#flowers come back every year and come back even more if you trim them sometimes

[rainingincale]

someone more poetic could explain the beauty of trees and plants continuing to grow back again and again even after you cut them down

[whumper-whimsy]

Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

Content: death (car accident), stalking, capture

Whumper had lost his Lover long ago.

A group of boys had been out partying and drinking one night and had decided to drive home while they couldn't even see straight.

Their truck had T-boned his boyfriend's little car, killing him instantly and leaving no more than a few bruises on the damned drinkers.

Whumper would have his revenge on the other guys when they finished their time in jail.

Since that night, Whumper has been mourning the loss of Lover. He visits their grave whenever he can, leaving fresh flowers and brushing the dirt from the headstone.

He avoids driving when he can, opting instead to make daily walks to places like Lover's favorite café and the park they met at. One morning at the café, he saw something that caught him off guard.

A man, maybe a few years younger than Whumper, sat alone at a corner booth. From his beautiful brown curls to his shining green eyes, he looked just like Lover.

Whumper had to force himself not to stare.

Morning after morning, Whumper went to the café and morning after morning, the man was there.

Whumper couldn't talk to him, could he? Every time he saw him, his heart rose with delight. That moment of relief when he saw his boyfriend, his true love safe— it almost made everything better again.

But then, he would remember that Lover was dead. He would never come back, and Whumper was alone.

Some days, however, it was easiest to pretend. What harm was it to imagine that Lover was okay again? Maybe just buying the stranger's coffee once in a while?

Two weeks into this habit, they summoned the courage to go sit by the stranger.

Whumper learned their their name— Whumpee. He learned that they were new to the city, fresh out of college. He learned their birthday, their star sign, their family's names, where they were from.

By the end of the month, they had filled a notebook. They knew everything about Whumpee, except one thing— their address.

So one day, Whumper followed them home. And the next day. It became another part of their routine.

The flowers at his boyfriend's grave begin to wilt.

Whumper needed Whumpee. He needed to hold his Lover again.

In conversation, Whumper would sometimes slip.

"You look nice today, Lover."

Whumpee would tilt his head in that adorable way, his curls bouncing with the motion. "Lover?"

"Ah, my apologies, Whumpee. To be true, I don't even know anybody by that name. Dumb mistake of mine." He would chuckle.

Whumpee would smile understandingly, continuing their conversation.

Whumper loved Whumpee. All their nervous habits, their body language, the way they mispronounced certain words— it was adorable, and Whumper only wanted more.

He would have whumpee, no matter the cost.

Even if it meant sneaking into Whumpee's unlocked back door— obviously they shouldn't be living alone if they couldn't even lock their back door!— and scooping their sleeping form into his arms. He knew they were a light sleeper, so he carefully slid a chloroformed rag over the bottom half of their face. He carefully pulled them against his chest, sneaking him back home through shadowed alleys.

♡♡♡

Whumpee awoke in a different room, in different clothes, with their hair trimmed and their wrists cuffed to a bedpost. He sat up in a stir of panic, eyes flicking around the unfamillar room.

Whumper strolled in as if on cue, coming to a stop at the bed and lowering a tray of breakfast into Whumpee's lap. "Morning, Lover. You sleep good, hun?" The man smiled and kissed Whumpee's head. "Made you waffles and sausage, your favorite!"

"My name is Whumpee. I don't know who Lover is." Whumpee said firmly, given no response as Whumper cut the sausage link into slices. "And, I don't like sausage."

Whumper shook his head, his hand caressing Whumpee's cheek. "Come on, Lover," Whumper murmured, his voice sounding somewhat darker. "You love sausage."

Whumpee frowned, pushing the food away. "Whumper, I don't know what this is, but—"

Whumpee trailed off as Whumper's hand tightened around the knife, twisting to catch the light.

At Whumpee's silence, Whumper relaxed. "Good. I'm sure you'll remember your place in no time. Now come on, Lover. Eat."

[experimentalmadness]

Sunshine

It's more Eidel and Astarion. Because I'm insane about them.

Summary: Astarion watches his consort tend to the palace gardens. Can a vampire lord even feel love? Spoiler alert: You bet.

Ascension route but make it soft, because I said so.

If you're looking for more of my fic let me point you in the right direction.

***

She was the sun. 

Every morning Astarion watched his consort go out into the high-walled gardens. The courtyard had been a dismal, rotten place, but it had flourished under the care of its new mistress. He watched her from the upper balcony, watched her as she stretched onto the tips of her feet, hands splayed wide, head tilted up as she drank in the summer heat. A basket of cut flowers sat at her feet. 

“Hello, my lovelies,” she sang. “Shall we do a little trimming today?” 

Vines and branches bent towards her, creeping and curling around her ankles like a cat would its tail. The very earth itself loved her. He was almost jealous. She cupped a pale, white lily in her hands and the urge to incinerate it came upon him so strongly it took him by surprise. Such expressions of love and tenderness should be saved for him alone, but as quickly as the instinct flooded him he brushed it aside. She wouldn’t be his consort if she was not the gentle soul she always was. 

Astarion gripped the edges of the stone balustrade. Sometimes he felt of two minds. There was the Vampire Lord and then there was the living man. The vampire wanted to enclose her in a chamber no one could ever access save himself, where she would be his. Utterly, permanently, and he’d never need share her with the outside world for an eternity. The man knew better, but that didn’t mean he let her out of his sight for long. 

But luckily his little consort had no reason to stray very far. Nor had she ever wanted to. She pulled him into the world in a way he hadn’t accounted for. He wasn’t sharing her with the world, she was gifting it to him. 

“They kept me in a cage,” she’d told him the night he’d turned her. She had always sidestepped telling him anything about her past. Even when he had revealed all to her. 

“The past is the past,” she’d been fond of saying. “I was alone for such a long long time. I’d like to know what happiness feels like.”

She’d been so sad when he had finally demanded to know all that had happened to her. She was quiet as she told him all she knew and he never wanted to see such a dead-eyed look on her face ever again. 

“You’re all doing so good, my darlings,” her voice broke through his memories. “And, my sweet one, shall we try growing again this morning?” She sat by the sickly willow sapling at the center of the garden. It had been dying when they had taken up their residence in the palace. Astarion had thought to pull the pathetic thing up by the root, but Eidel had been insistent on nursing it back to health. Three years later and it didn’t seem to be making much progress, but she insisted that healing took time. 

She petted and caressed the sapling, humming softly to herself. “Look at this, is this a new leaf I spy? Well done!” 

His jealousy was getting the better of him. It was the work of moments to transpose himself from the balcony to the garden. His powers had been growing by the day. Eidel turned at the sound of his magic, a smile bursting wide over her face. “Come to help me in the garden?” she asked. 

“Darling, do you really think I was made for grubbing about in the dirt?” 

She giggled. “I’d certainly enjoy seeing that.”

He was about to fire off a rejoinder when he felt something tugging at his cloak and ankles. “What in the…?” Vines and roots were curling around him, reaching out to pull at his clothes, muss his hair. Even the sickly willow was trying in vain to stretch out its singular branch in his direction. “Your little plants do realize I’m not you, don’t they?”

Eidel laughed harder, “Oh dear, everyone, do settle down! Sorry.” She waved for the plants to release him. “They know how much I love you, and so they love you in return. Now, now,” she wagged a finger at a particularly stubborn creeping vine that was doggedly hanging onto his arm. “Enough of that, or I’ll start to get jealous.”

She rubbed her nose to his playfully as the last of the plants receded. The mud and dirt on her hands stained his shirt sleeves and Astarion found he didn’t care. “You’re not here to ask me to come inside, are you?” 

“And miss seeing how my treasure shines in the light? What exactly do you take me for?” 

“So…that’s a yes to helping me with the trimmings, then?” 

“Manipulative little wretch, aren’t you?” 

She planted the softest peck on his lips. “You taught me everything I know.”

He adored the look in her eyes when she gently teased him. There wasn’t a cruel or cunning bone in her body. And when they were alone, truly alone, he found some of his own cruelty slipped away from him. He was just Astarion to her, not Vampire Ascendent, she’d never looked at him any other way. 

She belonged here. In the sun. In the warmth. Even as a vampire she was full of life, hope, joy—a kind he would have scoffed at not too long ago. And he had done, when he had first met her. He would give her everything, anything, to make sure that glow stayed with him. Only with him. 

“Eidel, are you happy?” he asked. 

Then those hands that had been tending to her plants so carefully were on him. She wrapped her arms about his shoulders. “What a question! Are you?”

“Ah, ah, I believe I asked you first.”

“Of course I am. Your turn.”

 “You make me happy, dove.”

“Good,” she took his face in her hands and kissed him soundly. “You know what would make me even happier?” she whispered, lips feathered against his own.

“Don’t you da—”

“Is seeing you learn how to tend a garden!”

[itslenagain]

BANDAGES

I live in an old brick house on a busy street. Outside, horns blare through the day and sirens cut the silence of the night.

It's not a pretty house. Dust lingers heavy on neglected surfaces. The old furnace hasn't turned on in years. Papers piled up on the desk, trash shoved into corners, dirty dishes strewn across countertops. Ivy grows out of cracks in the foundation and weaves in and out of boarded windows. There's a hole in the kitchen wall where someone drove a car through years ago, but I never really got around to fixing it - just covered it in plywood and cheap epoxy, like a bandage. And in this house, I am alone.

I always tell myself I'm going to fix it all. I want it pretty. I want it perfect. I want everyone to look at my house and feel envious, to want to come inside and see a real house. Not just the bandages. I have to fight the feeling that it's all hopeless though, the battle of believing that this is my house and my world and I cannot change it. I often lose. Sometimes, I do win! I replaced the leaky faucet in the bathroom. Bought new curtain rods and fixed them up nice and level. And on one occasion, I went up to the bedroom with a sledgehammer and punched a hole in the wall to build a new window. That's when I saw it.

A street I've never seen before, so bright and colorful. So close, how could I have missed it before? In the places where my street is covered in discarded liquor bottles and old fast food wrappers, there are flowers. The buildings aren't covered in soot, no, they're clean and warm. The people don't look miserable as they mill around the sidewalk. Where my street had abandoned storefronts, this one had coffee shops and libraries. It looked so beautiful. Where red flags hung high on spiky posts on my street, beautiful rainbow flags decorated windows and bumper stickers and even clothes. I thought, maybe if I can fix up my house a little bit, I can fit in with all those people.

So I tried. I cleaned some of the dishes. I put away some of the mail. I trimmed a few ivy branches back from the places they once strangled. And all the while, I would stare out that window, longing for the kind of life I could have if I could just fix this damn house the right way. And staring out that window, that was the first time I saw you.

You had these stunning eyes and breathtaking smile. And you lived on that street, in a quiet little house with a (rather vocal) orange cat in the windowbox. I was enchanted.

So I walked down the only street I knew, the only one I'd ever walked, and headed towards that bright street. It was so easy, just a left and another left, and we met somewhere in the middle. We talked about small things over Chai lattes and the pages of books. Then, we talked about bigger things over dinners and late nights on your deck. I smiled real smiles with you. I laughed, not sarcastically, but joyfully. I fell in love with the way you dance off-rhythm, the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about something that excites you, the way you lean over to kiss me when we're alone together.

And I believed you'd be my reason. You'd be why I'd fix my house and make it pretty and perfect. Because I wanted nothing more than to invite you over. I wanted you to see my house. I wanted you to know me. But in the meantime, I'd put on some bandages. Throw some cloth over the dirty table, tuck the unopened mail into the cupboard, put some pictures over the holes I punched in the walls. Area rugs. Plastic. Cardboard. Candles. Bandages. I let you in, to see the patchwork of non-solutions I used to cover all the damage. I hoped you wouldn't peak beneath them. I hoped you wouldn't ask. I hoped you wouldn't leave.

And every time you left, I'd try to get going again. I'd put up sheetrock, I'd mix paint, I'd put away the laundry. But it wasn't good enough. It needed to be perfect. I wanted to build my house in a way that would make you want to stay. But I felt like I did none of it right. So I'd slap on another bandage while the leak in the roof kept spreading across the ceiling and down into the walls. I'd get to it. I'd be able to do it. Just needed some more time is all.

But then the day came that you stood curiously outside my door and I panicked. The crack in the floor spread beyond the rug I'd thrown over it. The water in the sink overflowed. The kettle screamed on the stove. The mountain of laundry avalanched from the bedroom to the hallway and beyond. So instead of opening the door, instead of letting you see, I threw myself on the floor. I left you locked outside.

You wondered, you waited, you worried. It was easier to lay on the floor alone and cry like I'd done in the past than to let you see my scars. I was sure you'd run. I was sure I'd never get up again. Nobody has seen my house without its bandages.

But I got up. I picked myself up for the second time in my life and I sheepishly picked up the phone. I felt like I would never be able apologize enough to make it up to you, but I wanted to try.

You cannot be the reason why I fix my house, and I cannot ask you to fix it for me.

But I hope that you'll come over. I'll open the door. I'll let you see my scars. I hope one day you'll show me what's under your bandages, too. We can take it one room at a time. I'll be scared. But I know it will all be okay. Right now, I'm learning from the builders. I'm gathering my tools. And I'm going to fix my house. Not for you, not because of you. I'll fix it because I deserve a house that feels like home.

I won't ask you to mix the concrete or wash the dishes. I can't ask you. But I hope you'll hold my hand while I smear plaster over fresh screws, hope you'll sit beside me while I organize all the papers, hope you'll hold the ladder while I fix the broken chandelier. I can't promise it will be pretty or perfect. But it will be mine, my home. And I hope you come over for tea and fresh bread. And I hope you'll invite me over when you're ready.

[andromerot]

eleanor vance moments from my reread that are scarily andycore: a way to show the most inner parts of myself without actually being vulnerable on the internet?? (part two)

"On the afternoon of the day that Mrs. Montague was expected, Eleanor went alone into the hills above Hill House, not really intending to arrive at any place in particular, not even caring where or how she went, wanting only to be secret and out from under the heavy dark wood of the house. She found a small spot where the grass was soft and dry and lay down, wondering how many years it had been since she had lain on soft grass to be alone to think. Around her the trees and wild flowers, with that oddly courteous air of natural things suddenly interrupted in their pressing occupations of growing and dying, turned toward her with attention, as though, dull and imperceptive as she was, it was still necessary for them to be gentle to a creation so unfortunate as not to be rooted in the ground, forced to go from one place to another, heartbreakingly mobile. Idly Eleanor picked a wild daisy, which died in her fingers, and, lying on the grass, looked up into its dead face. There was nothing in her mind beyond an overwhelming wild happiness. She pulled at the daisy, and wondered, smiling at herself, What am I going to do? What am I going to do?"

"She heard the laughter over all, coming thin and lunatic, rising in its little crazy tune, and thought, No; it is over for me. It is too much, she thought, I will relinquish my possession of this self of mine, abdicate, give over willingly what I never wanted at all; whatever it wants of me it can have."

"Now I know where I am going, she thought; I told her about my mother so that’s all right; I will find a little house, or maybe an apartment like hers. I will see her every day, and we will go searching together for lovely things gold-trimmed dishes, and a white cat, and a sugar Easter egg, and a cup of stars. I will not be frightened or alone any more; I will call myself just Eleanor. “Are you two talking about me?” she asked over her shoulder (...) I have waited such a long time, Eleanor was thinking; I have finally earned my happiness. She came, leading them, to the top of the hill and looked down to the slim line of trees they must pass through to get to the brook. They are lovely against the sky, she thought, so straight and free; Luke was wrong about the softness everywhere, because the trees are hard like wooden trees. They are still talking about me, talking about how I came to Hill House and found Theodora and now I will not let her go. Behind her she could hear the murmur of their voices, edged sometimes with malice, sometimes rising in mockery, sometimes touched with a laughter almost of kinship, and she walked on dreamily, hearing them come behind. She could tell when they entered the tall grass a minute after she did, because the grass moved hissingly beneath their feet and a startled grasshopper leaped wildly away. I could help her in her shop, Eleanor thought; she loves beautiful things and I would go with her to find them. We could go anywhere we pleased, to the edge of the world if we liked, and come back when we wanted to. He is telling her now what he knows about me: that I am not easily taken in, that I had an oleander wall around me, and she is laughing because I am not going to be lonely any more. They are very much alike and they are very kind; I would not really have expected as much from them as they are giving me; I was very right to come because journeys end in lovers meeting."

[localgardeners]

How to Grow Campanulas in Your Garden?

These beautiful, bell-shaped flowers make an excellent addition to your flower borders. They will flower throughout the warm summer months, giving you a sheer amount of colour. These plants will come in cool shades of blue and white, sometimes in warm pinks.

They come in various shapes and forms, which makes the campanula suitable for most areas in the garden. Low-growing ones are great for pots and rockeries, with bells hanging over walls and edges. The taller ones will look great on the border. Campanulas area is great at growing and propagating, mostly resistant to pests and diseases, except for snails and slugs. The wide varieties of campanulas are perennials and do well in the UK. They will return next year and give your garden a flowery look yearly.

Here are Some Ways on  How to Grow Campanulas in Your Garden

Campanula Care Tips

Campanulas are tolerant of most soils and easy to grow and care for. They’re not susceptible to diseases, tough and hardy enough to give you plenty of flowers for many years. Some of the varieties may even seed themselves around the garden.

Light Requirements

Most varieties will prefer a sunny, warm place. The wall bellflower, Campanula portenschlagiana, will do well with a bit of shade.

Water Requirements

Once the plants are established, campanula is relatively resistant to drought. However, to get the best out of the plants, you should water them regularly when they’re growing. It’s important not to let them dry when they’re flowering. Otherwise, you’ll lose the blooms. Reduce watering when the plants aren’t growing actively. They don’t like sitting in wet soil, so water them deeply once they start drying out instead of watering them regularly.

Soil Requirements

Campanula does quite well in most kinds of soil, even when alkaline or acidic. They do best in light, free-draining and moist soil.

Fertiliser Requirements

You should avoid fertilising too much as that may lead to sappy growth vulnerable to snail and slug infestations. Look for a fertiliser higher in phosphorus than nitrogen, which will help with flowering. You may also apply a boine meal as this is a natural source of phosphorus. Container-growing plants will also need liquid fertiliser regularly in their growing season.

Planting

It would be best if you spaced out your campanula around 40-45 centimetres apart unless you’re planting in containers where they may be packed closely. Plant the campanula, so the crown is around 2.5 centimetres below soil level. Mulch it slightly to suppress weeds and help the plant retain moisture. The taller varieties may need light support to grow. If you’re planting them in a container, use loam-based compost with some added grit for better drainage. Include some water retention crystals if you want to help them stay moist in days of drought.

Maintenance

Bellflowers may require little maintenance, but deadheading will help promote better flowering. It’s only necessary to do this for self-seeding varieties, as you don’t want them spreading and dominating your garden.

Repotting

Choose a pot larger than the existing one, using loam-based compost with a grit added in. The plant will need repotting once the roots fill the pot. If the plant doesn’t need repotting, you should remove the top layer of compost every year and replace it with fresh one to add more nutrients.

Pruning Advice

Pruning campanula isn’t something you need to do, necessarily. It would be best to deadhead it regularly, pinching flowering tips to encourage new blooms. You should also remove any damaged or diseased growth. Trim the plant back if you want to keep it in shape.

© Local Gardeners

[angelisverba]

thinkin’ bout you

in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and he’s too shy to ask for her number) 

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...

author’s note: i’ve been working on this forever. not to pick fav’s but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, you’ll see!!

*    *    *    *    *    *

When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nan’s house, he would often pick the latter. 

He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat. 

So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harry’s tastes weren’t what could be considered ‘average’ or ‘normal’ or ‘straight’ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society. 

Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful ‘joking’ comments on how ‘peculiar’  his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room. 

Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldn’t judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck. 

Long ago, he’d stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin. 

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit. 

 Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harry’s taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisse’s Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.

Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadn’t been in so long. Harry’s imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips. 

The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had. 

He changed them the week after that.

On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldn’t leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didn’t matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didn’t feed him more mango. 

The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion).  The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didn’t mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere. 

For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mum’s cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didn’t mind it. 

He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of H’s Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. ‘My wife just had our son, want to see a picture?’ or ‘my boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturday’ and even ‘my sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says ‘congrats you look like Kim Kardashain now’ how ‘bout it?’ 

Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didn’t like customers that gave flowers as a ‘fuck you’. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadn’t been enough. 

However, Harry couldn’t deny that he didn’t love his job, because he did. 

When he turned 16, he’d determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldn’t bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a momma’s boy. Harry loved his mother. 

Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat. 

On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door. 

 Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be. 

And he wasn’t lonely anymore. 

Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled ‘single’, but his heart couldn’t be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company. 

She was the complete opposite of every girl he’d ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didn’t judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had… slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants,  and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest.  

She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, “it smells lovely in here!”

Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a lover’s caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupid’s-bow-struck fool replied with, “thank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything you’d like,” and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel. 

But even then, it wouldn’t matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldn’t care because he was half gone for her already. 

“In that case,” she smiled, and Harry’s heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. “I just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.” 

He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a ‘blush’, but he didn’t know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from it’s bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.

But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because he’d stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, “there’s nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?”

He hoped that the meaning of his words wasn’t caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and ‘loser’-like. 

When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy. 

Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadn’t wet his wick in so long, and the interaction he’d had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didn’t even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation. 

Right? 

Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of baby’s breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasn’t the last one. He’s been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadn’t remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy. 

Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupid’s arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet he’d made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table. 

*********

A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so… struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in it’s purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon. 

Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants. 

Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harry’s passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harry’s favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny. 

He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldn’t have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didn’t even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could. 

The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he must’ve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again. 

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

Harry donned his favorite pair of flared  trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin. 

