street. She laughs to herself, her memory immediately reverting to three years ago in her tiny twin bed at Townbridge when she and Harry were cuddled up underneath her mom’s handmade blanket watching Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant meet for the very first time. She wonders if Harry is thinking about the same thing, too, but she doesn’t dare ask him. Instead, she links her hand with his and drags him to the first shop she sees, pushing the door open with her hip and letting the smell of old books and worn leather fill her senses.

Harry isn’t sure if Nora is doing it intentionally, but as they scan through the spines of books resting on dusty shelves, her hand never leaves his own. It warms his insides up in a way he’s never experienced, and he feels as if he’s floating through air, and the only thing that’s keeping him grounded is her small hand squeezing his ever so lightly.

Once they’ve rounded the end of the store, Nora looks over and asks him, “Do you have any suggestions?”

Harry’s heart thumps a resounding string of three beats, and he can’t help but wonder if she felt the same whenever he asked her to pick out her favorite films for him three years ago back in her tiny dorm room. From the smile coating the lower half of her face, Harry can assume that she most likely does, and without slipping his hand from her own, he drags her to the classics section and peruses through the titles.

Nora watches as he somehow maneuvers three paperbacks into one hand while keeping her own nestled tightly in his, and when he brings her to the front of the store and easily grabs his wallet from his back pocket, she tries to wriggle her hand from his grasp to stop him from paying for her. Harry doesn’t allow this though, and instead, shushes her by squeezing her hand tighter, looking down at her with his chin resting on his shoulder as he shakes his head with a coy smile covering his face. Nora isn’t sure how to respond—mainly because she’s mesmerized by the turquoise twinkle in his eyes, or the way his large hand wrapped around her own makes her feel overwhelmingly safe, or the way she can’t seem to look anywhere else but at the profile of his structured face. The realization strikes her straight into her heart, an electrical current causing the beating flesh to vibrate almost erratically, making her skin prickle with warmth and her stomach twist and turn with giddiness, and she finds that she never wanted her hand to leave his in the first place.

Before they even realize it, the afternoon is over. Harry intentionally slows his gait so that he can do everything in his power to extend the time he has with Nora’s hand nestled in his own and the left side of her body sidled up to his. But unfortunately, not even Harry has the ability to slow down time, and sadly, they’ve approached the car in despondent silence.

He turns her around just as they’ve reached the passenger side door, Nora’s back resting on the cool steel as she lifts her head up. Harry’s eyes are focused on their tangled hands, toying with her fingertips as he tries to figure out what she’s thinking.

“I got you something,” Nora says after a beat, waiting until Harry’s eyes are on hers before she slips the hand that isn’t knotted with his inside her jacket pocket. He watches as she removes the gold ring from the paper envelope and drops it into his palm gently.

“Nora—” Harry starts, pausing as he stares at the thick gold band with dancing bears engraved in the middle. The sun makes the metal twinkle in the light, and when he shifts his eyes into Nora’s blue pools, he isn’t sure which is brighter.

“Put it on me?” he asks. Harry knows that he’s fully capable of putting it on himself, but that would require removing his other hand from her own. Also, he selfishly wants to feel Nora’s smaller digits tickling his skin, and when she obliges with a gentle smile and grabs the ring from his opened palm, Harry tries to conceal the shudder shaking his body when she obeys his request.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry whispers into the small space between them when Nora’s fingers push the gold ring past his knuckle.

She just shrugs, looking up at him timidly. “I wanted to.”

While Harry’s eyes are focused on the newest addition to his growing jewelry collection, Nora decides to be brave and reaches up onto her tiptoes with the intention of planting a kiss on his cheek as a way of saying thank you without having to properly vocalize it. But, Harry notices everything she does, and when he watches her body shift towards him in his periphery, he lifts his head up at the last moment in question, causing Nora’s plump lips to land on the corner of his mouth.

The contact only lasts a measly two seconds, but it’s enough to cause them both to freeze. Nora’s eyes widen, and before she can let her body fall into his own, she springs back and places a generous two foot gap between them.

Harry’s not even sure what to think. He’s almost positive that he’s frozen to the pavement, his thick boots stuck in sludgy cement as he tries to bring them to move forward so that Nora doesn't feel so far away. But he can’t move—the neurons in his brain aren’t connecting to the muscles in his legs, and he has no fucking idea why.

Nora stares at him, trying her hardest to force her mouth to form the words “sorry.” But when she really stops to think about it, she finds that she isn’t sorry at all. The smallest feeling of his mouth on hers was enough to cause her body to zap with excitement, and when she looks up at him underneath the curtain of her eyelashes and find that his pupils are dilated to the fullest degree, she decides to forego her apology and leans in, pressing her lips to his with reckless abandon.

Instinctively, Harry’s arms wrap around her waist to support her body as their lips re-familiarize themselves with one another. The sigh he breathes into her mouth is nothing but relief—because ever since he left her dorm room three years ago back at Townbridge, all Harry’s been thinking about is feeling her lips on his again. And now that it’s finally happening, he feels as if he can’t breathe.

Nora’s hands clutch the lapels of his woolen jacket over his chest to bring him closer to her, because even though his body is flushed with hers, it still isn’t enough. Harry brings his right hand up to cup her jaw ever so delicately, his thumb pulling her chin down so that her jaw falls slack, allowing him to slip his tongue inside to meet her own. The moan that springs from the back of her throat almost causes Harry’s mouth to still, but when her fingertips wrap around the ends of his hair dusting his shoulder, tangling until she pulls at the roots on top of his head, he can’t help but reciprocate the sound.

When Harry’s neck starts to ache from leaning down to meet her lips, he trickles his palms from her temples to the back of her head, threading his fingers through her thick dark hair until they clasp together just above her neck, allowing him to tilt her head backward and kiss her properly. Nora hums inside his mouth, wrapping her arms around the middle of his back so that she can pull him closer to her in order to feel his heartbeat against her chest through all of their warm layers, his heart thrumming against her skin as if the fleshy organ was screaming at her own “I missed you! I missed you! I missed you!”

Eventually, they break apart, sucking in deep inhales of cool February air to try and quell the lightheadedness caused from their second first kiss. Harry rests his forehead on her own, his eyes shut tight as he tries to permanently ink that memory into the pink pillows of his brain. His warm hands are cupping her jaw in order to keep her as close to him as possible, and Nora can’t help but squeeze the fleshy parts of his arms, keeping their fronts pressed together so that the warmth that emanates from his skin continues to stay wrapped around her.

“Go to dinner with me,” Harry whispers against her skin once his eyes blink open, the fuzziness dissipating when he notices the pinkness of her swollen lips and the tinge of red coating the apples of her cheeks. He missed this. He missed her.

“When?” Nora asks, her voice hoarse from the lack of oxygen ripped from her airway.

“Right now, tonight, tomorrow. Don’t want to let you go just yet.” Nora leans in, her nose resting on his warm cheek as she giggles against the smooth skin. Harry brings his hand to rub soothing circles against her back, wondering if they could stay in this position forever.

Harry can feel her smile against his cheek, and when she moves her head to press two subsequent kisses against his ripe lips, he knows that he’s fucked. Because it’s Nora fucking Priestley—it’s probably always been Nora Priestley—and she’s here wrapped up in him nodding against his skin at his outrageous request, and Harry’s never felt this complete in his entire life. It’s like flying and falling, searing warmth and bitter coldness, being too close but still not close enough—a paradoxical rush of adoration shooting to his heart with a loud cacophonous pang that sends his brain into overdrive.

They have dinner together that night, and the night after that, and if not for Harry’s evening lecture, they probably would have gone for a third consecutive date. He takes her to tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants that serve the best food Nora’s ever tasted, and although a small part of her was expecting him to go all out and take her to outlandish posh eateries, Nora finds that Harry knows her much better than she originally thought, and he’s constantly full of surprises.

On the next Wednesday pub night, Harry and Nora show up together. Nobody says anything, but Nora can practically feel the scorching looks Niall and Piper are shooting at her from across the table warming her cheek. And after her third beer, just as the band starts to play their first song, Niall saunters over to her side and wraps a heavy arm around her shoulder, whispering excitedly into her ear, “Knew you were special, Rah.”

Harry's insides are buzzing, whirring to life with each sip of bitter beer that falls down his esophagus. The liquor seems to make Nora a bit looser, and once she’s developed a thin layer of drunkenness that causes her cheeks to flush and her guard to falter, Harry practically explodes when she brings her body to rest against his, her back leaning on his front as she allows his warmth to envelope her as they listen to the band playing on the far side of the room. He wraps his arm around her shoulder so that his right hand is splayed out against her collarbone, holding her close in a protective stance as she lets her head fall back on his shoulder comfortably.

After three songs, Nora finds that she’s had enough. Harry’s hand feels too hot pressed against her chest, his hair feels too silky tickling her exposed neck, his chin feels too heavy sitting atop the crown of her head. She wants more, finds that she suddenly needs more, and when she twirls around abruptly and finds that his green eyes are practically black, eagerly searching for her own, she doesn’t hesitate before whispering in his ear, “Can we get out of here?”

Harry’s pretty sure his pants have never felt tighter around his waist. He doesn’t even care about the unfinished pint in his hand, doesn’t even care to make the rounds and properly say goodbye to his mates, doesn’t even care when he hands Niall too much money to pay for their drinks that are absently left on the sticky high top table, doesn’t even care about the looks he receives when he slips his hand in Nora’s and drags her through the front door and into the Underground so that they can reach his flat before her confident streak runs out.

When they’re both standing in his loft bedroom, hands tangled in each other’s hair and lips pressed to warm skin and clothes strewn against hardwood flooring, Nora finds it easier to forget about all of her past hurt. Because his hands feel that good, and his mouth tastes that good, and his warm body looks that good. But when she backs away to pull off her sweater so that she’s left standing in front of him in just her bra and underwear, she suddenly hesitates to move forward.

The memory hits her like a bullet to the chest. It’s of her, standing in her Townbridge dorm room wearing a sports bra and sleep shorts, her arms wrapped around herself protectively as she tries to stifle the rib-racking cries shaking through her body as she watched Harry disappear right in front of her face, leaving her alone to try and wrap her head around what he had done to her and what it all meant. Because he was her first real sexual experience, something that Nora didn’t necessarily place on a high pedestal, but still ultimately was a big deal for her. It took a lot of trust to allow Harry to take that from her after ten days of unassuming happiness, and just as quickly as he showed her a different side of herself, he simultaneously ripped it away when he left her alone and confused barely eight hours later in the early morning light.

It’s as if the memory is being broadcasted in Harry’s bedroom, Nora’s blue eyes the screen and her bruised heart the projector, because suddenly, her lips are trembling and her hands are shaking and her eyes are staring blankly at the wall over his left shoulder—and he knows right then and there that her walls are now ten times thicker, constructed with stronger material that will no longer allow him to seep through the cracks. Not without an explanation. Not without an apology.

“Nora—” Harry starts, taking a tentative step forward. The small motion of his feet approaching hers is enough to break Nora out of her daze, her head shaking violently as she takes three more steps back, reaching for her sweater and throwing it over her head without a second thought.

“Please, I—” Harry is panicking. He doesn’t want her to disappear, but he also doesn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He wanted to talk to her without the cloudy sexual energy suffocating them, without her dreamy silhouette obstructing his vision, without her sudden desire to escape more prominent than her desire to stay and listen to him.

“I need a minute, we shouldn’t do this, not when—”

“—Just please listen to me. I can’t let you leave, not like this. Not when you’re finally here after all this time. And I’m not saying this because you’re standing half-naked in my bedroom, it’s just—fuck. I should have said this three years ago. I should have said it when I sent you a friend request on Facebook. I should have said it that first Wednesday pub night. I just got distracted and—”

“—Harry—”

“—I’m sorry, okay? I’m truly so fucking sorry.” Harry seems to have taken the breath trapped in Nora’s throat, because suddenly she’s staring at him wide-eyed and frozen in place, whereas Harry’s chest is erratically shifting up, down as he struggles to contain his uneven breathing pattern.

“I fucked up. I was a dumb, stupid kid who hurt you—and you didn’t deserve it. Not one second of it. I thought about what I did all the time in the aftermath, it fucking ate me alive, Nora. And I’m not saying that for you to pity me, because you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t even be here giving me a second chance, because I don’t deserve it. I never deserved your kindness to begin with. You’re too good for me and I just, fuck. I’ll make it up to you for the rest of my life if I have to. I just want to be good enough for you. And I’m so sorry—”

Nora shushes him with a collision of her body into his, her arms wrapping around him tightly as she buries her head into the crook of his neck. Harry’s response is inherent; strong arms encapsulating her smaller body, wide palms spread out evenly along her upper back for support, warm cheek nestled into the velvety waves resting at the top of her head.

“It’s okay, Harry. I forgive you. You’re enough, you deserve kindness too,” Nora mutters into the skin of his neck like a mantra of self-love and acceptance. Because even though Harry nearly broke her heart and made her resent him, she never wanted him to feel hurt, too. Not when it’s self-imposed. Not when it can be dealt with in a different way.

Nora thinks the phrase “an eye for an eye” is ineffectual. Just because you hurt somebody else, does not mean the same fate should be bestowed upon you. Humans are constantly changing and evolving, and pain and acceptance are a part of the long and winding battle in figuring out who you are as a person. If Harry is finally realizing that now, all Nora can do is hug him tighter and forgive him. Because that’s what any decent person would do.

Without unlocking their tangled bodies, Nora slowly steps forward, causing Harry to shuffle backward, until they’re both lying horizontally on his king-sized bed. She turns them over so that his back is flat on the mattress, her leg hooking over his hip as she rests her head against his beating chest, rubbing soothing patterns against the warm skin until he finally calms down.

They spend that night talking for hours. Harry wants to know everything she’s done in their three-year absence, and Nora doesn’t hesitate to give him the details of her new life in New York City. She tells him about Ebony, her roommate-turned-best-friend who supports her without question, who she misses practically every waking moment she’s not with her. She tells him about Marcus, the boy she had more firsts with, who she never found herself loving completely, but still appreciated him for helping her grow up and feel new things. She tells him about the tattoo shop in Brooklyn she went to after her twentieth birthday where a girl with pink hair and purple eyes etched three identical birds on the back of her shoulder.

He doesn’t tell her about the drinking and drugs and blank-faced girls he wasted his time with for the first two years during their time apart, because he’s aware that she already knows—considering his Facebook page holds a track record of every Nadine and Scarlet he toyed around with to fill in the empty hole Nora unknowingly carved into his heart. He doesn’t tell her that hearing about Nora’s ex-boyfriend causes the green monster who has been dormant inside of him for years to suddenly wake up, his blood laced with envy as he thinks of how somebody else got to see her in a vulnerable position he stupidly took for granted.

Harry realizes that this is a bit unfair, considering Nora lived her life without thinking about how it would affect him. And if Nora is jealous of the girls he slept with two years ago, she never shows it. Because she’s much more rational than he is—the calmness to his angst, the mooring to his shipwreck, the comfort to his unease.

They talk until the inky sky turns into an aegean blue, signifying that dawn has begun to break. Nora muffles her yawn into Harry’s neck and he wraps his arm tighter around her body, bringing her against his chest as he closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of having her close again after so much time apart.

When Harry wakes up well into the afternoon, he can’t stop thinking about Nora’s body, considering she shed her sweater sometime in the middle of the morning when they were sleeping, leaving her in just her black bra and underwear as her warm skin suctioned to his own. He hasn’t felt this close to somebody in so long—probably ever, if he really stops to think about it—and before, when he was mindlessly fucking girls to cure the loneliness aching inside of his chest, he never cared about the act of intimacy surrounding sex. But now, with Nora’s body wrapped around his own and the swells of her breasts moving up and down with each languid sleepy breath she takes, the curve of her ass bending whenever she cuddles deeper into his chest, the stretch of her legs winding whenever she coils them around his sinewy hips—Harry feels like he’s in a fucking trance.

