#hand painted signage

[qualitysigns]

Belfast, Maine, USA

1930s

[leftoverlondoner]

What we want, I hear you say, is some photos of hand painted hairdressers’ signs from Togo. You do? Well here are some I found in a folk art museum in Heidelberg.

[wth-creates]

20240426

[ngssignsmithslondon]

Top 5 NGS copperplate script fonts

Our Famous Slant on Scripts Love Hate Social Club Notting Hill Gallery of hand crafted Copperplate Script sign writing works and inspiration. Fitzbillies of Cambridge Crazy Pig Covent Garden The George Tavern Stepney Soho inspiration Belgium Dutch style Sarf’ Lundun . Script or Cursive lettering is an art and a whole area of expertise that writers either have or not.  Luckily I always…

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ don't let go, okay? | gojo satoru

wc: 2.1k

summary: it has to be some sort of fate that you happen to be stuck with gojo on valentine's day.

contains: f!reader, slowburn, fluff, reader and gojo are 21, reader and gojo are ‘guardians’ to megumi and tsumiki but they are not romantically together, japanese valentine’s chocolate tradition, reader’s cursed technique (vaguely), kind of pining

a/n: in the 'conversations on love' universe but takes place before the main series (would be nice to read but not necessary to understand this). theme song for this is what love is by zimmer90.

part of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within 'conversations on love'. also included in how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas)

The night is crisp when you step into it, the clean cut of a cool breeze tickling your cheek; it sweeps past you in the edge of winter and spring. 

You walk along the street. 

A sort of faded, vintage hue paints Shimokitazawa, wooden boards with worn down signages holding names of antique shops in every corner. The night feels older here, retro lights tinging bars and pubs more maturely than those nearby in Shibuya. At the street across, the sign of a cafe is flipped the other way to formally open the speakeasy it transforms into. 

You’ve only been here twice before: once with Nanami and Utahime years ago, while searching for old vinyl records the three of you had gotten into, and another with Tsumiki, some time last month because she’d mentioned wanting to check the thrift shops. 

Who would have thought you’d be back so soon? With—

“Satoru,” you call out, half-giggling, “why are you sniffing?” 

Gojo trails just a few inches behind you, body bent over closely to catch a whiff but not near enough to touch. Each inhale he takes is punctuated with the sound of whizzing air, condensing to fit through his nostrils. 

“You smell like chocolate.”

Out of all the plans you’d anticipated on Valentine’s Day, being roped into a mission with Gojo at the last minute was definitely not one of them. 

You shake your head knowingly, the corners of your lips curling; Gojo can smell sweets miles away, you could honestly mistake it for his cursed technique. 

He pulls back, falling into step with you. 

“Tsumiki asked me to help make some earlier.” 

Heavy jazz floats through the air as you pass by a bar entrance, the music muffling as the doors fall shut a few seconds later. Your boots clack against the pavement. 

“Oh?” Gojo perks up, voice turning an all-too-familiar hint of nosy as he teases, “What kind?” 

You snort as you dig your hands further into your pockets. For someone who claims to be all-seeing and all-knowing, Gojo is a lot more inquisitive than he seems; his nonchalance is but an added security much like his infinity is, dissipating only in company he’s comfortable sharing that side of him with. 

It’s been a while since Gojo’s been ‘home’ in the past week, so you don’t blame him for wondering. 

“Tomo mostly,” your gaze shifts to the side, waiting for his reaction, “though I did notice her sneaking a few honmei ones when I wasn’t looking.” 

There’s a slight stagger to his step as his shoulders tense up, his sunglasses shifting higher as his ears push back. You bite down your laugh. 

For as clueless as both you and Gojo are when it comes to being guardians to Megumi and Tsumiki, you think Gojo’s grown an odd mix of semi-brotherly-kind of-fatherly-mostly-guardianly protectiveness over the both of them—to Tsumiki especially. You can tell because his reminders to Megumi are always sealed with some form of ensuring Tsumiki makes it home safely. 

‘Home’, which is where the kids stay, but it’s neither yours nor his—just a place nearby that keeps them protected and comfortable. You’re with them most days, Gojo staying when he can, but with the higher-ups assigning him on missions left and right, there’s hardly any time for him to drop by. Hell, you haven’t seen much of him either, besides the rare instances of bumping into him along the halls of Jujutsu Tech, a whine almost always drawn from his throat. 

You see his curiosity as an effort to check in.

He only hums, hollower than his usual responses. The sound of his footsteps fill the gaps of what would typically be a seamless back-and-forth with you; you try not to comment on it. 

Indinstinct chatter brings the street to life, smooth beats cascading warmth against the chilly breeze. Despite the noise, Gojo’s silence feels unsettling—as if there are words forming at the tip of his tongue, withheld for reasons you can’t quite get a read on just yet. 

So, you wait, learning more and more that he usually comes around when—

“Did you?” 

The question is half-murmured, part of it lost to the night. 

Did you what? Notice Tsumiki?

“Hm?” you tilt your head towards him, tucking strands of hair behind your ear in an attempt to hear him better. 

He doesn’t answer. 

You stop walking. 

“Did I what?” you adjust your coat before turning towards him, catching the slightest of his gaze before he looks away quickly.

(“Did you make honmei chocolate?” he means.) 

Still, no answer. 

The tips of Gojo’s ears dust pink, and you try not to comment on that too.

His bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, slipping free before his Adam’s apple bobs, swallowing. 

“Wanna see something cool?” he changes the subject, removing his sunglasses and turning back to you as if none of it happened. As if he didn’t ask you anything, as if you didn’t ask what he meant—as if you didn’t just catch him at the tail end of a wistful stare. 

The shift in his tone happens so suddenly, it feels disjointed. Unnatural. But you’ve gotten used to moments like this from knowing him for so long; Gojo always says less of what he truly means. 

You focus on his face, yellow and red retro lights dancing on clear blue. He looks almost freakish this way, otherworldly—a crazed look you’ve gotten familiar with. His hands are stuffed inside his pockets when he stops, gangly long legs outstretched by the shadow beneath him. 

There’s really no time to be doing this right now, the both of you just 10 minutes away from the mission’s location—an abandoned building housing a special grade curse that lures people in with fabricated memories. Around you, the neighborhood’s nightlife has dwindled, your walk thus far having brought you farther from the heart of the place and closer to somewhere quieter, more secluded. 

Gojo looks too excited, eyes beaming wonder and mischief along with something else you can’t quite figure out yet. You purse your lips in thought. 

“C’mon, it’ll be quick.” he smirks, the dimple on his cheek deepening as he shrugs, “I’ve finally perfected it.”

A beat—skipped before your heart races. 

You wonder if he knows, if he’s using this to his advantage, because—

—when have you ever denied him when he looks at you this way? 

The higher-ups should have known better than to pair you together for a mission. Your instructions were merely ‘to assist’, but you hardly believe it considering Gojo almost always handles these things on his own. It’s more babysitting, you know, to keep the damages of his technique to a minimum. 

They shouldn’t have called on you, of all people—you’re on Gojo’s side. Always. 

A smile threatens to escape your lips, warmth spreading within your cheeks; you roll your eyes jokingly, stifling a giggle before relenting.

“Fine.” 

He guides you forward, chest bumping against your shoulder blade as he picks up pace. It’s a clear road ahead of you, the streets emptying out to more greenery; your senses are filled with the smell of the earth mixed in with the faint cotton of Gojo’s cologne. 

This is bad for your feelings. 

(Being this close to you feels like the ticklish drag of fingernails just right before it creates indents in his chest.) 

There’s something brewing between you and Gojo, neither of you have just addressed it yet. He pulls away when the moment is too close but still looks for you first after missions, an almost automatic question to either Shoko or Ijichi about your whereabouts.

You’ve been catching his stares too, almost always at the split-second before he turns away—a reaction on impulse. The silence between you feels fuller lately, as if there are words he wants to say but is choosing to withhold. 

When the space is vacant enough, he steps a few inches to your right, left hand stuffed inside his pocket as he shakes his arm hesitantly, almost awkwardly. 

“You have to hold on to me,” he instructs you. 

Your eyes widen, equally surprised and shy as you slowly take your hand out of your coat and slip it into the empty space, resting it on the crook of his elbow. Gojo freezes very slightly. 

He shakes it off just as quickly, “You might be sensitive to my domain because of your technique, so stay close just to be safe.” 

Then, his head tilts towards you, a little closer than you’re both used to. This near, his eyes hold a perfect morning sky, eyelashes hanging like wispy clouds on a clear day. 

Your gazes meet and you blink twice, goosebumps littering your skin. 

“Don’t let go, okay?”

Another beat—followed by another, and another, the sound of it growing louder. 

You almost miss the way he says it gentler than normal, how sincere it feels with his breath tickling your cheek. 

“Okay,” your fingers curl around his arm tighter. 

He lifts his other hand up, crossing his fingers as he recites the mantra to his domain. In an instant, the greenery around you disappears, stark white taking its place. 

“What do you think?” Gojo asks almost immediately, crossing his arms over his chest. Your fingers stay curled onto the crook of his elbow, sandwiched between his forearm and bicep; his other hand rests a few centimeters away from yours, nearly touching. 

You scan the space, examining its vastness. Minimalist. A blank sheet—

“It’s…” you try to find the right words, “... empty?” 

He gasps exaggeratedly, “Hey!” then pouts in fake offense, “I made it porcelain white at least. This isn’t pure white you know.” 

You eye him from the side.

He chuckles, breaking his act, “You should be honored.”

A pause—his tone shifting to something softer, more vulnerable. 

“You’re the first person I’m bringing in here.” 

His admission is unexpected, but it feels relevant, makes you feel like it, too. 

You’re touched, knowing how secretive he’s been on perfecting his domain since Toji and Geto; he only ever tells you and Ijichi about it. No one ever pressured him into achieving his perfect domain, but he feels like his existence necessitates it. 

“It’s clean,” you finally say, playing along, “I like it.” 

He eyes you this time, dimples deepening the more he attempts to poorly push down his smile. 

“Shame I can’t really do much with it, would have wanted to spice up the interiors a bit.” 

You snort, knowing full well that Gojo’s very much the type to pick one piece of furniture and anchor the entire place’s aesthetic off of that. 

“Someday,” you catch his eyes again. 

(It echoes in his ears, the quickening thump of his heartbeat—pink noise that can’t possibly be a product of your technique. 

In the silence of his domain, all he hears is that sound and you.) 

He hums before looking back to the empty space, “Acoustics would be good by then, we can try your technique in here.” 

You nod, the corners of your lips curling; his pinky presses against yours so faintly you wonder if you just imagined it—if he had meant it or not. 

. 

The special grade is dealt with within a quarter of the time it took you to travel to here, but Gojo seems to bear the consequences with another one of his migraines—a mixture of fatigue from activating his domain earlier along with sensitivity from the increased bustle in Shimokitazawa’s night life as you exit the neighborhood. 

You make a mental note to get him something that covers his eyes a little bit more than those circle frames he uses—an imbued blindfold maybe? You’ll have to think about it some more. 

(When you both get ‘home’, you set up the couch, offering him the spare bedroom so he can sleep off the headache. It’s a quick trip to the kitchen for a glass of water when he catches a glimpse of it—a fully decorated box of honmei chocolate partially hidden at the corner of the counter. 

The card has half of his name written in your handwriting.

You don’t end up giving it, but he does receive some chocolates from you, still. It’s a belated gift the next day, along with the ones you gift to Shoko, Yaga, and Ijichi—a tradition you’ve kept up since you were 16. 

But, his box has an extra piece, and you even tailored each one to all his favorite flavors: sakura, strawberry, zunda, and anko; his card is the same one you left half-written, just now fully spelling ‘Satoru’. 