He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.

A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class. 

He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ‘nice boy’ along with ‘when are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?’. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go. 

In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of ‘welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment!’, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince.  

It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didn’t know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, ‘is she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.’ His second thought, however, was ‘how could someone be that beautiful?’. The third was something along the lines of ‘all my yoga has gone to shit, and I’m okay with that’. 

He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, love!” His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasn’t sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence. 

The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said. 

“What was that?” He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement. 

“The girl. You like her?” She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Don’t lie to me, I recognize that look. I’ve given and received that look many times throughout my life.” 

The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible. 

“I’ve got no idea what y’talking about,” he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didn’t hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked. 

“Next time I come in,” Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, “I hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Don’t let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.” Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didn’t. 

“Take care, Edna. And don’t forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,” he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited. 

There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t! He didn’t want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible. 

“Hello,” he wanted so badly to add ‘love’ at the end of his greeting. “Are y’finding everything a’right?” He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another. 

At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harry’s husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that it’s just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart. 

“M’s sorry,” he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, “didn’t mean to scare y’love.” This time he can’t restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent. 

“It’s okay,” she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. “I want to buy these flowers.” 

God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy. 

She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, “Do you sell vases by any chance?” The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, “I had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.” 

Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. He’s quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. She’s looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, “I’m rambling aren’t I?” she murmurs bashfully. 

“No, no it’s a’right. I can look in the back for something if y’like?” He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the ‘back’ he mentioned. “Did y’want anything in particular?”  

“Oh, I don’t wanna be a troubling customer!” She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didn’t want to be. 

“Y’not a bother, love. M’promise. I’ll go look f’you. What color did y’have in mind?” He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her. 

His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest  as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer. 

“Something pink, please. If you have it.” That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didn’t owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning. 

Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so… so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him. 

But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked. 

“‘Course,” he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. “Be righ’ back.”

Harry stalked off to ‘the back of the store’. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home. 

His home. 

Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of ‘saw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy it’, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didn’t help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture). 

The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasn’t quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too. 

A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didn’t think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didn’t want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did. 

He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number. 

Listen, I really like y’and would like to have y’number?”

Do y’wanna have my number so we can go out sometime if y’feel like it?”

“Is it alright if I get y’number so we can go out sometime?”

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

Nothing’s making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasn’t a ‘good time’. This was… a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room. 

Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didn’t want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didn’t make much noise. 

The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch. 

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, “I’ve got the last one,” he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her. 

“Oh my god!” She said,  “It's so pretty!” The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harry’s presented her with.  She’s got a smile on her face, and he can’t help but think, ‘wow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lily’. 

There’s a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a ‘flower language chart’ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads ‘my love is pure’. 

She asked him if it wasn’t too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added “I’ve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get here” just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry can’t keep his eyes locked on hers because she’s staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm.  The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and he’s tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow. 

“I guess I was right in waiting then,” she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up. 

His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didn’t? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldn’t stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.

Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, “What d’you mean, love?”

“I was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,” the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf. 

“Why would y’get in y’own head about coming to m’flower shop, hmm? It’s hardly that intimidating,” he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, “I don’t bite, either.” 

And he hopes that his wistfulness isn’t meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. “I know! I know, it’s just that I can’t help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.” 

Harry could coo at her right now. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, “That I get, too. But y’doing just fine with me, love.” 

Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, it’s impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three. 

“I thought I had cash on me today,” something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harry’s become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. “I guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,” she said. 

“It is pretty easy to get lost in there, isn’t it?” He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.

Y/n. 

Y/n, y/n, y/n.

This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret that’s worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harry’s heart is soaring with a closure he didn’t know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person ‘you know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessica’, because their looks and style just didn’t match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harry’s brain was thinking. The name was her. 

“What?” Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“No! No, no.” Harry’s careful beam simmered down from it’s previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. “I just think y’name is pretty thas’ all.” 

He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck.  Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements. 

Like dropping her card when she piped up again. 

Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?” Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that she’d bury her fingernails into her palm. 

“I think y’very pretty.” He whispered back. He can’t even bear to look at her in fear that he’s totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy they’re buying flowers that they’re pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses “the way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventies”? Jesus, fuck. He must’ve looked ridiculous. 

Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, “welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment.” 

Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who… was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that. Now please say it again’? Was he… dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-

“Thank you... what’s your name?” Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harry’s. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a bird’s wing. 

“Harry. M’name’s Harry.” This time, he didn’t hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”  

She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram. 

Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,” she added. 

He’s cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadn’t scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he can’t say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didn’t have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasn’t sullied with bouts of bad timing, “thank y’love. I like yours, too. You’ll have t’come over sometime and paint mine, yeah?” 

Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been too bold, “I’d love too!” With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, “I don’t want to hold you back from a customer for so long. I’ll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.” 

The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to ‘closed’ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma. 

But he knows that’s unrealistic, and settles with, “it was my pleasure, y/n,” a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), “I’ll be waiting f’your next visit.” His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasn’t receiving back-handed compliments all the time. 

He wasn’t superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates. 

What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, she’d been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Don’t even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasn’t thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat. 

It wasn’t until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store. 

***

Harry was having a shitty morning. 

Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldn’t make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should. 

His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a lover’s caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage. 

It almost made him wish that he’d opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead. 

He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But… he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance. 

He thinks he might know why he’s feeling this way. 

While he’s stirring his scrambled eggs, he’s wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people ‘aren’t hungry’ in the mornings, though that’s only because they’ve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isn’t the case with y/n, and that she’s eating the proper three meals a day every day. 

And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when he’d woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if she’d ever eaten strawberries like that. 

It’s been a week and a half, he still hasn’t seen her, and his heart is yearning. 

Harry knows he’s not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides it’s best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldn’t open that day because he didn’t want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says ‘H’s Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!’ followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart. 

Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harry’s hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when it’s over, Harry’s sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down. 

Cleaning wouldn’t help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.

There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read ‘women are smarter’ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesn’t get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product that’s supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because he’s being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content. 

He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owen’s habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. He’s shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but he’d rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that he’s scared y/n off. There’s a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about ‘I've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?’ and it’s not helping his case at all.    

It’s no use. 

There’s a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isn’t always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isn’t true. 

Harry is very… well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never ‘I really like you we should go out sometime’. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when he’d take them to his apartment they’d ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friend’s palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldn’t be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be. 

Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didn’t get out of this apartment he’s going to breakdown and cry and there’s no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. They’ve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where… where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didn’t understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him. 

A walk, he decided, would help him… air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier. 

He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin. 

There’s a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesn’t turn back because it’s the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible. 

Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. He’s not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, you’ll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then he’ll actually be happy. 

Right?

Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. It’s only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasn’t in a shitty mood already. He’s so out of it, that he nearly yells ‘get your hands off my windows!’. He doesn’t though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear ‘they’re closed, darling, let’s go somewhere else’ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips. 

That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from it’s place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay. 

Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. There’s no intended destination, he’s just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasn’t. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but then…what kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day? 

He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeff’s Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. There’s so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look. 

“Back again so soon, H?” 

Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him ‘H’ in silent homage to his flower shop. 

“Y’know I can’t stay away,” Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, “plus, I think I needed s’more of the peppermint essential oils f’my diffuser.” 

“‘Course ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!” Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kid’s section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. “Go on and look around then, I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He said. 

Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. Macramé potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal. 

Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be ‘100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with ‘healing power of crystals’, two of them ‘citrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining ‘garnet guava’. The brand name is something in Italian that he can’t read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and- 

“Harry?”

A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart. 

His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, “Harry, is that you?” 

Is this really happening right now? He’s embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he can’t put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isn’t perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off. 

Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove. 

“Y/n…” He’s breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, “hi.” 

She’s wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. It’s pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.

Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, “f-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.” 

 It’s quiet again, and they’re both fidgeting. Y/n’s knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that aren’t there. She’s staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he can’t think of anything to say because he’s so paralyzed by the fact that she’s actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence? 

While she’s hiking up the ends of her sweater so that they’re situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Aren’t y’cold?”

Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, “a little bit.” 

Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isn’t that what he was doing now?

“D’you need a ride home?” He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, “t-that is if y’walking, I wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything like that. S’bit chilly out today.” 

Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, “thank you, for the offer, but uhm… it’s my friend’s baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because she’s crazy about the whole ‘no preservatives’ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so I…I’m rambling again.” She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out. 

Harry smirked at her antics, but it’s more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle. 

“S’alright, love.” He’s still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture that’s collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. “Y’wearing pink. I take it y’want the baby to be a girl?”

“Actually, I know it’s a girl. She told me,” y/n pips, shrugging smugly. 

Harry laughs at her this time, “Did you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up f’you.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-”

He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice. 

“Y/n, it’s fine. D’ya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if you’d like.” Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door. 

“Uh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,” she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesn’t mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like. 

He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. “A’right. I’ll wait f’you in the front, then. Take y’time, love.” 

“‘Kay,” she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before there’s a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants.  

At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance. 

“A little love-struck, mate?” He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought. 

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.” 

Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).    

“Yup. I knew it. Have y’asked her out yet?” Niall doesn’t stop to let Harry refute his question, “y’know she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.”

Harry’s head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.

“What? Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” He doesn’t mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is… well, it’s thrilling. 

Alarmed, Niall’s hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, “no, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.”

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, “I’m all finished.” 

“Already, babe? I’ll rig ya up, then!” 

He’s quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niall’s gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to ‘aid with goodnight night’s sleep’, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles. 

Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesn’t say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, “there yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!” 

Harry’s eyes widen at Niall’s last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.

Y/n, however, quips back with “I’ll be nice only if you’re nice,” and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry who’s smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all. 

He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else. 

When they’ve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time, 

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-” 

Harry and y/n giggle at each other, 

“You go first.” 

“Y’speak first.” 

And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, “I’ll drop this off in my friend’s car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.” 

Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driver’s  side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they can’t mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands. 

“I’m sorry about Charlotte,” she said when she got back, “she doesn’t know how to mind her own.”

“A bit like Niall, it seems.” Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. They’re so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. It’s cold, and she’s still this warm? 

“Maybe,” her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, “they should meet.” 

“Tha’s exactly what I was thinkin’!” His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose. 

As they get closer, to H’s Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldn’t have to stand in the cold for so long. He didn’t want her to get sick. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,” she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. “It’s your day off, and I’m bugging you.” 

They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her. 

He sucked on his teeth, “oh, love, please worryin’ about it. Don’t wanna see that frown on y’pretty face anymore okay?” His confidence was slowly coming back, “s’not my day off, I just didn’t feel like speaking to customers today.” 

Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured ‘oh, okay’, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didn’t anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum. 

Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from it’s slot, the amount of force in Harry’s push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face. 

However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body. 

This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything. 

He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and it’s almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harry’s semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because he’s being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if she’s okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers. 

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and she’s beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes. 

He clears his throat (something he’s doing a lot around her) and asks if she’s okay. 

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. This was on the floor,” she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?

It’s a notice from the delivery men that said, ‘sorry! We missed you!’ with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning. 

Cursing, he takes it from her, “t-thank you. Now how ‘bout those flowers?”

It’s awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harry’s still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesn’t add any fuel to the fire because there’s more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet she’s ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and he’s suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole. 

Harry asks her questions on what flowers she’d like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and baby’s breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahlia’s stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesn’t say anything. Not even a nod or a hum. 

Eventually, he decides he’s had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention.  

“Love, I’m sorry about what happened,” he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, “I know it probably made y’uncomfortable, and I didn’t do much to make the situation better, but I just didn’t wanna see y’fall.”

Y/n’s head is already dipped, so he can’t see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows he’s utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the baby’s breath he’s holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didn’t want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.

He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, “y/n, what’s wrong?” 

She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, “you probably think I’m weird now or something after that.” 

“No!” Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if he’d been struck, and her words practically had. He can’t believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didn’t even know her that well, yet. “No, no. I don’t think that. Y’tripped, that’s all. Happens to everyone. If anythin’ I’m the weirdo for grabbin’ y’the way I did, and I’m really sorry about it.”

Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, “that was so embarrassing, I should’ve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-” 

Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that mean…

His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, “y’think I’m cute?”

She stills with awareness of what she’s just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about ‘don’t rub y’eyes anymore, love, y’gonna hurt’ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists. 

There’s a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, “I mean- I- I-”

Harry decides that it’s now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, “can I have y’number?” 

A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didn’t start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, “okay.” 

He’s elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesn’t waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They don’t share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry can’t believe that he’s finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning. 

When she’s finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while he’s tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. He’s fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching. 

“Will you text me?” She asked him. 

He’s careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick ‘Hi. It’s Harry :)’. He hits send, “until you’re sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She shakes her head, and Harry’s reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while she’s in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. “How much do I owe you?” 

Harry waves her off, “it’s on the house.” She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, “y’better go or you’ll be late, love.” He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of baby’s breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center. 

She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, “fine, but you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

“Of course,” he smirks, “with dinner, maybe?” 

They’re both gleaming at each other now, “okay.” Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, “bye, Harry.” 

His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesn’t recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent. 

She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling. 

Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men.  

********

Harry can’t stop thinking. 

Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasn’t? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning. 

This?

This was different.

As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didn’t stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom. 

Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.

His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. That’s how gone he was. That’s how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and they’d been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him.  

Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldn’t take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds. 

He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface. 

The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldn’t wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. It’s so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves. 

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button. 

There’s a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this hard over a girl before, and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, he’s thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If she’s that soft on an external part of her body that’s used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like. 

Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When he’s completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut. 

He hikes up his knees so that they’re resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images he’s picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/n’s. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock. 

Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but what’s turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her. 

He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself. 

The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be ‘well-endowed’ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after he’d bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harry’s this broken over just the thought of her, then he’s sure he’s going to lose himself beyond recognition after he’s buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm. 

Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harry’s pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge. 

His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base. 

For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/n’s nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. She’d whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, ‘please, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, please’, and he’d speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, ‘c’mon, darling. Give m’another then. Y’want it so bad, yeah? Give me a’fucking ‘nother’, and she’d release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. She’d squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum. 

The water in Harry’s tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that he’s closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he can’t contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because he’s right on the edge. He’s about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/n’s face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, ‘please let me cum, Harry. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please let me cum. 

He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out. 

With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water that’s still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again. 

Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, “fuck me,” at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body. 

Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...

It’s her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads: 

y/n <3 : so… dinner? 

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though he’s just completely physically spent himself, there’s something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name. 

He couldn’t be happier. 

*    *    *    *    *    *

and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! i’d love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, don’t be afraid to press that reblog button <3333

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Life Goes On

This if for @buckybarnesplumwhore​

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; grieving, funeral, breeding, handcuffs, warnings are not exhaustive so read at your own discretion.

This is dark! Andy Barber x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You volunteer at the local youth center but when one of the kids meets an unfortunate end, you cross paths with his father. No stranger to grief, you try to help him cope but find it a bigger than task that you expected.

Note: When I started writing, I had no plan. When I kept writing, there was still no plan. And then it just all kinda happened.

Thanks to everyone for sticking around and putting up with me and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

It was too sunny for a funeral. A funeral come too soon.

The service was held out in the sun, rows of wooden chairs and a sombre old priest. You never knew if the Barbers were religious but it was easy to find a holy man in Massachusetts, as easy as those early years of settlement found in textbooks. 

There were no flowers, only two oblong caskets shrouded in black cloth, the name of each of the dead on silver placards, no pictures, no souvenir of who they were.

It was like Andy was already trying to forget them. He was at the front, the grieving widower and father. You were lost somewhere in the middle with his co-workers, there out of propriety more than empathy, and distant relatives who attended out of courtesy, some passing acquaintances who followed the story in the papers more than out of compassion. It was a spectacle and Andy had done his best from feeding the leering onlookers.

You knew Jacob more than his parents. He was younger than you, almost ten years apart. You knew him from the youth group you volunteered for, the same one you'd been in at his age. He was out of place there, he was from a better neighbourhood than the other kids, they called him the rich brat, and he resented himself more for it than he did them.

His attendance kept his mother happy. He didn't like the individual counseling, he didn't talk, so she put him in the group and he talked there. Sometimes. The kids never went on philosophical monologues but they understood each other and shared what they needed to.

Laurie was always late to pick him up. So he stayed to help stack the chairs and you ended up waiting with him, making sure he wasn't alone in the dark. He hated that at first too, until he realised you weren't on the stoop to council or judge. You were just two people, chatting to pass the time.

Sometimes Andy picked him up. He was friendlier than Laurie. Jacob's mother was always in a rush, even on her way home where there was no deadline. She said thanks, maybe, and drove off as she began to lecture Jacob about how he wore his hat. Andy offered you a ride, every time, as if he had some compulsion to be the good guy, the saviour. You always said no, the bus was a five minute ride to your building, fifteen minutes if you walked.

Now Jacob was dead, his mother too. Another tragedy inflicted upon those least likely. Even death didn't stop the whispers, even that venue, the priest's collar, the Biblical dirges, the grim family man in black did not silence them. It sickened you as the service ended and the people rose in a hushed murmur.

Andy left without talking to anyone. The procession of cars would drive through the streets with flags to mark the grieving on their way to the interment. It was as if Andy was doing what was expected more than what he felt he owed the deceased. He was ever the lawyer, formal and curt.

You followed the grey parade. Not out of obligation but out of genuine regret. Jacob seemed like a lost kid, even in death. The rumours, the accusations, the suspicion, followed him. The people didn't watch the dirt fall from the shovel to see him at peace, they watched it as some grand finale to the great show of the Barbers.

When the metal no longer cut and scattered the soil, the crowd thinned out. You stayed as the diggers packed up. You were sad for Jacob, for Laurie. Andy hadn't been there to see the burial. You couldn't blame him but you were surprised. He just disappeared after the service, apparently done with his part in the play. 

You went closer and stared at the new stone that stretched above both plots. Laurie Barber… and her son, Jacob Barber. May they rest. It was as short, as minimal as anything else about the affair. You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. You didn't know if Jacob was a bad seed, it wasn't your job to make that call, but he had just been a kid and all that potential was now six feet down.

"Didn't think anyone would stick around," the dark figure stepped up beside you, his steps muted by the grass, "least of all, you."

"I'm sorry, I…" you looked at Andy and then the dirt, "I'll go."

"Wait," he said before you could move, "I thought-- I thought I wanted to be alone for this…" he shoved his hand in his pocket, "but I've been alone since it happened and I'm realising, I'm gonna be alone from here on out."

You didn't say a word. You didn't know what you could say. He'd heard a hundred apologies, a hundred condolences.

"I'm happy someone stayed, that someone cared," he cleared his throat, "thank you."

You nodded and played with the buttons on your cardigan.

"He was too. Happy, you know, that someone cared. I think back now and I realise that you probably saw him more than me. He was always excited to go to the centre but he got in that car and he just… deflated." He shook his head, "maybe this is better. One way or the other, he wanted to get away from me but he never could get away from Laurie. She wouldn't let him go."

He chuckled sardonically but it quickly fizzled in his throat.

"Sorry, I'm rambling…"

"You're processing," you said, "a lot of the kids down at the centre, they lost parents, one way or the other, orphans, fosters… I always told them that they didn't have to make sense because grief never really does."

"Now that makes a lot of sense," he said, "but you shouldn't have to listen to me."

"I shouldn't or you don't think you should say any of it?"

"Hmmm," he hummed, "yeah, maybe."

"I don't get paid to listen to those kids, I just get a time and a place to do so. This isn't different. It's just talking and a lot of that is just figuring things out. Listening is easy, you're doing the hard part."

"Jeez, you come up with this stuff on your own or is there some sort of how-to book?"

You lifted your chin and sucked in your lip. You could tell where Jacob got the bite from.

"Sorry, that was… mean," he said after the silence settled with the dirt, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure," you said.

"You got somewhere to be?"

"No…" you answered cautiously.

"Do you think you might wanna listen to me a little more? I'll buy you a coffee for the trouble."

"You wanna talk? To me?"

"Better than anyone I do know," he snorted, "they all just give me that dumb look. They pity me, judge me. You don't have to say yes but I started now, if I stop, I'll...stop."

"Coffee?" You glanced over at him, "I'd rather tea."

"I'm sure they got that too," he fiddled with the trim of his pocket, "anytime you wanna bail, let me know."

"If I can handle teen angst, I think I can handle you."

🖤

That afternoon wasted away in the corner of a café. It felt like any other day but for Andy, you knew, it was likely the worst day of his life. Likely a day he wouldn’t forget. You sat patiently until the last of your tea was cold. He didn’t finish his coffee, he hardly even touched it. When you checked the time, he looked down embarrassed.

“It’s late,” he said, “I… I’m sorry for keeping you so long.”

“I didn’t have anything to do. I doubt you did either,” you swept up the paper cup and your purse.

“No, really, I mean, you don’t know me. You knew Jacob and I just sat here and talked your ear off for hours. I--” he looked out the window, “I know that when I go home, the house will still be empty. That’s why I’m here.”

You looked past him as he turned back. You chewed your lip, “Andy, have you looked into counseling yet?”

“It feels… too early for that.”

“Too early?”

“I don’t want to let it go. Don’t want to let them go,” he sucked his hands in his pockets, “if I go, that’s what they’ll tell me to do.”

“No, they’d help you live with it, not forget it,” you said, “but I know, it’s scary. Have you done anything? Read anything?”

“Read?”

“Self-help isn’t for everyone and those dummy books aren’t great I admit, but sometimes a start is better than nothing. What about… a routine? Do you have one?”

“I work, I come home, I sleep, and try not to notice they’re gone,” he shrugged, “and repeat. Lot of overtime.”

“You’re still working?” you went to the door and he followed.