He never pushes it, but it’s practically all he can think about in the weeks that follow. He finds that when they’re together he always chooses a new part of her body to hyper-fixate on—whether it’s the angular cut of her jaw, the long arch of her neck, the thin layer of skin covered in gold necklaces on the top of her chest, the fleshy part of her hips that connect to her thighs—Harry feels completely and utterly famished.

Nora feels it, too. Feels that if she has to stand so close to him on Wednesday pub nights and feel the warmth of his body enveloping her own without him moving any closer, she’ll burst. Feels that if she has to observe the coiled strands of his long hair weave down his neck without her hands tangled at the root, she’ll explode. Feels that if his raspberry lips mouth her two-syllable name followed by his infamous smirk without her own swallowing the last vowel, she’ll shatter.

It finally happens as springtime infiltrates the streets of London, melting any remnants of snow and bringing forth longer stretches of sunlight on the horizon. Nora spent the week studying for a major exam in her Emerging Media Studies course, causing her to miss out on Sunday brunch and Wednesday pub night. Her absence hit Harry the hardest out of everybody, and when she walks out of her lecture hall Thursday night after she handed in her exam, she can’t help but catapult into Harry’s arms when she sees him waiting for her.

They drive to his flat and he cooks her a hearty pasta dish and when he suggests watching a movie tangled in his sheets afterward, Nora finds that she has no interest in absorbing the content on his television screen. She’s made Harry wait long enough, and it feels like the month after his birthday has been a continuous long stretch of unbearable foreplay that Nora can’t wait to act on.

Before Harry has even made it back to bed after setting up the film, Nora’s already pulled his borrowed sleep shirt over her head, leaving her in the matching navy blue lingerie set Piper encouraged her to purchase at Selfridges last week.

Nora’s never seen Harry move faster in his life at the first sight of her. She can barely make out his pupils darting from the exposed skin above the waistline of her underwear to the swells of her breasts uncovered by the lacy underwire bra before he’s jumping on the bed, her entire body shaking with the mattress as he plants searing kiss after searing kiss all over her flushed skin.

He dotes on her body, mumbling praises in between each suction of his lips as he works his way from the top of her forehead to the tips of her toes. “Christ, look at you Nora,” he whispers into the skin underneath her jawline, “All for me? How’d I get so lucky?” he mumbles into the tight skin between the valley of her breasts, pausing to dart his tongue underneath the lacy fabric covering her nipples, pulling a delicious moan from the back of her throat, “You’re fucking perfect,” he purrs into the thicker skin covering her upper thighs as he noses his way teasingly around the edges of her underwear, making her wiggle in want and need.

And when she finally allows him to slowly peel each piece from her body, leaving her bare in front of him as her dark hair fans against his charcoal-colored sheets, Harry’s almost positive he’s forgotten how to breathe. He’s never wanted somebody this badly before—needed somebody this badly before, and when Nora leans up on her elbows and urges him to come closer to her with a slow drag of her fingertip, he almost bursts at the sudden rush of his heart thrashing against the walls of his chest.

All because of her.

“I’m done for,” Harry whispers against her lips before slotting them together with fervor, gripping the skin at the back of her neck tightly to keep her close to him. Nora doesn’t mind, in fact, she absolutely loves his roughness—loves it so much that she can’t help but reciprocate when she wraps her legs around his waist and flips them both over so that their positions are switched and she can be the one to run her lips and teeth down the front of his body in domineering adoration.

Where everything with Marcus was simple and easy, Harry is the complete antithesis. He is everything new and exciting, complex and invigorating, compelling and beautiful. Nora didn’t think it was possible to feel this starved and fulfilled at the same time—but when Harry’s naked body is hovering over her own, his teeth sinking into the fleshy part of her shoulder blade, one hand gripping her ankle and the other holding her hip close to him, she finally feels fireworks burst underneath her eyelids when he enters her for the first time. Her skin feels as if it were bubbling, her heart pumping blood as if it were working in overdrive, and her brain fills with fluttering images of Harry’s chiseled jaw, his matted hair, his supple mouth, his hungry eyes.

It’s everything and more—Harry is everything and more, and when they’re spent and the white noise in Nora’s ears has finally subsided to a gentle hum, she can’t believe that she waited this long to experience this. She wonders if her first time was a dud, a faulty scenario in which her partner didn’t understand how to satisfy her properly. Or maybe, just maybe, it had nothing to do with Marcus at all. That the feeling of her heart exploding and stars bursting through her vision and fireworks cracking in the air above were solely caused by the boy lying beside her, his heart seemingly entangled with hers.

Nora wonders if it's fate or if she’s magnificently cursed for the rest of her life.

As March fades into April, Nora has never felt closer to another person before. It’s incredibly new—this feeling of freefalling off of a cliff into the rocky waters below with nothing but Harry’s strong hand holding hers to remind her that this is all new for him, too, and there’s nobody else he’d rather experience this with than with her.

Harry’s never been the best at giving himself completely over to another person, considering vulnerability is a difficult construct for his mind to wrap around. And when he lies awake at night while Nora sleeps soundly beside him, her arms wrapped around his waist and her head rising and falling with the scattered breaths escaping his lungs, he wonders what’s holding him back. Wonders why it’s so easy for her to talk about family and the future and everything that falls in between—because for the first time ever, Nora is the one that’s completely sure of something in their relationship. Harry, on the other hand, is hesitant. Apprehensive. Scared.

Because it’s so much easier to hide certain aspects of his life from her. Harry has enough skeletons in his closet to fill an entire graveyard, and they all tend to orbit around his shitty relationship with his parents and his innate desire to fall apart whenever he succumbs to the inordinate amount of pressure his father places over his head.

Nora doesn’t deserve to see that. Nobody does. So Harry does what he thinks is right and hides this part of his life from her, lying straight through his teeth whenever she questions where in the world his parents are, and instead of them being in Hong Kong or Indonesia or Dubai, they’re just a forty-five minute drive away. But that’s far too close for Harry to manage, so refocusing her brain on something else is the better option.

Because while Nora was falling hard, giving Harry the directions to make it through the labyrinth to claim her heart, she figured he was doing the same. Letting her in unconditionally and trusting her with this new feeling. But, unbeknownst to Nora, he was shielding her from the life he’s always dreaded being a part of. She was just in too deep to fully realize it.

The first lie starts at the end of April. Harry doesn’t even realize he’s lying in the first place when it falls from his lips that he has to skip out on Wednesday pub night to stay on campus and prepare for a group presentation the following Monday, but once it’s out he can’t force it back into the depths of his being. So while Nora texts him that she misses him and things aren’t the same without him there, Harry’s pushing the lie deeper and deeper inside of him until he’s swallowed the lump whole and it rests heavily at the bottom of his stomach.

Because while his mates are drinking in Camden, Harry’s only eight kilometers away in Knightsbridge wearing a navy blue suit sipping gingerly at a glass of bourbon and initiating small talk with his father’s stuffy work friends. It’s some charity event his father had mentioned in the past, and although Harry’s mind is preoccupied with thoughts of Nora, he suddenly becomes alert when his father introduces him to the only other person that is relatively close to his age.

Harry remembers her from one of the events he was forced to attend during his internship at his father’s office. He doesn’t recall much from meeting her nearly a year ago, considering he was a bit of a dickhead and was more focused on plotting ways to dip out early without being caught to meet up with his mates than trying to mingle with other guests, but now—now that she’s standing in front of him wearing a pretty mauve dress with expensive strappy heels, hair perfectly in place as her almond-shaped eyes gaze into his own, Harry doesn’t hesitate to shake her hand properly.

Her name is Jacqueline Van-Doren, and although she’s the type of beautiful that people can’t help but gawk at, Harry finds that he’s subconsciously comparing her to Nora. Her eyes have more of a greyish tint to them, and while Nora’s sparkle whenever any trace of light reflects off of her irises, Jacqueline’s are more lackluster in comparison. Her cheekbones are higher than Nora’s, but they lack the subtle shade of pink that always appears whenever Nora’s in a close enough radius to Harry. And while she’s much taller, much more confident, much more put together than Nora and all her mumbling and stuttering and clumsiness—Harry finds that he would indubitably pick Nora over a girl like Jacqueline any day.

The second lie happens in the middle of May just as the temperature is rising and the trees are green and blooming. Harry had plans to take Nora on a day trip to Bath so she could tick off another destination on her travel list, but unknowingly, he double-booked himself as his father reminded him he had a familial obligation to attend that same day in the form of an elaborate wedding at The Savoy.

He tells Nora that he has to attend a networking dinner in Oxfordshire, and somehow the lies get easier and easier to tell the more he spews them. Harry’s grateful that Nora doesn’t fact-check his excuse with Niall, but then again, she has no reason to suspect anything, right?

Harry spends the entire reception sitting in the back of the room in his charcoal Louis Vuitton suit with a sick feeling settling inside of him. It grows stronger with each candied sip of whiskey that falls down his throat, and when his father approaches him with a familiar blonde-haired grey-eyed girl practically matching his ensemble, Harry tries his hardest not to laugh. Because his father obviously is not shy in trying to set the two of them up, and although Jacqueline is still undeniably gorgeous after four whiskey neats, it’s not what he wants. She’s not what he wants.

But the pressure of displeasing his father is too much to bear, so he kisses her cheek cordially and allows her to sit with him. They talk the rest of the night but Harry genuinely has no idea what the content was, and when his father tells the pair of them that they’re required to attend an intimate work dinner at the end of the week, Harry just nods and goes along with it.

As May reaches its end, Nora can barely think straight. Her time in London has been nothing but an absolute dream—a whirlwind of newfound friendships, acclimating to her second favorite city in the world, and falling in love with somebody she never thought she would find solid ground with. She’s never felt this way about anybody before—not with Connor, not with Marcus, not with anybody. Nora isn’t even sure if her heart can feel this way about someone ever again. Not after Harry.

She’s hyperaware that her time in London is coming to an end, and reluctantly, she doesn’t want to leave. Not when she’s decided that she’s in love with Harry. Not when he can give her a reason to stay.

Nora has never unexpectedly shown up at Harry’s place before, but after rewriting the conclusion to her final essay for the fourth time and it still not making any sense, she grabs her jacket and oyster card and makes her way to the Underground to head towards Hampstead Heath.

She doesn’t bother calling or texting to alert him that she’s on her way, because in her mad rush to leave her residence hall, Nora forgot to grab her phone that was charging on top of her duvet. Nora’s never been impulsive or brash before—but it’s Harry and she’s in love, and she needs to tell him.

The white townhouse and small iron-clad gate come into view before Nora’s even figured out the words to say to Harry when he opens his navy blue front door. She figures that when she sees his face she’ll finally figure out how to explain what her feelings are, but when his green eyes meet her blues in trepidation, Nora wonders if she made the wrong decision in showing up unannounced.

In the tense silence that follows, Nora pauses for a minute, taking in Harry’s crisp white button down shirt tucked into a sleek pair of slacks. He seems to have been in the process of finishing fastening them, considering Nora can still see the tops of his butterfly tattoo and the swallows underneath his collarbones almost perfectly.

“Nora? What’re you—did we have plans?” Harry’s cheeks are blushed and he’s fidgeting uncomfortably in his fancy brogues and for the first time in months, he looks like he doesn’t want to let her inside.

“No, I uh—” Nora’s confidence is crumbling, and she’s suddenly not sure if this was a good idea at all. Maybe being brash and impulsive is a thing protagonists only do in the movies. “I had to tell you something. But this obviously isn’t a good time, so…”

Before she can turn to leave with her tail tucked between her legs, something inside of Harry clicks into place. He quickly opens his door wider and lets her in, ignoring the warning bells ricocheting inside of his brain as his brain fights with his heart for control over the situation. His heart ultimately wins in the end, and once Nora takes her first few steps inside his home, Harry can feel his insides quiver with nerves.

Nora barely makes it past the foyer, standing just at the cusp of his living room when she notices the expensive blazer thrown over the back of his leather sofa, his crisp black wallet on the fireplace mantle, and the heavy cardstock with cursive script that seems to be an invitation of the utmost importance lying parallel on the surface.

Why didn’t he tell her he was going somewhere? Was he hiding things from her? Was he ashamed to bring her to his gaudy work events? Does she really look that unappealing on his arm? Why has this all of a sudden become too confusing for Nora when just minutes earlier, she was unquestionably sure that she was in love with him?

Harry’s playing with the links on his shiny wrist watch nervously, attaching it with fumbling hands around his inked skin when Nora finally decides to break the silence. “Where are you, uh, going?”

He looks up at her, a bewildered expression on his face, and suddenly, his mouth has gone bone dry. Nora grows more and more skittish with each quiet breath that passes between them, and she’s never felt more unsure about their relationship.

God, when did things get so awkward between them?

“My dad’s back in the country, and it’s just this stupid event he’s making me go to. I tried to get out if it, honest, but it didn’t work. So, uh, I didn’t think it was a big deal to mention it to you,” Harry says quietly, feeling his lungs begin to constrict in the most agonizing way.

This lie feels worse than all the others he’s told her, because for the first time, there’s a crack in his resolve. Harry knows then that he’s done something very wrong, and he immediately regrets it all when he notices the hurt expression clouding Nora’s vision.

Nora knows this, too, because his chest is moving up and down from the thundering beats of his heart inside of his chest, and his hands are shaking against the smooth material of his pants, and his eyes are blown out so wide that Nora can make out all of the different shades of green hidden inside. And when his tremulous pupils finally focus on her own, Nora can see that Harry looks completely panicked in front of her, and she isn’t quite sure what to think.

“Oh,” Nora lets out in a soft exhale. It sounds defeated and she’s not entirely sure why, because nothing has even happened between them yet.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why she feels so low all of a sudden. Because it’s  been months of almost something’s—of days spent exploring different parts of the city and nights spent exploring different parts of each other. All without a label. All without a conversation. And now, standing in the front room of Harry’s home with shaking hands and trembling lips, Nora doesn’t understand how nothing can be said.

When her blue eyes fall to the floor, Harry springs into action. He’s in full recovery mode, approaching her slowly until the tips of his brogues bump the white of her trainers. His hands find purchase on her shoulders, gently kneading the skin until she finally looks up at him.

“I’ll only be there for an hour. We can do something afterwards, yeah? Just, uh, stay,” he pauses suddenly, eyes wide when he realizes what he’s saying before swallowing deeply, squeezing her soft skin a bit harder. “Stay here while I’m gone. Please.”

“You want me to stay here?” Nora echoes, blinking once, twice, a winsome dumbfounded expression gracing her features.

Harry nods, moving his right hand from her shoulder upwards until his warm palm is cupping the underside of her jaw tenderly, his thumb offering soothing strokes against the pink skin covering her cheekbone.

“Yeah, I do.”

Nora’s doubts are finally subsided, because how can he not feel anything towards her if he’s allowing her into his space for the first time without supervision? He obviously trusts her, and he obviously needs her—and that’s all the confirmation she needs to quiet her racing head and settle her thumping heart.

Her small hands settle on Harry’s waist and he instinctively brings her closer, cupping her jaw with his other hand so that he can angle her head back gently and press his lips against her own. It’s soft and sweet and soothing, and how can he not feel the same way when he kisses her like this?

Before they can get too carried away, his doorbell buzzes and Nora giggles when she feels him groan against her lips, shaking his head softly and backing away, looking down at her with a childlike pout on his lips.

Nora can’t help but trace the protruding flesh with her thumb, causing Harry to shiver. He’s dreading this event even more now, because all he wants to do is drag Nora upstairs and lock her in his room and turn their clock off for just one night.

But the doorbell buzzes again, and he sighs, knowing he can’t do that.

“That’s the car. I’ve got to go,” Harry whispers, giving Nora one last kiss before shrugging his blazer on and grabbing his wallet, keys, and invitation in one fell swoop.