So, he thinks his might be a bit more special, and he’s realizing that he likes it that way—he might prefer it much more, actually.)

a/n: haven't written col in a while but this is the official launch of 'do you know what love is like?', a mini-series of almost's within the 'conversations of love' universe! there are lots of details that connect to some of the col works but this happens before all of the ones released so far (so you don't need to read the main series to understand this, but it would add to the full experience if you do!).

thank you notes: @augustinewrites love u my valentine, this fic wouldn't exist without you 🥹 + @stellamancer col couple is here!! with chocolates!! thank you for going over this for the first read 🥹 ily niku + @mididoodles @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat my cheerleaders!! thank you for the support always 🥹

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[p0orbaby]

Born to Love You Back

summary: a very important question is on the horizon

warnings: none

a/n: some rich!reader for you all

word count: 1.7k

-

The jeweller’s salon is tucked into a narrow street in the 1st arrondissement, down a street so narrow you almost missed it, the kind of place that doesn’t need signage because everyone who matters already knows where it is. The building itself is unassuming but pristine, a five-storey townhouse with cream-coloured stone, wrought-iron balconies, a double door painted a deep charcoal with brass fixtures that gleam in the waning afternoon sun. Outside, a delivery van idles, spilling faint notes of Edith Piaf from its radio as a man unloads crates of flowers: cyclamen, lilies, eucalyptus branches arranged in bursts of green and white. They’ll likely find their way to the salon’s interior within the hour, arranged with almost mathematical precision to evoke a studied nonchalance.

Inside, it’s quiet—museum-like but less sterile, hushed but alive. There’s a balance between the soft hum of conversation from another room and the faint, barely perceptible scent of lilies and leather. The floors are a herringbone parquet, polished to an impossible sheen, and the walls are panelled in dove grey. Everything about the space is designed to whisper money. Even the receptionist, stationed behind a desk lacquered to such a high gloss that it might double as a mirror. She’s mid-twenties, probably just out of university—Sciences Po, perhaps, or one of the Grandes Écoles—wearing a black crepe shift dress that hits just above the knee. Chanel, you’d bet, though it’s hard to tell from here. Her hair is sleek and straight, parted sharply in the middle, her nails painted in Rouge Noir, a colour so iconic it’s practically shorthand for Parisian sophistication. She greets you in French first, then switches to English the moment she hears your accent, though her tone remains precisely the same—warm but not too warm, deferential but not subservient.

Aurélie is waiting for you on the stairs. She’s maybe late thirties, tall, with that certain froideur that women in her line of work cultivate like a second skin. Her blazer is Saint Laurent—black, sharply tailored, peak lapels—and her silk blouse is an ivory so fine it catches the light in a way cotton never could. Her trousers skim the tops of her Louboutin heels—black patent leather, red soles so subtle they barely register. Her jewellery is minimal but deliberate: a single strand of Mikimoto pearls, their lustre so perfect they almost look artificial, and a pair of matching studs. She smiles when she greets you, her lips painted a nude so neutral it could have come from any number of Tom Ford palettes, but you’d guess Casablanca.

“This way, please,” she says, gesturing towards the stairs with a hand that’s manicured in a soft ballet pink, not a chip in sight. You follow her up, noting the faint scent of her perfume—Chanel No. 19, not a popular choice but a discerning one, with its crisp notes of galbanum and iris that feel both professional and unapologetically feminine.

On the landing, there’s a painting—a still life, maybe Cézanne, maybe a very good imitation. You don’t stop to look, but it catches your eye enough to linger in your mind as Aurélie opens a door to the second-floor where Its quieter, darker. The walls are a deep navy—Farrow & Ball, maybe Hague Blue—and the rug beneath the central display case is thick enough to swallow the sound of your footsteps. The case itself is glass-topped and backlit, the kind of lighting that renders diamonds almost supernatural in their brilliance. The rings are arranged by cut and carat, each one nestled in its own velvet slot, the symmetry of the display both calming and slightly overwhelming.

Aurélie steps aside, giving you space but remaining close enough to anticipate your needs. She stands with her hands loosely clasped in front of her, her posture immaculate.

“Take your time,” she says, standing back with the same attentive grace she’s shown since you arrived.

You nod, your gaze already falling to the rings. You’ve thought about this for weeks, maybe months, but standing here, it feels more real, the weight of the decision settling in your chest. Not because you’re uncertain—you’re not—but because this is a moment you’ll remember, whether you want to or not.

The first ring is a cushion-cut diamond, two carats, set in a band of pave diamonds. Platinum, naturally. The proportions are flawless, the craftsmanship impeccable, but as you turn it in the light, you know immediately it’s wrong. Too ornate. Too eager. Alexia would hate it. You imagine her wearing it for a moment, and the thought feels so ridiculous you almost laugh. She doesn’t like excess, at least not in the obvious sense. Her taste is clean, modern, unfussy.

The second ring is pear-shaped, slightly smaller, but with a brilliance that draws your eye. The stone feels alive under the light, its facets catching every subtle movement of your hand. For a moment, you hesitate, thinking about how it would look on her hand, but then you remember something she said once, flipping through a magazine in bed: “Pear cuts are too delicate. They look like they’re trying too hard.”

You sigh, not quite aloud, but enough for Aurélie to notice. She steps closer, just enough to offer a quiet suggestion. “Does she have a preference?” she asks, her tone light, neutral. “For the setting, or the cut?”

“She likes things simple,” you say, the words coming out more clipped than you mean them to. It’s not her fault, this unease you feel. “Classic, but not boring”

Aurélie nods, her expression unchanged, and steps back again. You wonder if she can sense the weight of what you’re doing—if she’s seen enough of this to know the signs. The third ring catches your eye before you reach for it. A round brilliant diamond, 1.8 carats, set in a plain platinum band. No pave, no halo, no embellishments. It’s striking in its simplicity, the kind of ring that doesn’t need to assert itself because it knows what it is. You pick it up, holding it to the light, and as you turn it, something settles in you. This is the one. You don’t need to overthink it.

Aurélie smiles faintly, as though she already knew. “Shall I prepare it for you?” she asks.

You nod, handing it back, and she takes it with both hands, disappearing into a back room.

While she’s gone, you pull out your phone. You shouldn’t call her—she’s probably still at training, her mind on drills and tactics—but you do it anyway. She answers on the third ring, her voice steady but soft, with that familiar cadence you’ve missed more than you’d care to admit.

“Hey,” she says, her voice clear, grounded, with just the faintest lilt of distraction. In the background, there’s a low murmur of voices, the familiar thud of a ball meeting turf, maybe a coach shouting something that’s swallowed up by the wind. You imagine the sun slicing through the Catalan sky, the kind of relentless brightness that makes the whole city shimmer.

“Hey,” you reply, smoothing nonexistent creases from your blazer out of habit, though no one is watching. Your reflection in the polished glass of the display case looks composed, disinterested, but the sound of her voice pulls something taut inside you. “How’s training?”

“Same as always,” she says, and there’s a pause—just long enough for you to hear her exhale softly, almost imperceptibly. You know she’s stepped aside, moved to some quieter corner of the training complex where no one will overhear. She’s careful like that, never careless, always aware of her surroundings.

“Still exhausting?” you ask, and she laughs under her breath—a low, warm sound that lingers longer than it should.

“Mhm,” she hums, the sound of it makes you smile despite yourself. “But it’s a good kind of exhausting. You know how it is”

“Not sure I do,” you tease, leaning against the edge of the display case, its surface cool against your hand. “I can’t say I’ve run laps around a pitch lately. Unless you count running several businesses as exercise”

“Of course,” she says, dry but affectionate, “such an athlete. Truly inspiring”

The corner of your mouth twitches upward. “I aim to impress”

There’s a faint rustle of movement on her end—maybe she’s leaning against a wall, maybe adjusting the strap of her training bib. You picture her in that effortless way she carries herself: shorts sitting just right, socks perfectly rolled down, hair tied back in that half-loose, half-styled way that only someone like her can pull off.

“Where are you?” she asks, not because she doesn’t know, but because it’s the kind of question you ask when you want the conversation to last a little longer.

“Near Rue de la Paix,” you say, keeping it vague. “Finishing up a meeting”

“You’re always finishing up a meeting,” she says, and there’s a lightness to her tone, but it doesn’t quite hide the subtext.

“You’re always training,” you counter, matching her tone, and you hear her chuckle, soft but genuine.

“Buen punto”

There’s a brief pause. In the background, someone calls her name, a voice you don’t recognise, and she responds with a quick, sharp “Un momento.” The way she switches languages so fluidly—it’s seamless—and yet it reminds you, in a small but certain way, that her world is different from yours. Barcelona, with its golden afternoons and relentless sun, its terracotta rooftops and restless streets, feels a thousand miles away from the polished stillness of this Parisian jewellers.

“You should,” you encouraged knowing full well she’ll make no move to end the call herself.

“I’ll see you tonight?” she asks, and it’s a question, but not really.

“Of course,” you say, without hesitation this time.

There’s another silence after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of silence you could live in, one where nothing needs to be said because the words are already understood. Finally, she says, “Te quiero,” and you hear the faint click as she ends the call.

Aurélie returns with the ring, now nestled in a velvet box so pristine it looks almost untouched by human hands. You slip it into your pocket, the weight of it grounding you, and leave the salon with a nod of thanks.

Outside, Paris feels sharper, brighter. The air smells faintly of rain and burnt sugar from a nearby crepe stand, and the light is just beginning to soften as dusk approaches. For the first time all day, you feel steady.

[explorevenus]

dirty laundry ♡ re6!leon kennedy x puppy hybrid!reader

nsfw (18+) - minors dni or i will call ur mom. and also the cops

word count: 5.1k

tags/warnings: re6!leon, stubborn/reluctant puppy reader who pretends she hates him, brief chris redfield appearance, forced proximity (kinda), leon pining for u (he wants u to call him daddy btw), hybrid heat cycle shenanigans, thigh riding, dry humping, oral sex (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), no use of y/n

description: leon's had a tough time figuring out his new puppy hybrid roommate... outside of the fact that she's sweet on him, and just won't admit it. lucky for leon, he comes home from a mission to find her airing her dirty laundry.

a/n: this piece was commissioned by my beloved and adored @pupthepokemonenthusiast who is one of MY FAVORITE PEOPLE ON EARTH EVER ?!!!! and i luv yapping w them and that makes collaborating w them such a dream every time....

divider by @cafekitsune !!

my masterlist ♡

my ao3 ♡

fic under the cut, thanks so much for reading and i hope u enjoy ;w;

-venus ♡

Loose gravel crunched beneath Leon's boots, uneven pavement glittering with moisture in the streetlights. It was somewhere between raining and snowing, the wind splattering his rosy cheeks with little drops of condensation, every breath puffing out in a visible cloud, head tilted down at just the right angle to protect the lower half of his bruised face from the cold while still being able to see where he was going.

He didn't have a specific destination in mind, and truth be told, he couldn't really read most of the signage around here anyway-- it was all in Mandarin, and his Mandarin was even less reliable than his Spanish, to put it gently. But he could read what he needed to, at least, enough to find the basics like food, bathrooms, lodging, or hospitals, and more importantly, he could discern the backlit lettering above the shop two doors down; antiques and collectibles. 

That was a phrase he'd familiarized himself with in damn near every language under the sun by now. 

A bell dinged quietly overhead as he stepped into the storefront, grateful that it was even open past 9 o'clock at night. It was only one room and didn't have much space to walk around, but every available surface was stacked to the brim with knick-knacks of all shapes, colors, sizes, and price points under no apparent system of organization. Where some might be overwhelmed or put off by the volume of things to look at, Leon felt his heart skip a beat with excitement. He still had some time to kill before his transport back to the States was due to arrive, and not a single minute of it would be wasted overlooking any potential gems. 