“Well, I talked to you. That’s what I’m going to do about it.”

You stepped out into the evening din and spun to look at him. You crossed your arms and stood across from him on the pavement.

“Well, unfortunately there’s an age limit down at the centre,” you said, “but I could give you a number for an adult group.”

“No, I don’t wanna talk to a group of sad parents and widowers. Just remind me how pathetic I really am,” he scoffed.

“Do you think that what you’re doing right now is better?”

“Do you have a degree in this?” he wondered, “what are you doing down at that youth centre talking to degenerates?”

“I have a certificate that says I’m good at listening, but no, I couldn’t afford a degree,” you dropped your arms, “but, will you come down? Sit in on a session. Just listen… for Jacob? It helped him, I think, after a while?”

“With the kids?”

“Yeah, with the kids,” you said, “maybe it will help you decide.”

“Decide what?”

“If you’re going to keep doing what you're doing; nothing, or if you’re going to try. Trust me, after a while, just sitting there, ignoring it, it gets old and it won’t get better.”

He looked down and stared at his leather shoe as he ground his toe into the pavement, “is that allowed? Am I allowed to do that?”

“I don’t see why not. I have parents sit in all the time.”

“But I’m not-- not anymore,” he gulped.

“You are,” you patted his arm gently, “you always will be.”

“What time?” he raised his head.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays at four-thirty. We do accept late arrivals. Kids come in and out. Usually hang out til seven before I let them go.”

“I think I can make that work,” he exhaled deeply, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For putting up with me.”

You nodded and gave a bittersweet smile, “I miss Jacob too. I might be little more than a glorified babysitter but it means something to me. The kids… they feel like they’re mine sometimes. At least on those two nights a week.”

“Well…” he peered down the street, “you need a ride?”

You chuckled quietly, “you now, I think this time, I do.”

🖤

Andy was early. He took a chair near the wall as the kids flopped on the low sofas and into the colourful armchairs. A government grant had seen an upgrade in the lounge, although the kitchen needed some work as the cooking classes were still short on supplies. Dark circles darkened his eyes and the hairline wrinkles around them added to the hollow effect. He wasn’t sleeping.

You waited for the room to quiet. You greeted the kids and went through the usual ice breaker; one bad thing, one good thing, and one way they could improve the bad. Many of them were reluctant at first, they resisted what they thought were cheesy and inane exercises but they all came around. They were able to voice things that otherwise would be kept to themselves and they were afforded a respectful and often rapt audience.

When you finished, you kept from naming your own three. You looked at Andy.

“I’m sorry, everyone, I’m so forgetful. This is Andy,” you gestured to him, “he’s sitting in with us today. Andy, why don’t you tell us your bad thing, your good thing, and one thing you can do to improve the bad.”

He looked startled but he stood and cleared his throat. He glanced around at the kids and the shadow left his face. “Well, I lost a file, there were free bagels at work, and… I guess I could try to look again tomorrow.”

“Very good,” you smiled, “alright, my turn at last. My bad thing is I spilled tea on my shirt, my good thing is it’s a dark shirt, and my thing to improve is… wear a bib.” You laughed as you audience stay stone faced, “alright, alright, I’ll just be more careful and not run with hot liquids.”

You sat and started with Danica. She was always the most talkative, that encouraged the other kids. Today was no exception and you had to remind her to save some time for everyone else. Erik was next, then Andre, and Shamea. You almost didn’t notice Andy as he stood and sidled against the wall. Not until he was at the door, he looked back darkly and you saw his chest fall heavily. His nostrils flared and he was gone.

You tried not to show your disappointment, tried not to let the kids notice. They were all caught up in the circle and breaking it was never good. Shamea passed the stuffed bunny to Naima and you focused on her. Maybe it was too soon for Andy, you understood that, but you hoped too that he might have found a piece of Jacob there.

Before the kids left, you handed out the coloured markers and they each scribbled down a few words before a high-five. They passed through the open door in pairs and singles, and you bent to add your own note. You tucked the card into your bag and locked up. Jacob was usually the only one to hang around. Not anymore.

You headed out the front door with a wave to Martha at the front desk and took a gulp of the fresh evening air. There was someone sat on the flat stone at the bottom of the broad rail of the stairs. You recognised Andy as you neared, much too big to be a teen.

“I’m sorry,” he dabbed his nose with his sleeve, “I couldn’t… I couldn’t stay in that room.”

“But you’re still here,” you said.

“I didn’t wanna just leave you hanging but… they all remind me of him,” he stood, “I’m sorry.”

“No more apologies,” you opened your purse and searched, “I had the kids put this together. Actually, it was Milo’s idea. He didn’t know it was you but he wanted to send it in the mail--”

“What?” he took the card and opened it. He turned so he could read it in the yellow light of the street lamp, “oh my god.”

“Is it too much?”

“No, no,” he ran his thumb over the ink, “it’s…” he closed it and tucked it into his jacket, “the only other thing I’ve got is the bill for the caskets. It’s… amazing. Thank you.”

“Not at all. They always surprise me,” you said, “most of the time, in good ways.”

“You need a ride?” he checked his watch.

“I don’t live far,” you waved him off, “but I always appreciate the offer.”

He nodded and frowned, “and if… if I didn’t want to be alone? Would you grab a burger with me? Have you eaten?”

“Not since lunch, I, uh… I guess it couldn’t hurt,” you said.

“You gotta be up early?”

“Nah, not too early.”

“What do you do? I mean, outside of this?” he turned and directed you to his car.

“Data entry,” you sighed, “it’s not very exciting but I work remotely and the pay is decent and I still have time for the kids.”

“It’s a living,” he said as the door locks clicked and you grabbed the handle, “no judgment. Trust me, being a lawyer, it’s really not as glamourous as it seems.”

🖤

Andy’s routine changed. He came around every Thursday and listened. After a few weeks, the kids figured out who he was. They didn’t treat him any differently and even invited him to join in on the teambuilding games you arranged. He wasn’t bad help as you welcomed a few new members from the group home.

That night, you weren’t feeling great. Even the kids hadn’t helped much. You were exhausted and nauseous. You blamed it on the late night shawarma. You said goodbye to the kids and packed up. Andy stacked the chairs without you asking, even when you told him not to.

You leaned heavily on the table and checked your phone before slipping it into your bag. You wiped your forehead and shivered. Some gravol, ginger ale, and sleep would be your indulgence that night.

“You okay?” Andy asked.

“Stomach thing,” you rubbed your middle, “nothing major.”

“You don’t look great,” he said, “well, I don’t mean it like-- are you sure--”

“Oh, gee,” you slid past him and out the door.

You ran to the restroom across the hall and into a stall. You wretched and the acid seared your throat. The bile bubbled in the toilet water and you shuddered. You heaved a few more times and rinsed your mouth in the sink.

Andy was waiting for you in the hall, “let me drive you tonight,” he insisted, “even if it’s just a block away.”

“I can’t even say no,” you grumbled as he handed you your purse.

“What’s wrong? You eat something?”

“I think,” you groaned as he held the door open and the cool air outside chilled the sweat on your neck, “urgh, I hope it’s only that.”

You got to his car and fell heavily into the seat. You slumped against the console as he started the car. He paused as the engine idled and felt your forehead. He nudged you back against the seat and turned his hand to press the back of his fingers to your cheek.

“You got a fever,” he said, “I don’t think it’s food poisoning.”

“Oh, those kids carry bugs like rats,” you muttered, “just take me home, I’ll get over it.”

He pulled out of his spot and you closed your eyes. You leaned against the window, frigid against your forehead and hugged yourself. You dozed off before he even turned out of the lot, the belt keeping you from folding over entirely.

🖤

You woke up between fresh linen. The sunlight was soft in its early hues. It wasn't your bed. You rolled onto your side and your stomach ached from how empty it was. You pushed back the thick duvet, you were sweating. You didn't remember more than the car ride and a few fuzzy glimpses of the bottom of a bucket. 

You were cold again and pulled the blanket back. The door was open and Andy filled it as if he'd heard your grumbles. He stood at the bottom of the bed in a pair of plaid pants and a blue tee.

"Why am I here?" You asked. 

"You fell asleep. You're sick. I couldn't just leave you outside your building," he said, "how are you feeling?"

"Bad," you replied curtly, "I can go," you sat up, "stop by the pharmacy, go hide in my own bed."

"You should stay here," he insisted, "just until the fever breaks."

"Really… ugh," you moaned as your belly clenched, "Andy, I should--"

"Lay down?" He came around and caught your shoulder, "I used to call in sometimes when Jacob was home sick. When he was a lot younger and… I stir up a man cup of noodles."

"You don't have to--"

"It's completely selfish," he interrupted, "it's been a long time since I had someone to take care of or at least it feels like it."

You were light-headed as you tried to stand but he kept you from getting to your feet, "I guess I can stay a little longer."

"Don't act like I don't owe you," he tutted, "now relax. I'll get you some soup. You need something in your system. I got some anti-nausea pills in the cupboard, too."

"Thanks but you don't owe me anything. I'm gonna owe you big."

"Why don't we just call it even then," he backed up, "seeing as that's my bed and my couch, it's really not made for sleeping." He stretched his arms and his shoulders cracked, "especially at my age."

🖤

You stayed another night. You tried to convince Andy to let you take the couch instead but he was a lawyer and rarely lost an argument. It was easier to eat by the evening but you were still dizzy and you couldn't stop yawning. You'd never been so tired.

Despite your uneasiness at overstaying your welcome, you slept more heavily than before. Your guilt didn't keep you awake for long as you sank into a deep sleep and you woke slowly, a murmur escaping your lips as grogginess weighed you down. You were still so very tired but it was already morning.

You stretched and your wrist caught. You winced and tugged at your arm. You sat up in horror as you stared at the metal cuff attached to the hoop drilled into the headboard. You tugged until your arm hurt and your hand throbbed. What the fuck.

"Andy! Andy! What--"

"Shhhhh," Andy hushed you as he entered, "it's okay, you're okay."

"No, I'm not. What did you do?" You pulled again and the metal pinched your skin.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he said calmly.

"Unlock it. Let me go," you struggled as you kicked off the blankets, "Andy, what the fuck?"

"Hey, don't talk like that. It's...nasty."

"I don't understand," you began to pant, "why are you doing this?"

The panic crawled like tendrils up your neck and back. You twisted and pulled but the metal cuff didn't budge. You felt the bed shift and Andy grabbed your shoulder. He forced you down, pinning your other hand beside your head.

"I'm taking care of you," he said, "don't be so ungrateful."

"I can take care of myself. Let me go, please."

"No, you need me," he snarled, "like I need you."

"Andy, you're wrong--"

"Stop!" He covered your mouth, "stop! You don't know what you need. Now be still. Be quiet." He squeezed until your jaw hurt, "don't make this difficult."

He slowly lifted his hand and you didn’t move. You stared at his hand then looked at his face. There was a desperate anger in the depths of his oceanic eyes. He sat back and his jaw clenched as he watched you.

"I'm going to make breakfast. Be good. You need to eat." He backed off the bed and went to the door, "I mean it."

He left you and you listened until pans clinked and clanged in the kitchen below. You folded your thumb against your palm and tried to wiggle free of the cuff. It was too tight. There was only one other way out and you couldn't do it alone.

"HELP! HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE!" You screamed, "someone help me!"

The footsteps hammered up the stairs and Andy stormed in. He grabbed you and clamped his hand over your mouth again.

"Listen, no one can hear you, you got that? Windows are soundproof, but I really don't want to hear it so it's up to you if I gag you."

You blinked and your lip trembled against his hand. Your eyes rounded and you nodded stiffly. He tore his hand away and sighed as he clapped his hands on his legs in frustration.

"Good," he said quietly, "now, let's just hope," he stood and strode to the door, "that the bacon didn't burn."

🖤

You fell asleep again shortly after eating, even with the adrenaline and panic surging through your veins. You woke again in the afternoon. Your limbs were heavy but the fever was gone and your stomach felt better but you were still terribly tired. 

Andy was there. He had a leather file in his lap as he looked over papers and scratched his beard. He sensed your movement and looked over at you.

"Hungry?" He asked, "you slept through lunch."

"No," you smelled your sweat on the duvet, "but… can I have a shower? I haven't...since I got here."

"A shower?" He closed the folder and stood. He set it down and pursed his lips as he thought. "Fifteen minutes," he said as he dug around in his pocket, "I'll be here."

He unlocked the cuff and you rubbed your wrist as you sat up. He stayed close as you rose and stayed between you and the bedroom door as he pointed you to the bathroom.

"I don't have much for you to wear yet but you can take another one of my shirts," he said.

You nodded and closed the door between you. You closed your eyes and pressed yourself to the wind. How was this the same man that you spoke to that day at the cemetery?

🖤

He slept beside you that night. You were on your side, your arm bound again by the cuff with the pillow between it and your head. You were uncomfortable, more so with him against your back. He wore only a pair of boxers. You shied away when he undressed and never looked at him again.

You dozed despite your nerves. You couldn't shake the drowsiness. You just felt more and more tired. When you opened your eyes, his arm was around you. He ran his fingers over your stomach, fingers crawling beneath the baggy tee shirt. You shivered and he nuzzled the back of your neck.

"I was thinking… well, I've been thinking for a while now, how happy we could be," he said, "I'm still young enough to try again, do it right and you… you're young, ready." His hand brushed up to your chest and he cupped your tit, "you're kind, you're caring, you're...beautiful. You’re my second chance."

“Andy,” your voice was brittle as your pulse beat furiously, “what you’re doing, it’s not right. You need to let me go.”

He went rigid and his hand stopped. He unsnaked his arm from around you and the springs coiled as he fell heavily onto his back. In the silence, you could only hear his steady breaths and a low growl.

“No, I’m helping you,” he said, “like you’ve helped me.”

“Andy, please,” you eased onto your back and looked over at him, “this isn’t how you fix this.”

“How do I?” he snarled, “huh? How? You don’t know!” he sat up and glared down at you, “you can’t know.”

“You think hurting me is helping me? That’s what you’re doing.”

“No, no, no,” he bent his legs as he grasped his head and gripped it as if it would crack, “No! I haven’t hurt you. I feed you, I keep you clean, I… I take care of you!”

“Andy,” you reached over shakily and touched his bare shoulder, “this isn’t what I want and I know you don’t want it either. You want someone who really loves you--”

“You love me!” he turned so quickly you yelped. He gripped your jaw tightly as he held himself against you, “you love me,” he pressed his lips to yours and you murmured in surprise, “you love me,” it was a maddened chant as he pulled back, “...love me.”

“And--”

His hand flew up to smother you and he lifted himself over you. His knees pressed to your legs until they parted and his other hand explored your curves through the rumpled cotton. You squeaked and tensed against his touch, your wrist chafing from the cuff.

“Shhh,” he hushed as he pushed the shirt up.

He kept his hand on your mouth as he slid down your body and left a trail of kisses along your torso as he unveiled it. He bunched the tee above your chest and bent to dote on your tits. You shuddered and pushed on his head as you mumbled into his palm.

His fingers tickled along your side and hooked into the side of the drawstring shorts he gave you. He tugged until the string snapped and edged them down as he continued to tend to your chest. You kicked around him and felt his bulge as he leaned into you.

He ripped his hand away and sat up. He grabbed the waist of the shorts and wrenched them down your legs, quickly taking his between them again. You wriggled and batted out at his chest as his thumbs pressed against your hip bones and his hands crept down to knead your thighs.

“I can start again,” he brushed his fingers down your vee and you trembled as they danced along your cunt.

“No, Andy, please, you can still stop--”

“Shhhh, honey,” he pushed between your folds and you gasped, “it’s okay. I’ll still take care of you,” he glided over your cunt and made you twitch, “and the baby.”

He poked along your entrance and you whined helplessly as you reached to the cuff and pulled with both arms. Every muscles in your strained as you tried to break free of the headboard. He pushed a finger inside of you and you cried out.

“Andy, stop, please, no--”

He added another finger and slipped them in and out of you as he purred. You looked at his face and it sent a chill through you. His eyes were dark and clung to the movement of his hand, his brow set and his jaw squared with his intent. He wasn’t the grieving widower, he wasn’t the man lost and lonely, he was a monster.

“That’s it,” he turned his hand and flicked your clit with his thumb, “you want me. I feel it.”

You looked away as your wetness spread to his knuckles and along your folds. He kept his thumb moved as he curled his fingers inside of you and the pressure built as the tip of his touch. You gritted your teeth and shook your head helplessly.

“No,” you whispered, “no, no, no…”

He took his hand away suddenly and you felt empty. He lifted himself on his knees and rolled down his boxers. You didn’t look at him, you couldn’t, you only saw the silhouette of his nudity.

He pushed your thighs apart and spread himself over you, his elbow just beside you as he felt around between your bodies. His hot breath grazed your cheek and he kissed it firmly as he angled his tip between your folds. Your thighs clenched around him in a futile act of resistance as he found your entrance.

He pushed inside slowly and brought his other arm up beside you. He forced your head straight and you squeezed your eyes shut. He cradled your head between his hands and his lips brushed yours as he spoke, “open your eyes. Look at me.”

“Andy,” you murmured as he slowly got deeper, “please--”

“Look at me,” he demanded, “look at me!”

Your eyes snapped open and met his stormy blue ones. He bucked his hips and impaled you completely. You exclaimed and grasped his thick bicep in shock, your other hand balled above the cuff. Your legs bent around his thick thighs as you tried to stop him.

“God, you feel so good,” he purred as he began to rock, “don’t I feel good too?”

Your lashes fluttered away the rising tears and you sucked your lip in to keep from making a sound. You could look away as he held your head straight, his hand clamping around your jaw as he other arm bent beneath yours.

The room echoed with the noise of his flesh slapping yours as he sped up, his grunts and groans interlaced with the sickening symphony. You quivered as his pelvis rubbed against yours and stoked the heat in your core. You could not hold back the illicit response of your body as he ravaged it.

Your breath grew heavier and he gulped it down as he kissed you again, forcing his tongue between your lips as he devoured you. The whole bed moved in time with your body and the headboard knocked against the wall as his thrusts came closer and closer together and he buried himself as deep as he could with each tilt of his hips.

He drew his mouth away and pressed his cheek to yours as his muscles tensed and he puffed into the pillow, “this is it, honey. It all starts here.”

“Ah, please…” your voice fizzled and smothered your moan against his shoulder as your body spasmed. Your legs bent around him firmly as you orgasmed and your body arched beneath his desperately.

“That’s it,” he cooed, “that’s it. You take me so well. See… it was meant to… be.”

His breaths grew more rampant with his rhythm. His hand slipped down to cradle your cheek and his thumb stroked your flesh tenderly as he dipped into you over and over. His deep groans grew louder around you. He jerked into you sharply and his motion stuttered. He gripped your hip and held you down as he sheathed himself in your walls. 

He quaked as his hips slowed and he flooded you. He exhaled and as his lungs emptied, the strength left him entirely and he lowered himself over you weakly. His body pressed yours into the mattress, your sweat and his turned sticky as the air settled over you.

He stayed like that for what felt like forever. He moved slowly to lift himself up and he sat back, watching his dick slide out of you. Your thighs shook as your legs splayed around him. You felt his cum leak from you and he dragged his fingers along your cunt and scooped it back into you, coating his fingers in as he pushed them past your entrance once more. He smiled at the wet sounds of your cunt.

“That felt like the one,” he said, “but we can try again...”

He pulled his fingers out of you and admired the slickness that glistened over them. He reached down and gripped his dick, half-soft and spent. He winced as he began to stroke himself and let out stifled moans between his teeth.

“Maybe this time,” he purred as he angled himself inside of you again and lifted your legs against his torso. He bit his lips as he trembled, his cock oversensitive and overworked, “as many times as it takes, honey.”

[a-lesbian-tm]

A Wound Time Could Not Heal (p.1): Rumination

Hello! I’m back! A warning I have not played Resident Evil, this entire story is AU. I have also posted this on my ao3 (Line__Segment) if you see it there. Enjoy!

Lady Dimitrescu x Reader

Mother Miranda x (Daughter)Reader

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

Romania had always been dreary in the winter, that had been one of the few constants throughout all of the ages Miranda had lived through. When she was a child she barely noticed the cold season come and go, preferring to spend time with her mother in the depths of their estate where the shadows whispered promises of power in her ear. 

Her mother was an eccentric character till her very last breath. She liked to wear long black dresses and keep her hair close to her head. Over the years had taken to wearing a pair of deep brown leather gloves that fit tight to her fingers and flared as they passed her elbows. She had developed a deep fascination with science as a child, exploring its realms in detail. Going so far to marry a man of science.

But it was a marriage of convenience, at least for Miranda’s mother. He was easy to lure into her clutches, she was a beautiful woman after all, and he had little money so he scrambled to take the chance to marry such a wealthy woman. Their marriage lasted a whole five years. Once she found out she was pregnant with Miranda, well, her husband was not around for much longer. 

With an heir in place Miranda’s mother began to fully immerse herself into her work studying local environments and organisms. When the moon was high she would slip deep into the woods that surrounded her estate and would come back with plants that seemed to ooze and reek of an 8th sin. 

Once Miranda had grown into a young woman she would accompany her mother on these trips. Sometimes her mother seemed to slip in and out of the deep darkness that engulfed the forest, sometimes she too would slip into that dark. They would go nearly every night and the weather never was what stopped them, no, the weather would not be a focal of Miranda’s life until she was much older. 

When Miranda’s mother died, Miranda was hardly 25. She inherited the entire estate, its businesses and all of her mother’s work. There was sadness in those immediate days after her mother passed but in time Miranda looked onward to the future with a child-like giddiness for the research she was to do. 

It was hard work, lonely without her mother, but no less rewarding the miracles, as she liked to see them, astounded her. The secret to immortality had been growing on her property the entire time. Oh to see her mother’s face.