Nora nods, a bit breathless at the sight of him. Harry opens the door, and before he can fully retreat, he peeks his head over his shoulder, long hair tucked behind his ear as he gives her one last small smile.

“One hour. Don’t miss me too much.”

As if she doesn’t miss him instantly when he leaves her.

True to his word, Harry comes back an hour later with a slice of red velvet cake he nicked from the dessert table before sneaking out undetected. He finds Nora burrowed in the thick sheets of his bed wearing the same Rush band tee he wore earlier in the day, her eyes lifting from the movie on the screen to the green of his eyes.

“Hey you,” she says softly, sitting up taller on his bed so that her back is flushed with his headboard and the tops of her thighs are poking out from underneath his duvet.

“Hi,” Harry responds, toeing off his shoes and walking over to her languidly, “Got you a present.” He drops the takeout container on her lap, grinning when she squeals and dredges her pointer finger through the thick frosting.

“Mmm,” Nora sighs, licking her finger dry as she smirks mischievously at Harry, watching as he undresses mindlessly. He isn’t sure if she’s doing it intentionally or if she’s always been a secret seductress, but when she repeats the action and swirls her tongue along her sticky digit, Harry snatches the box from her lap and slides his arms around her waist, switching their positions effortlessly so that she’s on top of him as he falls easily back onto the mattress.

“Someone’s feeling cheeky,” Harry says against her lips, his nose bumping hers repeatedly as she giggles against his skin.

“Can’t help it. I missed you,” Nora explains, adjusting her knees so that her weight is evenly distributed along his lower half, her backside resting against his front as her hands twist in between the curls along the crown of his head.

“Yeah?” Harry coaxes, his fingertips sneaking underneath his shirt as he plays with the lace material covering the bottom of her underwear.

“Always.” Nora seals her response with a fiery kiss, bringing her lips to his and pressing her entire body against his searing torso. She wonders if it’ll always feel like this—white hot electrical current shooting up her veins, warming her entire body up with just one simple press of his lips to hers.

Once Harry starts nipping at the skin of her lower lip, Nora responds by grinding into his lower half, the thin material of their underwear leaving little to the imagination as they garner enough friction to cause Nora’s knickers to dampen and Harry’s briefs to tighten.

They kiss until they’ve reached their very last breath, and when their lips depart, Harry uses this time to throw his shirt off of Nora’s body, leaving her sitting against his lap in just a nude pair of lacy underwear that makes his eyes roll to the back of his head.

With his head resting back against his neck, Nora decides to attach her lips to the column of Harry’s throat, causing his entire body to shudder as a carnal moan rips through his throat and settles between them. Her fingers draw a tantalizing path down his chest and abdomen until they’ve settled along his waist, red lines marking the path Nora’s fingernails greedily traced.

Her small palm cups his growing length trapped inside the strained cotton material, rubbing and squeezing as her teeth bite into the sharp cut of his jaw. Harry hands grip the skin of her waist in anticipation, and once Nora’s decided that he’s had enough teasing, she rolls the band of his briefs down, freeing his length in the stifling air of his bedroom.

“Christ,” Harry whispers, his eyes shut tight as he breathes through the feeling of Nora’s bare hands on his newly uncovered skin. She shushes him with gentle kisses, lapping her tongue against his own once he’s finally calmed down a bit more and begun reciprocating her tenacity.

Before he can take control, Nora makes the decision for him as she slides her underwear down her legs, flinging the thin material against his floor. Harry’s eyes snap open as he takes in the sight of her naked against his lap, the moonlight flooding into his bedroom outlining the curve of her body, the shape of her breasts, the valley of her stomach, the stretch of her legs.

No matter how many times Harry’s seen her like this, he never fails to stop and appreciate her. Because he’s taken it for granted too many times in the past, and every time he sees her exposing herself to him in the most vulnerable way there is, he can’t help but feel his heart grow in his chest, hammering against his ribs as he marvels in the fact that Nora Priestley chose him.

“What?” Nora asks shakily, shrinking into herself when she realizes Harry’s been staring at her for a beat longer than necessary.

“Nothing,” Harry admits, bringing a hand up to her face and tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “You’re just beautiful.”

Nora responds with a smile, pressing her lips to his tightly. “I want you like this.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, his hands tightening against her waist as he watches her scoot up higher on his lap so that her core is lined up with his aching length.

Nora nods, her teeth sinking into the plushness of her lower lip as she wraps her arms around his neck. Before he can say another word, she begins teasing her entrance with the tip of his cock, watching the way his eyes widen almost cartoonishly and the vein in his neck starts to pulse.

“Nora, fuck, baby, wait. I need—fuck. Need a condom,” Harry stutters, holding her tightly in his grasp as she hovers over his tip.

“It’s only been me, yeah?” Nora asks, the muscles in her thighs straining as she holds herself in the position over his length.

“What? Why would you ask me that? Of course it’s only you,” Harry says quickly, a look of bewilderment gracing his features.

“Then let’s not use one. I want to feel you like this,” Nora whispers, her hands holding his face tightly so that he has no choice but to stare into the blues of her eyes.

Harry feels his stomach bottom out, constantly amazed at the girl in front of him. “Are you sure? Have you ever done this?” he asks, disquietude lacing his every word.

Nora shakes her head. “Have you?”

“No,” he answers, much to Nora’s surprise. “I haven’t.”

“Well, Harry Styles,” she whispers, rubbing her palms over Harry’s hands that are gripping her waist, signalling that she wants him to loosen his hold, “There’s a first time for everything.”

Harry’s teeth widen at her quip, remembering the way she uttered those same exact words to him three years ago when he was experiencing another first with her. Before he can say anything back, Nora gives him one last kiss before sinking down on his length, causing his brain to forget every single thought rushing through his head other than the fact that he’s inside of her with no barrier between them, and it’s probably the closest he’s ever (and will ever) feel with another person.

They both seem to be in the same headspace, with the way Nora freezes on top of him, her throat pinching when she realizes she can feel every ridge and curve of his length from this position, and it’s only once he asks her his standard question of, “Are you okay?” when Nora starts to lift herself on her knees, before sinking back over him once more.

“Oh my god,” Harry exclaims, wrapping one arm around her lower back and the other gripping harshly at the back of her neck, holding her as tightly and as closely as possible so that he can feel every shudder of her body and every thump of her heart against his own.

Nora angles his head back so that she can crash her lips to his, swallowing his moans as she swivels her hips against his own, feeling his tip bump against the spongy spot inside of her walls that causes her toes to curl. When he expertly hits it for a third continuous time, Nora’s neck falls back as she cries out into the stuffy air.

Harry noses at the clammy skin of her neck before pressing his lips to the spot near her jaw, licking and sucking until she’s whimpering above him. “Feel so fuckin’ good,” Harry whispers against her skin, sinking his teeth deeper into her flesh when he feels her clench around him.

“I’m close,” Nora says through an exasperated breath, weaving her fingers through his long hair until she’s wrapped the strands around her wrist in a makeshift ponytail, pulling just enough to cause Harry to groan against her.

“Fuck, baby. Me too. Do that again,” he instructs, feeling himself lose control when Nora obeys his request.

Nora’s never been on top for this long before, and while her thighs are burning and her lungs are losing air the closer and closer she gets to her release, she’s never had sex feel this good before. The knot inside of her stomach is tightening with every thrust Harry meets her with, and when his right hand sneaks down between them and rubs at her swollen mound, it only takes three rotations until the knot is uncoiled and Nora’s careening towards her end.

She stills on top of him, trembling with the aftershocks as she comes down from the most intense orgasm she’s had yet. Her body doesn’t even feel like her own, with the way she’s vibrating all over and her skin is dampened and her hair is knotted. It’s only once Harry’s pushed her backward, hovering over her as she’s horizontal on his sheets, when the fuzziness finally dissipates from her vision. She’s thankful that she can finally see clearly, because when her blue eyes meet his, she watches as he slips out of her, pumping his length until white ribbons coat the skin underneath her belly button.

They’re both staring at each other with heaving chests and dotted irises, coming down slowly as they realize what had just transpired between them. When Harry finally catches his breath, he whispers, “Shit, I’m sorry I probably should have asked—”

“Shh,” Nora coos, always the one to calm his racing heart and wild thoughts. “It’s okay. That was amazing. You’re amazing. C’mere, please.”

He smiles before crashing his lips to hers, kissing her soft and slow, a thousand words spilling through their lips without their voices ever speaking them. They break away softly so that Harry can grab his discarded shirt from the floor to clean Nora’s stomach, his arm reaching for the article of clothing without getting up so that he can keep her underneath him for as long as humanly possible.

As he dotes on her ever so delicately, Nora’s convinced that he feels the same way. She argues over how to tell him in her head as he wipes at her stomach and in between her thighs, before throwing the shirt into his hamper across the room. She debates the wordage as he wraps his arms around her gently, heaving them up the bed until they’re tangled together underneath his sheets. And just when she’s about to say it, he mumbles against the skin of her neck in his throaty voice, “I wish time could stop and we could stay like this forever. Just you and me.”

Nora freezes. Because suddenly, her heart pangs with the startling realization that she’s leaving London in four days. Moments like these with Harry are dwindling away one by one, and she really needs him to give her a reason to stay.

She needs to hear him say it.

And just as she’s built up the courage to whisper her declaration out into the air, Harry’s soft snores whistle against her neck. So she pushes it down, and waits for another day.

Nora wakes up in the middle of the morning with a nervous knot lodged inside her throat. She’s not even sure what spurred this on—considering she fell asleep tucked underneath Harry’s arm feeling safe and warm, her head lulling against his chest as his sleepy breaths ruffled the brown strands of hair falling against her cheek. But now, at six forty-three in the morning, Nora feels completely unsettled.

Her skin feels hot but she’s shivering for some strange reason, and when she’s reminded of the weight of Harry’s arm wrapped around her waist, she suddenly feels weak under the heaviness of it. She doesn’t feel comfortable, and all at once she feels the urge to get out from under the stifling duvet and get some fresh air.

She sneaks away from Harry’s body, tip-toeing towards his bedroom door with nothing but her cardigan on from the night before. Just as she’s closing the door, Nora makes sure to peek at him one last time, smiling to herself when she watches him flop onto his stomach and clutch the pillow she was just using tighter into his grasp. Nora wonders if he sleeps like this when she’s not with him.

She wonders if he’ll sleep like this when she leaves in three days.

Sighing, Nora makes her way to the sliding door connected to his kitchen, plopping herself down on the brick steps of the tiny porch overlooking his back garden. With her thighs pressed to her chest and her chin resting on the oversized knitted material of her buttoned cardigan over her knees, she despondently watches the blues and oranges and yellows of the early morning sun paint a picture of this piece of London she’s grown to love almost as much as the sleeping boy upstairs.

Nora’s not sure how long she sits out in the cool June air contemplating what the uneasy feeling was that forced her out of bed, but it’s long enough for her to notice the sun rising with the rest of Harry’s neighborhood. Her stomach begins to grumble then, and the thought of making coffee and toast urges her legs to carry her back inside the flat and into the small kitchen.

Just as she’s distractedly buttering her toast, Nora feels two strong arms lock around her waist from behind. She jumps at the feeling of it, even though there’s no other person it could possibly be besides Harry. Nora’s not sure if it’s just a residual effect from this morning, but still, she leans into him when her pulse decides to go back to normal, and she can feel Harry’s nose bumping against the side of her neck.

“You’re up early,” Harry mutters in that raspy morning voice of his that never fails to make Nora’s thighs clench together. There’s just something about him in the mornings.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Nora explains, her teeth ripping a small piece from the corner of her toast before bringing it over her left shoulder for Harry to try.

He hums in appreciation. “Don’t like when you’re not with me when I wake up,” he admits, tightening his arms around her as he swallows so that her backside is fully flushed with his.

“I know,” Nora whispers, the knot suddenly reappearing in her throat without warning. The half-eaten toast in her hand is no longer appetizing to her, and when she places it on a paper towel with trembling fingers, Nora comes to the conclusion that it’s now or never. She needs to tell him—because holding it hostage deep down inside of her is causing her to feel physically ill, and she’d rather face the consequences than always wonder what could be.

Harry notices her switch in demeanor almost instantly, and before Nora can even gather her bearings, he’s spinning her around, one opened palm cupping her jaw with his thumb rubbing her cheekbone delicately while the other tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear as he observes her closely.

“Everything alright?” he asks, nervously watching the way her eyes seem to focus on everything but his own, her hands seem to shake erratically against her sides, her lips seem even darker due to the incessant nibbling she’s done to them throughout the morning, and Harry suddenly wonders if she’s finally caught up to all of his lies.

Nora takes one last breath before bringing her eyes to his own, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Now Harry’s the one that’s panicking.

As if his brain is no longer controlling his body, his hands suddenly disappear from Nora’s face. He takes a tentative step back, leaving a cold space where his warm body was just flushed against her own. Nora watches as his skin turns an uncomfortable shade of pale, and as if they had completely swapped roles, Harry’s now the one who can’t seem to hold her gaze.

“Wait—what?” Harry unnecessarily asks. He mainly utters it as a placeholder, considering he’s let an awkward wave of silence wash over them both with his inability to say anything of importance.

Nora breathes through her nose, concerned. “I said, I think I’m in lo—”

“Why?”

Nora wonders if he’s joking.

“What do you mean, why?” Harry can feel her slowly losing her patience, her arms wrapping around herself slowly, creating a layer of armor that she’s used in the past to protect herself from his callous words.

“I mean—are you sure?”

“Are you serious?”

Sure, Harry knows that he cares for Nora with everything in his being. And sure, a part of him understands that when his heart speeds up and his chest tightens and his cheeks bloom pink whenever he’s around her, it’s all due to his feelings for her.

But even though that all stands true—Harry can’t help but be wary. Because how are you supposed to know how to love somebody when you’ve never properly been loved yourself?

His best times with Nora are always a dream-like trance Harry finds himself reliving over and over again. They’re always short glimpses of time, weeks or months with an expiration date looming over their heads because Harry can only allot himself momentary feelings of bliss and vulnerability before he realizes that his heart has the capacity to break in half if he continues on any further.

While Harry’s heart and mind battle with one another, Nora decides that she’s had enough. There’s only so many minutes she can stand in front of him watching as he silently stares at the linoleum flooring of his kitchen instead of explaining his reasoning to her. It’s only once she feels the pressure of tears welling at her waterline when she ends up slinking around him, gathering the rest of her clothes and belongings in record speed so that she can leave his home before the first tear falls.

Harry’s frozen in place. He’s still staring at the spot Nora once filled, hearing the sounds of her slipping her shoes on by the door and twisting his door knob, but none of it is actually registering in his clogged mind. He’s not sure why—he’s completely and utterly recalibrating the entire inner-workings of his head, body, and heart.

It’s only once he’s heard the navy blue door slam shut when he snaps out of his catatonic state, realizing then and there that even though he hasn’t figured out how to explain his warped outlook on love to her, he still owes it to her to acknowledge her declaration.

But he’s too late—he’s always too late when it comes to Nora Priestley. Because while he’s approached the iron-clad gate wearing just his black briefs, Nora’s already rounded the corner of his street, leaving a flurry of dark brown hair and tears staining the pavement in her path.

Harry knows that his immediate reaction should have been to chase after her, but instead, he decides to grab the first bottle of liquor he could grasp from his bar cart, slinking down onto his couch and bringing it to his lips without an ounce of food in his stomach.

This is where Niall finds him hours later, a nearly-emptied bottle of whiskey at his feet while Harry stares at the black screen of his television with blank eyes, still wearing his briefs from this morning. He’s replayed the conversation so many times in his brain that he can recite Nora’s staggered breathing patterns by heart, and Harry knows that Niall is privy to this because instead of yelling at him, he sneaks off into his bedroom and throws a clean set of clothes at his bare body.