Judging by the horrified stares he was attracting, Leon could imagine he looked fucking insane right now, clothes still splattered with wet, rotting blood and the barrel of his gun practically still smoking in his holster as he towered over a shelf in the back corner, scrutinizing a darling little plush bear in one hand and a set of hand-painted matryoshka dolls in the other like it was the hardest decision he would ever have to make. 

Ultimately, he chose not to decide at all-- money wasn't a factor, so why not buy both? If it weren't for the issue of luggage, he'd just say 'fuck it' and buy out the whole damn store. Unfortunately, helicopters tended to be quite limited in space. 

Self control was a skill Leon used to have mastered, perhaps even too well-- for a long time, every uncomfortable, unsightly, pesky little emotion was pressed down into a condensed cube to be neatly packed away in the very back corners of his brain, boxes upon boxes of dense feelings continuing to pile up and take over more and more space up there until the pressure became too much, the lid blew, and he went off the fucking handle. It wasn't something he was proud of by any means, all those long months blurred into mush through a lens of alcoholism and other reckless behaviors, but what he did try to let himself be proud of was his relative success in making it to the other side. 

That, of course, was a feat he did not accomplish without help, nor would he ever claim to. Chris Redfield was instrumental in his recovery in more ways than one, and at times, without even realizing it. He was a listening ear, a dealer of tough love, a trusted confidant...

...and the reason he had you. 

For obvious reasons, Leon had never gone out of his way to get a pet in his adult life. It just felt irresponsible with the inconsistency and uncertainty of his work situation, even with all the money in the world to spend on trainers and walkers and boarding and... whatever else, but at that point, it would feel less like a pet than an accessory, and Leon didn't have much interest in material. Never saw the need for it. Then one day Chris woke him up in the middle of the night banging on the door to his apartment with a gift he never expected.

"She's a... what?"

"A hybrid. She's a human-canine hybrid, Leon." 

Leon glanced between you and Chris with skepticism in his eyes, only to find the same look peering back at him in you. It was almost kind of funny that he'd have a hard time believing there could be such a thing as a human-canine hybrid, considering all he'd seen in his line of work, a thought that made his shoulders and his expression relax almost instantly. 

You were a real cutie, that was for sure, tucked behind Chris and staring up at Leon through your eyelashes with this grumpy little look on your face, a plush, patchwork bear clutched to your chest. The toy was equally as vibrant and colorful as your clothing, if not a bit worn with time. Your ears were long and droopy, your tail hanging low but swishing side-to-side with cautious interest, and the longer he studied you, the more he became endeared by you. 

"The B.S.A.A. rescued a group of hybrids from an illegal facility a few weeks ago, but finding accommodations for them isn't as simple as it sounds," Chris continued, resting a hand on your shoulder in an apparent move to reassure you. "Long story short, the people who were in charge of that facility aren't too happy about the acquisition, and the hybrids aren't safe at the B.S.A.A. anymore. Would you be willing to shelter her for a while?" 

The firm look in Chris' eyes-- and the fact that he just had to bring this up with you right in front of him-- made it clear he wasn't really asking. No mind, Leon would have done it anyway. It just would have been nice to have had a heads up to rectify the state of the apartment. 

"Yeah, of course," Leon nodded gently, stepping aside to allow you and Chris further into the apartment. "Make yourself at home." He caught the way your head tilted up a bit, as if you were studying the scent in the air, and he supposed it made sense that you likely were.

That was four months ago. And for the past four months, Leon quite enjoyed having you around. You were silly and playful, always bounding around the apartment with a toy clenched between your teeth or lounging in the sunny spots in front of the windows, pawing at him for belly rubs and treats and infinite tug-o-war matches. All that being said, you were equally stubborn, resisting him at every turn like magnetic repulsion, always kicking up a fuss seemingly just for the sake of it.

He wasn't sure. You were tough to read. Not only did some of your canine personality traits make you a bit forgetful and distractible at times, but you were also just terribly inconsistent with your affections, and he wasn't always sure what to make of it. All he knew was that he was determined to win you over in one way or another, and if he was going to do that, he'd have to figure you out first, and so far that was shaping up to be quite the herculean task. At least it seemed you would be here for a while. 

With the way he guarded your little treasures during the flight home, one might assume he was smuggling something, but he just couldn't stomach the thought of coming home without something to present to you. The hardened federal agent was determined to crack a smile out of you on his terms, to get you to admit what you both knew to be true. 

You had a crush on him. A big, fat, embarrassingly all-encompassing crush on him, and you rejected the idea of owning up to it so staunchly that it was turning you into a bit of a brat. That was the one thing he could read about you, and it drove you up the wall. 

He certainly wasn't judging you. It would be an absurd lie to say he didn't have a big, fat, embarrassingly all-encompassing crush on you too-- he'd be insane if he didn't. But the back and forth was far too enjoyable, and Leon was always up for a good natured challenge. 

See, self control was something Leon had worked really, really hard to regain a handle on, and when it came to his drinking and brooding, he certainly had... but when it came to you? Not by a longshot. That being said, he would rather be pouring himself into courting you than pouring himself another bourbon. That's what he used to shut up that little voice in the back of his head that questioned whether or not he was putting too much energy into this, banking too much on it. 

It was innocent, right? It's not like you were a bad influence or whatever. If anything, a lot of nights that he would have spent at the bar were instead being spent at home playing with you. Surely that had to be a net positive, especially considering you would have otherwise been getting poked and prodded at in a lab. 

Stepping back into the apartment for the first time in weeks, Leon hadn't even bothered bringing his duffel bag in with him from the car, the only thing in his arms being the wrinkled paper bag from that antique shop. His own belongings could wait. As soon as he shut and locked the door behind him, stepping out of his shoes, the first thing he noticed was how quiet it was. 

No lively music from the shows you liked to watch, no little bumps or growls from you playing toys, no quiet padding of your feet across the hardwood from you coming to see who was at the door. He glanced at his watch, finding it was only half past nine in the evening, and while you often proclaimed to abide by a healthy bedtime for yourself, you had a habit of napping all day and bouncing off the walls all night. Something was amiss.

Stepping further into the apartment to investigate the scene, Leon peered into the living room. The lights were on, the TV was off, there were a few toys strewn about the couch and the floor, but not a glimpse of the sweet puppy who left them there. Odd. Suspicious. Maybe even staged. 

His lips came together in a whistle meant to grab your attention, knowing your sharp ears would hear it from anywhere in the apartment, even if you were sleeping. When that call garnered no response, he began to wonder if you were mad at him. After all, he was supposed to return almost three days ago, and while Chris had been able to stop by and check on you when he had the time, it just wasn't the same, and you didn't do well with loneliness, and Leon knew that. 

Turning on his heel to head deeper into the apartment, he continued to find you nowhere. Not climbing the countertops in the kitchen, or playing under the dining table, or even reluctantly having a bath. As he reached the end of the short hallway, there were only two doors left to open. 

Leon tried another whistle and called out, "Hey, pup? I'm home!" 

He waited, and listened... and heard nothing. Your bedroom door was closed, and it looked like the light was on in there, judging by the subtle glow spilling out beneath it, but still, no response. 

His bedroom door, however, was cracked open. The overhead light was off but the bedside lamp was on, and his dirty laundry basket was tipped over on the floor. When he stepped forward to turn it upright again, he thought he saw the bedding shuffle out of the corner of his eye. Closer inspection of the bed brought the case of his missing puppy girl drew to a close. Your soft tail was peeking out beneath the edge of the covers, the markings and patterns in your fur being undeniably familiar to him now. 

It was perfect timing, really-- he was just about to tip over into the realm of worrying about your safety, but now he was back to just worrying you were mad at him... and he couldn't help the amused grin that tugged at his expression. 

"Is that a little puppy in daddy's bed?" He asked aloud, his tone taking on a smitten and adoring lilt. Once again, he received no response... at least not verbally. Quietly setting down that paper bag, he stood there and watched with his arms crossed as your tail fluttered to life in response to his tone, the tip silently patting the sheets in a lazy and reluctant little wag that you might have actually gotten away with, if it weren't for the fact that your tail was in plain view. 

He was initially going to try a few more times to get a response out of you, hoping to make sure you were okay and to see if you wanted to talk, but he quickly realized that wasn't going to work with you. You weren't all doom and gloom like he tended to be, you were silly, you were playful, you were fundamentally kind. A lighthearted approach wouldn't work with him, or with most of the people he dealt with on a day-to-day basis, but it would almost certainly work with you. 

"Well," Leon stretched his arms up with a dramatic groan, "Since there's no puppies in the bed..."

And then he playfully toppled over the lump in the bedding, bracing himself on his elbows so as not to actually crush you, of course, music to his ears being the muffled squeal of stubborn discontent that sounded out from beneath the covers.

"Leon!" You whined, arms squirming around beneath him in a desperate flurry of moves to find the edge of the blanket, tugging it down to free your face for some air. Soon enough your head poked out from beneath the covers and your eyes were already narrowed into unamused slits at him. 

But that wasn't really what caught his attention about the look on your face. You were panting for breath, your ears flopped back lazily and your hair an absolute mess, your skin hot to the touch and clammy with sweat. Now his eyes were narrowed at you in suspicion, because you were certainly frustrated, just... not the kind of frustrated he was anticipating, if his suspicions were found to be correct. 

"You look guilty," He commented, brow raised as he took you by the chin and tilted your head this way and that, as though in observation. "Why do you look guilty, puppy?" 

"I'm not," You were quick to defend yourself-- much too quick, in Leon's opinion-- and you stubbornly recoiled back from his hand, continuing to squirm and resist beneath him. "You're squishing me!" 

You planted the palm of your hand dead in the center of his face in an attempt to push him away, the bedding slipping further down in the process to reveal your flushed collarbones and shoulders, both of which were bare. Were you naked? In his bed? 

He took you by the wrists to pin your hands down with ease, staring down at you in scrutiny. "Don't lie to me, sweetheart," He said, tone firm, but not unkind. "You're red as a tomato." 

With a stubborn whine, your ears flattened back against your messy head in what could only be read as shame, and that certainly wasn't what he was going for at all, even with the compromising position he had you in at the moment. It was just meant to tease you, but you looked mortified, and he could only imagine why that might be. 

"Puppy," He softened, letting go of your wrists, one hand taking you by the cheek to gently caress you. "You know I can't help you if you don't tell me what's going on." 

Your mouth fell open and then snapped shut again a time or two, a clear indication that you were tripping over your words in search of the right ones. Finally, you managed, "It's... I-It's hot." 

"Then why are you all bundled up, huh?"

You didn't even really need to admit it at this point, because it was clear as day what was going on here-- after all, Chris had warned him this might happen, that hybrids could have... intense reproductive cycles-- but he also wasn't going to push it if you just wanted to ride it out on your own. He wasn't an expert on this, he didn't know exactly what you needed, and he didn't want to overstep and freak you out.

That being said, the thought that you'd retreated to his bedroom, desperate to surround yourself with his belongings in his absence just to cope with being in heat, was a remarkably good one.

This time you didn't seem to have a retort, still writhing under him and trying to push him off of you, which wasn't new behavior for you, though this time he did take it upon himself to give you some space instead of continuing to mess with you. 

"Alright, alright, relax, daddy's not making fun of you--" 

"You're not my daddy," You interjected stubbornly, but just like always, the rosy, searing blush on your face betrayed how you really felt about the topic, even as you added, "Stop trying to make me call you that!" 

Leon dearly and sincerely adored you, that much was to be sure, but your hard-headedness could run him ragged sometimes, when you'd dig your heels in so hard about things that seemed so innocuous. Whether or not you should be expected to call him daddy-- which he regularly enjoyed teasing you about but would never legitimately force you to do-- didn't feel like the biggest issue at hand here. Not by a mile. 