Time went by as it had before, winter came and went, the summer came, the harvest came, it all just came and went. But Miranda’s 34th birthday offered a new type of promise. She had grown close to one of the ground’s keepers. A handsome man, tall with his beard trimmed neatly around his face. His eyes were a lovely brown that matched his hair. It was a passionate affair, with little exchange between the two than heavy breathing and kisses.

At first Miranda had thought the sickness was a side effect from taking the Caduo, but neither she nor her land assistant (killed shortly after she was infected by her own hand) had recorded any such side effect. She tried every possible concoction to cure her ailment but nothing worked. So when her birthday came around that year and her period was nearly three weeks late, it left her with one last reasonable diagnosis, she was pregnant. 

It was only joy when she came to the conclusion, till she went to find her lover. It was his one day off, Sunday, he was a devout Catholic after all. He had gone home the night before to his little dwelling not far from Miranda’s estate, she had walked in a state of utter bliss. Bursting down the door her face fell, and hardened. There he was with his wife and children. 

Her pregnancy went smoothly, and she noted everything, Miranda was after the first pregnant infected test subject. Sometimes in the night she would return to the woods in the places she and her mother would travel, and feel her mother’s spirit. Miranda figured the babe must be a girl, she figured she had no problem with the idea of spoiling her either.

A girl indeed. She was born on a clear night, the moon high and brilliant. Crying and red as a tomato Miranda swore she never saw anything more wonderful. When her body had healed enough for her to walk and move without help she descended into the dungeons. Miranda found that the ground’s keeper was ugly when he cried. As a result he died quickly, and his wife was given work through the estate as compensation. 

Miranda’s little girl loved the sun, loved running with her voice ringing through the air. When winter came Miranda made sure to fill the castle with fake flowers and greenery to keep her daughter surrounded by the natural world's beauty. As she grew that love of nature continued, so Miranda built her daughter her own greenhouse, with plenty of places to take tea and grow exotic flowers. 

That was early 1400’s though, Miranda had not had the heart to even look further than the moss covered roof of the greenhouse since… since. 

Miranda heaved a low sigh and dialed the number she knew by heart, her call was answered in two rings.

“Divine Mother how may I serve you?”

“Alcina, how are you and the girls?”

“We have all been well, the man you sent over to fix the heating solved our problem perfectly”

“Wonderful, wonderful. I have a task for you…”

[badapricot]

Lovely Writer: Special 1

This is a rough translation of the first Lovely Writer special. There are 8 in total and other side stories that the author compiled. I’ll try to post 1 a week since they do vary in length, and some are a lot lengthier than this one.

This special is from Nubsib’s POV and it’s about Nubsib remembering his feelings for Gene after seeing him on Facebook, and becoming fixated. Nubsib is 15 at the time and Gene is 20.

At that time, I was in the ninth grade.

Since middle school, my parents had sent me to study abroad with my brother. Because of the wealth of my family, this was never an inconvenience. But living alone in a place that wasn’t your home country required a lot of adjustment, mainly doing everything on your own. You had to learn things that you’ve never seen and known. 

This was one of the methods of teaching the sons of the Thanakitpaisan family.

It was their luck to have a son who was mature since childhood. It didn't take long for me to get used to the culture there, where I went to parties, attended sports clubs, worked a part-time job, and even had typical American teen sex. Being Asian did give me some advantages, when it came to distinguishing myself from the others.

I could only smile when talking to the many blonde women who bragged about our experiences in bed, amongst their group of friends. After some time, I felt differently about it.

"Sib.”

"Yes?" I leaned back on the sofa, and raised my head from his screen when I heard my name.

Neung came downstairs. He was wearing a thick gray cardigan with a scarf. "I’m going to go meet a friend. You're not going anywhere today, right? "

"Hmm."

"Okay, I might be coming back late. Please get my package when it arrives. You’re not going out with your girlfriend, right?”

"We broke up.”

"Huh?” Neung frowned. "You dumped another one? Again? You know, you don’t have the face of a womanizer.”

"…"

Neung opened the door of the house. For a moment, the cool outside air blew in, until the hot air from the heater disappeared. I didn’t care much about either, and stayed looking at my phone screen.

I’m not a womanizer.

It’s just that every time I got together with a girlfriend, something felt wrong. I knew I wasn’t in love with the first girl. The others, I didn’t like particularly much. Sometimes the girls didn’t like me much either, and only wanted a partner themselves, so we’d eventually separate.

It was true, that I was only in the ninth grade. But sex here was too normalized. It had become so normal that I’d become bored. When sex became so commonplace, all excitement was lost.

Mom: (send picture)

Mom: I’ve sent you Thai ingredients that should be delivered soon. They’ll be waiting for you.

Mom: Today, I went to see Aunt Run, do you still remember the house next door? Today is the Aunt's birthday. All of her sons have come home.

Mom: I saw it and I missed you and Neung.

I looked at the message that popped up, from the other side of the world. It was dark here, but over there it was probably in the middle of the day. It was time for them to eat.

Mom: Do you remember Gene? Gene and Jap are all grown up.

Gene?

After reading my mother’s message, it was natural to think of the past. I missed it. During my childhood I would run and play with him everyday, and just the same, Gene would play with me almost every day.

I still remembered “P’Gene” clearly after all these years.

We were five years apart. But we somehow became closer than me and my own brother. Since I moved out of the house, we never saw each other again. We didn’t have any more contact with each other.

When my mother talked about that time, I felt nostalgic.

I moved my finger to type to ask for a picture from my mother. In the end, I sent a simple sticker. I sat on the sofa in the living room for awhile before retiring to my bedroom to shower.

In my warm bedroom,  so different from the night air outside, I picked up my phone again. I went to Facebook to catch up with everything back home. My finger kept scrolling through my news feed, my face blank. I started to feel sleepy, but before I could fall asleep I saw a status.

I wasn’t friends with the person who posted. But I was friends with his mother, who was tagged in the photo.

Jap Jarernpipat posted a picture.

This year, my mother has lost another year, haha.

In the picture was a group of six people. The background was a wide garden and a long table. Both of my parents, and Auntie Run and Uncle Teep were there. But the one that most caught the eye was the man in the lower right corner.

The other person grinned until his eyes were crescents. His hands were raised, flashing a peace sign. His hand held a cake tray with a delicious golden egg. The corner of the mouth was stained with white cream, like he was teasing someone. He was smiling, which made his cheeks round and full.

I couldn't take my eyes off of him. For a second, there was a strange numbness in my fingertips and toes.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me who that was.

P’Gene.

He was still wearing a white uniform shirt. It had been many years since we’d met, if counted by age. Gene would have been in university for three years.

Usually, I was the kind of person who didn’t care about the people around me, or anyone else. But this time, I couldn't control my fingertips. I clicked onto Jap’s Facebook page.

Chasing him down, I found a status posted with the person I was looking for tagged.

Jap Jarernpipat posted a picture

My brother brought me to the movies. What kind of crazy alien movie is this? I might puke, but maybe you guys on Facebook will like it.

The post was from three days ago. One was a picture of a cinema ticket on the top floor of a department store in the heart of Bangkok and the other was of P’Gene in a T-shirt and jeans. He hugged a bucket of popcorn. His hand was holding a large glass of water, lifting it up to his lips and sucking. It was a funny candid photo that many of his friends on Facebook commented on to make fun of him.

...but for me, the only word that came to mind was “lovely”.

I didn’t know why I was doing this but I pressed “save that image”.

Jap Jarernpipat posted a picture

My stupid little brother, you make the whole house look bad.

They were in a garden in the corner of the house that felt familiar to me, but was a little fuzzy. They were in front of a flower bush that had been trimmed into a square. Gene was sitting down, with his butt on the ground. A blue hose fell next to him, the hose spraying in another direction. It made him wet all over soaking his shirt, the thin material clinging to his body.

Both of his arms were behind him, to support his body. Therefore, his shirt and body were stretched, so I could see two small nubs contrasted and poking through his white shirt.

My eyebrows furrowed together, and I frowned.

I cursed when my body immediately had a strong reaction, just from the one picture.

I pressed the comment section, when I saw the high number of comments.

Jiranon Jarernpipat: Jap stop posting pictures of other people.

(Reply) Jap Jarernpipat attached video clip.

I clicked play immediately.

"Ow, P’Jap!”

“Hahaha, why would you say you’ll help me water the plants? You can help if the grass is dead.”

“Can you turn off the water for me first? Why are you recording?”

P’Gene raised his white hand. He wiped the water from his face, and pushed himself off  the ground. His shirt clung to his body, so I could see everything. He had the voice of a man, but he was still so cute.

Finally, the clip ended.

There were still a lot of other videos that Jap posted pranking Gene, all of which stopped me from becoming bored. I saved all of them to my phone and computer. In the end, when more and more accumulated, I created a whole separate folder.

That night when I fell asleep, my brain was filled with pictures of the boy next door, who I hadn’t seen in years.

Another morning, days later, I woke up frowning, and I had to gently breathe out. I’d dreamt of P’Gene again. Since seeing that picture that night, there hadn’t been a day where I could go without seeing his face.

I knew Gene’s Facebook. But he didn’t update much, except to change his avatar or cover photo. But Jap’s Facebook page had tons of pictures of Gene. So I was still able to look at Gene’s pictures and progress in life everyday, like some kind of psychopath.

Even when I closed my eyes to sleep sometimes, I still saw his pictures.

I didn’t want to be this way, but I couldn’t control my subconscious.

I always saw Gene lying in my wide bed. He would smile at me, his cheeks soft and reddish. His hands would hold on to me, and his mouth would gently say, “Sib.”

It was a fantasy that any teenage boy would have. But it wasn’t a woman. Instead, it was the boy next door, who always loved and saw me as a brother.

I circled back to look at his pictures every day. In the end, the feeling accumulated like a huge mountain of snow.

I want to meet him in real life.

I want to hug him.

I want to smell him. 

I want to kiss his mouth. I want to do to him what I do in my dreams.

Since the day I saw his picture and until today, my thoughts and feelings had become more and more intense. So intense, that sometimes I was afraid of myself.

I’d already decided how I’d deal with this.

“Will you finish school here?” Neung had packed all his bags and was ready to go because he finished his studies. I leaned against the door frame, looking into his room.

“Actually, it’s nice here too, you know.”

"No, I'm going home."

“So you’ve changed your mind then?”

I nodded.

“Well, our house is nice and of course, our parents miss you too.”

"…"

"I'm not going to be here anymore, don't bring any women into the house...but you're not dating any girls lately. So it's fine."

I sent off my brother, who took a taxi straight to the airport to go back home to Thailand. Personally, I still had a year to complete my studies.

In the past, I had never thought or worried about how fast or slow time would pass. But now, I felt jealous of my brother.

Back at the house, I picked up the phone. I was still for a while. Maybe it was because Neung had returned to Thailand, but I felt like chasing pictures wasn’t enough anymore. My fingers moved before I could decide to send a message to someone.

Nubsib tanagijpaisarn: P'Jap.

Nubsib tanagijpaisarn: Do you remember me?

I wanted to talk to someone who could tell me everything about P’Gene. 

I wanted to learn everything about him.

[puckrph]

‘ COYOTE STORIES ’  STARTERS

from the album by the crane wives. feel free to change pronouns, etc.

KEEP YOU SAFE

' when i was a child, my nerves ran wild. ' ' with the risk of fall, i never climbed at all. ' ' my daddy always said "nothing worth doing comes easy." ' ' time is not your friend. time is not your remedy. ' ' no amount of waiting will make you brave. no amount of fear will keep you safe. ' ' the older i get, the more fears i collect. ' ' i carry them with me. ' ' what if the steps i take turn out to be mistakes? ' ' how can somebody like me learn to say "come what may?" ' ' your fears won't keep you safe. '

THE MOON WILL SING

' i could have been anyone else before you made the choice for me. ' ' my feet knew the path we walked in the dark; i never gave a single thought to where it might lead. ' ' i made a bed with apathy. ' ' my heart knew the weight: ten years worth of dust and neglect. ' ' make your peace with weariness and let it be. ' ' i loved you like the sun. ' ' i loved you like the sun: bore the shadows that you made with no light of my own. ' ' i shine only with the light you gave me. ' ' we could have had anything else. instead, you hoarded all that's left of me. ' ' i want to feel the fire that was kept from me. '

ALLIES OR ENEMIES

' the words i speak are wildfires and weeds; they spread like some awful damn disease. ' ' i swear i didn't mean what i said. ' ' forget it all. you caught me in a moment, weak. ' ' sometimes i just can't help myself. ' ' are we allies or enemies? ' ' this will be the death of me. ' ' remember when i could tell you not to smile when you were mad, and you would always crack? and we'd both be laughing in the end? ' ' now, you're not so quick to forget. ' ' all's fair in love and war, but i can't fight with you anymore. ' ' what happens now ? ' ' i'll admit i've had my doubts, but i want to be let in, not out. '

UNRAVELING

' i once loved a tailor who took eager care of me. ' ' sew together my loose ends with stitches neat and clean. ' ' my love is gone and i am left unraveling. ' ' trim my weeds and give me room to grow my flowers again. ' ' i am left here, withering. ' ' sand my rough edges, craft new and lovely things. ' ' i can't help the fracturing. ' ' i never knew that i needed you. ' ' i once loved a man who kissed me once before he left. tied me up in knots and said he'd soon return again. '

HARD SELL

' i'm trying to make something of myself. ' ' i feel like i'm working with barbed wire and moth wings, cause i can't really get ahold of anything. ' ' i'm one deep breath away from a breakdown. ' ' the world is hostile, and i'm fragile, and i need someone to kiss the cuts and tell me to keep trying. ' ' does everybody have it together or are we all pretending? ' ' is it really just me holding it together with one loose string that i can't stop pulling? ' ' i rip myself apart at the seams. ' ' i find one weak spot and start unraveling, hoping i can find a better me, a fresh new start buried under me. ' ' can we stop pretending now? '

ROCKSLIDE

' i know you want to plant your feet, but we best get a move on. ' ' i pray today my soul to keep. ' ' drop dead sprint now, my darling. ' ' don't look back now. ' ' just try to breathe. ' ' the monster's coming, and it don't care for you or me. ' ' we best get a move on. '

METAPHOR

' i've gotten good at leaning on metaphors. ' ' i've gotten good at living on someone else's page. ' ' i cut my teeth on secondhand sentiments. ' ' you can't trust a single thing i say. ' ' i keep my closet free of skeletons because i'm much better at digging graves. ' ' i always dig up bones in your sympathy. ' ' i can't trust a single thing you say. ' ' don't look too hard, because you won't like the scars he left in me. ' ' i've gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape. ' ' all these words are sweet. and meaningless. '

THE HAND THAT FEEDS

' i've seen good men spoiled. ' ' their cries are a warning to everyone following. ' ' no man should stand to work all his days, and have nothing at the end of them. ' ' i've got no money but the change that jingles in my pockets. ' ' time? i am powerless to stop it. ' ' my papa was a howling man. ' ' my dear papa gave me lessons in regret. he said all that he'd done would be for nothing if i followed in his steps. ' ' my papa taught me how to hold, how to bare my teeth and growl. ' ' the hand that feeds deserves to be bitten when it beats. ' ' i may never be a rich man, but i can make sure that i am free. ' ' the rich man will never have me. '

LITTLE SOLDIERS

' it was a march towards ruin and despair, but we held hands all the while. ' ' i swear that i loved you. ' ' beneath the table, you would offer up my bones, and all the dogs would lick your fingers. ' ' i dragged you through every room inside our home, but you still held me at night. ' ' you still held me at night. ' ' i swear that you loved me. ' ' we didn't give up. ' ' we wouldn't dare surrender. ' ' it was an honest loss. ' ' i fought with tooth and nail before the flag had flown, but you were already gone. '

SLEEPING GIANTS

' i feel the mountains shifting under me. ' ' the sleeping giants are finally waking. ' ' my pulse is clear, rushing in my ears. ' ' i hear something calling me. ' ' the moon is humming lovely melodies. '

OF EVERLONG

' out of the ocean, over the harbor lay no sons and lay no daughters. ' ' it was there i wrote a sad, sad song. ' ' if my lover will not heed it, take my voice and take my spirit. ' ' only my lover, not i, can keep my soul. '

NEVER LOVE AN ANCHOR

' on some level, i think i always understood that these hands of mine were clumsy, not clever. ' ' i tried to do the best that i could. ' ' i couldn't bring myself to hold you. ' ' it's a secret i keep tucked inside my chest. ' ' this heart of mine is guilty, not remorseful. ' ' there is love that doesn't have a place to rest, but it would've buried you if it had settled on your shoulders. ' ' a ship can never really love an anchor, so i did the only thing that i could, and severed the rope to set you sailing from my harbor. ' ' there are times where i still wonder about you. ' ' you are someone i have loved, but never known. ' ' you'll never see the reasons i had for keeping my claws away when they were close enough to hurt you. ' ' i am selfish, i am broken, i am cruel. ' ' i am all the things they might have said to you. ' ' do you ever think of me, and my two hands? '

NEW DISCOVERY

' i want to stand on the edge of the water and see horizons stretch on forever. ' ' i want to know that there are lands not yet touched by human hands. ' ' i want to be the one to find them. ' ' i feel like i'm lost in a desert. ' ' these steps i take won't go to waste if i'm moving towards something. ' ' i want to believe there's something left for me. ' ' i want to kindle a love that doesn't age, even when all the years carve lines into your face. ' ' tell me i'll be surprised. ' ' i want you to prove me wrong. '

[jjmaybud]

two of the same | kiara carrera

summary: it’s your and kiara’s wedding day and there’s a surprise waiting at the end of the aisle.

pairing(s): kiara carrera x fem!reader

word count: 1.6k

warning(s): fluff, swearing, alcohol use.

author’s note: every two hundred days I post an imagine. this sucks but its been a work in progress in my drafts for like seven months and I just wanted it out there.

For as long as you could remember, Kiara and you have been on the same wavelength. You had met when you both were fourteen and trying to save turtles from the seagulls loitering on the beach. You were a pogue, but you kept to yourself most of the time until the day you both were out on the beach swinging thick sticks at any bird that tried to take your sea turtles. After that, you became inseparable. Sometimes you would finish each other’s sentences—the pogues gagged every time. You could look at Kiara, and she would know what you were thinking like the time you didn’t have enough money for some Mike and Ike’s at the gas station. Once Kiara caught your eye, she distracted the store owner so you could sneak out with a box or two. There were times when you didn’t even have to look at her. She knew what was going in your head, and you knew what was going on in hers. Anytime your mood changed, anytime you didn’t feel like you were enough, she knew how to approach each scenario with what you needed.

And when you started developing feelings for her, you didn’t even have to tell her. You did, though. It was the only time you felt like you needed to express in words rather than the connection you shared. Kiara deserved words.

You took her out on HMS Pogue to a nice place that wasn’t traveled very often and sipped on cheap beer the two of you snatched from the boys. She could tell you were anxious about something but knew to give you time. You would spit it out eventually. But once the sun started to go down, she was worried for the first time that you wouldn’t say it at all. She knew how you felt about her. She was sure you knew how she felt about you. But now you were sitting there, nervously swinging your legs over the edge of the Pogue, and she wasn’t sure if she was right this time.

Deciding against words, Kiara placed her hand on your lower thigh and rubbed her thumb into your soft skin. Your legs stopped swinging immediately, and the both of you felt the tension disappear.

“I’m in love with you,” you blurted. “I know we never say what we’re feeling to each other, we just know, but I wanted to make sure you knew just how much I’m in love with you. Kie, I would travel the world three times around in just this little boat to measure how much I truly love you."

You rambled on listing times when you knew you loved her and metaphors of just how much she meant to you. You told her that you didn’t know if she could even tell how you felt because the feeling was so new and exciting and terrifying. You never felt this way about anyone, even the list of celebrity crushes that had come and gone couldn’t compare to the way you felt about her. The way her cheeks crinkled her eyes when she smiled, the way she couldn’t go anywhere without her bracelets, the way she cared about everyone else way more than she cared about herself. She wasn’t perfect, but she was perfect for you.

She cried, and then you cried because she was crying. The hand on your thigh moved to the side of your face with her finger tips weaving in the little hair at the bottom of your neck and her thumb catching the tears that came down your face. She guided your face to hers and pressed her lips against yours in a sweet kiss. It was unfamiliar territory seeing as how your previous relationships have never felt this intimate. Have never felt this freeing.

∴∵∴∵∴∵∴

That was years ago. Now, both of you had just graduated college and freshly twenty-three. Today was your wedding day. You were going to marry the girl you’ve been in love with since you were sixteen. The two of you had your ups and your downs. Your fights could break any couple a part but not you and Kiara. Because even though you fought hard, you loved harder.

You stared at your reflection in the antique, gold-trimmed mirror. Her parents insisted the two of you got married where they hosted Midsummer’s every year. Your parents had passed away a couple of years before, so the both of you granted the Carrera’s that much since they were paying for it. After all of the mischief the pogues and you caused at that golf course, you and Kie were surprised they agreed to let you have your wedding there. Neither of you cared where you got married. You’d have a courtroom wedding if it meant you two could finally prove your love on paper. Kiara didn’t really care about being “legally bound to someone like you’re their property,” but she thought since it was two women it felt like a big fuck you to the misogynistic system of it all.

You smoothed out your flowing summer dress that went down to your knees with spaghettis straps that showed off an appropriate amount of cleavage and shoulders. The only thing on your feet were the bracelets the pogues each made each other when you were all young and dumb on one ankle and the one that only had one matching twin on the other that was worn by the woman waiting down at the other end of the aisle. The flower crown on your head wasn’t as bulky as the one on Kiara’s head from the Midsummer held during the treasure hunting summer, but it was definitely a homage to the most awesome and awful summer ever.