“Up you get, Curly. Time to dilute all that whiskey with some greasy food.”

In hindsight, Niall probably shouldn’t have brought Harry to the pub down the road from his flat. But he couldn’t carry his deadweight any further, and he figured the only place that would be okay with serving somebody who was already drunk was the ancient barman that knows the two by name at this point.

“Where’s that pretty girlfriend you’re attached to?” Said barman asks the moment Harry and Niall fall into the creaky barstools. Before Niall can try and alleviate the situation, Harry’s already ordered a pint of Carlsberg and a shot of Jameson, ignoring Niall’s pleas of trying to urge a burger and chips down his liquor-ladened throat.

He’s rang Nora at least six times now, currently going for a seventh after Niall returned his stolen mobile when Harry refused to put something in his whiskey-sloshed stomach. He obliged, only because he really wanted to get a hold of her and apologize for being an absolute twat. But she’s ignoring him, and he knows deep down that she has every right to, because she trusted him with her feelings and all he did was shut her down in the worst way possible.

Harry’s not sure how Niall agreed to it, but after they’ve closed out and Harry’s capable of standing on his own two feet, they’ve somehow ended up outside of Nora and Piper’s residence hall. Harry knows that Piper has to let Niall in, so in his drunken convoluted mind, he comes up with the plan to sneak past them both and head up the stairs to beg for Nora’s forgiveness.

What he didn’t account for was Piper’s protectiveness over her crying friend upstairs.

“Harry, I can’t let you do that,” Piper says, closing the door a bit so that only her face is poking out from the glass paneling.

“Piper, please. I’ve got—’ve gotta talk to her. ‘S important.” He tries entering the building again but somehow Piper’s much smaller body blocks the entrance, her arms holding the door frame in order to keep Harry out. Niall sighs from behind her, conflicted. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

“Harry, you’re pissed. I can’t—”

“No! Piper, please. I need t’go upstairs. I’ve rang ‘er and texted ‘er and I know—I know her, Piper. Fuck, it’s—” he pauses, breathing in deeply and trying his hardest to straighten out the jumbled thoughts causing his entire body to shake. “It’s Nora. Please.”

Before Piper can close the door on her friend one last time, she feels Niall’s hand on the middle of her back, and she calms almost instantly.

“Let ‘im try, Pipes.”

With a final sigh, she opens the door and Harry sprints up the stairs, nearly tripping over himself as he tries to get to Nora’s door in one piece. He knows he’s drunk, knows he’s probably a mess, knows that she has every right to send him away—but he needs to talk to her or he’ll fucking explode.

He knocks about eight times on the wooden door before Nora appears behind it, eyes puffy and skin pale. Her hair is a knotted mess and her fringe is frizzy and Harry feels his chest crack in half when he realizes that he’s made her cry again.

“Harry—”

“You lov—” he hiccups loudly, causing his words to cut off the moment his body shakes abruptly. He pauses, tries to remember what he was going to say, before starting again, only to fail to pronounce the godforsaken word appropriately. “You lo’ me?”

He knows his mouth can barely utter the word, and his voice comes out a bit more squeaky than he would like, but he can’t help it. That word has always felt foreign coming out of his mouth, and he’s never understood the magnitude of its meaning. Not dead sober, and especially not after drinking the entire pub’s collection of whiskey.

Nora doesn’t say anything, but she does look into his glassy eyes and realizes that it’s from alcohol and not sadness. His hair is somehow knottier than hers and his part is amok, and she knows it’s because he ran his fingers through the tendrils one too many times. His cheeks are flushed, and before she can respond, his mouth is already opening.

“‘Cos I panicked. And ‘m sorry, but it’s just—nobody’s said that t’me before and properly meant it. Like my parents. They don’t lo—. Yeah. They don't. And me, I don’t even think I feel that way about m’self, either. ‘S just—it scares me, and I don’t know how to lo—”

“—No,” Nora says softly, interrupting Harry’s drunken monologue with a sad shake of her head.

Harry blinks once, twice, his blurry eyes trying to focus on her frame as the tears begin to bubble along her waterline. “No?” He’s confused, feels as if his life is completely off-kilter with the short utterance of a simple, two-lettered word.

“I don’t love you like this.”

Harry wonders if Nora can hear his heart begin to rip inside of his chest. “Nora—”

“You can barely even say it! Even when you’re piss drunk, you can hardly say the word love, let alone stick around long enough to hear somebody say it to you!” Her voice echoes through the small hallway of the sixth floor, and Harry stares back at her, flinching with each raise of her voice. “I can’t do this, Harry. I’d rather have you not say it sober than try and spit it out when you’re drunk. I just—I deserve better.”

“Nora please, I—you don’t understand—”

“—No I think I do. Quite clearly, actually.” Before Harry can try to force himself through the door one last time, Nora’s already begun to close it on him. “I think it’s best you go.”

“Nora! Please!” Harry calls out against the heavy wood, but it’s no use. She’s already flicked the lock, already sunk down to the floor with her back resting on the other side of the door, already begun muffling her sobs with trembling hands. And every time Harry bangs on the door with clenched fists and Nora can feel the wood shake, she just clenches her teeth on her bottom lip harder, praying with everything in her that Harry can’t hear her cry.

Harry’s not sure how long he’s stood there pounding on Nora’s door, repeating the word please enough times that it’s somehow lost its meaning. It’s only once he feels Niall’s hand on his back, ushering him out of the hallway and down the stairs, sticking him into the back of a cab when Harry feels the weight of his mistake rest heavy on his shoulders.

The only reason Harry gets any semblance of sleep that night is because he forces himself to swallow back five generous sips of whiskey before collapsing onto his mattress.

When Harry wakes up the next morning, his head isn’t the thing that hurts the most. Somehow, it’s his heart—and even though he’s suffering from the worst hangover he’s had in a very long time, it pales in comparison to the ache resonating through the inside of his chest.

But he can’t feel sorry for himself anymore. Because the longer he sits wallowing in his own self-induced misery, the more Nora drifts away from him. Feeling sorry for himself isn’t going to fix this. He needs to own up to his mistakes, find Nora, and beg for her forgiveness—because even though he doesn’t deserve her, he can’t make her feel horrible anymore.

Just as he’s rummaging through his wardrobe trying to find the cleanest shirt he owns, he hears his mobile ring for the third time that morning. When he looks over at the screen he realizes that it’s his father again, and although they aren’t very close, seeing him try to reach him a handful of times is enough to be worrisome. And just as he’s about to slip his shoes on, his father rings again. Harry begrudgingly answers, wondering what the hell is going on.

“Good to see you know how to answer your mobile,” his father says instead of a normal greeting, his voice filled with sarcasm. Harry almost hangs up the phone on him, his head filled with much more important things than dealing with another ribbing before noon.

“What’s going on? Did someone die?” Harry asks, flying down the staircase in order to locate his trainers that he remembered throwing across the floor in his drunken stupor last night.

“Very funny,” his father retorts, the sound of an unamused chuckle floating through the receiver. “Surprised you haven’t seen it yet.”

“Seen what?” Harry asks, tying the final lace as he begins the search to locate his wallet and keys.

“Page Six. Lovely spread of you and Jacqueline leaving the work event from two evenings ago. That’ll definitely make for some good press surrounding our merger with the Van-Doren’s. Well done, son.”

Harry didn’t think it was possible to feel worse, but somehow, after hearing his father congratulate him for being photographed with the girl he’s been trying painfully hard to set him up with, Harry feels as if everything around him is falling apart.

He doesn’t even respond to his father. Instead, he hangs up the call, typing his name in the Google image search bar. Sure enough, a picture of him and Jacqueline standing close enough to each other for it to be a story is covering his screen. Harry’s never felt more enraged, because he suddenly realizes that if his father has seen it, then Nora definitely has as well.

This can’t be happening to him.

She leaves tomorrow. He can’t let her go like this, not when he wants her to stay. Not when the words are practically at the tip of his tongue, ready to be shouted out into the sky. He’s ready to tell her.

He needs to tell her.

But before he can walk down his front steps and through the iron-clad gate, Niall is standing there blocking his path, a sullen look covering his face.

“Mate, she’s gone.”

*** A/N: I’m sorry times infinity. I know it must seem like I’m torturing you, but I promise I’m not! Everything will make sense in time, even though it’s a bit painful to read. My inbox is open for all complaints/theories/ill-wishes.

Sadly, the time has come that I no longer have completed chapters already written. I've tried to keep up, but real life got in the way. I have like barely half of the next part written, so I’m not entirely positive if it will be posted next Friday. I want to give you guys the best I can offer, and if it feels rushed I know it’ll be quite disappointing! I’m aiming to have it up by Friday, but if it isn't, I will surely keep you posted. Thanks again for sticking with me and this story, please be kind to each other and I’ll see you (hopefully) in one week!

taglist: @ilovegolden @stylishmuser @solllaris @ficnarry@thatnightin2008 @harryswinterberries @morethanamelodyy @coffee-doodle-doo@stepping-into-the-light @piawhat @sylcolt @burberryharold @sapphicspacecult666​ @adoremp3​ @beautifulletdownfics @thefangirlingbarista​ @iwantedmacmaddybutitstaken @veryplatoniccircunstances @live-at-the-forum@heslilac @kakayam @caramello-styles @ifheartscouldwrite @rubytersteege @mybm1998 @harrykingofcamp @cherryyharryy @15christyxoxo @harrys-cherrry​ @cherryruins​ @awomanindeniall@sing-me-a-song-harry @sunnybusiness @hhh33-3l​ @ashwathx@ficsthatmakemeswoon​ @harryinsweatersandbandanas@ihearthemcallingforyou  @niallgolden​ @pastequeharry @tinyfelthat @70s-harry@booksncoffee @somebridgesburn​ @millennial-teenybopper @sunfloweratheart @cherrygoldenn @for-fucks-sake-h​ @pastequeharry @justhereforlurking @mellamolayla @cosmictali @zcjt @grace-ful-gold @sunflowervolsimp@15christyxoxo @rosegoldsweetpea​ @hawwie​ @ishallreaditagainsometime​ 

[leahxx129]

Truth or Cut (Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester)

Hello there! This my * very VERY * late submission to @dontshootmespence​ ‘s   Alphabet Angst for 8k Challenge. I am incredibly sorry for this delay but I had to take a break away from Tumblr and social media in general in order to focus on my mental/physical health & other issues in my private life. Now I think I’m ready to return and create content again. As for the story, I hope you like it. This is my first attempt at a love triangle. Important: does not include Wincest so it’s safe to read for anyone who’s not into that. Also, I inserted a ‘Keep reading’ line, I hope it’s visible.

Summary: The British Men of Letters try a new approach to acquire the Winchesters’ cooperation, which leads to heartbreaking revelations. 

Warnings: cursing, bloodshed, mentions of sex, character death

Word count: 2.750-ish

* Moodboard is mine, pictures used are not.

You gain consciousness to two male voices calling your name frantically.

“She’s opening her eyes, Sam! She’s alright… Look!” the hoarse baritone belonging to the elder Winchester reassures his brother a second after your eyelashes have started fluttering.

“Well, that’s the overstatement of the year, Dean… Let’s just say I’ll live.” you grumble once you fully come around. “What the hell?!”

Usually you’re more eloquent than that but at the moment it’s the best you can muster, considering that you’ve awakened in what appears to be an abandoned warehouse and all three of you are handcuffed to uncomfortable metal chairs organized in a neat triangle, facing each other. The only source of light are a few flickering candles placed on a table nearby.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, babe.” your long-term boyfriend Sam replies in a soothing tone.

His handsome face seems intact – minus a couple of scars he obtained in previous fights – so being ambushed is crossed off the list of possible explanations on what happened and how you got here. Maybe you were drugged? If yes… by whom? The things that go bump in the night prey upon their enemies and slash their throats open, not abduct them.

A heavy silence falls on the place, only the crackle of the candle flames can be heard.

You have no idea how much time has passed – it could’ve been an eternity as well as ten minutes – when suddenly a consecutive knocking sound fills your auditory canals.

“Are those… are those high heels?” you ask aloud incredulously.

“Louboutin’s to be exact, my dear.”

Every head snaps to the accent’s direction just in time to see an elegantly dressed slender woman step into the candle-lit area.

“But excuse my manners… talking about fashion before introducing myself? How rude of me. I’m Lady Toni Bevell on behalf of the British Men of Letters.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Dean growls “You know, here in America no means no, Lady! We’ve already told your stupid little boyband to fuck off. We’re not here to do their bidding, we’re here to save lives.”

“So I’ve heard.” She nods in understanding. “But yet, we’d still like to gather some information, one way or another.”

She walks over to the table and unfolds a neatly wrapped package, revealing a knife. Suddenly, Sam’s sarcastic chuckle fills the place.

“And you think you can get us to spill by torturing? Seriously?”

A predatory smile spreads across Toni’s face as she casually picks up the weapon of her choice.

“I was thinking about playing a game that may involve torture. It’s up to you whether it does or does not.”

“What game?” you ask suspiciously.

“I’d like to call it Truth or Cut. Maybe Truth or Stab, depending on the importance of the information you intend to withhold. The rules are the following… I ask something and if you reply, that equals truth, and nothing will happen. If you do not wish to answer, just say cut and I’ll sink my knife into your flesh.”

“You’re crazy!” Sam exhales in disbelief.

“Thank you, Sam! I’m going to take that as a compliment. And since we are already engaged in a conversation, let’s start with you.” She walks to the center of the triangle to face the younger Winchester. “I’d like you to give me the names of American hunters you consider the best.”

Sam leans a bit forward, his face is unreadable.

“Bite me!” he hisses through gritted teeth. “I’m not gonna participate in your psychotic game. You can’t make me.”

Toni flashes a dangerous smile once more.

“Are you sure about that?”

She slowly walks behind your chair and places the blade under your right collar bone.

“If you refuse to pick either truth or cut, your loved ones will pay the price for it, big guy.”

Sam’s eyes search yours for confirmation of the next step and you nod.

“You’re bluffing.” He counters Toni.

The next second you feel the metal pressed against you slash into soft skin and you can’t suppress a loud grunt of pain. Blood starts oozing from the wound and your white tank top soon begins to acquire a shade of crimson.

The brothers yell ‘No!’ in unison, then Dean delivers an impressive selection of curse words – sneaking in some that were new even to you.

Toni strolls over to Sam.

“Now I ask again. Name the best American hunters you know.”

“Cut.” Sam responds in a tone just above whisper. He soundlessly flinches when the woman draws blood by sliding the blade across his left forearm.

“Alright… Who wants to be next? Perhaps Dean? List all the places where we can find extensive knowledge on the supernatural, not counting the Man of Letters safe houses of course.”

Dean’s gaze meets Toni’s and for a second you think you can see her confidence falter because of the deadly rage and utter disdain that radiates from the hunter, but she soon regains composure.

“So? Is it truth or cut, Dean? You know what will happen if you refuse to choose.”  

“Cut!” he emphasizes the t at the end.

You’re next and you pick cut as well. Then the cycle starts all over again...

You’ve made three rounds without anyone breaking and giving Toni what she wants, which visibly annoys her.

“Let’s shake things up a bit by changing the topics, shall we?” she announces out of the blue, making all of you knit your brows.

Spinning around on her heels, she turns to Sam.

“Sam! Did you manage to decide where you want to propose to Y/N? In my personal opinion the place where you said your first I love you-s is more romantic than the place where you first met, but that’s just plain old me.”

Sam’s eyes widen in shock, reflecting your own facial expression.

“Sam? What is she talking about?” you question in a thin voice, perplexed.

A shy, boyish smile appears on his face as he looks deep into your eyes, reminding you of the very first time you’ve seen him.

“Uh, yeah. She’s right. Although I have no idea how she knows this, but I did indeed plan on proposing to you at one of those places, probably where we met… up until now. Now I have to come up with something else I guess.”