How was he supposed to focus on that when you were just... burning up? Panting for breath and shaking and whining? Oh dear God, this wasn't good, and for as much effort as he was putting into focusing on your wellbeing, it was becoming increasingly difficult not to focus on the way his pants were beginning to feel uncomfortably cozy in the front. He brought one hand down between you to adjust himself only to find he'd unintentionally solicited a faint, but distinctly needy moan from you in the process, presumably because you'd touched you somewhere he hadn't necessarily meant to. 

"G-Go away, Leon," You insisted, eyes screwed shut as you turned your head to the side and maintained that stubborn frown he knew so well on you. "Get off of me!" 

But your tail was wagging in an absolute blur, thumping mindlessly against the damp sheets and knocking in between his knees at an intensity that was impossible to miss. Leon's eyes narrowed and he bared his teeth in an intrigued grin before finally sitting back on his haunches, still straddling you, but at least freeing your upper half. 

"Leon, quit--" 

You poor dear, you were so, so close to finishing that sentence, if only it weren't for the way Leon swung one leg between your own, driving his knee right up to the apex until you felt the muted pressure lavish your clit. Whatever you were about to say fizzled out on your tongue and instead popped out in a string of whimpers, your back arching up off the bed. The movement caused the bedding to slip down just a little bit further, confirming his suspicion that you were in fact naked, at least from the waist up.

Taking the soft globe of your breast into the palm of his hand, Leon let his thumb brush over your already pebbled nipple and asked lowly, "Oh, c'mon, pretty puppy... you're totally sure you don't want daddy's help? I think you're just being fussy..."

Your chest rumbled with a little growl, but it was more of a moan than that, and the fiery glare on your face was the perfect image of it. You were pissed, and quite frankly, it was a good look on you. Maybe even one of his favorites. Suddenly you were baring your teeth at him too, just pretending it was in the opposite way. You were such an open book to him. 

"You're being mean," Huffed the stubborn little puppy, but of course, Leon could be meaner. 

So he was. Leon snatched the covers off the bed in one quick swipe, and what was revealed to him beneath had to have been a thousand times better than anything he might have expected. You were naked, yes, but tangled between your legs was a pair of his sweatpants, undoubtedly retrieved from the depths of the overturned laundry basket, the grey cotton soaked through in patches with slick all over the crotch and thighs. 

Fucking Christ, you weren't just getting off to the thought of him, but also the scent of him, the feeling of his clothes on your skin, and presumably, an idea not unlike what he was already teasing you with; letting you rub one out on his thigh. 

Squishing your cheeks in one hand, he said firmly, "Look at me. Do you honestly feel like I'm being mean to you?" 

There was a pause while you stared at each other, your eyes searching his own skeptically. It didn't really seem he was messing with you, no, in fact he appeared like he really wanted to help you. The back and forth was fun and he enjoyed the little game you'd made out of getting to know each other, but when it came to your comfort and wellbeing, he wasn't interested in being forced to solve puzzles. You couldn't really blame him. 

"N-No," You admitted. 

"Exactly, so just... simmer down, will you?" 

This time Leon didn't give you another chance to tell him to fuck off. He scooped you up at the waist and pulled you to your knees, drawing your body close to his until you were straddling his left thigh. Eyes wide, you stared at him stiffly, like you were too afraid to move. Huffing out a breath, he rolled his eyes with a smirk and gripped your hips, tugging you down until you were finally bearing your weight on him. 

For as fast as your pointed teeth sank into your bottom lip to quiet yourself, it didn't even matter. You still let out a pleasured whine, ears flat against your head and your tail hung low, the tip swishing in a reluctant little wag that patted the outside of his knee with every other beat. 

"You're too precious for your own damn good," He grumbled, thumbs brushing soothing circles into your hips. "Y'know that, pup?"

Breaths falling short, it felt like your head was full of warm mud, teetering for balance on your neck as your upper body tipped forward to grasp at his arms. As expected, Leon caught you effortlessly, steadying you by cupping your face in his hands so he could look you right in your braindead little eyes, your noses almost touching as your tongue lolled out in lazy gasps.

It was obvious he wasn't going to get much more out of you in the way of words at this point, so it was a damn good thing you had that pretty tail knocking about. He figured all that wiggling was the closest he'd get to a literal window into your mind. 

"Go on, then," Leon smoothed your hair away from your sticky forehead, still mindful to hold you upright. His tone was low and, as always, far too sweet for you... but it was so nice, it vibrated down to the base of your spine and made you dizzier. You were just about to fulfill what he was encouraging you to do when he added wryly, "You've already made such a mess, don't get shy on me now." 

A quiet whimper stuttered from your dry throat-- you couldn't sit still anymore, he was being evil and he knew it, downright evil... and you typically would have stuck up your nose at him and brooded on it for a while, but you didn't even have the strength of mind for that at the moment. You hardly even realized you were already rocking your hips back and forth against the clothed meat of his thigh, nails threatening to snap under the pressure as they begged to sink past his shirt and into his muscles. 

It was pleasant, sure, but it wasn't nearly enough, especially not after hours and hours and hours of tossing and turning in his bed, rubbing yourself nearly numb with your fingers and your toys and his pillows and his clothes, aching for something tangible and warm to nurse the pain away. You let your forehead rest against his own for a moment to catch your breath, hoping to find the right angle, but you just weren't getting what you needed, and the frustration alone made your glassy eyes sting with the threat of tears. 

That just wouldn't do. 

"Oh, you really made a mess, didn't you, sweet girl?" Leon cooed sympathetically, shushing your delicate cries. Thumbs skimming over your burning cheeks, he asked quietly and carefully, "Why don't you let daddy lick it up, hm?" 

Your expression scrunched up in a weak pout and your empty little head bobbed up and down in an airy nod, and just as soon as you gave him that go-ahead, he was moving to make it so. You were on your back in seconds, Leon's broad hands spreading your plush thighs apart to make space for himself between them, and for as cool and composed as he was trying to appear right now, he couldn't help the low moan that made it past him just at the sight of you. 

Sure, he'd seen more than enough by now to guess that you were wet, but you weren't just wet, you were dripping all over yourself. It was all he could do to collect as much of you on his tongue as possible, groaning at the taste and dragging you closer by your hips until he was as close as he could get, the tip of his nose buried against the curls at the lowest point of your mound as he lapped you up with abandon.

You were writhing and crying, legs kicking out at the stimulation before drawing back up to dig into his shoulders and pull him further into you, into the mess of you. He'd managed to find it somehow, to become that something tangible and warm and redefine it, unraveling you from the root with a sanguine sense of desperation that was tempered by his undying commitment to treating you like you were made of glass. 

Your tail was curling up tight against the base of your spine, your chest was heaving for breath, you couldn't keep your eyes open anymore, and he hardly could either. 

But he also couldn't stand not to. If you had the capacity to pay attention to small details, you might have noticed his eyes were just as bleary and drunk as yours were. Leon recorded your every movement in his mind like scripture from this angle, his own hips rutting down into the bed while yours bucked into his mouth, and it was only when he found the strength to pull away for air that he found a moment to reorient himself in reality. 

His lips were puffy, rosy, and slick with you as he caught his breath, two fingers toying with your puffy, aching clit in the absence of his tongue. It was almost like muscle memory for him to reach up with his free hand and pat your belly, an affectionate hum ringing from him at the near-immediate reaction it got out of you, even in a state like this. You were squirming and arching beneath him as your quivering body fought to determine priority over the attention brought by either hand, a rather endearing dilemma to have found yourself in. 

"Oh, my poor baby," Leon preened, lavishing the inside of your right thigh with kisses. "You're so cute..." 

Unable to help himself from letting you have the best of both forms of pampering, he replaced the tips of his fingers with his tongue yet again, freeing both hands to pet your soft tummy. The movements were lazy, but sure enough, your tail was going off as fast as it could while you laid there shivering and whining and clawing at him, tumbling over the edge into release before you could come up with a way to warn him first. 

As if he would have cared anyway. A warning wouldn't have changed anything. Hell, it might have even spoiled what turned out to be a dizzying moment of unabashed indulgence for him. 

Gentle, adoring hands kneading delicately at all your favorite spots, Leon willfully deprived himself of oxygen in pursuit of every drop of your syrup as it flowed from you, knowing he would come to regret being wasteful later if this should turn out to be a one-time thing. He lost himself to the throes of hedonism for several drawn out moments until he was confident you were licked clean, until he came to again and realized you had gone completely limp in the wake of your expenditure. 

Rolling over onto his back, Leon spread out just as bonelessly across the bed as you did, the both of you a sorry sight of sweat and heat. He spent several minutes trying to find a way to break the silence. With the haze of lust wearing off a bit and clearing up space in his mind for more intelligent processes, Leon was already beginning to dread the inevitable conversation this would warrant between the two of you.

Lucky for him, that was so far outside of the realm of your current train of thought... or lack thereof. You certainly felt better, but that didn't mean your brain wasn't mud anymore. Little else mattered to your muggy, muddled mind but the here and now. 

In an unexpected move, you rolled onto your side to rest your head against his chest. The way you struggled to meet his eyes was enough for him to know you were likely still struggling to talk, or maybe you just didn't really want to, but the olive branch you'd extended demonstrated your agreeable state, which was more than he could've said for you half an hour ago. 

Shit, half an hour ago he was still hoping a couple presents from his trip would win your affections, yet here he was with the taste of you lingering on his lips, your naked body curled up to him for comfort. 

Wrapping his arm tightly around you until you were tucked up comfortably into his side, Leon rested his chin atop your head and mumbled fondly, "What am I gonna do with you, huh? Can't even sleep in my own bed after a long mission 'cause this pretty little puppy made such a big mess... I hope you know how to work the washing machine."

[jezebelblues]

apollo | h.s

summary: fall 1925. a journalist looking for a story, a jazz musician dancing with the devil. [au]

cw: smut18+ - oral fem!receiving, alcohol usage, drugs, fem!reader, depiction of gangs, lower case in case u hate me for it, unedited.

word count: approx 16.7k

| debated posting for a while idk. can u tell i have a thing for historical au’s yet

masterlist

october 16th, 1925 | chicago

a brick building sat tucked into a narrow side street, a sweet irony. it was flanked by tall, worn structures that once boomed with business but now seemed abandoned - their faded signage barely legible in the dingy light of street lamps. there was a reminiscence that lingered, the apollo club once tucked into bed and remained asleep as the city began to expand. there’s no longer a sign that introduces apollo to the public, having been removed a few years ago as the prohibition bared its ugly teeth.

the marquee sign held a dim, white glow with no words placed into it. however, on top of the sign sat a faded golden lyre, subtly marking the place for those who knew. the large entrance door had the chipped markings of the sacred name from a previous white paint, but since has been worn due to time. it’s the kind of door you’d pass by without a glance, unless you knew to look for it.

the club entrance is set into a recessed alcove, shadowed by the overhang of a rusted fire escape. the door itself is heavy and wooden, painted black, with the sheen of wear from countless hands that have brushed against it. it's always slightly ajar, as if welcoming those with enough curiosity to push through, yet closed enough to keep out prying eyes. graffiti lines the walls of the alley, the scrawl of the city's underbelly just a little louder here, a hint that apollo is more than just a music venue - it's a haven for those who dwell in the shadows of society.

a faint, pulsating glow of golden light leaks from beneath the door, casting long shadows onto the rain-slicked pavement. on humid summer nights, you'd hear the low, vibrating hum of jazz slipping out through the cracks - just enough to make a passersby wonder. there's an old iron gate, usually half open, that leads into the alley, lined with crumbling brickwork, creating the feeling of stepping into another world once you've crossed it.

the baseline thrummed through the floorboards, a low, sultry hum that vibrated in the soles of Y/N’s shoes as she stepped into the speakeasy. smoked curled lazily in the air, hanging like the lingering whispers in the dimly lit room. glasses clinked somewhere in the haze, the murmur of voices a soft undercurrent beneath the rich, haunting notes of a piano.

apollo was hidden away in the outskirts of the city, masked - a sanctuary for the lost and reckless. she had heard about this place, about the intoxicating music and the enigmatic man who commanded the small stage. but no story or rumor could have prepared her for the reality.

he was there, center stage, his figure bathed in the golden glow of a single spotlight. harry styles. the name had followed Y/N for weeks, woven into the fabric of the underground world she’d been chasing. no one knew much about him, but everyone had a theory. some said he was a runaway aristocrat, others swore he was tangled up with the mob. all anyone could agree on was that harry's voice could pull the soul right out of your body, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

and now, watching him under the light, she understood why.

he wore a suit that was all sharp lines and expensive fabric, his hair curling softly against the collar of his white shirt, the top button undone in a casual defiance of formality. a cigarette hung loosely from his lips, the smoke twisting like a lazy snake around his face. his eyes, half-lidded and distant, caught the light just enough to gleam as his fingers skimmed across the keys of the piano, a melody drifting from the instrument like a dream. the room fell silent around him, every eye drawn to the man who made the world seem to slow with every note he played.