“Y/N,” John B said from the doorway. He smiled as you looked at him through the mirror. “Ready?”

You laughed. “Since I saw her.”

You turned around and walked over to take his outreached elbow.

“You look beautiful.”

The other two boys were waiting in the hall. Smiles broke out on the everyone’s faces as you each took each other in. Each of the boys knew this would happen eventually. You knew they would be there for you no matter who it was. Pope held the turtle-shaped ring box since JJ called for the job as flower girl. JJ took his job proudly and seriously as he held the basket full of flower petals. Kie and you decided not to hear them bitch and moan about wearing anything resembling formal attire so you let them wear whatever they wanted. Luckily, John B was able to talk Pope and JJ out of wearing the tacky tuxedo t-shirts, and they all settled for similar looking beach attire like they used to wear when they were teenagers.

“Let’s get these two hitched! Come on!” JJ yelled and took off down the hall, careful not spill the flower petals. You were impressed.

Pope kissed you on the cheek and asked, “Nervous?”

“Never.”

The three of you walked to the end of the hall. John B and you stopped before you could pass by the wall of windows, so you didn’t see Kiara before it was time. Pope went on just in time to see JJ dancing down the aisle to Crazy in Love by Beyoncé and see his finale.

“Dude! How am I supposed to compete with that?” You heard Pope yell over the music. The crowd starts to laugh before their laughs turn into cheers as Pope does his thing down the aisle.

You shake your head. “I can’t wait to see the wedding video.”

“Oh, yeah, you won’t be disappointed.” John B laughed.

The music switched to the instrumental of If I Could Fly by One Direction that you chose. You almost dragged John B the moment you heard the beginning chords, but you held yourself back and waited for John B to lead you. You forced yourself to wait again until you got to the doorway to look at Kiara. You could already feel the tears build up behind your eyes at the anticipation at how gorgeous she would look like waiting down at the end of the aisle. As people set their sights on you, you could hear gasps and whispers but you thought it was just because of how good you looked. But when you looked up to catch sight of your future wife, you knew that wasn’t what caught their eyes.

In sync, you and Kiara threw your head back and laughed heartily from the pit of your gut. Even with the setting sun behind her, you could clearly see the dress she wore that matched the one you spent hours deciding on before you chose it to wear on your wedding day. From head to toe, you matched. You decided to wear matching flower crowns because there was no way that your dressed would match. The two of you thought it was too insane that you didn’t even have someone check to make sure.

Through an enormous amount of giggles, John B finally got you down the aisle where he handed you off to Kiara before taking his spot next to Sarah on Kiara’s side. Kiara lead you to your spot next to JJ and Pope. Both of your hands went to each other’s face to wipe the tears of laughter away.

“How? How does this happen to us?” You asked.

She laughed some more and said, “Because we’re two of the same. And I love you just the way you are.”

Oh, how you wanted to skip to the kissing part.

[yeojaa]

( LOVED YOU BETTER. )

You put your love and trust into people not things, you tell him.  

They’ll leave, he says about humanity - about that precarious nature that both beguiles and terrifies him.

But they’ll love you back, you remind him.  

pairing.  kth x f!reader.

genre + rating.   slice of life.  an angst angel food cake with a fluffy, strawberry centre.  general.

tags / warnings.  minor (ish) character death, heartbreak, kim taehyung is bad at feelings, summer romance, abandonment issues, moving on, healing.  idk. 

wc.  4.3k

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ @snackhobi​ @midnighttifa​ 💖 i love y’all!

author note.  this was written for the 'a long hot summer' event hosted by @thebtswritersclub​.  my member was taehyung (obviously!) with the sense being sight.  this is my first project for a net, so i hope you enjoy it!  💖

He spends most of his childhood in Lyon, skirting the rivers in search of inspiration.  It isn’t Paris, his mother tells him, but it’s just as lovely - quieter and more peaceful.  She insists, one day, she’ll take him home, where his maternal grandparents are buried and she’ll show him all the parts of her world.  

The first time he paints - eleven years old, seated at the edge of the Saône with a brush held between his teeth and pigment smearing his hands - his mother is delighted.  He fills the house with his works: pretty watercolours that mimic the blue of the river, the white of boats, the amber of the sky.  She loves them and she loves him and she tells him day in and day out, offering praise as readily as he offers his heart on canvas.  

He’s sixteen when he migrates stateside, to where his father grew up and his mother’s accent stands out.  He hates it there.  It’s boring and bland and it stifles his imagination.  There are no sail boats, no rivers, no pretty girls.  The days turn grey and so does his mother, as if she’d left the best parts of herself back in France.  She still tells him she loves him, promises that they’ll go back someday. 

At twenty-one, he learns love isn’t real.  His father files for divorce and his mother withers away.  When he goes, he packs his bags and doesn’t look back.  It’s a slamming door in an already abandoned home.  Beautiful as it might be, love is nothing but infatuation - fleeting and easily broken and fit only for the books that line the study.  It exists truly, wholly, only in the blood that runs in his veins.  

At twenty-two, he realises absolutely nothing lasts, for his mother leaves too, taking her lilting laughter and rose perfume with her, buried six feet under soil she’d never called home.  Her death is a nail in the door, sealing his childhood shut.  

His father does not attend the funeral.  Hardly anyone does.  

The paintings - lovely portraits of her wide eyes and full lips, of Parisian sunsets and paved streets - are all he has.  They serve as memories, painful reminders of the woman his mother once was, of the life he’d once lived.   They fill the house that’s no longer a home - hasn’t been, for years - tucked away in a room he refuses to enter.    

His mother had called him her petit choux because he was born with dough-soft cheeks, sweet as pie.  As he grew older, the name stuck - even if the fat hadn’t, slipping off his face with each passing year.  By the time he’s eighteen, he’s uncut edges rather than honey brioche.  At twenty-seven, he’s hardened far more than she would’ve ever expected of her beloved boy.  He is week old bread, stale and hard to the teeth.

But he is still her petit choux and he thinks she’d love him regardless.

So Kim Taehyung promises to go back.  For her - to find all the pieces she’d left behind and fashion them back together.  What he doesn’t expect is to meet you along the way. 

He discovers you on a day that scorches his bones, Parisian sun shimmering pavement and cobblestone.  You are a whirlwind of colour, every shade of the rainbow presented in the glory of your smile.  You treat the Seine like a lover, living at the edges of its shores with bare feet and bare legs and a bare face that begs to be memorised.

You laugh and it’s radiant, pealing bells that ring in his ears long after noon has struck. 

You call him mon chéri like it means something.   

It reminds him of his mother and he wonders whether she ever did these same things, dancing across the grass with an apricot caught between her teeth.  He hopes so. 

“Come, come,”  you coax, with a mouth that threatens to tear his chest wide open.  It presents pretty, in shades of ruby and wine;  it draws him in, sticky sweet, and he’s defenseless to your whims.  He goes where you go, following the flow of your hair, the curtain that draws back and has him seeing in technicolour.  

He laughs when you laugh, smiles when you smile.  You bring him to all the places he’s never been:  the cobbled streets his mother once roamed, the darkened bars filled with champagne, the sunlit warmth of your bedroom where wisteria branches hang low.  He paints you in all of them - sweeping watercolours into the silk of your hair, the curve of your lips, the swell of your hips when his palms grip them tight. 

You’re an ingenue, a muse, everything he’s ever wanted.  But he doesn’t love you - because love doesn’t exist.  Not in the ways they portray on the silver screen, with heartfelt declarations and bundles of overflowing roses.  He can’t give you those things;  he’s grateful you don’t ask.

Sometimes, he thinks you might dare to.  Can see it lurking in the lovely shade of your stare, how you study him when you think he isn’t watching.  Furtive glances, made beneath the thick line of your lashes, behind the brocade of your sun-drenched strands. 

But he’s Kim Taehyung and he’s always watching - always aware.  He hates to miss a single thing.

Don’t ask me to love you, he tells you without words.  

“Should we go to Lyon for the weekend?”  

You’re draped across the bed, drenched in lavender and warm like baked pastry.  Your tongue licks cream from your lips, sweetness touched with honey.  He drinks in your every movement, dedicating them to canvas.  There’s a freckle on your knee and another just below.  One more on your ankle and three along the top of your foot.  A constellation he hasn’t named yet.

“No,”  he answers, devoid of the same delight that frolics behind your teeth.  

“Why not?”  You press, because it’s what you do - forcing each button until you find the one that stirs something to life within him.  A coin-operated boy, rusty and in terrible disrepair.  He thinks you’d be wary of the bright red warning light but you seem almost colourblind, looking through rose-tinted glasses that dress all of his actions in warmth he doesn’t deserve.  

He doesn’t answer, sweeping his brush back and forth.  Lilac filters into water, a lovely shade that grows lighter and lighter with each pass of bristles.  It’s not quite the same as your dress - a silk creation that begs to live on your skin - but it’s close enough.  He’ll settle for it.

It reminds him of the flowers in the garden back home.  Back when his mother was alive and she still breathed life into the greenery, trimming stems and drying petals.  

“I don’t want to.”  A simple enough answer.  

You wait for him to elaborate, pouting and pleading like you might break him down with the sheer force of your beauty.  If he were any lesser man, you might have.  

“Please,”  you purr, too persuasive for your own good.  You’d settle into his lap, twist his honey strands between your fingers, if not for the stare he levels you with.  One that screams be good and stay still because the last thing he wants is you ruining the painting.  He doesn’t want to start all over and the light is already waning, sun lost somewhere behind drooping branches and the gauzy softness of your drapes.

“No.”  

“Please.”

Brush to water, then to colour.  A sweet orange - the flesh of a fresh cantaloupe without seeds.  “No.”

“Mon chéri—” 

He booms out “No!” like a cannon.  It’s akin to being scolded, stilling the playfulness in your hands.  You’re ignorant to all the reasons he refuses to indulge you but you think of it as nothing but selfishness, a cold you can’t weather.  One you refuse to when flowers are in full bloom and the air outside lays a salt-crown  atop your brow.  This is your kingdom, your rightful place - you bow to no one. 

You stiffen, rise from the bed in a motion that disrupts every part of him.  Motions still, knuckles white.  No no no.  You’re ruining it.  You’re ruining—

“Get out.”

Taehyung can’t quite believe his ears - staring at you in such aghast you almost laugh right in his face.  He has the audacity to perform such theatrics after yelling at you?  How dare he!  It enrages you, brings your blue blood to a boil beneath your skin.

“Pardon?”  The sound rolls, trips, and stumbles, dirt on his palms and knees as he stares up at you.

“I said get out, mon chéri.”  You’ve unbuttoned the rumpled shirt - his, with his initials embroidered across the cuff - allowing it to drop from your shoulders and into his lap.  He glares down at it, stained now with the watercolours in his palette.  It’d be pretty if it weren’t so infuriating. 

“I’m not done.”  

You tch, a derisive sound that bites worse than your love, your nails painted in Chanel.  “I don’t care.”

“I’m not done,”  he repeats, perhaps a little lost.  It crawls out between his teeth, a lost man seeking solace.  He needs to finish this.  He hasn’t painted you this way yet, bathed in faded light.  It’s an empty slot in his album of memories.  He can’t let it go.

You’re unrepentant, dismissive.  A table turned.  “I don’t care.” 

He hates you then.  He doesn’t realise how close the emotion is to love.

He doesn’t know when his boyhood waned away, lost itself to the wind and the rivers.  He only knows, suddenly, he was not a boy but a man, a miserable soldier made to walk the plank.  He thinks it might’ve been when she died, taking the last traces of his youth with her.  Gone was the innocence, the gentility, the voraciousness;  all at once, the ease - the glory, the good - had evaporated, leaving in its place a broken boy too angular, too angry. 

He doesn’t know when his boyhood waned away, but he remembers all too well when her death had eclipsed the light, leaving him in perpetual darkness.  

It makes sense then - that his whole life is a charnel house, built on the foundation of someone else’s bones.  It’s only fitting it becomes a memorial to a long-gone mother, a weeping wife, a star burnt out too soon. 

He’s somehow still surprised when his kingdom - formidable, impenetrable, guarded - comes crumbling down, an overgrown old city ruined.  As if he’d expected those skeletons to hold him forever, to carry the weight of his desolation within their hollows.  He begs for absolution when it falls beneath a thousand leagues, lost to saltwater and liquor.  He drowns within it and it seeps, sticks, stirs - catching in his stare and trembling his fingers.  

Nostalgia comes like ghosts - old men lost at sea.

They’re dim, twilight, held behind a heavy fog.  Old memories on a carousel ride, spinning in perpetual motion.  They’re snapshots of his mother, his youth, his home.  They pass too quickly;  he can never catch them.  

Years old misery claws its way up his chest and he chokes on it each night, lying awake listening to the city groan, straining like a dying beast on its last legs.  He misses her, he misses you, he misses the person he used to be.  He aches for it - a nameless thing just out of reach.  

Something Taehyung begs and cries for until he’s blue in the face.

Something you’d given him, in the form of kisses and promises.  Something he’d only shoved you down into the dirt for - right where she was.  Because no one kept promises, and he didn’t want to hate you later.  (For loving, for leaving.)  

Instead, he hates himself, and that is a neater, cleaner way to end the story.  

He is bereft, drifting between days he has neither the desire nor wherewithal to consider. 

He sees women just like you - girls that run barefoot through the grass, fancying themselves dancers, muses, inspirations.  They laugh, they kiss, they cite vague poetry.  They preen when he asks to paint them, throwing exaggerated shapes with the lines of their necks, the flutter of their lashes.

Still, none of them are you - too soft and rounded. 

None possess the same insolence, polite phrases toeing the line of sophisticate and street urchin.  They are all wind-up ballerinas, dancing on rotation, with smiles not right, too tight.  They’re too flat, too freckled, reminiscent of rotting cherries and mint-green Ladurée bags you’d scoff at.  They leave his canvases better off bare, boring and one-dimensional.  Taehyung resents them. 

But he doesn’t love you, and he tells himself that whenever he misses you.

A victim of ennui, he slips into a pattern he abhors.  Supine lounging in the evenings, preceded only by listless wandering during the long hours of the day.  He drifts with the rise and fall of the sun, eyes blind to the beauty around him. 

Nothing feels quite right anymore - not in the way it used to.  There are no memories of his mother, no sweet tales told by a ghost.  It’s empty empty empty, only shit-stained streets and hollow bodies.

He prays for an answer, a sign, anything. 

It comes in the form of you - nearly three weeks later, beneath a stream of sunlight that casts you in chiaroscuro.  For the first time, he itches to paint.  The need thrums in his fingers, a million little nerve endings firing off.  He itches to touch you too, but he ignores that, shoves it into the deepest, darkest recess of his thoughts as he can.  He needs to focus on one thing and one thing only:  doing what he came here to do.

“Bonjour.”  It comes bare, undressed and vulnerable.  By the look on your face, it isn’t what you want.

You twist away, entire body angling uncomfortably in your effort to ignore him.  “What do you want?”  You’re cruel, capricious - a god looking upon a lowly farmhand with no offering.  It stings in a way it shouldn’t, pulls his expression into a frown before he can mask it. 

That’s better, you think.  He can practically read the smug emotion dancing in those pretty irises.

“You haven’t called.”  

“Neither have you.”  

“You told me to leave.”

“And you left.”

For every excuse, you have a rebuttal.  It’s a game of chess he’s bound to lose.  It’s as frustrating as it is enticing, stirring something warm and heavy in the cavity behind his ribs.  A little hummingbird come to life, wings beating relentlessly and kicking up all the dust of his childhood trauma.

“I’m sorry.”  It’s hardly an apology, too greedy to come the way it should.  Taehyung does this for himself, for his promise, for memories he refuses to let go. 

You see right through him.  “Are you?”  

“I am.”  

“You’re not.”

“I am.”  

“Tell me what you’re sorry for.”

The words I am are poised on his tongue and reduced to ash with your question.  He’s never had to try so hard a day in his life.  It feels wrong, messy, awful.  Every part of him compels him to rebel - to wax poetic about the things he’s done right, how what you’re asking is too much.  I cannot love you, he thinks.  

“I thought so.”  There’s nothing but disdain in your stare, turning it sharp like a knife that threatens to glide through his armour.  “You’re selfish, Kim Taehyung.  All you want is to take and take and take.  You refuse to give.”  

You’re not wrong.  He wears his sadness like a solid steel plate;  it curls around his vertebrae, writhing in his belly until he’s full, aching, complete.  He doesn’t know how to exist without it, apart from it.  It keeps him safe, satisfied, out of harm’s way.  It’s both a blessing and a curse.  

As you leave, he wonders whether it’s worth it.

Six long days pass.  Six too many, drawn out and miserable.  He aches to create, to sketch, to paint.  He calls you in a moment of weakness;  you come, nonetheless.

“What do you want?”  You repeat, mouthful of thorns and scar tissue.  

This time Taehyung has an answer.  He’s ready, confident in his recital.  It spills forth loosely, with abstract brazenness.  “I want you.”  There’s no room for uncertainty, zero leeway to be found in between the syllables.  It’s the most sincere he’s been all season, made true by the summer sun and your focused, unyielding stare.

“You want moi?”  It’s a dance with the devil - question poised like a hand.  “Do you even know what wanting someone means?”  You’re steady, unwavering, just as he is. 

He hesitates then, just barely, with a tick of his jaw, fingers curling around nothing.  You take that as weakness, delicate mouth curling into a sneer.  He sees it - all the I told you so’s poised on the tip of your tongue, ready to silence him.  He beats you to it, crashing his mouth against yours with a recklessness that thrums in his veins, sending his heart on a wild chase for that something.

He’s spent his whole life in pursuit of a feeling, a spectre, a bittersweet memory.  He thinks he might’ve lost himself along the way.

“I want you.  I want you - and us.”  

What he means to say is he wants all the things that come with it:  the bratty rebuttals, the early morning eagerness, the taste of you every night.  He wants the eyelashes on his pillow case, the lipstick stains, the scent of your perfume - citrus and nectarine blossom, cocoa butter, fresh cream.  He wants the trips to the countryside, the new memories, the paintings full of you.  He wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything.  He needs it like he needs air, light, art.

He needs you - his muse.  

He tells you, shamelessly, around a lump that forms in his throat and makes it hard to breathe.  “We’ll go to Lyon.  If you want to go, we’ll go.”  

The place where he grew up is different, wrapped in ivy and devoid of light.  Windows are drawn and everything leans grey, weeds sprouting beneath his expensive leather loafers.  They curl around his ankles, creep up the back of his knees;  they threaten to crush him beneath their weight.  He imagines his insides look the same - neglected and vacant.  

He wishes he hadn’t come.  This isn’t his home, his kingdom, his heart.  Not anymore.

“Come, mon chéri,”  you hum, stirring him from his reverie, pulling his thoughts through the seven circles of Hell until he’s back in the present, stiff at your side with your fingers interlaced.  You offer an affectionate smack of your lips - wine-stained and pretty - to his cheek.  He does not soften. 

“Let’s go.”  It comes despite himself, before he can help it, in a voice that isn’t his.  It’s too soft, too unsure - fifteen years younger and vulnerable.

You regard him closely, with a careful narrow of your stare.  He can read the pity there, the frustration that swims in the depths - circling sharks seeking out the scent of his blood.  It’s inescapable.  He wishes you’d stop.  He doesn’t need you to lecture him.  

Misery rises, licks up his throat like bile, and he worries it might spill out, red as the crimson sea.  Part of him wants it to - a defense mechanism he can’t control;  the other part of him knows he should swallow it down.  He has no reason to fight you.

“Come,”  you repeat, and he’s defenseless, lost to your siren song.  He steps back in time, white-knuckled and terrified. 

There are no longer peonies in the kitchen, nor roses in the front hall.  Dust settles over every surface, dry soil kicked up beneath his feet.  

Taehyung tries to recall the way his mother would busy herself in the garden, bent over her flowers like an altar.  How her knees were perpetually scarred, dirt caught beneath her nails, dark hair a braided wreath worn like a crown.  It was the only time she was anything but composed - full of light and laughter and a love for the alive.  He’d eat breakfast with her in the front yard, a shadow that would follow her every move.  Back and forth, he’d go - on his feet, with his brush, in his thoughts. 

Every painting was of her - of tulips and daisies, bare ankles and sun-kissed skin.  The shape of her mouth, the freckle on her nose.  Her delight when his father would come home. 

He swears he smells her perfume now, standing in the place he’d grown up.  He’s reminded of hot coffee and fresh bread, her fluttering laughter and brass watering can.  He’ll dream about it for days, memories rolling like a Super 8 film through his mind.

He cries I’m fine when he isn’t.  You hold him until he is. 

You sleep together on a Sunday afternoon.  

When you wake, the sun is low on the horizon and you’re the prettiest Taehyung’s ever seen you, features thrown in stark relief.  You’re salt-sweet and striking, dressed in linen whites and the shape of his mouth.  

He paints the pale soles of your feet, drawn against your leg, and the shade of your nails, a pretty colour he attributes to springtime and sonnets.  He indulges in the sound of your voice, soft and hazy in his ear.  You kiss him like he isn’t broken and you taste like memories - ones he hasn’t made yet, but desperately wants to.  He is both sinking and floating, as if you’ve taken his heart from his chest and hold it, beating, somewhere high above his head. 

He carries your perfume for weeks after, heavy on his skin.  Lingering, like you’ve become a part of him, like he’s fallen in love. 

Kim Taehyung had once surrounded himself with beautiful things - paintings and drawings and girls.  He’d thought if he fenced himself in with all things good, there would be no cracks for the outside world - the real world, full of misery and deceit - to seep through.  He’d kept his hands occupied by brushes, by thorns, by a million little material things.