A mixture of emotions floods your heart, making you undecisive what to say first. You finally open your mouth to speak but before a sound can escape, Toni directs the next question to Dean.

“Alright, that was a truth, so no cuts. Now, Dean! I am certain she will not get offended so you can tell me honestly… Is Y/N a good kisser?”

“How would I know?” he asks back, lacking any hesitation. “I think you’re mistaking me with Sam, her boyfriend. You know, the tall guy whose proposal you’ve just ruined? Next time you play this game with someone, have your facts checked first, Suit pants.”

The confusion on Sam’s face slowly starts to fade away, but Toni presses on relentlessly.

“Oh, Dean... That was a very convincing performance! But, unfortunately for you, I did have my facts checked. And according to these facts, you and Y/N locked lips passionately just two years ago, in 2015. Isn’t that right, Y/N?”

Everybody’s eyes are on you waiting for your reaction, and you can’t help but reminisce about the event in question.

You were having a hard time finding the key for the motel room you were renting - courtesy of the bottle of bourbon you’d consumed earlier. All those keys on the chain looked the same and neither of them seemed to fit into the lock, let alone open the damn door… In addition to that, the world slowly started spinning and you had to prop yourself against the doorframe to prevent an ugly fall.

“Need a hand there, Sweetheart?”

Your heart skipped a beat from the scare but soon calmness washed over you as you identified the person. You could recognize that husky voice anywhere, intoxicated or not.

“Dean Winchester!” you exclaimed, turning around to find him leaning against your car you’d parked near the doorway. “The world’s deadliest hunter and mightiest panty dropper turned hell’s cruelest demon! To what do I owe this pleasure? Considering that you’ve gone out of your way to ignore both me and Sam in the past couple of months.”

He leisurely pushed himself from the car and started walking towards you.

“I needed a breath of fresh air, that’s all. But speaking of whom… where’s Sam?”

He almost left no distance between your bodies when he finally stopped. What was he doing? If he wanted to kill you, he probably would’ve done it already…

“I don’t know. Why don’t you give him a call, huh? Ask him how he’s doing? You could make him the happiest man alive…” you replied with a bitter undertone.

A shit-eating grin formed on Dean’s handsome face.

“Uh-oh. Is there trouble in paradise?”

“Shut it, Dean! It’s really none of your business.” You said, crossing your arms and averting your gaze.

His comment hit a nerve – you both knew that – but the last thing on Earth you wanted to do was discussing your relationship crisis with him. If you still had a relationship, that is.

To much of your surprise, the next second he grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him and pressed his lips against yours. It felt terribly wrong but incredibly right at the same time… It took you half a minute to gather all your willpower and push him away.

“Y/N? Is it true?” Sam’s voice brings you back to reality.

Tears start dwelling up in your eyes, providing a wordless answer. He swallows hard.

“Why?”

“It’s all my fault, okay?” Dean speaks up as you’re clearly unable to form a coherent sentence. “I kissed her, man. It happened when I was a demon… I figured if I kissed her, I’d piss you off enough to leave me alone. Besides, she was totally hammered and still pushed me away.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better, Dean?!”

“I don’t know… a little, maybe?”

Sam scoffs then all of a sudden realization hits him.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“What?”

“Is my girlfriend a good kisser?”

Both you and Dean stare at him in shock.

“C’mon man, you can’t seriously want me to answer that…” Dean attempts to change the subject but doesn’t succeed. Sam’s stare makes it obvious he won’t let this one slide. He won’t let go until he hears the truth no matter how unpleasant it may be.

“Yes.” Dean blurts out. “She’s a good kisser. In fact, she’s one of the best kissers I’ve ever encountered in my entire life. Happy now?”

The only response is a nod.

“Oh wow…” Toni lets out an excited sigh. “Changing the topic was the best idea ever, don’t you agree? Now, let’s move on to Y/N. She’ll get the most interesting question in my repertoire.”

She slowly walks over to you, her Louboutin’s menacingly tap against the concrete every step of the way. She crouches down, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear and asks the most ruthless question in the sweetest voice.

“Which one of the Winchester brothers is better in bed?”

The tears you’ve been holding back for quite some time now break free and roll down your cheeks swiftly.

“I mean, it’s not entirely true what Dean said, now is it? You did push him away but then you pulled him back...”

Complete silence ensues and you swear you can hear three hearts break if you listen closely.

You were standing there more confused than ever. What the hell was Dean doing?! Was this a long time coming or was he playing some sort of a game? Either way… If you were sober, you most certainly would’ve punched him in the mouth. But due to your condition – or at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself ever since – you pulled him back and kissed him there instead. The part of how you got inside the room was a blur, but soon enough you found yourself tangled up with him in the sheets. Torn clothes peppered the floor, a smell of bourbon lingered in the air and Dean treated you as if you were the single, most important person in the entire universe. You truly thought you’d never been happier – then came the morning and shattered everything to a thousand pieces.

“You know, to encourage picking truth regarding this question, I am going to tell you something you yourself may not even be aware of, Y/N.” Toni breaks the silence. “There is something else that’s not true in what Dean said. He did not spend that night with you just to piss Sam off… He’s been attracted to you ever since you’ve met and being a demon allowed him to shamelessly do something about it.”

You whisper ‘Cut’ as a reply and Toni’s face hardens.

“Oh, honey… withholding this information is worth a stab.”

Before you can comprehend her words, she swings the knife and it ends up in your right thigh. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this much blood come from a stab wound… Both Winchester men yell in protest, but their voices become distant as you slowly slip into unconsciousness.

Mary and Castiel tracked down your location and arrived just in time. You almost bled to death, but the angel managed to heal the wound. For a while you wished he didn’t.

Three weeks later you’re sitting in your car at an abandoned gas station. About fifteen minutes after your arrival, a black SUV parks near you. You limp to the vehicle and tear its door open, barely containing your fury.

“What the fuck was that, Toni?!” you question while getting in and pointing a gun at her.

She glances at the weapon then looks you in the eye.

“Is that necessary?”

You cock the gun in response.

“Alright. So, as you know, the management decided that you delivering information to us about the Winchesters is not enough anymore.”

“Yes, that’s why you’ve contacted them directly, I know.”

“Correct. But since they refused to cooperate, the management came up with a plan of disrupting their unity. This way it’s just a matter of time and one of them will be knocking on our door. I suspect it will be Sam.”

A bitter laugh escapes you lips.

“So that’s what this was? A disruption of unity? Really?! And why didn’t I know of this, huh?”

“We needed your reactions to be genuine.”

“God, you’re a bunch of psychopaths… You know what, I’m not gonna do this anymore. I quit.”

She lets out a loud scoff.

“Please… what are you going to tell them? Furthermore, how do you think they will react when they learn that the love of their lives is a snitch?”

You let your gun down.

“I’ll make sure they know why I became a snitch... I’ll make sure they know how I made a crossroad’s deal years ago to save them both. I’ll make sure they know how you offered to delay the hellhounds in exchange for some information every now and then. I have no idea how they’ll react, but maybe someday they’ll understand and find it in their hearts to forgive me.”

Toni stares daggers at you.

“I suggest you think this through carefully, Y/N, as we still hold your deal. One bad move and the hellhounds will come and get you. No more delaying.”

You flash her the biggest smile you can summon.

“Well, it’s been a while since the last time I played with puppies from the pit… I think I’m ready.”

Not waiting for her reaction, you get out of the car and start limping back to yours. By the time you get in, Toni is gone.

You’re all alone.

Well, not entirely alone to be fair.

The grumbling hellhounds in your backseat keep you company.

You take your phone out of your pocket avoiding any sudden movements and type a quick message to the Winchesters:

‘My nightstand, second drawer.’

Toni thought she could prevent you from exposing the truth by taking action quickly, but she wasn’t paying attention. You never said you were gonna tell them everything. You said you would make sure they know. And the detailed farewell letters you left for them in your drawer will serve the purpose well.

[fabulouspotatosister]

Sugar, Yes Please

Summary: You first meet the Doctor standing in your kitchen, opening jars of sugar.

A/N: This fic was inspired by this prompt by @drink-it-write-it​ on tumblr! Originally I was going to follow this prompt to the letter, and then it went in a different direction, but that is definitely still where I got the inspiration from. Enjoy the fic!

Word Count (bc man this got LONG): 6,991

Here’s a link to the AO3 version in case you vibe with that more

The café, for all intents and purposes, was your home.

With its old polished wood floors and pastel blue walls, it was probably someone’s aesthetic dream. You could look back fondly on the long hours you spent wiping down counters and delivering coffee to the college students that frequented the place. Every round table held a wealth of memories – if you looked between the cracks in the wood, you’d find conversations, sweet words exchanged over a pastry or bitter stares over glasses of cold iced tea, each time a microcosm of human interaction. Whole lives had been lived in the Heaven Café – people came and people went, each time leaving the place a little different.

After the original owner – a lady who wore predominantly pink frocks and frilly aprons and was very young at heart – moved out of the café after she got married, she gave you the keys to the second floor of the building.

They used to call her “Miss Baker”, and insisted the nickname be passed to you when you got put in charge.

The second floor was a nice apartment with a pretty balcony and big windows that let in a lot of sunlight and/or moonlight. It was strange for the first few nights, sleeping in a bed clearly made for two, but after a few weeks, it was second nature to fall into the cozy patchwork sheets after a long day.

The Heaven Café was your home. And wouldn’t you be mad if someone broke into your home?

The moon was high in the sky that night, and its light spilled into your bedroom, illuminating all the corners of the room and bathing everything in a silver light. There was nothing but the sound of passing cars and crickets. It looked like a good night to watch the stars and fall asleep looking out the window – until you heard a strange noise from outside the window.

You sat up. It was a wheezing, groaning noise, that faded in and out, growing to a crescendo until it finally disappeared. The building was an old one. You were no stranger to strange noises in the night, it came with the territory. But that was something you had never heard before. Pushing yourself off your bed, you leaned out the window to look at the street below.

It was still the same street, save for a police box that was placed further down. Weren’t those things really old? Did anyone still use those?

There was another noise from downstairs. Something metal, clattering to the ground, perhaps a pan or a tray. And then – panicked muttering. It sounded like it was from a young man, with a British accent… What was going on down there?

You tried to make sure that your brain didn’t go to the worst possible situation – that you were being robbed. Throwing on a jacket that you had draped over a chair and turning on the flashlight on your phone with trembling hands, you opened the creaky door out of your bedroom and headed down the stairs into the café’s kitchen. Why would anyone rob you? You didn’t earn much, just enough to pay utility bills and buy groceries; you didn’t even have any jewelry! And if you had anything of value it was probably just stuff that looked expensive, like a large apple sculpture that was just plastic.

The rooms downstairs, unlike the upstairs apartments, didn’t have big windows, just windows that were enough to keep the place cool and ventilated when it got a bit too hot inside. This had the unintended side effect of making the place dark as hell when it was nighttime.

The light from your phone’s flashlight was the only thing that pierced through the darkness, your phone’s case suddenly feeling very slippery as your hands started to sweat. It’s not a robber, you thought, trying to calm the panic that was rising up your throat. It’s probably just a rat, or something. But that didn’t explain the young man’s voice, unless rats could talk now. Which was stupid, since rats couldn’t talk…

You let your rambling thoughts keep you company as your bare feet stepped against wooden floorboards. At least it wasn’t frighteningly quiet anymore – you heard the sound of something being pushed against a counter, and then more muttering. After that was the sound of someone rummaging through utensils, the clink clank of metal against metal echoing against the quiet halls of the building.

The kitchen door was closed, but light spilled out of the gap between the door and the floor.

Turning off the flashlight on your phone, you turned the device over in your hands. Would it hurt someone if you hit them over the head with it? What were you even going to say? Who are you? What are you doing here? Don’t move? You weren’t intimidating. You were dressed in loose clothes and a jacket. The worst you could do was cry for help, which would only work if anyone was still awake at this hour.

Now that you were closer you could hear shuffling, and you could hear the voice that you had heard before a little clearer – saying something about sugar.

You took in a deep breath, releasing it through your nose. Holding your phone above your head like a makeshift weapon, you reached for the handle of the kitchen door, letting your fingers curl around the old metal.

Okay. Three… two… one -!

You flung the door open – but the sight before you was enough to shock the words out of you.

You were right about the clattering noise. There was indeed a tray that had fallen on the kitchen’s tiled floor, one of the muffin trays. The rest of the room was in disarray. Most of the cupboards had been opened and ransacked, bags of flour had been laid out on the floor and someone had broken into your sugar supply, the various jars of all the different sugars laid out on a counter. And in the middle of all that, behind the counter opening one of the sugar jars, was a young man in a tweed jacket with floppy hair and a bowtie.

You stood frozen in the doorway, phone still held aloft like you were going to bring it down over his head – the young man had frozen in his tracks, his finger held in the air as he was about to stick it in a jar of confectionary sugar.

Suddenly, the young man jumped back, slamming the lid back onto the jar. “Miss Baker! I thought you were closed!” he cried, backing up against the counter behind him.

So - he was the source of the muttering and talking. You still couldn’t wrap your head around how and why he was in your kitchen at an ungodly hour raiding your sugar. And why he called you “Miss Baker”.

“How did you get in?” was the only thing that came out of your mouth. “Did you break in?”

“I expertly maneuvered my way in,” the young man said proudly. His smile fell slightly after you raised an eyebrow at him – “I broke in.”

“I should be calling the police right now,” you muttered, and the young man nodded.

“You should be calling the police. Upstanding citizen, you are – but don’t, please.” He held his hands up in surrender. “I thought you were closed, and that I could pop in for a little visit without you getting mad, but I forgot that you tend to be awake at this hour.”

He forgot that you were usually awake late at night? You didn’t even know this man. “Why the sugar?” you asked, using your free hand to gesture at the jars of sugar while keeping your other hand on your phone in case he tried anything. Which he probably wouldn’t, to be honest, as he was quite tall and lanky and didn’t look built for combat.

The young man looked at the sugar, then back to you, clapping his hands together. “I needed some for some defense against some Yamar natives – they don’t have much sugar on their planet, so their bodies aren’t built for handling it. Like snails to salt, or so I’m told. I was testing these to see which ones would be the sweetest – you’ve told me this before, Miss Baker, but bakers on other planets right now would be very jealous of you, perfect defense against the Yamars.”

You couldn’t even form a good coherent thought. Yamars? Other planets? Was he talking about aliens?  “You’ve told me this before”? Was this man crazy?

“I’m not –” You shook your head. “I’m not Miss Baker, you must have the wrong person.”

“No, no I’m sure I’ve got the right time,” the young man said, taking a look at his watch.

“Hang on – who are you?” you asked.

The man froze, his eyebrows raised in surprise before his face fell, disappointed.

“Oh no,” he said simply, sticking his hands in his pockets and suddenly looking very sheepish. “I’ve come a little too early, haven’t I? Tell me, do you know who I am?”

“Am I supposed to?” you countered back, and the man chuckled, looking down at the floor.

“Yes, but also no. Not yet,” the man replied. He took the jar of confectionary sugar and screwed the lid on tight, then bundled it into his arms like you would a small child. “It’s complicated.”

It was definitely complicated. The young man stepped over the fallen muffin tray, grimacing at the room. He squeezed past you, still standing in the doorway, his shoes making small sounds against the floor. “I’m sorry about the mess– I really must be off, thank you for the sugar– “

“W-wait!” you cried, turning to face him, “You need to come back and explain– “

But the young man was already gone.

You shook your head, lowering your phone, suddenly very tired after all that. It had been a long night, and it was very late.

Maybe this is just all some strange dream, you thought as you switched off the lights in the kitchen. Shutting the door quietly, your thoughts still racing at a mile a minute, you pulled your jacket tighter against yourself as you began the journey back upstairs to your bed, where you could forget all about the weird events of the night. I’ll wake up tomorrow morning and the kitchen will be clean. There was never a strange man there looking for sugar.