Y/N stood in the shadows by the bar, watching. observing. this was why you were here. not just for the story, but for him.

as harry's song came to an end, a slow, mingling silence settled over the room. he stood from the piano, and for a brief moment, his eyes swept the crowd - dark, heavylidded, and sharp. when his gaze landed on her, it felt like a secret had passed between the two, unspoken yet undeniable. a slow smile curled at the corner of his lips, like he knew she’s been watching. like he had expected her all along.

Y/N’s breath caught.

this wasn't just any speakeasy, and harry styles wasn't just any jazz musician.

the crowd erupted in applause, but Y/N barely heard it, her pulse loud in her ears as harry disappeared from the stage, swallowed by the dim lights and thick curtains that parted briefly before closing behind him.

she inhaled sharply, forcing refocus. she was here on business, not to get swept up in the glamour. with a quick glance around, she pushed through the crowd, dodging clusters of people who were already sinking into the fog of jazz and alcohol. the bartender caught her eye as she neared the back hallway, a raised eyebrow hinting that he knew she didn't belong.

"can i help you, miss?" he asked, his voice gruff but not unkind. he didn't look like the type to throw you out without hearing your reason for being there. his eyes were a soft blue, almost doe-like.

Y/N runs her fingers through her hair, shifting in her stance. "'i’m supposed to speak with mr. styles." she said, confidence threaded into her tone. it wasn't a lie - she had been assigned to investigate, after all - but she hadn't exactly scheduled an interview. the bartender sized her up, his eyes narrowing in slight suspicion, but before he could reply, a deep voice drifted from behind him.

“no need, lou. i’ve got it.”

harry appeared as if he'd materialized from the shadows themselves, his presence as sharp and magnetic as it had been on stage. he was close now, the soft glow of the bar's dim lights illuminating the fine details of his face - the dark stubble tracing his jaw, the faint crease near his brow that suggested weariness beneath the allure. but his eyes, those piercing eyes, were locked on Y/N with a curiosity that sent a shiver down her spine.

"follow me." he mumbles, tipping his head toward the back. his voice was smooth, the words wrapped in an accent that didn't quite belong in this part of the city. she hesitated for only a second, feeling the weight of the moment settle. this was what she had come for.

Y/N stepped past the bartender and followed harry down a narrow corridor. the hum of the lounge faded as she moved deeper into the club, the walls closing in, and the only sound left was the echo of their footsteps and the soft click of harry's polished shoes against the floor. he led her into a small, private room at the end of the hall. it wasn't what she had expected for a locally popular musician, no. there were no plush velvet couches, no haze of cigarette smoke. instead, the room was plain, almost bare with a simple desk, a chair, and a window that overlooked the city streets. the chair looked a bit comfortable, at least - the light floral pattern matching its time.

harry leans against the faded oak desk, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded her with a faint smile. “you’ve been watching me all evening.” it wasn’t a question, just a quiet statement of truth.

Y/N swallowed, fighting to keep her composure. “i’m Y/N, a journalist.” she pauses, reaching into her bag and pulling out a dainty notebook. “m’here to write a piece on nightlife, the underground scene. apollo has a reputation.”

harry’s smile widened at her words, though his eyes darkened a bit, shadows playing in their depth. “and here i thought you were just another fan.” he pushed himself from the desk and takes a slow step towards the journalist, his gaze flickering between the notebook and her pretty face, studying every nuance like he was cataloging it for later. “but i’m guessing you’re not here to talk about the music, hm?”

she opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. it was like he was pulling her into his orbit with nothing more than a look. after a beat of prolonged staring, she found her voice. “no.” she shakes her head, trying to choose her words carefully. “there are rumors about you, mr. styles - about your connections, like the bootleggers that keep this city running after dark.”

harry's eyes gleamed, and he tilted his head, lips curving into a smirk and that hid something more. “rumors," he repeated, his voice soft and amused. he was closer now, just a few feet away, and the air between them felt thick. "rumors can be deadly in this city, darlin’. you should be careful who you listen to."

"i'm not afraid of rumors," she quips, forcing her chin up in defiance. "but i am interested in the truth. if you're involved in something bigger, people wanna know. your name became a gallery seemingly overnight.”

for a brief moment, the playful edge in harry’s expression faded, replaced by something harrowing - something that made Y/N’s heart race in both fear and fascination. "the truth," he echoed, his voice dropping to a low murmur. he leaned closer, his face inches from hers now, the scent of tobacco and something sweet dancing in the air between them. "the truth is, sweetheart, maybe i just sold my soul to the devil." his eyes burrow into hers, as if he’s trying to search within her. “people who come knockin’ for answers usually end up regretting it.”

his words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding, but she didn't back down. if anything, his warning only ignited her determination. Y/N had spent too long fighting to be taken seriously as a journalist, too long navigating a world where men thought they could intimidate or charm you into submission. she shakes her head, holding his gaze. “i don’t scare easily.”

harry stares down at her for a long moment, unwavering; like he was trying to figure out what exactly to do with the woman that stood before him. then, without warning, he let out a soft, breathy laugh while he shakes his head. “y’got guts, i’ll give you that.” he straightened up, breaking the tension between them, although the smirk still lingered on his lips. “alright, i’ll tell you what. wanna talk? come back tomorrow night and we can talk.”

with that, harry turned away, leaving Y/N standing in the dim room, heart pounding as the door clicked shut behind him. she stood there for a moment longer, her mind racing. she had come looking for answers, grazing her finger along his words like a page in a book, only receiving a paper cut in return. she found something dangerous, intoxicating, and impossible to ignore.

*

the next day arrived with an unseasonal chill in the air. Y/N stood at the street corner, breath visible in the low glimmer of a streetlight, clutching the strap of her bag a little tighter than usual. the thought of returning weighed on her mind. everything about last night - harry’s intense gaze, the invitation, the strange undercurrent of danger - lingered like a ghost in the back of her mind, pulling her in even as logic said to be careful.

she wasn’t new to risky assignments, but something about apollo felt different, like stepping into a dream where the rules of reality didn’t apply. there was an edge to the club that unsettled her, but it was also what made it difficult to resist.

she pulled her coat tighter around her frame as she made her way back toward the club’s narrow alley. the day had passed in a blur of half-hearted distractions, mind constantly drifting back to the meeting with harry. she had went to work as usual, exchanging small details of her story with her boss that doubted she could produce something of this measure. after all, she was just a woman. the city’s usual bustle had faded into a muted hum, and now, as she approached the speakeasy, it felt like she was walking into the mouth of something unknown.

the alley was darker tonight. the same graffiti-covered brick walls loomed on either side, but the faint pulse of golden light beneath the door felt almost menacing now. the faint, muffled sound of music drifted through the walls - a melancholy trumpet, shrill and poignant.

for a moment, she hesitated. was this really a good idea? she could walk away now, no questions asked, and pretend that harry styles and his world of secrets weren’t as intriguing as they appeared. but something inside Y/N knew she couldn’t. no, not after the things his smile hid, not after the way he had looked at her.

she stepped closer, hand hovering over the door handle. she bites her lip, pushing it open and then waltzing into the club like she belonged. the same smoky haze filled the room, but tonight, the air felt heavier, as if the very walls were holding their breath. warm lights twinkled in the lounge, two men standing upon the stage and playing their instruments with ease. it made her heart heavy, a sad language transcribed into feelings. it was wordless, but the tune held more than a jumble of letters could. some of the folks who sat in the booths actually listened, while others drank and talked amongst themselves.

Y/N scans the room, noticing harry near the bar. his outfit was a bit lackluster in comparison to yesterday, but he still looked dazzling. his posture seemed tense, gazing around the club as if he was in search of something - or someone. when he spots Y/N, a flicker of recognition crossed his features, but it didn’t come with the same easy smile. he offered a curt nod, gesturing her to follow him into a dimly lit area of the lounge.

and so she did, her bottom lip falling between the nervous grip of her teeth. the leather booth was tucked away in a back corner behind the bar, the faint light flickering overhead and casting long shadows over harry’s face. he slid into the booth first, leaning back with the same nonchalant grace as she had seen the night before. Y/N hesitated momentarily before sitting across from him, her bag resting beside her, ready to take notes when appropriate - but this felt less like an interview and moreso stepping upon a trapdoor. still, she tried to remain confident. harry’s eyes never left her, but there was a tension in his posture now, something taut and coiled just beneath his surface. he tapped his fingers heavily against the table, expression unreadable. “so, you came back.” he mutters, his voice a low rumble that made her stomach flip. “guess that means you’re serious.”

she knits her brows together, trying to maintain a collected composure by sitting back in her seat. “why wouldn’t i be?” she quips, her voice steady despite the anxiety that bubbled in her chest. she felt so close to him, feeling the weight of his presence - the same magnetism that could have everyone in the room gravitating toward him.

his lip twitched, almost like he was fighting back a grin, but his eyes remained cloudy and guarded. “y’persistent, little dove.” he paused, running his hands through his curls as his gaze flickers toward her hand reaching into her small bag. “but persistence can be- what’re y’doing?”

her eyes narrowed, turning her head to look at the suddenly more tense (if possible) man across from her. “i- i was gonna take notes.”

his features hardened, shaking his head and she immediately pulled her empty hand out from her bag. “y’trying to make things obvious? you’re already comin’ in here dressed like the press.” he grumbles, leaning slightly over the table between them. he turned his head away, jaw tightening, staring at some distant point in the smoky haze in the lounge.

she waited, her heart hammering in her chest as she nodded. the tension between them palpable yet unspoken. she wondered if there was a reason at all for this, if she would get any sort of answers or if he was just wasting her time.

after silence fell between them, his fingers stilled on the table. when he finally glanced over at her again, something had shifted in his expression. there was a flutter of vulnerability, something raw and unguarded, but it was fleeting. “i’ll give you a crumb.” he sighed, studying her face. “but it won’t be the whole story, not yet.”

she nodded slowly, like if her movements threatened to be too quick and cast a breeze, he’d blow away. like a dandelion to make a wish upon.

“there’s things about this city that the public won’t see.” he began, voice low and steady. “like the people who run it. the alcohol, drugs, power, it’s connected.” he paused, his adam’s apple bobbing against his collar. “bigger than just one man. i don’t pull the strings, m’just a puppet.”

her pulse quickened as she nodded along, trying her best to remember each key detail so she could write it down in her apartment later. “if this is so risky..” she paused, her throat dry and voice shaky. “why tell me?”

for the first time, harry felt the words get caught in his throat. why. his throat could be slit in the back alley tomorrow morning, or his fingers hammered against a table for even looking as if he was running his mouth. his eyes averted to the table, but when he looked up again, the mask was back in place, his expression reserved and hardened. “i’ve been where you are.” harry murmurs. “lookin’ for answers. thinking i could handle whatever. but i was wrong. this world will take everything from you if y’let it.”

her heart ached at the hint of pain in his voice, but before she could respond, harry leaned back in his seat. the moment of vulnerability gone as quick as it appeared. “s’all i’ll give you for tonight.” he said, voice firm. “if you want more you’ll have to earn it.”

she opened her mouth to protest, but harry stood up swiftly, eyes softening momentarily as he looked down at her. “m’on next.” he says gently, nodding his head toward the stage. “feel free to listen, otherwise, get home safe.” he dismisses, turning away and disappearing within a dark hallway.