He hadn’t realised all he needed was yours, warm in his. 

You put your love and trust into people not things, you tell him.  

They’ll leave, he says about humanity - about that precarious nature that both beguiles and terrifies him.

But they’ll love you back, you remind him.  

The confession comes at the end of summer, edges past the cage of his teeth into the quiet of the evening.  It comes and comes, so softly he thinks you might laugh, corners of your eyes wrinkling like the sheets in which you’re bare.

Maybe it’s the way your hair falls over your shoulders, a curtain he aches to part, to feel beneath his hands.  Maybe it’s the way you look at him with hungry eyes and wet lips and teeth that could crumble all of his walls as if they were made of papier-mache.  

Maybe it’s just you, skin like silk and eyes like the night sky.  

“I think I love you,”  Taehyung states, careful, with his entire heart in his hands. 

“You think?  

He nods, although he mustn’t.  He can’t, he reminds himself.

And yet he does, because there is no denying how well you fit each other’s curves, the truth that you are two pieces of the same puzzle.  He wakes up early each day with the taste of you still on his tongue, the memory of you seared into his palms.  Your body has become his home and it is real, flesh and blood, not broken bones buried six feet under.  

You fill his silence with your laughter;  it sounds like redemption and feels like hope.

Before he knows it, seasons change.

Autumn becomes a waiting room, a time between the unyielding heat of summer and the unbearable cold of winter.  Taehyung loves the quiet of it, the progression as steady as the chill that creeps beneath his clothes, within his bed - everywhere but in his head.  

He remembers his mother, his home, all the things he’s lost.  He pays homage to the woman who had raised him right but left too soon.  He finds the places she’d told him about and folds secrets into their corners.  He creates new memories, introducing his present to his past.  You call her mamman and tell her not to worry, promising that you’ll take care of him.  

He lives beneath the fading leaves that serve as a benchmark for which to measure the growth he’s undergone.  He imagines his life in film, in rolling scenes laid out in sepia tones.  He imagines weeks passing by and versions of himself doing the things he loves most.

Laid out under the copper sky, your head in his lap and a brush in his hands.  He doesn’t need to look at you - can fit you among the pages purely from memory.  The turn of your smile, the twinkle in your stare, the little freckle just beneath your lip.  He sees you in his dreams and he commits them to paper, filling his sketchbook as you fill his thoughts.

Wandering the streets, hand in hand, guided by your laughter and the smell of warm pastry.  Bare legs, echoing footsteps, the sight of your smile when he’s said something particularly funny.  You cry Mon chéri! and force a cherry between his lips, savouring the tart taste under the afternoon sun.

Upon your balcony, skin searing beneath high noon and the feel of your mouth.  He lets you paint him - sits terribly still as you show him who he really is - stripping his pretenses with each pass of your brush.  He is bare but not broken, a beautiful boy painted in earth tones and paired with intense eyes.  

Taehyung tells you your painting is beautiful and that he loves it - that he loves you.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​ @snackhobi​

[el-gilliath]

Maybe Forever

I did two remixes this year, and for @rnmremix I took on @daughterofelros and her story Maybe Someday which is about Michael plantsitting Alex’s plants. I turned it around, and this has Alex plantsitting Michael’s plants. I angsted in this, but the ending is still happy. Happy reading!

Ao3

It takes him by surprise when he gets the question, as it’s something he never thought Michael would ever be a fan of. Not because it’s wrong, immoral, strange or anything like that. He just didn’t expect it. Because, you know, it’s... Plants. Green things with foliage and sometimes flowers in all different shapes and sizes. Michael is rough, wild curly hair, motor oil, science and sass. Plants don't seem like something he would enjoy or care about. But here he is, down in Michael’s bunker where plants really shouldn’t thrive. But they are. Thriving, that is. Growing wild and beautiful in what is seemingly organized chaos around Michael’s science equipment and feats of mechanical engineering.

“This is what you want me to watch for you? Plants?” he asks incredulously as he looks around.

“Yeah? Something wrong with plants?”

He can hear the defensiveness in Michael’s tone of voice, and he flinches minutely. “That’s not what I meant, Guerin. I’m just surprised. I didn’t know you had them, especially down here.”

“There's nothing wrong with keeping plants down here you know.”

“I know that,” Alex says, his own tone becoming more defensive. “I’m surprised you have plants, I didn’t know that would interest you. That’s all.”

“I can have hobbies you know,” Michael replies, looking like he’s already regretting asking Alex to water them while he’s gone for a week.

Alex just looks at him, eyebrows lifting at the way Michael is acting, wondering if they can ever be close again without bickering. Michael seems to realize it too, as his posture relaxes with a deep sigh. He’s visibly calming himself down, and Alex can’t help but admire how easily he does it. Especially since he knows it isn’t easy at all for Michael, so used to keeping the charade that keeps him and his family safe up at all times.

“Sorry. I’m being defensive for no damn reason over here.” Michael sighs again, impossibly deeper this time. Like sighing takes deep stress away from him. Maybe it does, for all Alex knows. “My mom kept plants, and could grow them with her powers. I… I wanted to try it too.”

“You’re doing a great job,” Alex says, smiling at him. It’s tentative, but honest. Real. “And I’m sorry too, I was honestly just surprised, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about it.”

“It’s okay.” Michael smiles in return. “So. You think you could be up for it?”

“Yeah, I’ll watch over them. No promises they’ll be alive when you get back though.”

“Nah, you’re Alex Manes. You can do anything.”

The smile on Alex’s face turns wry, probably a bit unsure. It’s not true, in so many ways. But he appreciates what Michael is trying to do. The confidence he’s trying to instill in the face of a task Alex has never had before. Michael knows how uneasy he is when it comes to situations like this. But he’ll power through like he always does. Especially for Michael. And it’s plants. It can’t be that hard.

-----

He quickly finds that he’s wrong. So damned wrong. He has no idea how Michael created a thriving garden in the dark bunker but it quickly becomes apparent that Alex cannot do the same thing. He can water them and trim them if needed but three days into Michael’s week away from Roswell and they’re starting to droop. Sad, missing Michael, drooping. The worst part is he knows how they feel. And his life has officially turned even weirder now that he’s sympathizing with plants. But he can’t help but feel for them, as the flowers lose a little of their shine the longer Michael is away, how the leaves aren’t quite as green. Their person isn’t there anymore. Maybe they’ve given up on Michael coming back.

Kind of like Alex has. Oh, he knows Michael is coming back to town, he’s only in Albuquerque for a week with Isobel. But as the days grow longer the plants still turn sadder.

If he can’t do this one thing for Michael, how can he ever hope to get him back. In the way he wants, in the way it matters. Back in his arms, his life, preferably one day his, or even their, house. After Maria, after Forrest, after his dad.

Realizing he wanted Michael officially back, out, proud and completely took a long time. The knowledge of it not so hard, the need and want harder. They’ve wasted time, so much damn time. And here he is, surrounded by green and yellow and blue, things so important to Michael because his mom was supposedly good at it. And Alex is having the hardest time keeping them alive and well. It’s making him feel like his dad, trapping aliens behind glass walls and torturing them for kicks.

He just wants to do this right. Then maybe, just maybe, he can find the courage within to tell Michael his hopes. But it’s not looking too good. He’s tried everything, watering, giving them lots of light, talking to them, hanging out in the bunker in case it’ll help. But so far it’s not working and the plants just droop more by the hour. Michael coming home is still three days away, they’ll end up being dead if he can’t fix this. And he fears whatever progress they’ve made will die with them.

He’s out of options though, he doesn't know what to try next. He’s not an alien, he doesn’t have powers nor gifts with anything besides guns and computers. Neither which will be handy here. He looks around desperate to find something that can help.

He doesn’t expect to spot a guitar. The same guitar he tried gifting to Michael which failed desperately. The same guitar he regifted him later, after Maria, after Forrest. When death of loved ones and broken hearts weren’t between them. When they could actually call each other friends. Regardless if that friendship was still fraught with tension, a will they or won’t they that still weighs heavily on them. Even when they try to push past it and just be.

But the guitar means much to them. Music in general means much to them. Maybe it’ll help.

He picks it up gently, taking it out of its case with great care before running his hand over it and smiles. The strings have just been changed, Michael has been taking good care of it. Something eases inside of him when he sees that, though he doesn’t quite understand why. The guitar isn’t a symbol of their relationship, Michael making sure the guitar is in tip top shape doesn’t really mean anything. It just means he likes playing. It still brings a tingle to the pit of his stomach which he crushes swiftly and surely. There’s no point in useless hope.

He brings it over to the chair by Michael’s drawing board and sits down, settling it gently on his legs and making sure no pressure is on his prosthesis as he sits with the guitar. He takes a few deep breaths before he strums. Of course the guitar is finely tuned.

He still checks everything before softly starting to play. He’s played Wonderwall a thousand times, he’s sick as hell of it but he still plays it first every time he picks up a guitar. Old habits are hard to break. He plays bits of the melody to warm up, humming alongside it as he does. Five minutes in, he’s relaxed, he’s more settled, he feels good.

He drifts from Wonderwall, eyes closing as he moves over to various songs from Breaking Benjamin, stripped down versions of My Chemical Romance, seamlessly switching to Blink 182, Placebo, Snow Patrol and The Strokes. He loses himself in A Perfect Circle, in Third Eye Blind and The Cranberries, resurfacing after he’s hit Linkin Park, Gavin Degraw, Panic! At the Disco and the odd Spice Girls song just to switch it up.

He lets the last note fall as he breathes out, smiling at the peace he feels just from the instrument in his hands, his voice slightly raspy from singing and the contentment of being wanted and free in Michael’s space. He smiles to himself, taking another deep breath as he opens his eyes again, looking at his watch to find that almost three hours has passed since he started playing. He’s not surprised though, music has always been the place he felt the most free, the most able to be himself.

He takes another deep breath, briefly closing his eyes again as he centers himself before he looks up at the plants. They look the same, but no worse either, so he figures he’s done all he can for the day. He decides to go home for the night, he’ll come back tomorrow and continue trying his best to keep them alive. He doesn’t want to fail now.

———

The shock comes when he gets down the ladder the next evening after a gruelling day at the base. He comes down expecting the plants to be their usual droopy selves but instead he finds them perked up, their foliage nice and green, the flowers shining and pretty. He almost calls out Michael’s name to check if he’s there, but he knows he’s not, having talked to him just an hour earlier. He’s still in Albuquerque, still there for a couple days with Isobel and the newly arrived Max. Just three aliens in the big city, he’d joked, Max hissing at him to keep his voice down in the background while Isobel laughed. They deserve the time away to just be siblings, after everything. But the thrill of Michael calling him still sits in his brain, making him smile.

But there’s still the mystery of the plants. Happier plants. Plants who don’t look like they’re on the brink of giving up. And the only thing he did differently was playing guitar and singing. Maybe that’s how Michael keeps them happy. He decides not to mistrust his instincts the way he usually does and after checking the soil and making sure everything else is okay he gets out the guitar again. He still starts with Wonderwall, still hates it, still can’t break the habit. But he moves along faster than yesterday, switching to other songs of Oasis, moving along to Death Cab for Cutie, The White Stripes, Stereophonics and HIM, before jumping over to Shinedown, Muse, Journey and Creed. He plays for hours like yesterday, loves every minute of it, and feels more relaxed when he opens his eyes again at the end and sees the plants visibly better in front of his eyes.

He laughs to himself, a laugh filled with more desperation and relief than he wants to admit. But it’s okay. Maybe he can do this.

———

He spends hours down in the bunker the next two days, playing everything and anything he has in his repertoire, rediscovering the love he has for the music he grew up with and feeling the thrill of just his hands, his voice and the guitar, surrounded by Michael’s space, Michael’s plants, Michael’s mechanics. He’s surrounded in every way by Michael Guerin, and his own wants, hopes and dreams for the man and what he longs for them to become. He’s spent years away from Roswell and Michael before but now, after one week of him gone, after one week of his voice in his ears as they talk and laugh on the phone until Isobel or Max drags him away, he misses him. Misses everything that they were, everything that they are, everything that they’re heading for. And Alex knows where they’re headed, now. Knows where he wants them to head.

He’s there when he hears Michael’s truck, still playing guitar, strumming along on notes shaping up to be another song, the melody forming underneath his fingers as words form in his head. He doesn’t stop playing, but instead listens as the truck stops and Michael gets out, as his heavy steps move towards the bunker and down the ladder. He opens his eyes as Michael stops, watches him with a smile forming as Michael stares at him and the plants in awe.

“Damn Alex, I’d have stayed home if I knew listening to you play was on the menu.”

Alex snorts, stopping his strumming and placing the guitar back in the case before he gets up on his feet. “It was the only thing I could think of to keep them alive. We had a few dicey days before I started playing, and apparently they liked it.”

“You’re a good player, Alex, no wonder they liked it.”

Alex smiles, taking a step closer to Michael. “Maybe. I’m just glad I got to be here, it’s been fun.”

Michael tilts his head in that inquisitive way of his, but Alex just shakes his head. His revelations and discoveries are too heavy for this moment, he’ll get to them eventually. Michael nods, understanding without needing words that this is something to be left for now. They’re good at that, easy, silent communication. Too bad they kind of suck at the harder communication, but that’s all fixable.

“Hey. Thanks for doing this.”

“Any time, Michael.” Alex looks down for a second. “I’m happy you trusted me with this.”

“I had no doubts you could do it. The doubts were all yours.”

Alex can’t deny that’s true. But here, in the bunker, surrounded by plants and Michael smiling at him in his carefree and relaxed way, Alex feels another doubt snap. And before he lets himself second guess it, he steps forward and cradles Michael’s face in his hands. He sees the look of shock, but also the hope that blooms in Michael’s eyes and pulls him softly towards him in case Michael pulls back. But he doesn’t have to worry, Michael pushes forward as easily as Alex pulls and their lips meet softly. It’s a sweet kiss, a familiar one, but no less exciting with no small amount of fireworks firing in the pit of Alex’s belly as Michael puts his arms around his waist and pulls him closer still. It’s everything Alex wanted, everything he needs, the appreciation and love for Michael flaring as their first kiss in a long time keeps on going.

It turns from sweet to needy, to wanting, to unbelievably hot quickly, but that’s always the way it is with them. They can’t help but want each other in all ways. They both break apart at the same time, moving away from the kiss but not from each other, leaning their foreheads together as they smile and laugh at each other, their happiness bubbling between them. It’s never a question if both of them want it, they already know that. Maybe this time they can have it too.

“So,” Michael says after a while. “My plants decided to try and die on you and you got them back by singing and playing to them? How’s you figure that out?”

“Well.” Alex sneaks another kiss just because he can, a thrill going through him as Michael hums in a happy tone. “I figured you sang to them. You know, since your guitar was down here.”

Michael pulls back and gives him a puzzled look. “Alex, I live in an old airstream in the middle of a junkyard. I keep it down here so it won’t be stolen.”

“Oh,” Alex says. “I didn’t even think of that.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Michael kisses him again. “I’m glad you can afford not to.”

“Guerin-”

“No, Alex. Your life has been shitty enough, be happy you don’t have to worry about that too.”

“How about...” Alex pauses, gathering his courage. “How about you keep it at my place? It’ll be safe there too.”

“Oh yeah?” The smile Michael gives him is blinding, beautiful. Happy. “You wouldn’t mind having me in your space?”

Alex smiles in return. He leans in, kissing Michael dirty and hot, the way both of them want it. ”I definitely wouldn’t. I’ll even take the plants, if you want to.”

He smiles wider as Michael laughs, head thrown back with unruly curls bouncing as he does. They need to talk, figure them out and take it day by day. But he’s so gorgeous, and Alex wants to keep him forever. Him and the green things who are perking up even more in Michael’s presence. And here he thought they were bonding.

“The guitar first. The plants we can talk about down the line,” Michael replies when he finally stops laughing. He tilts his head forward, looking at Alex through long lashes. Alex feels the same want bubbling in his stomach as always. He wants Michael in his bed, in his kitchen, in his living room. He wants him close, he wants them to be good. Together. They have a long way to go still, but it feels like a beginning. It feels like hope.

“I’d like that.”

[oddsnendsfanfics]

Unraveling Over the Holidays

Genre: Fan Fiction

Pairing: Henry Cavill/OFC

Warnings: Fluff. Implied Pandemic world we live in

Rating: G

Length: Drabble

Disclaimer: a strict work of fiction, I own nothing except the original characters and the plot line. In no way am I affiliated to any of it.  

A/N: Inspired by the need to write more Henry and Nell, along with Henry’s latest IG post and here we have it. 

Henry Cavill Master List

“Almost have it, Wild Boy.” Henry announced looking into the abyss of the computer they were attempting to build.  This was their second this year, a true feat. Rarely did Henry and Ivan get the time to break down and rebuild their own systems. It was a welcome hobby, keeping them busy when there wasn't much else to do these days.

They had been working away on the project since breakfast. Frustrated mumbling and grunting seemed to be the only sounds coming from the other room. Nell listened, checking in on them from time to time, waiting for them to finish. Today was the day they were going to finally trim their Christmas tree. After days of waiting, it would finally be a sight to behold. Or as much a sight to behold as they could manage. All in all Nell felt that she decorated a pretty damn fine looking tree.

It was shortly after lunch, when Nell began to get annoyed. When she'd brought in a plate of sandwiches and asked her husband and son if they would be done soon, both had told her that they needed ten more minutes. Three hours and one boasting Instagram photo later...

“Dad, I think I have this backwards.” Ivan furrowed his brow staring at the piece that he was attempting to put in.

“Let me look.” Henry moved to take a closer inspection.

Not wanting the break anything, risking a costly repair. Ivan was learning fast and enjoyed working with his hands. More than that, he really enjoyed the uninterrupted time with his dad. “Not backwards, but the next slot over.” Instructing his son how to put the piece in properly.

Neither of them seeming to notice or care that Nell had drug out their boxes of Christmas decorations. Outside, she and Henry had strung lights in a few bushes and around their garden early in the month. Wanting to get it done in case they got an unexpected cold or worse. Inside Nell had put up her favourite battery operated candles, the old fashioned looking ones that stood in the windows. Every window in the farm house had a candle display. The kitchen had lights and a few decorations, the sitting room, the office, and even the bathrooms were ready.

All they needed was to get the tree decorated. Presents under a naked tree was plain wrong.

“Henry, Ivan.” Nell tapped her foot on the floor, her arms folded across her chest. Huffing at the two of them. She should have known better than to let them tear apart that damn computer this morning.

“I think she saw.” Ivan wasn't doing a very good job at whispering, his mother could hear him on the other side of the room. Nell rolled her eyes. Of course she had saw the photo, over 3,000 people had saw that photo and it had only taken five minutes.

“What is it, darling?” Henry leaned back in his chair, glancing over his shoulder at his wife. Smiling sweetly, his usual trick when he wanted to attempt getting out of something.

“Tree.” She gestured to the tree behind her.

“What about it? Is it too dry? Ivan, didn't I ask you to water that this morning?” Shaking his head, Henry glanced at his son.

“I did, dad.” Ivan huffed, holding the light at the perfect angle to see inside the box.

“Guys, can we please decorate this tree? It's been here since Sunday.”

“We'll get to it.”

“When? It's already Friday. Henry, we have had this in here for nearly a week. A naked, boring, lackluster tree.” Lecturing, Nell rubbed her temples, “Christmas is in a week! A week! This is the latest we have ever left the tree.”

Setting down his manual, Henry pushed his chair away from the desk, standing to observe the tree. He hadn't thought it was that big of a deal, they had gone last week and picked out the tree, Henry wasn't sure that this would be the final spot for the Christmas icon. Something Nell would assume was an excuse.

He should have taken the photo from the other side, oops. Had he not mentioned the bare tree to the world, his wife likely wouldn't have been making such a deal about it. Until now, Nell had been avoiding it as much as him and Ivan.

“Do you want to do it today?” Wrapping his arms around her waist, he kissed the back of her head. “The wild boy and I are more than happy to let you take over.”

If she wanted to decorate the tree, by herself, it would have been done hours ago.

“Nice try, but this was to be a family activity.” Nell furrowed her brow, huffing. “Why can't you stop fiddling with that damn box for twenty minutes?”

“I love you, Mrs. Cavill.” He knew exactly how to win this battle.

“Not working.”

“Worth a try,” Henry shrugged giving her a kiss on the cheek. Squeezing his arms tighter around his wife, he groaned. Caving to her whim. “I'm going to make us some cocoa, then we can get this tree decorated. Wild boy, help your mum get the decorations out, please.”

“Uh, no.” Shaking her head, Nell escaped his clutches. “I am going to make the cocoa,” gently tapping the tip of Henry's nose she grinned, “You and Ivan can untangle the lights. I have been asking you all week, get to work.”

Laying on the floor by the tree, Kal boofed and yawned. He had heard her asking multiple times over the week, but what could be do about it? Stretching, he stood cautiously to keep his wagging tail from smashing the tree. Nell really hated picking pieces of Christmas tree from his fur. Following her to the kitchen, he hurried when her steps approached the treat cupboard.

“You'd help me, wouldn't you bear?” Spotting her shadow, Nell smiled, tossing him a biscuit. “Honestly, those two are more and more difficult every year. I feel like I'm raising two children sometimes.”

Oh lovely, here she was, in the middle of the kitchen talking to the dog. Whatever, at least Kal would listen to her gripe. Pulling down a mug and two tumbler glasses, Nell set the kettle to boil and then picked up the bottle of Johnnie Walker that had appeared on the counter a few days ago. Likely a gift from someone.

One candy cane hot cocoa and two whiskey and rosemary sours, at the ready. In the other room, Nell could hear Ivan and Henry singing along to I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas. Loudly Ivan belted out the line about the hippo being a vegetarian, Henry swaying back and forth as he laughed and unraveled the lights. To Nell's credit, when she had put away their Christmas decorations the previous year, she had done a much nicer job than Henry.