Nothing happened.

---

Something had happened.

You didn’t know why you woke up early the next day, before anyone else had arrived, to check the kitchen. Part of you wanted to be ignorant, to have one of your employees tell you that the kitchen was a mess and then tell you that it was probably rats because it should be rats – but there was another part of you that was curious, didn’t care if it killed you, and was okay with satisfaction not bringing you back.

The kitchen was still a mess. The bags of flour were still left on the floor, the jars of sugar were still arranged on the counter, cupboards and cabinets were still ajar, and the fallen muffin tray was still lying sadly on the floor.

You sighed, picking your way through the mess to pick up the tray – turning it over in your hands, it wasn’t damaged. That was good. God knows what the previous owner would do if you dented some of her equipment.

So last night hadn’t been a dream. The whole thing with the strange man asking for sugar had been unfortunately real, leaving you to pick up the pieces of your brain.

You were planning to call the police – but again, what would you tell them? A strange man broke into my establishment and took a jar of sugar. No, he didn’t harm me, he just confused me immensely. No, I can’t tell you where he went, because he disappeared. Go after him? Why would I do that? Lost in thought, you didn’t notice the door to the kitchen swinging open.

“This place is a mess.”

You turned around, muffin tray still in your hands, to see a young lady in an apron wringing her hands together – “Erica!”

“That’s my name,” Erica said, smoothing over the front of the Heaven Café’s uniform apron – hand-sewn by the previous owner for all her old employees. They were pink, frilly things. They were like hand-me-downs, and like most of the things in the building, were to be treated with the utmost care. “What did you do, boss? It looks crazy in here.”

“Long story,” you sighed, trying to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Erica simply hummed and made her way to the center of the room, hoisting up one of the bags of flour. Erica was a fairly new hire, but she was nice and attentive and kept the atmosphere cheery even during the rush hour. “It was a weird night.”

“I’ve had a few weird nights,” Erica said, pushing a bag of flour into a cabinet and slamming the door. Her hand hovered over the counter, then sugar jars, her palm just inches away from the sweet powder. “Ugh, what’s with all the sugar? One, two… five… one of the jars is missing.”

“That’s part of the weird night.” You opened the cabinet with all the trays and placed the muffin tray at the very top, balancing precariously on top of a mixing bowl. “Why are you interested in the sugar jars?”

“For you, boss. I don’t touch the stuff.”

You shook your head. “Well, some guy just came in and took one of the sugar jars, talking about aliens. I thought I was dreaming.”

Erica was quiet for a moment, before she asked, “What did he look like?”

“It was late, but uh…” You pressed your thumb against your temple, trying to dig the young man’s description out of your still very confused brain. “He was a tall guy? He had a British accent, he was wearing a tweed jacket with a bowtie, I mean who dresses like that these days?”

“…A tweed jacket?” Erica glanced towards the door of the kitchen.

“Exactly! It’s 2020, I don’t know why someone would be –“

“Boss.” Erica tapped your shoulder. She drew her mouth into a thin line, closing her hand into a fist and bringing it to her chest. “Your mystery guy might be here.”

“What?” You whipped around, slamming the doors to the tray cabinet shut – the metal things clattered against each other loudly and you winced. Erica shrugged, her face reflecting your confusion.

“I mean, you said no one dresses like him anymore, right? He’s sitting by the window, just reading the menu.” Erica turned to look at the door again. “I tried to approach him and he said he was looking for Miss Baker.”

“For the last time, I’m not Miss Baker.”

“You technically are.” Erica shrugged. “Do you know him?”

“Why would I know him? He broke into the building last night!” you said, raising your hands up in the air. Erica raised her eyebrows at you. “What? I’m not going to go talk to him.”

“He’s a customer. And he is your mystery man.” Erica was already making her way to the front of the café. She stopped, resting her hand on the doorway and grinning widely. “And he’s pretty cute, not gonna lie.”

You felt your face grow warm. “He’s not my ‘mystery man’, I don’t know what you’re – Erica! Erica! Get back here!”

You only heard Erica’s laugh echo down the hall. You sighed for maybe the fiftieth time that day, running your hand over your face – the day could not get any weirder.

You were about to be proven wrong.

Erica was right. Your “mystery man” (God, why were you calling him that it sounded so ridiculous) was indeed sitting by the window – his face was covered by the menu, the only thing you could clearly see being his long hair that flopped against his forehead. To someone else, he would have looked like he was reading, but there were a lot of customers like him. People that came in just to hide. And he was hiding.

From me? Why would he be hiding from me? If anything, I should be hiding from him, the weirdo…

The young man peeked over the menu, his eyes darting across the room before they finally landed on you. The corners of his eyes crinkled and even though the rest of his face was covered, you could tell he was smiling – what kind of man breaks into your home, steals sugar, disappears, and then smiles at you like nothing happened the next day?

The sight of a young man dressed in a tweed jacket and a bowtie sitting in a cute café was a lot to take in. Grabbing a spare notepad and tucking a pen behind your ear, you made your way towards the young man, plastering a smile onto your face – “Hi, welcome to Heaven Café, what can I get you?”

The young man set the menu down, and your breath caught in your throat. Erica was right again – at this point, you probably owed the girl money – your “mystery man” was actually quite cute. The young man lifted his wrist to glance at his watch before smiling nervously and setting the menu flat on the table.

“I’ve come to apologize,” he said.

You customer-service smile dropped. “For last night.”

“Yes,” he replied, “although somewhat preemptively. It hasn’t happened yet. Or it will. I am sorry, though.”

“What do you mean, ‘it hasn’t happened yet?’” you spluttered, the pitch of your voice raising higher and higher and suddenly you were very glad there was no one else there in the café. “It did happen! You were there!”

“I was there!” the young man said cheerfully. “I will be there, and I know you’ll be very upset about it.”

“I am upset about it!”

The young man’s smile vanished. “Oh, you really are.”

“Give me a reason why I shouldn’t hit you this notepad right now,” you hissed, your chest getting tighter and tighter, your anger and confusion mixing into one messy cocktail.

“I’m a customer, Miss Baker! You can’t harm me.” The young man leaned back in his chair. “Or maybe you can – humans, always so violent.”

Humans? “For the last time, I’m not ‘Miss Baker’.”

“Then I suppose this is when you tell me your real name.” The young man grinned, something mischievous hidden in his green eyes. “The question is, Miss Baker, who are you?”

“I asked you first.” You glanced at the clock above him – it was still early, but it was almost time for the morning rush, when all the stressed-out office workers and late university students poured in for their daily dose of coffee. You couldn’t sit here and talk to this man – no matter how many questions you had, you had a job to do. “You know what? Let me get you something, and then you can explain.”

“Right, then, I’ll have tea. A classic. Very lucrative Earth export, in about a few thousand years,” the young man said brightly. Then he frowned. “No, wine. That’ll make me look sophisticated – no, wine’s rubbish.”

Before you could interrupt that the café didn’t even serve wine, the young man suddenly looked up at you, sporting a youthful smile. “What about a banana milkshake?”

---

The young man’s name, you quickly learned, was the Doctor. This didn’t answer any of your questions, because after taking a few sips from his banana milkshake he had run out the door, nearly knocking over one of your employees, Emil, who was clocking in late.

“I’ll explain tomorrow!” he had yelled when you chased after him.

“You’d better!” you’d yelled back. You thought you heard him laugh before he disappeared behind a corner.

The Doctor didn’t come by the next day. Or the day after that.

You would never admit that the Doctor had been the only thing on your mind for an entire week. The young man had an air of mystery about him, like he knew more than he was telling you. He had the face of a child but the air of someone much older – and you had gleaned all of this just from a seven-minute conversation and a strange encounter in your kitchen. For a mystery, he was surprisingly easy to read.  

But aside from that, the week was pretty normal. It was the same old writing names on paper cups and getting flour all over your good pants. After a few days, you’d written off meeting the Doctor as a fluke, a once-in-a-lifetime meeting with someone who was just incredibly unique.

Yes, it might have been a fluke, but there was a niggling sense of missing out on something – like there was a whole universe that you had just brushed against, and whole new world to explore, and you’d missed it. One thing about working in a place that’s full of life, you thought, staring out the large window in the front, where the Doctor had sat, is that you’re always just hearing about it but never living it.

“Miss Baker?”

You turned around, letting a sigh escape your pursed lips. The sound almost became a whistle. “Emil, I told you not to call me that.”

Emil – a tall, sweet man with a very big smile – actually smiled one of his famous smiles, but a bit sheepishly. He rubbed the back of his neck, no doubt getting flour in his hair. “Sorry, it’s a habit. You know I got hired before you did.”

“That means you’re old, Emil,” you said. “What’s up?”

“Erica’s gone again,” Emil replied, “that kid. What does she do when we’re not looking?”

You shrugged, turning back around to face the window, watching the setting sun. Erica had a reputation for being young and a bit of a hotshot among everyone working at the Heaven Café. You didn’t think too much of it. “I don’t know. She is just a kid.”

“So are you.” Emil stood next to you. “But I trusted Miss Baker when she turned the place over to you. She was a good boss.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “And I’m not?”

Emil laughed, rubbing a flour-stained hand over your head, like an annoying big brother. Thank god it was closing time. “I don’t have anything against you, boss.”

The front door swung open. You and Emil turned around to see that a tall, thin man had just walked in, his hands in the pockets of a well-fitted blue suit. The man looked, for lack of a better term, sharp – not “sharp” as in “smartly-dressed”, but he had edges.

“Excuse me, sir,” you called out. The man turned around, one sharp eyebrow raised. He looked like you would get a paper cut if you touched him. “It’s late. We’re closing.”

The statement came more like a question, and the man raised his eyebrow higher, if it was even possible. “Sorry. Bit rude of me. I’m looking for something.”

Oh. British. What was up the shop and attracting strange but attractive British men?

“Sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Emil said. The man hummed in response, a pensive expression on his face.

“Wrong choice of words. I’m tracking something,” the man said, pulling a screwdriver from the inside of his suit jacket. Suddenly, the screwdriver began to hum and glow blue, and upon closer inspection was not a screwdriver at all. He swept the not-screwdriver over the room. “Have you two seen anything strange recently?”

Stranger than you? “No, sir,” Emil replied, his voice tight.

“I’ve just said it, I’m tracking something!” the man said. The not-screwdriver stopped humming and glowing and the man looked into the end of it, squinting. “Ooh, that’s weird. Weird readings. Are you sure you haven’t seen anything?”

“Sorry, what are you doing here?” Emil asked, stepping in front of you. The man frowned at him.

“I’ve been following strange patterns through time, and they’ve led me here.” The man said, raising his head to meet your eyes. His eyes were brown and deep and strangely familiar. “I’m supposed to meet you. Who are you?”

Before you could even say “I could ask you the same thing”, there was a loud crashing sound. And then a high-pitched scream. Emil turned to face you, his eyes wide.

“It sounded like it came from the kitchen,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

“Emil, I’ll go,” you said, furrowing your brows. “You stay here.”

Emil laughed, placing a hand on your shoulder. It left a flour handprint on your shirt. “Are you worried about me? You’re still young. I’ll go check it out.”

Another crash rang out – it sounded like something glass crashing to the floor and shattering – and then another sound of pain, but more guttural. It didn’t even sound human. Your stomach twisted with dread, and you glanced at the mysterious man, who nodded at Emil.

“I’ll come with you,” the man said, and Emil shook his head, already walking away.

“Stay here, sir,” Emil called out, then made his way to the kitchen. The man shook his head, chuckling.

“Sorry. I don’t have the best track record for following instructions,” he began. He paused, casting his gaze onto you – which was surprisingly intense from a man that was just so thin. Once again, a sense of familiarity struck you – you knew this man, but how? “Right, you. Who are you?”

“You first,” you countered. The man grinned.

“I’m the Doctor,” he said, and your mouth fell open.

No, he wasn’t the Doctor. The Doctor was that cute floppy-haired young man in tweed you’d met a week ago. The man in front of you wasn’t the Doctor – he couldn’t be the Doctor, because – “I’ve met the Doctor,” you said, a little unsure, “and he doesn’t look like you.”

“That happens a lot,” he said absently, “I think I’ve got one of those faces.”

Distantly, you heard a yell, and another metallic clatter. Your whole body jerked in surprise – it sounded like Emil.

Before you could protest, the Doctor grabbed your hand and dragged you to the kitchen.

You tried to tear yourself away from the Doctor’s grip as he stopped just steps away from the kitchen door. The Doctor still held on tightly to your arm. The clattering and yelling continued, and now you were definitely sure it was Emil. “What are you doing? We have to go help him!”

The Doctor raised a finger to his lips, his eyes wide. “Shh! Listen.”

Among Emil’s grunts of pain and the loud sound of metal and glass crashing to the floor, there was another sound – one that was more animalistic, like the growl of a hungry beast. But it sounded strange, like there was another voice layered beneath it.

“Hungry…”

“Stay behind me,” the Doctor said lowly, and you nodded. Raising his not-screwdriver, he took slow, careful steps towards the open door. His free arm was outstretched over you.

When you finally reached the open door, you fought back a scream – surrounded by broken glass and fallen trays was Emil, his face twisted in pain as he pushed against a slimy, pulsing tentacle. Your gaze followed the writhing flesh to its owner, some kind of wriggling mass that reminded you too much of a tongue to feel comfortable with it. The wriggling mass growled, keeping Emil pinned to the floor. He whipped his head to the side and met your eyes, his whole body trembling.

“Help!” Emil cried. You sprung forward to Emil’s side and tried to grab at the tentacle’s skin – if you could even call it skin. You felt a shudder run down your spine as your own hands became covered in the slimy substance that coated it – what the hell is going on?!

From the corner of your eye, you saw the Doctor, waving his not-screwdriver at the mass of flesh. “What’s kept you hidden for so long? Perception filter? Must be a good one if it’s hidden something like you.”

You pushed against the tentacle keeping Emil pinned tightly to the floor, but it didn’t budge. “I can’t move it! Doctor, HELP!”

“What are you?” the Doctor asked, squinting at the end of his not-screwdriver.

“Ya…mar…” the mass growled lowly, and you paused. Now why did that sound…

“I needed some for some defense against some Yamar natives –“

The Doctor joined you beside Emil, pointing his not-screwdriver at the tentacle. It didn’t do anything. “And what do you want?” the Doctor asked again, pressing his elbow into the tentacle and ruining his nice suit.

The mass made a low noise before speaking. “Hungry… Boss…”

You froze, your mouth falling open. Boss?

Whipping your head around to face the wriggling, slimy, mound of flesh, something caught your eye. Hanging off of it was a pink, frilly apron, now ruined and torn and slimy, hand-sewn for all of the employees at the Heaven Café… hand-me-downs…

“Erica?” you breathed out, and the mass moved, as if responding to the name.

“That’s Erica?!” Emil asked loudly.

“Boss…” it said, a young woman’s voice coming through underneath the growling, alien one. “Hungry…”

“You know her?” the Doctor asked. You shook your head dumbly.

“Employee,” was all you managed to say. “She’s an employee.”

“Whoah!” Emil gasped – he started squirming underneath the massive tentacle, as if trying to get away. A strange burning smell filled the room, and Emil started squirming harder. “What the – my clothes!”

The Doctor stared at his hands, then at his elbow – the spot that had been covered with the slime was being eaten away, revealing bare skin. “The slime’s corrosive! Wipe your hands on something!”

You quickly rubbed your palms on your own Heaven Café apron, watching as the slime you’d just wiped away ate through some of the cloth, leaving only an empty patch behind. Despite all the madness, you managed to sigh – the real Miss Baker was going to come for your head now for destroying her aprons. And for hiring a weird fleshy monster.

“What the fuck is up with weird things and ruining my kitchen?” you muttered.

“Oi, that’s quite rude,” you heard the Doctor say.