Y/N frowned as harry vanished before her, slouching in her seat. she replayed his words over and over, studying them so she could write them down as effortlessly as she could later. she debated asking for a drink, but decided it against it as there was some clattering and adjusting on the stage. she had to crane her neck to steal a glance, but after a beat, harry appeared. the same soft spotlight shone on him, and she swore he looked like painting of the fallen angel brought to life. his eyes were narrowed and glossed over, the golden gleam of light paining him a rose gold. he held a heavier looking guitar in hand, and he started to strum after a momentary pause. his voice was low and raspy, and she could’ve sworn she floated toward the center of the lounge to watch instead of walking. his face held every bit of emotion the song could emit. it was almost refreshing to Y/N to see him this way, instead of the feigned apathy that befell him almost constantly.

the melodies he played revealed how shattered he was, it was apparent. he resembled a tragic painting from years into the past she would study in the history classes from adolescence. harry, himself, was poetry. an art. Y/N felt her chest grow heavy, knowing that she was sucked so far into the enigma on stage that she couldn’t fall away from this if she tried.

*

Y/N tossed and turned that night. the rain pitter-pattering on her thin windows as she curled into her desk, writing down whatever she could in her notes. every scribble in the margins were a question mark, riddles with no answer. she had even put on her favorite nightgown, silk and blushed pink. the color of harry’s lips, perhaps a shade lighter.

the next day dawned gray and overcast, the chill from the night before lingering like a hangover. Y/N eventually awoke in her small apartment, the events of the previous night playing on repeat in her mind. harry’s cryptic words, and the way he had performed on stage haunted her like the fading notes of his song. she sat at her rounded kitchen table that stood by a window, puddles rippling with each sprinkle of rain and the usual bustle of pedestrians moving about. the cup of tea before her steamed her face, and she basked in it. the warmth was comforting, having not changed out of her night attire and she hasn’t dared to try to warm the apartment just yet. coal was too expensive, and she could tough it out in heavy layers for just a bit longer.

her editor had phoned earlier, asking if there were any updates. but she dodged it completely, citing vague leads she still had to chase down. in truth, she wasn’t quite sure what she had. a story? not yet. a lazy article in the morning paper? maybe. she felt like she had an omen more than a paper worthy of breaking news. perhaps, she thought, she should take it as a sign and work down at the pier as a fortune teller. maybe even ask her boss for her own segment in the paper as a prophet. she tried not to grin pathetically at her inner turmoil.

before heading back to apollo in the evening, something that had become her routine - she took a second to think about what she should wear. harry mentioned in passing last night that it was already too obvious to take notes, especially since she dressed like the press anyway.

her lips pursed as she feathered her fingers over the clothes in her wardrobe. she wasn’t as cool as she’d like to be, didn’t have much that would fit into the speakeasy scene. she definitely didn’t own any flapper dresses or laces, but she did have a glittery black dress that reached her knees and frayed at the end. it was her late best friend’s, something she kept for sentiment and didn’t expect to ever wear. she clipped her hair up behind her, deciding against overdoing it in jewelry and only pulling on a dainty silver necklace that has been passed down through the women in her family. the mirror was a bit worn, but she smiled at her reflection, it looked like another version of her. her makeup was almost bare, her features dreamy. she had made note to wear one of her longer coats, mostly because of the weather, but also because she wouldn’t have felt safe bouncing around the city in her current dress.

she made her usual way back to apollo, the chill in the air almost as sharp as the sound of her kitten heels hitting the pavement. the occasional car rolled past, headlights cutting through the gathering gloom - it was only a thursday night after all. she was greeted by familiar warm lights of the club shimmering from underneath the door. she patted herself down anxiously, taking a deep breath and relaxing her features. she pushed the door open, the crowd larger than it previously was last night. the door scooted to a close behind her, and she unbuttoned her coat as she waltzed further in. there must’ve been a deal on drinks due to how much busier the bar was. louis had shot her a gentle glance, and she returned it with a small smile.

Y/N knew harry was on stage by the sound of his voice. it was piano again tonight, and the lyrics were bare - relying more on the notes of the piano to speak for him. her eyes twinkled at the sight of him. he’d worn all black tonight, and it made his green irises more vibrant. she was transfixed. Y/N doubted the idea that everyone was born with a set purpose, but it was undeniable how harry’s purpose was music. her mind wandered to the possibility of him even being the embodiment of apollo himself.

the journalist didn’t know where he was in his set, so she turned on her heel to the dispersing bar crowd. louis nodded a greeting toward her while another man beside him, one she hadn’t recognized, poured drinks for the few that were waiting. “hey.” she smiles, shrugging her coat off and setting it neatly in her lap as she sat on stool. “busy tonight.”

he only nodded again, his thin lips tugging into a smirk as he wiped down a glass with a clean, white rag. “thursday’s usually bring more of ‘em in.” he shrugged. “dunno why.”

she nodded, watching the brunette maneuver around the glasses. she didn’t realize until now that he also had an accent that sounded far away, since she was always usually focused on harry. Y/N bit the inner corner of her lip, nodding along absentmindedly to whatever he said until he ducked down a bit to meet her level, waving his hand slightly with a smile. “y’hear me?”

her cheeks flushed a bit, sheepishly shaking her head. “no.” she laughed, “sorry, what?”

he placed the glass in front of her, turning away momentarily before he poured her an amber colored liquor. the tips of his index and middle finger gently pushed the glass toward her before he stepped away to put the bottle back.

she stared at the glass like it would jump out at her. it was illegal to drink like this, prohibition and all. not to mention, her career would whither away if her boss caught wind of her getting into trouble with alcohol she wasn’t supposed to have. “it won’t bite.” lou chuckled, standing in front of her again, ripping her away from her own thoughts. “might taste like it though.”

she smiles with him, the tip of her finger running along the rim as she stares at her waning reflection in the alcohol. “bit nervous.” she admits quietly.

he scoffs, humor evident in his tone, however. “ ‘cause of the bloody prohibition?” he asks, causing her to look up. “don’t worry ‘bout it, we won’t be troubled here.”

she shook her head to his words, knowing that he meant the cops wouldn’t dare to stop by here unannounced. it felt self explanatory, gathering it from harry’s mumbles and such. the interconnections that ran through here were a dime a dozen - it’s easy to assume law enforcement could have their hands dirty as well. and so Y/N inhaled, giving louis an amused expression as she downed the alcohol she now recognized as whiskey. her eyebrows furrow from the taste, lips pursed as she slid the glass back over to him. “thank you.”

harry’s melody began to lighten, hinting that he was most likely almost finished. that was confirmed when he stood from the piano, pressed his lips in a flat smile toward the crowd, and disappeared behind the curtain without so much as a glance in the bars direction. she heard the heavy glass push toward her again, eyes falling on the doe eyed boy who gave her another drink. “he’s n’ a mood, you’ll need it.”

with that, she warily gulped it down, muttering another soft thank you as she picked up her folded coat and crossed over to the familiar path she once took the first night - his office. her steps started to slow as she walked further into the hallway, noticing his door slightly ajar. her pulse quickened, unsure of the personality she would encounter in a moment - she supposed the alcohol would help. thanks louis. steeling herself, she knocked lightly, then pushed it open.

there he sat, behind the same oak desk, but his easy charm wasn’t there. not visible to her at least. his face was shadowed, the small lamp casting sharp lines on his features. he could be cut and molded from marble. his sleeves were rolled up, revealing tattooed forearms. his fingers tapped restlessly against a half emptied glass. he looked up when she entered, his jaw clenched ever so slightly. “you came back.”

Y/N lightly closed the door behind her, hanging her coat on an abandoned rack beside her. she ambled toward the seat across from him, his eyes taking over her figure. his glance held something new, something she hadn’t seen from him before and she tried to stifle how her cheeks threatened to heat from it. she sat down, crossing her legs. “you told me to.”

he hums, eyes finally settling on her face as he shifts in his chair. “y’look different.” he mutters, swirling the remaining liquid in his drink. the ice clinked softly, a sharp contrast to the tension that seemed to always exist between them. “y’blend in. beautifully, too.”

she was unable to hide her blush now, the heat betraying her. it was obvious he noticed it as well, his lips threatening a smile. “thank you.” she says softly, “didn’t bring my notes either.”

he chuckled, taking his last sip. “good girl.” he grins, setting the glass down and falling into his seat more. he stretched out his legs, folding his arms over his chest - his gaze unwavering. “it’s a machine.” he starts, jutting his chin out toward her as an indication she should listen. “profit on the alcohol and drugs, or help smuggle it, get something in return.” he shrugs, swallowing dryly. “quid pro quo.”

she nods, placing both her hands upon the table as she fidgets with the tips of her fingers. if she’s doing something simultaneously, it’ll help her remember for later.

he clears his throat, sitting up only slightly. “cops get a cut for letting it slip under their nose. gang makes money either way, they run it.” his tone was matter-of-fact, like it was how to word went ‘round. and she guesses, in a sense, it was.

“what did you get?” she quizzes, without even thinking. it felt too personal of a question, and she wanted to clasp her hands over her mouth for asking so abruptly. but she remained still, biting her lip. she could blame her bluntness on the alcohol if needed.

he looks at her through his eye lashes, smiling gently - like he didn’t allow himself to fully. “my name.” he pauses, sitting up completely and bouncing his knee in a rhythm. “didn’t have anything before i started helpin’ out. immigrated to america on a whim, nothin to my name.” he chuckled, though it sounded sad. “met them, and suddenly i had an apartment and instruments and an audience.” he enthused, shaking his head to himself with the same gentle smile. “s’what i came here for. the music.”

she had stopped fidgeting moments ago, too enamored by his words. the more that fell from his lips, the more hopelessly intrigued she felt. he was a story she couldn’t stop flipping the pages to, his roots in a reality she was unaware of.

his expression shifted, an indifference settling upon him. “but the debt is infinite.” he says lowly, locking eyes with her. “done is done, in is in.”