“Looking good, gentlemen.” Complimenting their work, Nell smiled handing Ivan the cocoa. “Yours is on the tray,” she kissed Henry's cheek. “I decided to make use of the Johnnie Walker.” She winked.

Taking his drink, Henry smiled. “It's your bottle,”

“Mine? Did you buy it?” Nell sat on the floor beside Ivan, working at picking out more decorations.

“No, it came the other day. Some guy dropped it off, did you not read the card?” Henry laughed, joining his family on the floor. Nell shook her head. “Hold on,” He stood back up, groaning a little.

“Mum,” Ivan spoke pulling out another bundle of lights, “when the tree is done, can I watch a movie?”

“You don't want to help dad finish with the computer?” Sorting the other items in the box, Nell sat back on her heels reaching for her drink.

“I guess, but I think I'd like to watch a movie with you. If you have time.”

“For you, wild boy, I have all the time in the world.” Nell leaned over giving him a kiss on the head. Wrinkling his nose, Ivan brushed his hand over his dark curls, resetting them the way he liked them. “Which movie did you want to watch?”

“I don't know, we can find one.” Ivan worked away at the strand of lights, getting them ready to go on the tree, when Henry came back in. His mother wasn't tall enough to read the top, which meant his dad would have to start the lights.

Decorating the tree with his parents, the three of them, felt a little odd. For as long as Ivan could remember there was always a huge production to decorating their tree. This year was quiet, like most things throughout the year. They would be video calling family over Christmas Eve and Christmas Morning, instead of having them there in person. They were supposed to spend Christmas with the Stewart family this year, as sad as Ivan was to miss his trip he understood.

“Here you are,” Henry waved the small card around, crossing the floor to hand it to Nell.

One the outside was a fancy script, containing her name in gold lettering. Opening the small card, the kind one gets with a delivery of flowers, she admired the generic looking winter scene.

“To Nelly & Superman, Merry Xmas. May 2021 be better than whatever dumpster fire this is,” she read out loud, chuckling at the sentiment. “Love always, JPS. It's from Jordan.”

“How lovely, didn't he send one last year as well?”

“He did, but he sent that really nice Riesling.” Nell confirmed. Since Jordan hadn't been able to make it for the wedding, he'd sent the gift instead. “Along with the Ardbeg, for our wedding present.”

Henry nodded, he remembered drinking both vividly. Although he didn't get much of the Ardbeg, because Nell had deemed it off limits to anybody who wasn't her. Past and present gifts sorted and settled, Henry stood up with the first string of lights in hand. “I think it's time we get these on, what about you?”

“About time.” Sticking out her tongue, Nell pulled out the tinsel and a box of ornaments. “Gosh, Cavill, you have been taking forever.”

“Can't rush perfection, my darling.” Henry smirked, attaching the first string of soft white lights to the stout tree in the corner.

“Is that why we took so long?” Ivan teased helping his mother carefully lift ornaments from boxes.

“Of course.” Henry nodded, excusing his procrastination.  “You know, I do love this tree.”

“It is a lovely tree. It's the perfect size.” Nell agreed with her husband. “I'm glad that we didn't go with a monstrous tree this year.”

Henry and Ivan had a habit of going for the biggest tree in the lot. This year, Nell had put her foot down, demanding that they pick something reasonable.

“I thought you liked a big, thick one.” Snorting, Henry paused to watch Nell's reaction.

“You, stop.” She wagged her finger at him. “Wild boy, can you go over to that blue storage bin and get the crystal star, please?”

The tree topper had been a gift from Henry's parents, the first year she and Henry had “unofficially” lived together. Nell had used it every year since, upon Henry's insistence that she kept it. Their first Christmas married, last year, his mother had wanted to gift them a new one. Politely Nell had declined, saying that she loved the one they had. Although, she was more than happy to accept the matching ornament set that went with it, as a late Wedding present.

“I love this star,” Taking the carefully wrapped box from Ivan; Nell placed it safely out of the way of Kal and Cavills.

“Lights are on.” Henry happily announced, clapping his hands together. “What's next?”

“Tinsel and bows.” Ivan sprung up with a card of tinsel, waving it wildly at his father. “Can I help?”

“What if I put on the tinsel, while you tie on the bows?”

“Deal.” Ivan nodded grabbing the gold and silver bows that Nell had made. They would soon be in need of some new bows. “Mum, momma, mum.” he bounced, “Want to help?”

“Sure, you take the gold and I will take the silver?” Standing to join Ivan and Henry at the tree. Nell took the card of silver bows, carefully tying them on to the boughs of the tree.

Over the next half hour or so, their tree began to come to life. The soft colours adorning the vibrant green really stood out in the otherwise neutral room. Laughing and teasing one another, Henry grabbed Ivan around the waist, spinning him – a safe distance from the tree – while Kal danced around them barking excitedly. Nell watched them with joyful delight, after the year they had endured it was nice to see her husband and son still keeping their happiness.

[sasa-gay-yo]

Just Us (Chapter Twelve: Sleep)

←Chapter Eleven

“You know, you don’t always have to come down here. You can stay upstairs.” I set the refilled teacup of the table looking down at the book he’d taken from my bookcase upstairs. It was a fairytale book Mr. Flynn had bought me when I was fourteen, so it couldn’t have been interesting enough for him to reread. He just flipped the page and picked up the teacup in the way he always does and I sat down in the chair next to him, prolonging the closing cleaning process. 

A cold rain washed over Trost today and that made it easy for customers to drag in tons of mud. I’d taken time to clean it at noon, because Levi told me too, but now it was raining again and the last of the customers didn’t stop to wipe their feet on the entry rug. It would take me forever to scrub the dried mud off the floors; probably until after my regularly scheduled dinner time. 

“If I don’t come, you won’t ever clean.” I rolled my eyes at him and reached down to take a sip of his tea. Today, I added a little less honey. 

“I do clean, just apparently not to your standard. I receive full marks on inspection days.” He took the cup directly from my hand and had another sip. The first day he was here, he told me that the backroom was infested with the plague because he saw a single fly and always made me go back and get something while he worked on kneading tomorrow’s fresh bread.

I stood up and grabbed a wash rag, aiming to get all the tables and chairs done in a swift thirty minutes before dragging the mop out of the back room. Levi grabbed my hand lightly when I turned away and I looked back over my shoulder. He had put down the book and his cup, going to stand up.

“I’ll help you. To make it faster.” He took the wash rag from my hand and turned right away to wash the table he’d been sitting at. I smiled at him leaning against another table to watch him. He fit well with the café. It made me think about the future. It was embarrassing to even think about a future in this world, but when I did, it was always Levi behind the counter helping me serve pastries and coffee, no titans or Scouts in sight. Those thoughts had increased over the past three days he’d been here, helping me knead and portion dough every morning after he’d wake me up. It was a slice of domestic bliss combined with us trying to get at each other with words, me, or a body, him.

Over the last few days with him, I realized what might be his issue. While saying and expressing emotion was hard for him, being too personal and intimate, he didn’t have a problem expressing his physical self. Most of the time, physical meant teasing me with his body or a way he held me. Still, every time I would say something suggestive or comment on how cute he looked with a white bandana holding back his hair, he would become a stuttering mess. 

I didn’t want him to confirm it, but it had to be because of what happened in the Underground. He could never be intimate with anyone, never showing his true emotions, but he probably and easily had gotten into physical relationships with others. If that was true, he was more accustomed to using his body to arouse reactions from others then telling them what he was actually thinking or feeling. I’d have to ask him some time, but every time he would do something physical towards me, brush the small of my back when he went behind the counter or come out of the bathroom shirtless, I was too flustered to do anything. Then when it came to actually kissing me (which he hadn’t done yet), being emotionally open, or sleeping in my bed (again, hasn’t done yet), he would shy away because of how intimate it was. It scared him to be open, even with me. I’d have to help him. 

“Levi, what do you think about running the shop with me? In the future when there’s no more titans.” He stopped cleaning the tables, freezing up. I should’ve known better than asking him something like this again.

Just staring down at his hands he answered, his voice tough, “Don’t talk about the future right now.” I was taken aback by his tone, but decided not to push him. Perhaps that was another thing that scared him to talk about. I’d have to romanticize myself. 

Late in the night, when he was reading another one of my books and I was counting out expenses, I was bold enough to ask again. 

“Why can’t we talk about the future?” I saw the same reaction. He froze up, looking at me over the book with a harsh gaze. It also made me shrug away from him.

“I’ll hate myself when it doesn’t happen.” Again, short and terse. This happened a day or two ago too. I asked him about the plans the Scouts had made for next year, thinking if I could plan out when I’d see him next or not. He froze then too, telling me that he didn’t know and there ended that conversation. It made me question what was going on with the Scouts or within Levi. If it was some form of emotional turmoil, if I wasn’t the one getting him to talk, it would just be left up in the air. 

“Do you want to sleep with me tonight?” Again he glanced over the book, but you could see that he was back to his flustered self. 

“Maybe word it better, Eva?” You smirked at him, leaning back on the couch. The tense aura of a few seconds ago faded away. That’s why you weren’t that worried about it currently. He would snap once or twice throughout the day, but everything else was normal. 

“Why? We’ve been dating for almost a year. We could do both.” Again, it was so easy for me to say stuff like this, but my heart was still racing. Every time I asked, I was just waiting for the day he said yes. 

“I haven’t seen you in six months.” I laid down on the couch, looking over at him and he pushed the book up all the way so I couldn’t see his face. I huffed and rolled to look at the ceiling.

“Shouldn’t that be more reason to?” He just shrugged and I closed my eyes, trying to think of something else to talk about. I made him explain everything in our letters and about the work that Erwin had him doing. Besides the obvious confidential stuff, he was just training new cadets and attending meetings about January’s big expedition. When I pushed him about why it was so big, he wouldn’t tell me. It had to involve something important if Levi, Erwin, and Hange all mentioned it. 

“Levi, let’s take a walk.” He grunted ‘no’ from behind the book and I turned to look at him again. How long could he just read books and sit here? How many books has he read since he’s been here? It seems like the only thing he wanted to do was finish my bookshelf and terrorize me with his abs for thirty minutes out of the day. 

“Why noooooooot?” I sat up again on the couch so that you could see his face over the book. Only his eyes shifted to look at me, a neutral expression painting his face. He didn’t see a need for a walk, so he wasn’t going to go on one. I was going to force him. 

“It’s cold.” 

“But you can wear a coat! I can lend you a sweater, we’re the same size. Please? It’s something to do,” I begged, putting my hands together so he saw how much I wanted to go on a walk. I stayed in that position for a minute, hoping he would agree because I looked ridiculous like that. When he sighed and put the book down, I smiled, knowing that I won. He saw my smile too, pulling an annoyed face. 

“Give me a sweater. And we’re not the same size.” I hopped up, running to my room to grab one and pull another one over me. It was incredibly cold outside and I knew that I was going to freeze, but at least I was doing something with Levi. It was better than sitting inside and staring at him all night. 

“If you complain that you’re cold, we’re coming back right away.” He wrapped a green scarf around his neck and I wished I had one like that, pulling only my coat’s hood to cover my ears. Yet, I bounced down the stairs, staring up at him from the bottom as he took his normal pace. It made me giddy inside, going on my first night walk with him. This was something that I would do often, even in the Underground. When I’d came to Mr. Flynn, he still couldn’t get me to stop. I would sneak out and walk around Trost at one in the morning, just letting the time pass by. It was near two now.

Jonas used to walk with me sometimes. When he’d stay at my house, I’d force him up for a walk and would have to hold him up as we walked. Now, I guess it was Levi who was entrapped in my tradition. At least he rarely slept. It would wake me up sometimes, not getting used to his presence in the house. A door opening, a candle lit in the bathroom, or the sound of a teapot hitting the metal of the sink would rouse me at four or five, only to realize it was Levi.  I wondered how many books of mine he read at night when I was sleeping. 

“The streets are so empty now. Normally, there are people coming in and out of bars still.” He just walked next to me, hands in his pockets. I was the leader, taking him down the main road, having no rhyme or reason in your direction. Wherever I would end up, I’d probably been there before and were able to walk back  home. 

“Do you always walk at this time?” He raised an eyebrow at me, and I smiled knowing why he was asking that question. I knew if I answered, he’d reprimand me for walking alone at night. 

“Not always. I haven’t since Wall Maria fell. It’s just a way to clear my mind.”

“I’m sure this cold would freeze anyone’s brain, yes.” He brought his hands up to his mouth, blowing hot air on them. I did the same as my pockets weren’t really helping in keeping the cold away.

“It’s nice in the summertime, but I do prefer colder nights. That’s how it was when I was younger.” We both turned a corner, now at Trost’s city center. The lanterns were on their last bit of oil for the night, so everything was dark except for the moonlight. It was pretty, but it would be better if the courtyard was taken better care of. After Maria, no one cared for pretty things. The titans would eat us, trimmed flower beds or not. One nice thing to look at was Levi and the way the moonlight reflected off of his hair and skin. Funny how he was the brightest at night. 

“Hange once told me that people stay awake late at night because they’re unable to control the day. One doesn’t have to worry about others if they’re the only one up, so they stay up to relish in it.”

“Is that why you stay up so late?” He laughed lowly, shoving his hands back in his pockets as we exited the courtyard and went back to only having the light of the oil lamps lining the street. He went back to being dull. 

“Perhaps. It’s not the only reason. I’m asking you if that’s why you go on these walks. You’re able to experience the world you live in without all the annoying ramblings of people.” I looked up at the sky, thinking about why I took these walks. It really wasn’t any philosophical reason like he was mocking it up to be. Whenever I took walks in the Underground, I never got to be away from people, so that probably wasn’t why. 

“I… I don’t know why I walk. It seems to be relaxing. Maybe since I spend the day inside a room with people coming in and out, it’s better to end the night out here. I can think clearly without someone asking me for a refill. Besides, I don’t stay up late compared to you. After I get home, I’m going to bed. What will you be doing?” I shivered as a cold wind blew down the alleyway and I saw the way he glanced over at me, waiting for me to complain. I made sure to pull my coat tighter around me, but keep my mouth shut. He would turn back just because he wanted to spite me. 

Surprisingly, he lifted his scarf off his head, and shoved it over mine, pulling it tight. He mumbled something about not getting sick under his breath, and I smiled, pulling the scarf above my nose. It was warm, and so were my cheeks after that small display of care. Even if he messed up my hair, it was worth it. I was warm and got to smell him as I walked.

“I usually sleep for an hour and then read a book or think out some maneuvers Erwin has suggested. The small chalkboard you have in the one room is quite convenient. You don’t seem to use that room at all, so I put some of my papers in it. I hope you don’t mind.” Something about Levi setting up shop in my study made me feel warm too. He was making a permanent place in my house. That had to mean something right? If he left his papers there, then he would have to keep coming back to get them. If he needed to work away from the HQ, away from the cadet’s or Hange’s interruptions, he had a place here. I wonder if he realized that yet or if he was subconsciously making permanence. 

“That was the boy’s old room and Mr. Flynn’s office. The desk and books are all his, but he bought the chalkboard for Ben a long time ago. I only use the desk sometimes when I’m writing letters to a certain someone.” He took his hands out of his pockets to blow on them again, probably hiding the blush my words caused him. 

“Imagine someone looking down and seeing Captain Levi of the Survey Corps blushing.” He threw me a glare and lowered his hands to his sides. 

“The only reason I agreed to this walk is because it’s late at night. Don’t think I’ll walk with you during the daytime like this.” You pouted up to him, but it seemed to have no affect. You looked down at his hands, hanging by his side. The vow you made instantly popped in your head as you wanted to reach down and hold his hand. If he was being generous now, then maybe he would let me. I mean, this whole week he’s been nothing but physically suggestive, so if he shies away from holding my hand, I could use that to tease him back. He also gave me the scarf, so I could make something up about my hands being cold. Is holding hands too intimate for the Captain? And it wasn’t like holding him either, it was just hands. Why was I obsessing over this, I’ve held many peoples hands before? But he probably hasn’t. 

I decided to go for it.

I got closer to his side so our shoulders were brushing. When he didn’t move or react, that pushed me even more to reach down and grab his hand. I entwined our fingers quickly and his grip tightened to an almost, intolerable tightness. He even stopped walking to hold up our entwined hands to eye level. 

“W-what are you doing?” Still, he didn’t pull away from me. That was my fuel. 

“I’m holding my boyfriend’s hand at night since I can’t do it during the day. Do you not want to?” 

“I-I...uh - um.” He dropped our hands down, turning so I had no direct view to his face. My smile widened as his grip loosened and I faced no resistance. 

“Come on,” I pulled him a bit and he started walking again, his face still looking everywhere but at mine. His hand was warm, slim with long fingers that almost covered the complete back of my hand. They were rough too. I could feel the callouses from years and years of wielding knives and the ODM gear swords. It was a weird juxtaposition to my hands that were rough only because of physical ailment and making bread almost everyday. They were softer though, Levi having given me another refill of balm from the capital. 

Levi cleared his throat, “I think boyfriend is a bit… childish? I’m thirty.” I snickered, thinking back to our time on the meadow inside Wall Rose. It also made me replay the dream I once had, but I pushed that away. I would have that dream probably once a month, or other variations. Levi is eaten by a titan, Levi is taken away by the Royal Government, so on and so forth. I didn’t know why it kept replaying, but I would wake up in a cold sweat and bile rising to my throat. Since Levi was here, however, I haven’t had it yet.   

“We’ve talked about this. Once you give me a better alternative, then I’ll agree. Domestic partner is way too formal, and you’re not calling me your Comrade in Arms either. I think ‘my boyfriend’ is just fine. What do you call me with Erwin and Hange?” He just shrugged. 

“Your name. What else would you like? Hange likes to talk about you quite a bit, so I’ll have time to use it.” That made me a bit happy. Levi would talk about me during his normal day, or, rather, he’d probably listen to Hange say things and only answer them in his head. At least he would think about me. 

“Do I get a special title since I’m dating you now? Co-Captain? Co-Captain Flynn. That has a nice ring.” Levi huffed once, but I sensed it was him trying to hide a laugh. I was bouncing around him like a child, hands still connected. His face seemed amused at least and I could tell once he saw my smile, he softened up more. 

“No, you can’t be Co-Captain. What do you know about the military? You’re not even at cadet ranking.” 

“Fly on wires, have big knives, hit titan’s neck.” This time he couldn’t hide his smile as he shook his head, looking down again at our hands. 

“It takes the average cadet two years to become proficient with their ODM gear. Even more to master it. You make it sound much easier than it is. Do you want to try ODM gear?” I shook my free hand around wildly, making a face. 

“I’m fine on the ground.” 

“I could take you into the trees. You could just hold onto me while I flew around.” I shook my head this time and he sighed. It seemed at that point he just wanted to show off to me instead of actually teach. It was cute, but I was never going to get off the ground on that death machine, even if it meant I got to latch onto him. 

“I heard that the ODM gear is really heavy. You probably won’t be able to lift me and it.” It was his turn to shake his head at me. 

“You’re easily lighter than it. Combined it’s about fifty six kilograms.” My eyes probably were probably the size of the moon and it made me stop walking. 

“You mean you did all those flips and stuff with that on?!” He smirked at me, nodding, pulling on my hand to keep walking. This made me blush a little, but I followed, realizing I led us on the way back home. It was probably a few more minutes till we reached the bakery. 

“That’s why your shoulders are so broad! You have to carry that around all day.” I could hear his breath catch in his throat. So much for being bold and pulling me along with him. 

“Complimenting me won’t get me in your bed, Eva.” I mimicked his voice and turned my face away from him. 

“Just take the compliment, hm.” I would’ve crossed my arms if my hand wasn’t in his, but I wasn’t going to unclasp them because then he probably wouldn’t let me hold his hand again. We walked for a bit more in silence as I tried to keep up my act, but I was quickly getting annoyed. Levi was fine if I didn’t talk to him, and ignoring him didn’t do anything. 

“Why are you so adamant that I sleep in your bed? I don’t even sleep, it would be annoying for you to wake up when I get up. I know you already wake up because of the noise I make.” I was shocked that he asked me that. It sounded like something he would just keep in his head and try to answer it. It made me feel a bit better that he was making an effort to understand. I could tell by the tone of his voice it was a serious question. 

“It’s just nice to fall asleep having someone next to you. Sometimes you can cuddle too, but I don’t think you’d do that, and who knows, maybe when you sleep with me you won’t wake up. I have a calming effect on you, remember?” I was referring to all the times he’s laid his head on my lap. While we haven’t had such close contact like the night before he left, he still would lay his head in my lap to read a book or look over some papers. At first, it would shock me when he initiated, but it also made my heart burst. Soon, even if it was only over the last three days, it became common practice. I would sit down on the couch after dinner or coming back from the bakery if I had nothing to attend to and he would come to lay his head down on my lap, and sometimes he would read the book out loud or ask me for my opinion. 

“Have you done it with other people?” Oh. His tone changed when he asked that question. Or maybe he was gauging how comfortable it would be for me.

“Yes, I have.” 

“Jonas?” Hearing his name out of Levi’s mouth hurt a bit. It hadn’t even been a week since we fought, and I haven’t seen him since. He’d sent another delivery driver and since there was no festival, there was no way to see him. I asked Ben in passing, but he just shrugged. After he came home from the bakery, Jonas was gone. He does not meddle in his kids' lives enough to keep tabs on them. I sighed before answering. 

“Yes, with him. It’s just sleeping though.” He grunted and I noticed he gripped my hand a little tighter. 

“Did it happen when I was gone?” Was he… jealous? This was new. 