You looked up at the Doctor, who had his not-screwdriver out again. “Why hasn’t it eaten through our skin?”

“I don’t think it can. Unless – “

The Doctor was cut off by Emil screaming – the smell of something burning suddenly became the smell of burnt hair, and you assumed that if you didn’t work fast enough it would become the smell of burning flesh.

“What do we do?”

“It says it’s a Yamar, I’ve never met a Yamar!” the Doctor said, throwing his hands up in the air. “Nine-hundred years of time and space and I’ve never met a Yamar.”

“You haven’t? But you told me –“

The Doctor pocketed his not-screwdriver and pressed against the tentacle again, groaning in frustration. “I probably haven’t told you yet! Wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey, and all that – I don’t think I’ve met them yet!”

You blinked. The other Doctor had talked about time, and knowing the future – if he didn’t know now maybe the reason why he knew then was because…

“…they don’t have much sugar on their planet, so their bodies aren’t built for handling it.”

“Like snails to salt…” you murmured. You stood up quickly, scrambling to get to a cabinet – “Sugar!”

“What?” Emil and the Doctor said in unison.

“I know what we need!” You flung open a cupboard to find your jars of different sugars, with one still missing. You took all the jars of sugar you could carry and bundled them into your arms. You opened one of the jars, taking in a fistful of sugar. “I’m the envy of bakers across the universe - Yamars don’t like sugar, so we should be able to-”

You threw the handful of sugar onto the tentacle holding Emil down and watched as it burned through its slimy coating. The mass made a shrieking noise, and retracted the tentacle, pulling it back into it’s large body.

“I’m alive,” Emil gasped, placing his hands on his chest, “I’m alive!”

“Right you are,” the Doctor said, helping Emil to his feet.

“No,” the mass gurgled, “Boss. Hungry.”

You stared up at the strange thing – you had to be dreaming. There was no way that this monster could be one of your employees. There was no way that there could even be a monster at all in your café. You had met Erica and she wasn’t like that. But there it was, standing and wriggling in the middle of your kitchen, and it had nearly eaten another one of your employees.

“Sorry, Erica,” you muttered, opening another jar of sugar, the largest one you had, “it’s been a weird night.”

You threw the jar at the wriggling mass; the sugar flew out and struck it, and the creature screamed, a terrible gurgling sound, as the sugar burned through its skin until there was nothing left but a steaming pile of slime on the nice tiled floors of your kitchen. You stared at the pile of slime, taking huge, heaving breaths like you’d just run a marathon.

A weird night. Definitely understatement of the year.

A big smile spread across your face – and despite all of the weird things that had just happened, and despite the fact that you were covered in cloth-and-flesh-eating slime, you laughed.

The Doctor ran up to you, clapping on the shoulders. “Brilliant, how did you know how to do that?”

You blinked. “You told me.”

The Doctor simply grinned. “I think it’s the other way around, Miss…”

A thought flashed through your head – it was impossible, but so many impossible things had just happened. And the Doctor was already such an impossible man - Screw it, right?

“Baker. Call me Miss Baker,” you finally said, grinning back at him. “Uh, do you want a banana milkshake?”

---

It took another week for you to convince yourself that what you were feeling wasn’t a severe case of FOMO.

The spiky-haired Doctor didn’t leave for a long time. He stayed with you until it was quite late and even after you’d sent Emil home to rest, helping you clean the glass and the slime and giving you tips on how to clean slime from surfaces. Eventually, just like the other Doctor, he left too, but he didn’t make any promises.

It still didn’t mean it wasn’t disappointing when he didn’t come back the next day.

You spent a lot of nights in bed thinking about that night. It still didn’t seem real at all. All the things that had happened made the café seem like a much more magical place – it was still your home, and there were still stories to be collected and told, but now there were things that were impossible written on the walls. You couldn’t help but smile everytime you walked into the kitchen – how were you going to tell new employees that the place had been covered in slime once?

The answer was that you didn’t. As much as you wanted to tell everyone you met, probably no one would believe you – no one but Emil, who didn’t show up the next day and simply left an apologetic, but somewhat incoherent, text message.

That left you to manage most of the café. It was a slow day, with only a few people coming in and out and ordering simple orders.

That left you to do one thing you were good at – thinking. You were good at thinking. And you thought a lot about that night, and how it could have gone differently. You could have asked the Doctor to stay, or you could have asked where he was going, or you could have asked if you could go with him. A chance at a real adventure had slipped by you again.

No, you thought, screwing your eyes shut. You were home. You were supposed to be content.

“Excuse me?”

You looked up. Standing in front of you, on the other side of the counter, was a very pretty young lady – her brown hair fell over her shoulders, her big eyes shining under the lights of the café. She smiled brightly at you, and waved.

“Yes, hello,” you said after a while. “Sorry. Welcome to the Heaven Café, what can I get you?”

“Oh -” The young woman looked up for a moment, thinking, and then she looked behind her. Standing not too far away from her was an older man, with a head of curly, white hair, his hands in the pockets of his coat. Was that a hoodie under his coat? The man nodded at her, and the young woman turned back to you. “A coffee and a banana milkshake, please.”

“Dine in or take out?” you asked, and the woman grinned.

“Take out,” she said, “sorry. We’re a bit busy.”

“That’s no problem. Just give me a minute, miss…”

“Clara,” she supplied, leaning over the counter. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

You turned away from her to prepare the coffee, grabbing a small paper cup and walking carefully to the machine. “Thanks! What’s brought you here?”

“Recommendation from a friend,” Clara said. You could still hear the smile in her voice. “I’ve heard good things about the place.”

“Like?”

“Good sugar,” she said, and you nearly dropped the cup.

You set the coffee in front of her with shaking hands and promptly made your way to the blender, the cogs of your brain not working. You dared a glance at the man Clara had come with. The two of them were talking now, their voices drowned out by the roar of the blender. Then the man had to be…

You gave Clara the banana milkshake in the paper cup and she muttered a quick “thanks” before handing it to the man behind her.

You stared at the man. He was older now, definitely different, but there was the same familiarity in his eyes. The corners of the man’s mouth lifted in a small smile, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

“Thank you, again,” Clara said hurriedly, placing a few bills on the counter, “We’ve got to go. Keep the change.”

“No problem, come back soon,” you murmured, still looking at the man. Clara nodded at him and he seemed to collect himself, raising a hand in farewell before rushing out of the door with Clara, disappearing into the street outside.

Yeah, you thought, still staring at the spot where the two of them had been. It was definitely FOMO.

Before you could get lost in your thoughts again, the sound of the door opening kept you from falling into a pit of overthinking. You wiped your hands over your new apron, ran a hand through your hair, and plastered on your best customer service smile.

“Welcome to the Heaven Café, what can I get you?” you said.

A blonde woman had walked in, dressed in a flowing lilac coat and suspenders, her smile wide and bright and awfully familiar. “I’ll have a banana milkshake,” she said, and you frowned.

What was up with people and ordering banana milkshakes today? You looked down, quickly noting the order. “Okay, ma’am. What’s your name?”

“Ma’am. I can never get used to that.” The woman smiled, adjusting a bundle of cloth in her arms. “The Doctor.”

Your head whipped up, meeting the woman’s eyes, and for all you knew the café could have disappeared – all you could see was her smiling at you, the same mischievous glint hidden behind new eyes. “Sorry I’m late, Miss Baker.”

“You already know my name,” you said. The Doctor shifted, removing the cloth from the bundle in her arms, and you gasped – it was your sugar jar, the one she had taken and promised to return, still in pristine condition with hardly any sugar removed. “And my sugar!”

The Doctor set the jar on the counter, resting her hand on it. “It’s served me well! Thank you.”

“You’re two weeks late,” you muttered, still frozen in place.

“No, I’m a few hundred years late,” the Doctor said, sticking her hands in her coat pockets. “I am sorry for that. I do lose track of time sometimes. But I did visit! You said to ‘come back soon’.”

“You were the old man.”

“Yep.”

“And the sharp man.”

“Yep, although I don’t why you call me that.”

“And the bowtie man.”

“I don’t regret the bowtie.” The Doctor pulled at her suspenders, still smiling widely. “Speaking of time…”

The Doctor stepped to the side, gesturing out the big window – there was an old blue police box parked there, standing underneath the shade of a big tree. It was the same box you’d seen, all those nights ago - “You’ve let me into your home so many times, I suppose it’s time I show you mine.”

“That box? You’re kidding.”

The Doctor shrugged, then tilted her head towards the box. “Do you want to see where I’ve been?”

And all those times you’d stayed behind, all the nights of thinking like you had missed out on something grand, something greater than you – all came flooding back. As the Doctor looked at you with wide, expectant eyes, you thought of adventure and finally living the lives you kept hearing about – and you nodded. You weren’t going to miss this chance.

The Doctor beamed, and took your hand. You clambered over the counter, ignoring all the stares from the customers – “Now?”

“When’s a better time than now?” she called back, dragging you out of the café and into another world.

And all this over a jar of sugar.

[br4tcult]

﹒☼﹒

UPON RETURN ⎟  T. SHELBY

﹒♱﹒

✒︎requested: no i just loved the gif ✒︎warnings: swearing & narcotics + mentions of blood, bruises & violence && lots of tension ✒︎word count: 5000+ ✒︎season set: 1

[originally posted on my wattpad, bc idk how to post via tumblr but we tryin’. feedback majorly appreciated x]

﹒♱﹒

You took a deep breath as you lifted your bruised and dried bloody knuckle to the oh so familiar door. A thousand thoughts racing through your mind as you tapped your foot, both with impatience and disconcertment of what consequences would follow. 

You had moved to Small Heath at the age of seven, give or take, your father had got a job promotion which meant moving up country. When you first arrived you were known as 'The Cockneys At The Bottom Of Watery Lane'. You weren't even from London. You just happened to live near the capital. Not that anyone cared.

When you started school it was the same, only worse. All the girls would pick on you for speaking funny and the boys would pick on you for being too 'brash'. It wasn't your fault your parents had raised you to not take any shit. With your fathers line of work, he wasn't around an awful lot which mean you and your mother had to do a lot of things yourself. Which you, of course, didn't mind but it did mean that a lot of people would be confused and usually straight up rude.

They'd say things along the lines of, 'Whys a women doing this' and, 'Are women even capable of doing that', and so on, when you and your mother were doing the simplest of things.

Anyway, when you joined the school in Small Heath you found that being a girl with her head held high and strong arms wasn't easy.

One day you were minding your own business under the oak tree in the corner of the playground, reading Oliver Twist, if you remember correctly. When out of nowhere a group of kids made their way over to you; three girls and about five boys, all looking irritated.

"Wot ya doing, girl?", a boy with a scarf on asked you.

You rolled your eyes, turning to look at him as you put your bookmark in your book, "I have a name, you know?".

The boy scowled, "I don't care".

'What do you want?', you asked again, looking at the rest of them, "I'm busy".

A girl took a step forward, her hands behind her back as her plaits fell in front of her shoulders, "Just wanted to know why you're such a freak?".

You laughed, "I'm not a freak", you stood up.

"Yeah you are", a little boy from the back spoke up, "Ya read all the time n wear trousers". Another girl nodded, "Yeah girls don't wear trousers, they're for boys, ya freak".

"Girls can wear trousers too, you know?", you crossed your arms, "They're actually really comfortable".

The first boy that spoke to you shook his head, "I bet you wear trousers coz your mum n dad can't afford dresses, ay?", he said as he turned to look at his friends.

You didn't think twice before you lunged forward and brought the boy to the ground, "Fuck did you just say?", you spat as his friends gasped. When the boy didn't answer you shook him by his collar a little, "Didn't hear you".

"I said", he spoke, "You're poor and a freak of a girl", he sniggered.

You narrowed your eyes and lifted your fist before hitting him in the nose. He yelled and pushed you, knocking you slightly but you didn't fall over.

The kids started shouting "Fight... Fight... Fight...", causing a crowd of other kids to come running.

Soon enough you had hit him about four times before you heard an older voice, "Wots going on 'ere then?". You turned around to see three boys in flat caps, the voice belonging to the tallest.

"Wot's it look like?", you said, "I'm beating him u-", you were cut off as the boy beneath you grabbed one of your braids, yanking you down to the floor with him.

You quickly kicked him in the stomach before the three boys grabbed you and held you back, the other boy groaning in pain.

Walking you away as you shouted the boys laughed.

"Wot's your name then?", the smallest one asked as they sat you on a bench. You kept your chin up as you studied them, "Y/N", you narrowed your eyes, " 'ho uh you's then?".

The other two boys looked at each-other and chuckled before turning back to you, "That", they motioned to the smallest boy, "Is John". You nodded. "I'm Arthur", the tallest said before turning to the boy in the middle, "And this is-".

"I'm Tommy", he said as he held his hand out for you to shake, "These are my brothers".

You shook his hand and sat up straighter, "So Wot?", you began, "Yous the topdogs 'ere or sumin?", you asked.

They laughed as John spoke, "Yeah! We're the best here". Tommy gently shoved his brother, "Shut up, John", he said and looked back to you, "We're not yet, but no one messes with us if that's what you mean".

You nodded again, "So can I join your little gang?".

Arthur laughed, "Well you're not a Shel-", his brother Tommy cut him off.

"That's what I wanted to speak to you about actually, Y/N".

You smiled, "So that's a yes?".

John looked over to his older brothers, "Oh please, she's funny!".

Arthur looked back to you, "Where'd you live?", he asked you.

"Wa'ery Lane", you told him, "'bout a month now".

"Oh you're that girl", he said, "She's the cockney down the bottom of the Lane", he nudged Tommy.

"Alright we'll come and see you after school and you can join us", Tommy smiled.

You jumped to your feet and stood on your tippy-toes to be at the same height as Tommy, "Nah", you simply said as you watched his eyebrows furrow, "I'll meet yous, by the bridge at 'alf three", alright?".

Tommy sighed, "Deal". The two of you spat on your hand and shook on it.

The rest was history. You and the three brother became best friends.  Wherever you went, they followed and whoever they met up with, so did you.

You and John were the same age, you two were practically the same, it was hilarious. As you grew up you and John would always be playing pranks on the others and messing around with baby Micheal. No one left the two of you alone because they knew something would end up alight.

As for Arthur and Tommy, you all got on well. Whenever anyone messes with you, a seldom occurrence, they wouldn't mind paying them a quick visit. You helped Arthur with his maths and various other things as often as you could, although you didn't tell everyone about that, he wasn't proud.

As for Tommy, you two always loved to talk about the bigger picture and such. Often you two would walk down to the Canal or Charlie's Yard and spend a good few hours just talking about life and theories and your life aspirations.

By the time you and John were 18 your life had changed a lot, along with his. Of course you were still close friends but what with work and relationships you didn't see him as much as you would've liked. The same with Arthur, he always seemed to be busy, doing what you weren't sure exactly but when you did see him you'd always stop for a chat.

You saw Tommy most, he always made a point of stopping into the Newsagents you worked at, just to say good morning. You appreciated the gesture but couldn't help but feel as if you were wasting his time, you were always so busy trying to set up for the day you never got a minute to sit and chat with him.

As you had grown older, yours and Tommy's relationship had shifted slightly. Not that either of you dared to acknowledge, but you knew. You were both guilty of finding excuses to be around each-other and touch one another. Purposely bickering to clear a room of Shelby's out so that you were alone. Stealing glances whilst the other weren't paying attention. Just silly little things that you would try and pass off as platonic intimacy as you laid in bed at night overthinking every single word you said to the man that day... and every other day you'd ever known him.

Of course you wondered if he felt the same. It felt like he did but you could just be imagining that. And you weren't prepared to ruin what you had just because of some silly crush.

However come the end of 1913 your father was now too old to do the job he had moved here to do. And your mother missed her home town and family and as one thing led to another and they decided it was time to move back.