Y/N’s lips parted, her face falling. a glimmer settled in her eye, searching harry’s face. she wondered briefly if he was only a figment of reality, perhaps a warning. “sold your soul to the devil.” she echoed his previous words, and she tried to ignore the shiver that wanted to run down her spine.

his lips finally curled into a full smile, nodding. “exactly, sweetheart.”

silence sat between them once again. there was a weight upon her shoulders, yet she felt almost weightless from the whiskey coursing through her veins. she hadn’t drank in a while, and due to her belly being empty, she felt its effects more quickly than usual. she remained still however, not wanting her head to spin off her shoulders. “tell me what i can do.”

harry almost snorted a laugh, but the sincerity dancing upon her features made him decide against it. his chest almost felt warm at her empathy. he shook his head, smiling. “there’s nothing you can do.” he pauses, “they’re smart, no mistakes. no loose ends.” he figuratively wraps something around his neck, holding his fist above his head. “only loose end they have is a noose.”

her breath hitched, and she swore her heart missed a beat or two. “nothing?” she murmurs, almost to herself. she shot him a glance, something a bit harsher. “why am i here then?” her voice was louder than usual, and had an edge to it. “you know my reasoning here, yet it feels i’m stonewalled.”

he sighed, running his hands through his messy curls. “cause,” he hesitated, another sigh escaping. “god.” he mumbles, letting his head fall backwards and lean against his chair. “i shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. y’gonna get yourself killed.”

she froze in her seat, “why do you say that?”

he groaned softly, shifting in his seat once more. she picked up on how restless he can be when upset. “you want to write y’little heart out on this, make a good story.” he says firmly, staring her down. “and it will, it will make a good story. but they’re not gonna clean house, make things the way it should.” he shook his head. “they’ll kill you, and then threaten your boss into confirming that y’were chasing a conspiracy, Y/N. you’ll not only be dead, but soil your own name in the process.”

she didn’t move, her mouth agape. she couldn’t help the small feeling that she was tricked sit in her chest. he could’ve turned her away from the get-go. she would’ve found another lead, another story. but now her job knew of her efforts, and her boss already doubted that a woman could publish such news. her shoulders falter, lips falling into a frown. “you already let me in.” she muttered, shaking her head. “everything here can be anonymous. but i’m not backing away now.”

he rolled his eyes, his frustration evident - but he could only blame himself. he dangled the carrot, he sucked her into his whirlpool of corruption that any reporter would be a fool to ignore. and if his death was a result in this, his own sword would be in his executioner’s hands. “god help you.” he sighs, clenching his jaw.

she took that as his defeat, and a small grin spread across her lips. she reached for the whiskey bottle that previously filled his glass, bringing it to her lips and taking a swig with a wince she couldn’t stifle. “don’t think theres one between us.” she whispers her reply, shoving the bottle toward the man across from her.

harry chuckled softly at her words, though there was no humor in his eyes. he caught the bottle as it slid toward him, the amber liquid sloshing inside. he took a long pull from it, his gaze fixed on her over the rim. there was a silent understanding now, one that settled uncomfortably between them. they were both two sides of the same coin - her driven by the need to uncover the truth, and him, trapped by the web of corruption he'd helped weave around himself.

Y/N felt dizzy, and she wasn’t sure if it was from the whiskey or the way he looked at her. the quiet between them made her unsure if the should bid her goodbyes, or sit with him for a bit longer. he didn’t make an effort to shoo her away like he would usually do, but he didn’t ask her to stay, either. but, like a jinx, harry stood from his seat, rounding the desk until he towered over her. he extended his hand down to her, gently pulling her up from the chair. she wobbled, and harry watched her through half-lidded eyes. “y’alright?”

“i’ve had a few.” she smiles sheepishly, removing her hand from his. the inside of his hands were calloused, a faint bruise on a knuckle or two, though the top of his hands were soft. “i think i should head home, if we’re finished here.” she murmurs, slowing inching toward the door to avoid tripping in front harry.

he lets out a breathy laugh, ushering toward her and placing his hand on the small of her back - barely. his fingers lightly grazed the fabric of her dress, and his palm simply hovered instead of pressing down. “let me walk you then.”

she furrows her brows as she shrugs her coat back on, shooting the curly brunette a look as he pulled open the door. “i can manage.”

he only smiled again, following her along the hallway into the main area. “m’not letting a pretty girl walk home alone, all the while dizzy from havin’ a few.”

she exhales through her nose, pursing her lips. of course he was right, but she wish he wasn’t. she dreamt of a world where women could feel safe, but it was only 1925, and the feminists of her time could only do so much with what they were given. so instead, she settled on wishing that at least her future daughters will have more. he lead her through the familiar corridor, stealing a glance or two.

harry pulled the door open for her, the crisp air hitting her a bit harsher than she would’ve liked. she hastily buttoned up her coat, a hand lightly touching the small of her back again. they walked quietly, only the wind and the click of their shoes audible as Y/N lead the way. harry’s nose began to flush a shade of pink, his curls dancing in the breeze. the alcohol made her feel a bit warmer however, or maybe it was her coat, or the hand she knew was on her back. “just around this corner.” she utters, breaking the silence.

they round corner, entering her street. brick apartment buildings sat on the edge of the sidewalk, along with a few small shops and a mechanic a little bit farther down. “not too bad of a walk.” harry adds, watching her start up the steps toward the main entrance. he stops by the large glass door, hands shoved in his pockets as she opens it. she looks at him expectantly as he just stands there, bobbing on his heels from the cold.

“coming in..or?” she trails off, raising an eyebrow at him.

“um.” he mumbles, taking the door from her hand and pulling it further open to step in behind her. “only if you’re okay with it.”

she laughs, traipsing toward the staircase with harry trudging close behind. “you walked me, least i could do is offer you something warm to drink.”

harry only smiles, remaining quiet as he mirrors her steps. she was only on the third floor, which harry thanked his lucky stars for, since his legs already ached from his jog in the morning. Y/N walked a few doors down, stopping on the fourth before unlocking her door and holding it open for the musician enter behind. she hangs her coat and drops her keys on the entry table beside her door while harry locks it from habit.

she toes off her shoes, encouraging harry to follow her into the kitchen and take a seat - in which he does silently. he feels almost too tall for her things, like it was a dollhouse intricately made for her. the floral table cloth on the round table hung off the sides gently, kept in place in the center by an unlit candle and a cute, little ceramic trinket. he couldn’t help but smile as he took in the surroundings, everything fitting into her personally so well. the floors were creaky and wooden - almost dull, but she brightened things up with all the pretty colors she could find. of course there was a fluffy rug in the sofa room, not to mention the bookshelf adorned with all kinds of books and little sentimental items she’s collected over the years. it was homey, and it was just hers.

she placed a mug in front of him, a raised etch of lavender right in the center. he fiddled with the tea bag, letting the steam wash over his face. Y/N had sit in the only chair left, which was across from him. a chill radiated off the window, but the temperature in the apartment was comfortable, nonetheless. harry had eyed her notebook that sat on the edge while he took a sip, and it took almost everything in him not to ask if he could take a peak.

“i don’t usually drink.” she says softly, tracing the florals on the tablecloth. “since the law and everything. but it’s nice.”

he places the mug down, nodding along with her. “it is.”

“i swear,” she whispers, reaching her hands out and taking harry’s wrist in her palm. he shivered from how cold her touch was, but melted into it as she began to trace the anchor inked onto him. “i could write a story on these alone.”

he grinned, his breath hitching. a daze clouded her eyes, and he knew it was just the liquor speaking for her. he still chose to enjoy it, however. his eyes threatened to flutter shut, to sink in his seat until he floated to the ground like a leaf shaken from a tree. but his trance came to an end as she pulled her fingers back, fidgeting with her own again. “sorry.” she mumbled bashfully.

“s’okay.” he shrugged. it was more than okay. he picked up his mug again, taking another sip. they sat in a blissful quiet, harry eventually finishing his tea to which she placed the used mug into the sink to reside in for the night.

Y/N leaned against the counter, and she could feel every beat and flutter of her heart against her chest. harry watched her expectantly, standing in her stunning dress in something as simple as a kitchen. a spring flower blossoming in the dead of winter - she was otherworldly. “i’m gonna change and i’ll walk you out after, okay?” she asked softly, to which earned a nod from harry. she began to step away, but before she peeled off into her bedroom, she paused, “you can look over my notes so far.” she murmurs, eyes glancing to her notebook before she crosses over to her bedroom.

harry felt like she read his mind. with her permission, the man doesn’t think twice. as she disappears, he pulls the book open to read over her pages. neat and cursive all in black ink, annotations and question marks in her margins. everything fit into this girl so well - it was almost alarming how her heart lived on her sleeve. but his jaw tightened at her writing, both their names everywhere. he knows that they only discussed anonymity prior to leaving, but it made his stomach twist seeing his name next to all these investigative questions and statements. his nostrils flared as he stood from the chair, walking out her door without so much as a goodbye.

*

Y/N had spent the last seventeen hours in a haze. after hearing the slam of her door, she rushed out only to find an empty apartment and a spread open notebook on the side of the table harry sat at. she had read over her pages more than once, but she couldn’t find a hint as to why he was upset. she had only wrote down what was said, maybe her own questions here and there, but it wasn’t anything offensive. all she could do is sit with her worries as she fell into sleep, and then on her bus ride to work the next morning. she helped out on other small article, not sure if this apollo piece would even see the light of day. was she even supposed to go to the club tonight? was that harry’s way of ending their conversations all together? she had spent the entire shift like that, but her mind went quiet on the way home. trees and people passed in a blur from the window, and a sigh of relief fell from her lips as she saw her apartment building come into view.

before she could even trudge up the staircase to her floor, one of the doormen stopped her with a gentle shout. “ms Y/L/N!”

her eyebrows furrowed, meeting him in the middle of the lobby. “what’s happened?”

he chuckles, shaking his head as he ambles over toward the front desk and pulled a powder blue gift box from underneath and walked it over. “a man dropped this off for you this afternoon.”

if her eyebrows could knit inward all the way to the opposite ends of her head to create an intersection, they would. “sorry? what man?” she asked softly, almost to herself.

“brown haired gentleman, tall.”

she only looked up in slight disbelief at the doorman, but offered him a gentle smile and a thank you as she rushed up the steps. the description was vague, but she could only assume it was harry. right? she unlocks her door, pushing it open with her shoulder and slamming it shut with her foot as she stumbles into the kitchen, placing the pretty box on the counter while she just stares at it. it was wrapped in a white lace bow, and she almost didn’t want to unravel it from how cute it sat. (but she did anyway, of course).

her lips parted at the sight before her, unfolding the cream-white fabric to open up to her as exhaled out of shock. the dress was a white that reminded her of vanilla, the trim neckline and shoulders were lace that faded gorgeously into a tinseled dress that would fall above her knees. she only assumed the tinsels would dance with every twist or turn she could make. she draped it over her forearm after admiring the fabric, noticing a small hand written note that lay at the bottom of the box.

see you tonight,

H.

and once the evening drifted into dusk, she slipped on the same coat and made the routine trek back to apollo. the music echoed from the club a bit louder tonight, most likely because it was friday. it was a warmer night in october, causing more people to be out and about. she stepped in, the electricity in the lounge immediate. there was clearly wealthier patrons about, and everyone’s voices blended in with the melody that came from the stage - not harry.

her dress dazzled in the low light, and she felt more at ease with how she mixed in with the other women here so effortlessly. she stepped further in, spinning around once or twice to see if she could spot harry, but, no avail. she wondered if he was even here, and if he wasn’t, why was she?

she took a breath and moved toward the bar where louis stood with a familiar grin. “didn’t expect you tonight.” he greets, sliding over a cocktail he had quickly thrown together.

“no?” she asks, picking up the glass and taking a small sip, happier that it was tastier than the liquor last night. “harry isn’t here?”

he shook his head, rummaging about behind the bar. “he is, he just didn’t mention that you’d be popping in. usually does.”

she frowned, forcing down another sip. she didn’t want to think about the possibility that harry didn’t expect her, thus not being the one to drop off the gift. beneath the glamour of the lounge, there was a buzz in the atmosphere that felt ominous. men in suits held conversations at desolate tables, and there was clearly white powder dusted about from previous lines. the event spelt specific, not its usual casual undertone - like the night was made for something. then, out of the corner of her eye, harry came into view. he walked from behind the curtain, only giving a soft smile to the men he had passed on stage. his clothes were dark again, hands shoved into his pockets as he glanced around. his movements were slow, like he genuinely wasn’t expecting her to stop by. his eyes weren’t eager, and his ears didn’t perk up in attempt to listen to her melodic voice. he greets someone unbeknownst to Y/N, shaking their hand with a flat-lined smile. he seems to look through the woman, a face that couldn’t compare to the journalist he’s become accustomed to. through his blank gaze, he spots her, nevertheless, and he had to take a deep breath to keep himself upward. of course she looked stunning, the lights above her making her face glow, while also reflecting prettily off her dress. none of them even moved for a moment - drinking one another in.

she shifted as harry neared her, leaving the woman with a puzzled expression. he looked good in his suit, but there was an edge to his demeanor. he didn’t smile at Y/N like he did to the woman, but his eyes held more than a tight-lipped smile could. as he stood before her, he nodded toward her dress, a hint of confusion lingering in his features. “blending in again, eh?”

she hesitated. it felt like things were moving in slow motion as harry reached past her to grab a drink from lou, sipping it gingerly as he stared down at her through half lidded eyes. “you like it?”

he swallowed, swishing around the ice as he nodded. “i do.” he says, quiet enough for only her to hear. “how many of those y’got?”

this is where she could allow her heart to take shelter in her throat. she studied his gaze, looking for even a smidge of taunt on him, but there was none. he was being genuine. she shook her head, lips parting. “you didn’t gift it?”

now it was his turn to look confused again, his forehead wrinkling from a furrow. he leaned beside her, only one hand beside her right hip on the surface of the bar. they were close, her arm against the edge of his chest. “what are you talking about?” he asked softly, and she could feel his breath above her ears. “be natural.” he cooed, but his body was tense.

she complied, of course. she didn’t move, remaining smushed against him as she takes a sip from her drink. “this dress was left for me. it had a note, seemingly by you.”