“Yes, it did. I had… Well, I have nightmares sometimes. Don’t worry though, after we started dating, I’d kick him out after he calmed me down. Even when we were little, he would sleep next to me so I wouldn’t wake up scared and alone. It just turned into a habit.” I scratched the back of my head, seeing his point of view as well as Jonas’s. That was another thing I should’ve stopped when I found out he liked me, but I was selfish and needed the emotional support sometimes. 

“You haven’t had a nightmare since I’ve been here. I would know.” I could see the bakery up ahead of me, the sign blowing in the wind. 

“You’re right, I haven’t.” He nodded. 

“If I hear you having a nightmare, I’ll sleep with you then.” I hummed in agreement, knowing that even that was a hard decision for him to make. Finally reaching the stairs, I went up one before Levi pulled me to stop. He just stood at the edge of the stairs, staring up at me while holding on to my hand. 

“I apologize for not knowing how to do any of this.” My eyes softened down at him and turned to face him straight on. 

“Don’t apologize. I know you haven’t ever had feelings like this before. It makes sense that you don’t know how to interpret them or interpret mine.” He shook his head slowly. 

“No, it’s not an excuse. I should learn, I just… I just don’t know about certain things.” I put my hand on his cheek, giving him a reassuring smile. 

“Thank you for sharing this emotion with me, though. That’s all I ask for. Don’t hide things you don’t need to from me.” He grumbled, shifting down to look at the stairs. There was no blush, but I could tell what I said had an effect. There was something he wanted to tell me, but he was still uncomfortable saying it outloud. I wondered who made him this way in the Underground. I was the same way when Mr. Flynn found me, but he made me find happiness. He let me trust humans again. I would have to do the same to Levi.  

“The reason… well, one of the reasons.” He gripped my hand harder, gritting his teeth. It hurt me to see this physically hurt him. 

“You don’t need to explain it to me, Levi. If it’s too hard to-” He took one step up on the same stair as me, making sure he was close as he could be. He took my other hand too, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw. 

“I owe you an explanation. Even if I feel so weak telling you things like this, I need to tell you. I promised to tell you.” His eyes opened and the emotion was back again. The one when I gave him the tea set and when I held him that night on the couch. My heart sped up as the atmosphere around us morphed into a cloud of that emotion. 

“When I slept in other’s beds, it was only to leave before they could wake up. The few that I’ve ever been in, it was only for a fast physical relief. So when you invite me to sleep in your bed, I think only of those moments. I only think of that connotation. When you ask me to sleep with you, I can only picture the end result of a regretful night in the Underground. I don’t want that with you. I respect you more and I actually feel something for you. I can’t just be so casually physical with you, it holds more weight now. Even when saying that, I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to not be casually physical with you when that’s all I know. So I’m cautious. I stop myself from doing certain things because I feel I’ll end up with the same result from not knowing better. I beat myself up inside after I do things like that because I don’t want to do that to you.” Those words almost took my breath away. No man I’ve been with has given me such consideration. Has put such value on me. It was like I had previously thought. The only way he knows how to express is physically, so when the line blurs, he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Is that why you haven’t kissed me back yet?” This time he did flush a bit, turning his head to the side. Yet, he kept on being vulnerable which made me want to take him in my arms and thank him. I knew how hard this all was for him, but at the same time, I didn’t. How many years has he gone without meaningful interaction with someone else?

“Yes, it is. I’ve never - it’s never been emotionally charged for me. I’m scared that if I kiss you, it will turn out like the rest. I’ve never been kissed the way you kissed me in the café. What if I can’t do it?” I could see true worry in his eyes. He was like a child in front of me, deflating at each word. He was afraid of failing. Afraid of losing. That’s why he would always ask me before he did something. He was afraid of doing something wrong and resulting in the same harsh end he’s faced over and over again. I gripped his hands, moving my head so I could see his face completely. He wanted to hide from me, but I wasn’t going to let him. 

“This isn’t going to be like before, Levi. This isn’t the Underground. You’re here with me, someone who’s stuck with you for almost a whole year. I’m not like the others you’ve been with either. You know that. And you’re - you’re not like them, Levi. You’ve held me. You’ve shown me emotion. You’ve been vulnerable with me. This happened to me too. It took me so long to realize that people up here weren’t going to hurt me like they do down there. People love up here. People want to live up here. People won’t leave you here. I won’t leave you like they have.” He grabbed me into a hug, this time without asking. It was how his body was manifesting whatever emotion I was making him feel. Maybe he did this to make me stop talking, who knows. He buried his face in my neck, one hand in my hair, the other still holding my hand. 

“You’re not like them either,” he whispered into my neck, “You’re nothing like them. But one day, I might leave you forever.” I knew what he meant. One day, he might die and I’ll be alone. Still, I stand by what I told Erwin. He isn’t going to die. He’s Levi. 

“I told you, don’t care.” He stood up, his hands staying where they were. His eyes were wide still, probably at the tone I gave him. I’ve had to tell him at least ten different times that I didn’t care about the possibility of him dying because I knew he wouldn’t. When I told him then, it was a bit harsh, but it’s what he needed to hear. I don’t care if there’s that possibility, I’m going to choose to live without fear. I tried to make sure he saw that in my eyes.

“The titans might come into Trost, and I’ll die. What then?” He gripped me harder shaking his head. 

“No, I’ll save you before then. You’ll be the first one I save if that happens.” I huffed once in laughter, just lightly. I knew he was being serious and speaking the truth. If Trost somehow was breached by titans, he would knock down that door and take me up with him. That thought was at least a little comforting. 

“I’ll save you, too. Somehow.” He leaned forward, looking up at my eyes as he did. His grip was still hard on my hand and in my hair so I wouldn’t move away. There was no chance of me moving away from him. 

“I’m going to kiss you.” His breath wafted over my lips and I didn’t say anything. I just nodded to him, tilting my head the other way to give him some form of consent. He still couldn’t shake the habit of telling me, but I’d let it go for now. 

When his lips locked with mine, finally on their own accord, I melted my body forward with his, trying to get as close as possible. The cold air around us seemed nonexistent as we both heated up in the cold. It started as one kiss, then another, then another. His lips were soft and he still tasted like the mint tea he was sipping on before I forced him to take a walk. 

My stomach was twisting, I couldn’t think straight, and I had to stop myself from going on my tiptoes with the amount of passion he had put in the kiss. He was so worried about not being about to put in emotion after years of blanks, but here he was, kissing the life out of me. He was the one who would initiate another kiss and then another, pulling me close to his body feeling every curve. He was trying to show me all the emotion I’d given him. It was mind-numbing to think he was holding back this much. I was trying to follow him, not trying to get caught up and even more out of breath, but with no avail. No one had made me feel this way while their lips were on mine. How did I go through life never having kissed Levi? I didn’t want it to end, and I lifted my other hand up to his cheek, holding him there.  

When my tongue glanced over his bottom lip, he lost his balance at that action, falling back and catching both of us with one hand on the stair railing. He pulled back and I was lightheaded, trying to catch my breath. He did the same, now not being able to look me in the eyes while his shoulders moved up and down in time with his deep breaths. They were almost gasps. We both had to catch our breath, the cold air coming back to fill our burning lungs. How badly did I want to reach down and do that again? It was going to be so addicting kissing him. Kissing him. I just kissed him. No, he just kissed me. Maybe nine or ten times. Each with blazing emotion that was still making me unable to speak. Just him kissing me was enough to make me dumb. It was dangerous to think about what he could do that would completely ruin me. I would welcome it so easily after experiencing this. It was just the tip of the iceberg. 

“I-” I stopped him from saying anything. Was he going to apologize? Say something more self-degrading. I didn’t know and I didn’t care. 

“I know, Levi,” I said, sounding almost breathless. Whatever it was, I seemed to satisfy it and he gripped my hand harder.

“L-let’s go up.”

-

“Goodnight then, yeah?” I stared at him from my doorway as he put the book down on his stomach to look back at me. This had to be the twentieth book he’d read while he was here. Soon, I’d have to buy him more because he’d have read every single one in my bookshelf.

“It’s so early for you to sleep though. The past week you went to bed always after three.” I rolled my eyes as him. He was the reason for that and he knew it. He was probably upset that I was sleeping this early, but I was tired.

“Well, last week someone learned how to kiss with their tongue and wanted to perfect the technique till three each night,” His face went beat red, and he stuttered again, picking up the book to read it so he didn’t have to respond, “Mhm, that’s what I thought.” 

“Go to bed.” I crossed your arms over my chest looking at my empty bed. 

“Not going to join me?” He scoffed, always being annoyed that I asked him. I’d always pull away from his lips, leaving him annoyed because he “wasn’t done practicing yet” and ask that question. He was probably tired of hearing it even though he made his intentions clear. Only if I need it because of a nightmare; those were his rules. But, with him here, I knew I would never have a nightmare. 

“Dream about something scary and I will.” I pouted, but he refused to look at me, knowing I’d say something to further incriminate his actions over the past week. Once he kissed me, it seemed to open a floodgate of need. We’d do the same routine as before, I’d come back from making tomorrow’s loaves, he’d find a book and lay his head on my lap, but then suddenly he’d be pushing me against the couch, one hand next to my head and the other holding my cheek exploring some new technique I’d told him off hand. It was comically methodic, matching the same energy as practicing titan maneuvers. Maybe that’s how he built the courage for himself to do it, aligning it to a common day occurrence. Hey, practice makes perfect, and he was a perfectionist. I didn’t complain.

Yet, he never did anything but kiss me. He’d pull back once he was done practicing or if he decided it was getting too far, ask for a review, make a game plan for tomorrow, and then see it was pretty much the time I’d go to bed. It would make me laugh every time. Tonight was the night before year-end, so I had orders upon orders to fill and no time for Levi to get in some practice. That’s why he commented on how early it was for me to sleep, but he’d have to deal with it. Imagine if anyone saw him like this, he’d be mortified. It made me smug that he was like this just for me. 

I turned around to go to bed, making sure the door was cracked only a little bit. 

“Goodnight Eva,” he mumbled behind the door and I smiled before getting into bed. Tomorrow was going to be a very long day, but at least I had a guaranteed stress relieving session after… even if it left me with some pent up energy… and even if he was leaving in another day or two. I closed my eyes not thinking about it, falling asleep to Levi turning the pages of his book every so often. 

Yet, my sound sleep was interrupted sometime later. I didn’t know what time it was, but I did know that all the candles and lamps in your house were off. That means Levi wasn’t in the study, nor in the kitchen. Maybe I’d only been asleep for an hour and he had yet to wake up from a nap. 

I sat up in my bed, looking around the dark room. Why did I wake up? I shrugged and decided to go get some water or bother Levi if he was awake. Perhaps not having a practice session to wear me out before bed caused this. I threw the covers off of me, feet putting on slippers so I didn’t touch the cold floor. 

Then I heard it. A whimper. It was low and came from the other side of the door. My eyes widened and I grabbed the edge of the door to open it quickly. It took time for my eyes to adjust to the moonlight filtering through the two windows, but it shined right on Levi’s sleeping figure. 

I first saw how deep his eyebrows were creased, and then saw him fisting his shirt. He was asleep, that was for sure, but he was restless. His head was moving every so often and I saw his jaw grit more than once. Then the whimper came again. It made me stop taking steps into the living room to listen closely. I’d never heard that sound come from him ever. 

“N-no.” He grabbed his shirt again, hard, and I saw the fabric twist completely. Then, the noises came. They sounded like noises of struggle, of soft screams at something. He was having a nightmare. My eyes widened and I didn’t know what to do. Do I go and wake him up? I had to. He needed to wake up from whatever he was dreaming of. That was what Jonas did to me. Still, I was worried what would happen if I did. Would he be upset that I saw him like this? 

I approached him, his body softly flailing around as those noises still kept coming. I had to wake him up, I couldn’t see him like this. Still, I stood a foot away from him, trying not to get hit. 

“Levi..? Levi..? Levi!” It didn’t work. He was still thrashing around, sweat falling down his face. It broke my heart to see him like that. Hours previous he was calm, sitting on the couch and reading a book I’d given him about tea. Now, that book was thrown halfway across the room and he looked helpless under this nightmare’s grasp. I had to go in, no matter if he hit me. I couldn’t stand watching him suffer like this. 

I knelt down and grabbed the hand that had his shirt in a death grip. Quickly, it grabbed my wrist, thinking it was some type of invader. Ow, ow, ow, it hurt so much. This was his true strength and my hesitations about waking him up came true. 

“Levi!” I tried to wave that hand, hoping the movement would wake him up, but I couldn’t even move under his harsh grasp. I hoped that his other hand was too busy grabbing the life out of the couch to attack me too. I’d probably have to hit him to wake him up, but that might just escalate the situation. 

“Levi, wake up!” I was yelling at him now, but with no avail. Tears were springing in the corner of my eyes at the pain of being grabbed like that, and soon enough my other hand was hitting his chest in a last resort.

“Levi,” hit, “wake,” hit, “up! Ow, ow, ow, ow!” Why wasn’t he waking up? Oh my gods. I reached up to his face, having to stretch, and slapped him once. It wasn’t hard, but it had to be enough to wake him up. When I pulled back my hand, I gasped feeling the wetness. He was crying. I had to wake him up now. He was in pain. He was hurting. 

“Levi, wake up! Please!” Finally, I used my foot to reach up and kick his side. This made him cough hard, interrupting his whines. I said a polite sorry, but I needed to get my hand out of his grip before he broke my wrist. 

“Levi! It’s me! Eva!” I said through my teeth, not being able to take the pain anymore. I let out a loud groan when he finally released me, falling back to the floor, nursing my wrist with my other hand. I could tell there would be bruises around it tomorrow. Great, on the day I needed my hands the most, I decided to try and get Humanity’s Strongest up from a nightmare. That wasn’t smart at all.

“Eva,” he mumbled, looking at me withering on the floor. He brought a hand to his face, feeling the remains of tears, and then it all clicked. His eyes widened.

“Oh my fuckin-” 

“Ice pack please,” I groaned and he shot up from the coach, running to the icebox to make a bag. Honestly, now that I was sitting here for a few, it didn’t hurt as much, but it was still throbbing. I was more worried about him than my wrist at the moment, but he seemed to completely forget that he was having a night terror seconds previous. 

When he came back over, he grabbed me off the floor, lifting me up on the couch. I didn’t move against him and he grabbed my wrist lightly, making me wince. His eyes had changed now. There was horror, but for the situation in front of him. What he had just done when he was sleeping weighted heavy on him, no doubt. I had to reassure him. 

“Levi, it’s okay. You were-” 

“It’s not okay!” He raised his voice, holding the box of frozen butter to my wrist. I winced more at that than the ice and he noticed. This made him try to calm back down for my own sake.

“Levi, you were having a nightmare. I just tried to wake you up. You didn’t know what you were doing, you were asleep.” Still, he put his head in my lap, hand gripping his leg hard. With every apology, he hit his leg harder.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He whispered it over and over again and it made me want to throw up. He was in so much pain and here he was apologizing for it. I wouldn’t take it. I couldn’t take the fact that he wasn’t only apologizing to me, but still trying to get out of his nightmare. He woke up to a nightmare because of me.

“Levi, stop!” It was harsh, but it got him to stop saying it. When he sat up to look at me, his jaw and hand were still clenched. He was trying to calm down, but his eyes were still wild like before. He was eating himself up inside. 

“I. Hurt. You.” My eyes softened and I lifted my good hand up to touch his cheek. He shied away from it, which made me frown even more. I didn’t care about my damn wrist. 

“What were you dreaming about?” I made sure my voice was softer than before, trying to redirect him. He shook his head. 

“Not important. Your wrist-” I grabbed at his cheek, trying to get him to stop talking. It was the cheek I slapped. 

“Levi, you were crying!” It made him look down at your hand laying on the block of butter. I knew he knew he was crying. I’d never seen him cry before, so it was concerning. It hurt too. I was seeing him in so much pain, but now he felt that he had to hide it from me. I couldn’t do anything to help him even thought I wanted to. I wanted so bad for him to cry in front of me and release whatever he was feeling, but that probably would never happen. Levi would never cry in front of anyone.

“I… I d-don’t want to talk - talk about it. Please.” It was a plea and it hit me deep down. I stopped pressing him. He needed to be comforted. I knew that much. I could do that much.

“Let me hold you?” He took the butter, now at room temperature, and stood up to get away from the question and to get another cold thing. I wasn’t going to let him run away from this. 

“Levi, you said you would lay with me if I had a nightmare. The same applies to you.” He stared at me from the opening in the kitchen, his eyes having no emotion in them anymore. He hid everything deeper and deeper so I couldn’t point anything out.

“No.” You stood up quickly, but Levi was there to make me sit down again with a bag of corn, “No, sit.” 

“If I listen to you, you have to listen to me.” He sighed and pushed me back down to nurse my wrist. 

“The difference is I’m not going back to sleep.” The dark circles under his eyes became more evident to me after that. How much sleep had he lost to nightmares? 

“Are nightmares the reason you don’t sleep much?” I put two fingers under his chin, directing him to look at me again. He didn’t want to, but he wasn’t going to refuse me. 

“Most of the time, yes,” he whispered and that made tears well in my eyes again. Sadly, that seemed to make him feel worse, “Hey, stop. Don’t cry for me. It’s not worth it, okay? They usually aren’t this bad, yeah? Eva, it’s okay. I’m okay.” It was funny he was trying to reassure me when he was the one who needed it the most. He was pushing down everything to make me feel okay. 

“I don’t care. Rules are rules,” I rubbed the tears away with my hand, “If you have nightmares, you had to sleep with me. What’s the difference between laying on the couch and laying in my bed with me?” He turned my wrist so he could ice the other side. 

“There’s a difference to me. I don’t deserve to be in your bed when I hurt you like this.” His thumb ran over the red, splotchy marks on my wrist, and I had to pull him out of his wallowing. Somehow. 

“Then here. I’ll lay here with you on the couch.” He shook his head again.

“No, you go sleep in your bed. I’m up now, for good. There’s only a few hours till sunrise.” I ripped my wrist out of his grasp, hissing at the pain it left me. He only seemed to care about the pain I caused myself and he glared at me for doing something stupid like that. Still, I was going to force him for his own good.

“I’m going to sit here until you lay down with me and that’s final, Levi.” He groaned, and I crossed my arms, careful of my wrist, showing him I was serious. If this was any other situation, he would probably have laughed at me, but he just let out a long sigh. 

“Fine,” it was a whisper of defeat, and I would usually smile, but this time I laid my head in his chest. He got the cue and wrapped his arms around me, leaning back so that his head was laying on a pillow. My body was on top of his, legs intertwined at the other end of the couch. If this were any other situation, I would be blushing, my heart beating faster, but I was here to calm him. Regardless of who was holding who, I needed to make sure that he was okay. I put my ear to his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat. It was still beating fast and I didn’t know if that was because of our position or the adrenaline from earlier. Either way, I reached a hand up to pay with his hair like he liked, trying to get the same reaction out of his that I do when he lays in my lap. He did the same, running his fingers in my still-damp hair from showering. His breath started slowing down too and when I looked up at him, his eyes were closed, so I did the same, matching my breath with his. We laid like this for a few minutes, just taking in the position we had with the other. It was our first time like this, but the pain, physical and mental, overshadowed any type of blushing reserve we would usually have.

“I dreamt about the time my friends were eaten by Titans, but this time you were there too, in that stupid Scout uniform I made you wear.” I opened my eyes at his words. His tone was much calmer, even if he was hiding everything, and I hoped that I was the one who made him feel more at ease. He told me what he dreamt about, and that was all I could ask.

“You said I’d make a good Scout.” He laughed slowly, and I felt the vibrations from his chest. It calmed me down.

“I wanted to say that you looked cute.” It was my turn to blush at his words, so I buried my face into his chest more, taking in his scent. It remained unchanged. Mint, lemon, and cedar

“Do you want me to wear it again?” He grabbed my waist, pulling me up so that our chests’ matched and my face could be buried in his neck. I sat up on my elbows to look his in the eyes, wondering why he pulled me closer.

“No, I think you look fine in what you wear normally.” I rested my head in one of my hands, still looking down at him. Even if he was acting calm, he looked like shit. The tears had dried, but his eyes were still red and the dark circles were now more prominent. The dream hurt him, but he wouldn’t tell me that. He never wanted me to see him broken like that. 

“When you come back from your expedition, can you bring me some more of those button ups? They’re really nice quality.” My free hand, the hurt one, traced circles in his cheek. There was still no emotion in his eyes as he looked up at me. That was the number one tell that he wasn’t okay. He was hiding. 

“No, I can’t steal military issued clothing for you. Besides, we’re already short.” I pouted and, again, there was no emotion or little annoyed expression. He wasn’t giving me anything to work with, and I was getting too tired to yell at him more. He knew that, that’s why he kept talking about random things. 

“What am I going to have when you’re gone for those three months?” He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, resting his hands on my waist. 

“Maybe I’ll be nice to you and leave a few of my military issued shirts in your dresser.” I smiled down at him and finally laid down, my head on his shoulder. Laying with him was as amazing as I expected, if only it wasn’t under such circumstances. He was warm and comfortable, and the thumbs drawing circles in my waist made it easy for you to relax into him. 

“That would be nice of you, Captain. Maybe I’ll be nice to you and leave a few bags of peppermint tea in your duffle bag before you leave.” He moved his hand up to my hair again, running his fingers through it. I was glad I took the time to brush it before bed. 

“That would be nice of you, Co-Captain. Now go to sleep, you have a lot of work to do in the morning.” I hummed, doing just that, on your new, warm, comfortable, muscular bed. How was I ever going to fall asleep on something different now?

Chapter Thirteen→

Chapter Masterlist

xx Sorry for the long wait! I’ve been trying to catch up with my requests and school work!