Of course you were devastated, you loved your job even though it was more than trouble then it was worth and you loved your friends. But you were also excited to go back, of course you had been back, Christmas and Easter and what not. But you missed living there, the bustle, the accents, the opportunities and fast changing trends.

So that's what happened, you spent your last few weeks making the most of it with the Shelby's and your job before the day you left came around. You promised you'd visit, and of course you would. You promised to write, and of course you went out and brought new writing pens and paper.

By the time you were settled back into your hometown war had broken out and it seemed almost every man you knew here was off to war. The brothers back in Birmingham as well. You couldn't bare to think about the consequences of that. You still kept in touch with all three of them though.

Until you didn't.

Around a month after the boys were back from the war the letters stopped coming. You weren't sure why or how but they did. So you stopped writing. Your pride was to big to just simply write to Aunt Pol and ask if everyone was ok incase they were and they just didn't like you.

So how did you get to knocking on their betting shop front doors at 11 o'clock at night?

The door opened after you had began knocking constantly after a minute of waiting.

"The fock do ya wan-", a deep voice began before releasing who they were speaking to.

You looked up, almost shocked, "Fuckin' 'ell, Arthur, you ain't 'alf grown since a last saw ya", you let out a strained chuckle as you looked at the man who seemed to be stunned.

"You gunna let me in or should I just bleed out over your shop front?", you joked dryly, "Don't think it'd be good for business".

"Uh yeah", he said as he shook his head, "No come in, yeah, just watch your step, it's busy". You furrowed your eyebrows as you stepped past him, it was 11 at night why would it be busy?

It was though. The entire room was full of people racing back and forward, counting money, writing numbers, sneaking an extra line now that Arthur had his back turned.

"There's a race tomorrow", Arthur told you as he placed a hand around your shoulder, "Now come on, let's get you fixed up, and then you can tell me what the fock happened to ya hands".

You nodded and followed him through the busy shop, keeping your head. Avoiding catching anyone's eye. Someone's eye.

"Polly!", Arthur shouted as he closed the green doors behind you, "Ay! Polly! Ada! Get down 'ere!".

"Sorry, am I causing you trouble, I didn't mean to end up here I just sort of- did?", you mumbled to Arthur, nervously.

"Wot you on about? You're always welcome here Y/N, you know that", he smiled before shouting for Polly once more. "And besides, this is a great time coz Tommy needs a fucking cheering up", he said as he pulled out a chair at the table for you to sit at.

You looked down at the table as you carefully held your hands above it, trying not to ruin it, "Is that so", you began, "dunno if I can help with that mate".

Arthur reached forwards and tilted your chin up to face him, "I hope for both our sakes that ain't true, you're the only hope left, Y/N", he said honestly.

"Wot do'ya mean?", you asked quietly.

Before he could reply you heard two squeals from behind Arthur. Looking up you saw Polly and Ada, and a little boy following behind.

"Y/N!", Polly said as she lifted her hands in the air, "You're here! You're well", she smiled as she walked over to you, wrapping her arms around your side.

"Oh my god", Ada said as she walked over to the other side of you.

"Wot the fuck happened to ya-" Polly asked as she grabbed an old tea towel and placed it carefully under your hands.

"To make a long story short", you forced a smile, "I thought it would be a good idea to find the man that burgled my parents", you cut yourself off with a 'fuck' as Ada began tending to your bruises, "And let's just say.. it wasn't".

Arthur sat up straight, "Can't be that bad", he laughed, "What'd'ya kill him or something", he joked, making light of the situation.

You licked your bottom lip, not saying anything for a moment before looking up from your hands to Arthur's face with a gulp.

"Wait you-", he began.

"You fucking killed someone!", Ada raised her voice in shock.

"Who's killed who then?", A chirpy voice asked as they walked in the room. You knew that voice from a mile off.

"John?", you called out, "John is that you, come 'ere", you said as you tried your best to turn towards the direction of the voice but Ada and Polly were blocking your view.

"Oh fuck off", John said as he pulled out a chair next to Arthur and next to you, "You didn't come and see me first! I'm offended" he joked, "When did you get back?", he beamed as he leant onto the table, hands clasped, "How are you? Any crazy stories to tell me coz I've got loads and- The fock happened to your hand?", John besieged you with questions.  

You laughed, "Yeah, missed you too, mate", you said simply as you looked back down at your hands which were stinging now as Polly cleaned them with neat alcohol.

"So do you wanna go down the Garrison after this then?", John simply asked you, ignoring the fact you were being patched up and hadn't seen him since 1913. It was as if you hadn't even spend half an hour apart let alone five or so years.

You looked up with a beaming smile across your red lips, "Fuck kind of a question is that .. of course I do, John".

Arthur cheered as he got up and reached up on top of the kitchen cabinet and grabbed a bottle of whisky. Finding a few small glasses he poured out some drinks, passing them around. John holding yours as both your hands were currently being worked on.

"To this one", Arthur said as he ruffled your hair slightly, just like he had to when you were kids (which you hated, but now it seemed comforting), before everyone cheered slightly and downed their drink.

"Who we toasting to this time then, ay?", a quite deep voice spoke from across the room. Arthur turned around in shock, spilling the bottle of whiskey over that he had brought over and left on the table. "Oh fuck sake Tommy, look what you made me do!", he shouted.

"You fucking idiot", Polly complained as she looked up, "I brought that whiskey to drink, not wash the floor with!".

John burst out laughing as he watched Arthur scuttle around trying to find something to soak it up with. As Ada left your side to help her brother, you looked up back to where the voice had come from.

Thomas.

You gulped softly, running your eyes over the man across the room. He seemed colder, more mature but rather in a sense that he had lost any grip on hope or joy. A contrast to how John seemed. As you looked back up to his face you blushed as you realised he was already staring back at you.

He walked over as he took his cap off, shoving it into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette.

He sat down at the table, stealing Arthur's seat, who was still trying to apologise to Polly for spilling her drink.

"Bet you're glad to be back", Tommy joked dryly as he placed his cigarette in his mouth and nodded in your direction as he pulled out out a light.

You smiled, "Yeah, I definitely missed this", you said sincerely, looking over at everyone, "Whatever 'this' is", you laughed, looking back over at Tommy.

Everyone pretended to still be busy as they all secretly listened in on the exchange between the two of you - amazed that Tommy had even cracked a smile.

"Right, well that should be fine now", Polly tapped your shoulder, "Just don't get into any fights for about a week, at least", she smiled before walking off, taking Ada and Arthur with her. Leaving John who was playing with his thumbs.

"So the Garrison yeah?", you looked over at your best mate, "tonight?".

"Yeah", he smiled, "I'll buy the first round".

You tilted your head with narrowed eyes, "Don't you practically own the pub", you asked as the smell of Tommy's cigarette filled your nose, in a weird sense it was comforting to you.

John nodded with a shrug, "So you won't be buying it then, will you?", you laughed, "And I will".

"Yeah something like that", he laugh as he stood up, "That's what you get for leavin' us".

"Yeah, coz it's not like you went away to war or anything anyway", you shouted after him as he walked off, acting offended. You let out a quiet snort as you watched.

"Why didn't ya visit?", Tommy spoke after a moment, "Y'know, when we got back".

"Yous stopped writing", you said plainly, "So I thought yuh didn't wanna see me", you shrugged as you looked down at your bruised hands.

"We didn't stop.. you stopped", Tommy leant back in his chair.

"Um, No", you furrowed your eyebrows, "I didn't stop writing first, why would I've done that", you argued.

Tommy shook his head slightly, blowing smoke out as he rubbed his temples, "I know what happened". You looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain. "Someone stopped delivering our letters and stealing yours when they got here", he leant forward, looking down at your hands, clenching his jaw, "Wot happened?".

"But- But why would someone do that?", you asked, ignoring his question.

"Dunno", he said and thought for a moment, "I'll ask Finn, he used to collect our post and such".

"Finn?", you raised your eyebrows, "Oh my god, is Finn the boy that- oh my god he's so grown up now!", you gasped.

Tommy smiled, "Shot up when we all went away, didn't he?". You nodded, shifting in your seat, turning towards Tommy slightly as you leant back.

"What happened?", Tommy asked again, in reference to your hands. You watched as he brushed away any dirt on the table, not wanting anything to get lodged in your cuts even if they were now covered and treated. You studied his hands now, all the small marks left from old cuts and gashes.

"Um", you didn't know where to start, "Just after the war ended, y'know, everyone settling back in best they could, everyone still disorientated", you absentmindedly began tapping your foot under the table as you continued. Tommy noticed but kept quite. "Well this man, I knew him actually — right cock'ead, worked at the butchers and spied on all the school girls when they walked 'ome", you grimaced, "So yeah anyway, it was a Wednesday evening, I'd popped round to me parents 'ouse, just two roads away from mine, and um", you licked your bottom lip, lightly biting the skin on the inside.

"When I got- when I got there they were both knocked out cold, only just fuckin' breathin'", you shook your head as you remembered, your tapping growing louder, "That's when I realised someone was in thee 'ouse". Tommy held his chin high as he tried to contain his displeasure, not only had this mysterious man caused you pain but also your parents - who he knew well and respected.

"So I goes up stairs and the pig is filing though my mothers jewellery box ain't he?", you laughed dryly to yourself, "Only to realise everything is sentimental and barely worth a fuckin' thing", you cursed.

Tommy opened his mouth to speak, unsure of what to say but he wanted to comfort you, even if he was a little late. He didn't get the chance as you began speaking again, the anger in your voice more present.

"I mean what the fuck did he think was gonna be there? Fucking Faberge Eggs? We're livin' on the outskirts of London for fucks sake", you wanted to clench your fists but it would ruin everything Polly had just achieved, instead you decided to throw your head back and angrily  shout 'fuck'.

Tommy stifled a laugh as he watched you so desperately want to lash out, "So what did you do?".

You lifted your head back up slowly and looked over at Tommy, dead in the eyes, "I told him to fuck off and never come back", you simply said, adding, "With a butchers knife in my hand, and a pistol in the other".

Tommy took a long drag of his cigarette as he looked at you, "And people say I'm threatening", he joked.

Shrugging with a small smirk you leant forward, crossing your legs in hopes of stopping yourself from tapping them. "Anyway, he left with his hands up and then I never saw him again".

Tommy butted his cigarette in the ashtray and folded his arms, ready to hear the gruesome end to your story.

"That was until I obviously tracked him down, I wasn't going to let him get away with hurting my parents".

"Did it take long?".

"No", you looked down at your hands once more, "I found him in a day or two, moved up to Coventry .. I went up to visit him once a month— secretly of course, just to make sure he was still there and what no", you raised your eyebrows before you spoke, "And then today I decided he was finally comfortable, my threats of finding him finally at the back of his mind".

Tommy looked you over as you sat, one leg still bouncing as your thumbs rolled over one another, your bottom lip a piece of meat to your top teeth as little bits of your lipstick began to wear off.

"I'll spare you the gore but let's just say he got more then I intended to give him and now he's resting in his own fire pit", you smiled sinisterly as you looked up to Tommy. "I feel bad of course, I guess", your smile faded, "But he deserved it, and it wasn't as if he had any family that cared about him".

Tommy took a short breath, straightening his back and smoothing his waistcoat down before looking at you with a concerned look.

"Wot?", you asked as you saw the look in his eye, "Look, if you're going to ask any questions about my well being- don't .. I'm clearly fine, aren't I?".

"What about the stuff that's not obvious", Tommy said lowly, "Why are you really here? Hmm?", he leant forward, adjusting your bloodied shirt cuffs, "I'm sure you could find many people to patch you up, and better then Pol too", he joked.

"Ay don't discredit Pol, she did a great job", you changed the subject. "And anyway", you carefully stood up, standing behind your hair as you pushed it under the table with your hip, "It's easy to hide in plain sight here".

Tommy watched you as you walked over to their sink, turning on the tap and bending to drink the water. The prospect of filling and holding a cup in your bandages wasn't looking fun right now. Tommy held back a giggle as he raised a brow at your behaviour, "How so?".

You turned around, leaning on the kitchen surface, "Well not only do I just have to put some coal on me and call it day, my best mate is the leader of arguably one of the most powerful organised gangs in the country, no one would dare give me up", you smirked.

"You reckon John's in charge?", Tommy stood up, leaving his chair untucked as he walked over to you, placing his hands either side of your waist, "Is is that what he's told you".

You gulped with a playful expression still on your face, "Well Arthur's too hot-headed and you're too collected, Johns a mix of both", you half lied, just to test Tommy's patience. He narrowed his eyes with a sly smirk upon his lip.

"You don't think that", he said simply.  

"Says who?".

"You".

"Well I literally just said the opposite so I don't exactly understan-".

Tommy cut you off as he leant closer, his hands subconsciously moving closer to your body as they glided across the surface edge, "Your body language", he said as if it was obvious, "Your heart".

You let out a loud dry laugh, trying to outwit him as you held your chin high, feigning confidence, "What do they say then? Because my brain is saying that you're embarrassed by my opinions".

"Well for starters you've ended up in my old house, pinned to a surface by me", Tommy took a shallow breath as he stood up straight, now his chest was practically touching yours, "Not John", he looked down into your eyes, holding your gaze, "Not Arthur, and not Jack from down the lane who used to flirt with you every fockin' chance he got".

You bit your lip, praying that no one would interrupt this, wanting to see how far it could go.

Of course you had thought about this before. You and Tommy. The way you both bounced off of eachother so well, the way you never felt awkward around eachother, the way you just understood eachother. Tommy and You. Of course you had thought about his lips on yours before, his hands on your waist- around your neck. The two of you cuddled up after a long day of running the betting shop. It had occupied the small space at the back of your mind since you were fourteen. You ignored it best you could though.

But over time that small space had become bigger, migrating to the front of your brain. And after all of your hard work getting it to shut up whilst you were back home, you had to come back to Birmingham and run into him. He had to ruin it and make you fall for his rubbish all over again.

Or maybe you came to Birmingham for that exact reason. Shit. He was right.

"No, you're in front of me", He said as you looked back into his eyes, "And I think we both know why".

"Do we?".

Tommy narrowed his eyes a playful smirk grew upon his lips, he chuckled to himself quietly, just above a whisper, "You know what your problem is?", he asked.

You shook your head a little, not trusting yourself to speak, afraid you would give in to him first.

"You're too stubborn, your ego is the size of a circus".

You furrow you're eyebrows with a gasp, "Am not!", you childishly defended yourself, "What makes me stubborn then, huh?".

"The fact you won't admit you've come here to see me".

"Well in actual fact, if I had come to see anyone, it would be John", you raised an eyebrow, "But as I said, I just ended up here and I'm glad I did because Polly is the only other person besides from my mum that I'd trust to patch me up".

Tommy returned back to his infamous imperturbable expression as he looked at you, "Why aren't you with John Boy now then? Ay?", he pressed, "Why aren't you terrorising Harry with him down at the Garrison?".

You shrugged, "Maybe", you smirked, "Maybe because you've trapped me in this godforsaken little kitchen because you're to scared to admit that you fancy me", you flushed a little as you finished your sentence, your heart racing as you wondered if this was the end of you and Tommy. Whatever you and Tommy was.

Tommy clenched his jaw, his eyes darting from your eyes, to your chest, to your hands, to your lips. "Well go on then", he stepped back, leaving you just enough space to walk away, "Go off and play with John then".

You frowned, eyes narrowed as you wondered if he was being serious, it was hard to tell with him.

You pushed yourself off of the counter, closing the gap between you both again as you stood as tall as you could. Your nose practically touching his chin as you looked up to him. "Fine", you said coldly, "I'll see you later then, after I'm done catching up with John", you quickly turned and headed for the front door before you could fall victim to Tommy's eyes again.

"And my Gin", you shouted before the door slammed shut behind you.

Damn both of your conceit.

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✒︎author note: part two? + plus plz comment any spelling mistakes etc ✒︎requests: open 09/2019

~ published: 29.10.2019 ~

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