Y/N could hear him swallow, and it didn’t ease her worries one bit. harry sighed, licking his lips before he draped his arms across her shoulders, pulling her into the corner of the bar. it was still open enough for prying eyes, but just a little less visible. he guided her back against the counter, harry towering over her as he faced the crowd - his eyes occasionally scanning behind her. “play along.” he whispers, brushing a loose strand that fell from her clip behind her ears. “what’d the note say, dove?”

by his demeanor, Y/N knew he was troubled with something. she knew she should be shaking with fear in realization that it wasn’t from him, but the butterflies in her stomach gaslit her into believing she was alright. his touch was pillowy and warm, and she could melt in it if he’d let her. but she felt his hand drop, and her eyes snapped open. “um.” she paused, shaking her head ever so slightly. “said see you tonight.” she mumbled, watching his jaw tighten. “H.”

he froze, all attention placed back onto her. she had glanced around, looking for onlooking eyes but harry gently pulled her chin back his direction. “what?”

oh, how she wanted to drop to her knees and pull the fallen angel back up to heaven.

“it ended with H.”

his sigh was heavy, and his grip never fell from her chin. he had parted his lips to speak, but was interrupted by a large hand patting his back. he dropped his grip, glancing at the man beside him. brunette and basically the same height as harry. brown haired, tall gentleman. check.

“you received it well!” the man beamed, all attention pointed at Y/N, to which she only nodded. he extended his hand, lightly shaking hers. “you’ll have to excuse the H initial. figured you would trust that most.”

her eyes darted between the two men in front of her. harry was guarded, as per usual, but his eyes were worried. and the other man, stood confidently, unwavering. “you’ll have to forgive me.” she started softly, “but what is this for?”

“you’ve been around a lot.” he paused, wrapping his arm around harry’s shoulders. “with my star here.” he grinned, not releasing harry. “and i had to silence my intrigue on the pretty girl that made a pattern of coming and going with hushed words.”

she nodded.

his eyes narrowed, unraveling his arm from harry’s frame. before he could form another word, harry stepped over beside her and had pulled her head into his lips gently, kissing her temple. “s’my girl.” he stated. there was no shake or waver, and if Y/N didn’t know anything she would’ve believed it herself.

“your muse!” the man exclaimed, a smirk spreading across his lips - but there was a glimmer in his eye. a doubt, but it was barely there. “i thought we told each other these things?” he asked, but it sounded rhetorical.

“i’m so sorry.” Y/N frowned, shaking her head. “i had begged him for privacy. i didn’t think it would bring trouble.”

his eyes narrowed again, a smile still on his lips but it felt like he could see right through her. “no trouble at all.” he said lowly, nodding toward her. “our work is a lifestyle.” his eyes shot at harry, his smile faltering slightly, but not completely. “not a fan of surprises myself but,” he paused, his gaze befalling Y/N’s. he reaches for her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips. “i enjoy seeing you in my own surprise.” he murmured, eyes raking up her dress. and with that, he left. Y/N was sure she was only in a lucid dream until harry had pulled her away toward the awfully familiar hallway.

wordlessly, his hand remained around her wrist as she followed without protest. his shoes clicked over the tile as he pushed open the door with a little too much force, ushering her in and slamming it shut behind him. his chest rose and fell rapidly, back leaning against the closed door.

“say something.” she pleaded, her voice shaking.

he held up his finger, shaking his head as his nostrils flared. she took the hint, quietly leaning against his desk with a pout. his digits ran through his disheveled curls, and after it felt like hours had passed, he finally looked up at her.

“harry.” she whispered, it was weak. pathetic even. and she would kick herself silly if she saw herself now in the perspective of her a week ago.

his jaw clenched so hard she thought she would see it snap with screws and coils shooting out. he mumbled something under his breath, incoherent to Y/N as he darted to his desk, causing her to move aside before he swept everything of its surface and onto the floor. “fuck!” he shouted, his cheeks red and eyes starting to gloss over. she wanted to reach out, pull him into a hug and coax him into even breaths but it wasn’t in the cards right now. “i-”he paused, it almost sounding like a whimper. he stumbled to lean against the desk, gripping the edges until his knuckles turned white.

she swallowed dryly, her shoulders having already fell. she didn’t feel scared, she didn’t think she had a reason to be afraid of harry himself. but she was worried, yes. “harry?” she repeated, almost a whisper.

he shook his head, curls falling over his eyes. the words caught in this throat from how many thoughts bounced through his head. he felt like his world took a 180 from only knowing this girl for five days, and someone noticed. he didn’t expect the guy to know exactly what was going on, but now Y/N is recognizable. a pawn, an object in his life that can be used to dangle in front of him if they saw fit. “-i can’t ease you out of this now.”

she didn’t want to cry. but the weight on her shoulders would make her if she didn’t try hard enough. she had worked so hard to prove herself at her job, and now this one groundbreaking piece for her career could be ripped out from underneath her. part of her blamed herself, he had warned her countless times. and if she had been smart, she would’ve ran for the hills at his first warning. but she wanted to know the ins and outs, but also wanted to know him. her lip betrayed her by quivering, eyes glossed over with tears. she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of humiliation at her failure.

“Y/N.” he calls out, running his hand down his face. he sighs, taking a calculated step closer to her. “Y/N,” he repeated, only softer. his much larger hand removed her own from her eyes in attempt to shield him from her tears. her cheeks were flush, eyelashes damp as he thumbed a stray tear away. he felt responsible, as if he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing - but it was the opposite.

“m’sorry.” she mumbles, eyes finally melting his. “i’ve made a mess of things.”

he chuckled softly. he wanted to audibly agree, but he knew that would make her feel worse. he took a slow step back, hands dropping from her face to her shoulders. “you’re involved.” he said lowly, his heart in his stomach.

“involved.” she repeated, nodding. she sniffled, and all she wanted to do was crawl into one of the booths out there and sleep the rest of the night away. “-you’re letting me write?” she thought out loud, fully expecting that he would’ve pushed her away. it had seemed that way earlier. “i thought it was done?”

he let out another sigh, hesitantly pulling her into a hug. his chin rested on her head, and she very slowly wrapped her arms around his waist - debating if she should. he didn’t know if falsely giving her the title of his girlfriend was the right move or not, but the man seemed to believe it. what else was he supposed to say? she’s the new bartender! not a day in hell. she wants to play here! would’ve forced an audition. she’s the journalist i’m in kahoots with! shot in the back alley. so, girlfriend she is. “m’afraid you’re stuck with me for a while.”

and Y/N wanted to be terrified. she wanted the world to flip upside down and to boil over with anxiety. she wanted to want to disappear from everything completely. but she didn’t. and all that ran through her mind was, how could it be bad if it felt so good?

*

three days later, harry stopped by Y/N’s apartment again, and for the first time, there was no tension, no silent storm hovering between them. she sat cross-legged on the couch, a notebook sprawled in her lap as she scribbled notes, but her eyes shot up as soon as she heard the knock. she hesitated, fingers tightening around the pen.

another knock.

she rose, padded to the door, and opened it to find harry standing there, his dark curls slightly tousled and his expression unreadable. for a moment, they just stood there, gazing at one another like strangers who had seen too much of each other’s souls, yet still didn’t know how to bridge the gap.

“morning.” he said, his voice low, almost tentative.

she stepped aside to let him in. “i wasn’t sure I’d see you again so soon.”

he shrugged, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his coat. “had a few things to clear up.” his tone was casual, but his eyes - those piercing green eyes - betrayed something deeper. a tension he wasn’t quite ready to confront. but he relaxed in her presence for the first time, melting into the apartment that smelt like black tea with honey and the morning paper.

Y/N moved back to her spot on the couch, closing her notebook as harry took a seat across from her, elbows resting on his knees. There was a comfortable silence now, one they hadn’t shared before.

“so, about the other night-” Y/N began, unsure how to dive into the complicated emotions swirling in her chest.

harry’s jaw tightened slightly, and for a moment, she thought he might brush it off like he usually did. but instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “i wasn’t expecting arthur to do that. i didn’t want you dragged into that world like that. it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Y/N nodded, feeling a strange relief at his honesty. she had been waiting for him to shut her out again, to dismiss her like he had before, but instead, he seemed almost open for the first time. “arthur?”

he nodded, “his name is arthur. he’s been involved longer than i have. insanely loyal and in love with the game.” he sighed, leaning back again. though something crossed his expression, a forgotten afterthought. “i’m so sorry-” he rushed out, shaking his head. “you’re not already with someone are you? i don’t want to ruin your reputation.”

she couldn’t help but giggle, shifting onto the rug and scooting herself to sit before his bent knees. “no harry, m’not spoken for.”

he looked down at her, lips parting as he breathed her in. an innocence floated about her like an aura, but sometimes her eyes held something opposite. she was a puzzle to harry, one he wanted to find all the pieces to so badly. an airy relief washed over him, and he knew it was the thought of her not caring for anyone in that way. her eyes were slightly puffy from sleep, her skin softened and lips the perfect shade - she resembled a cherub.

she placed her hands on his knees, pulling herself up. all she wore was a dainty white lounge dress that had tiny purple flowers scattered about, thick socks covering her feet. “would you like anything to drink?”

he had stood up after her like on autopilot, following her small steps into the kitchen. “coffee?” he suggested softly, seeing the back of her head shake into a nod. the girl hummed to herself, a tune he recognized as his own as he sat down. harry couldn’t resist a smile, the soft clatter of mugs and the steady drip of the percolator accompanying her honey soaked voice. “do you take sugar?” she called out from over her shoulder, glancing back at him with a small smile.

“two, if you got it.”

she nodded once more, taking out a small glass dish and removing it’s lid, setting two cubes of sugar in the mug. she stirred it around with a small spoon, handing it to harry as she retrieved a glass bottle of milk from the fridge if he wanted it.

“thank you.” he murmured, listening to the soft clatter and creaks as she sat down across from him. he uncorked the glass bottle, allowing only a trickle or two into his coffee. he settled in his seat, happy to see that the coffee was his perfect shade of brown.

“it feels like you aren’t used to mornings like these.”

harry glanced at her, raising an eyebrow as he took a careful sip. “mornings like what?”

she simply shrugged, a playful glint in her eyes. “quiet, simple. no trouble brewing over the horizon.”

he let out a soft laugh, stirring his drink a bit. “they come and go.”

they sat in a comfortable silence, a low hum of conversation easing between them. at some point, Y/N had gotten up to make herself tea, taking sips during the pauses of their voices. harry found himself sinking into the moment further, letting the usual tension that sat on his shoulders slip away. it felt like mornings in manchester before he crossed an ocean. the air was calm, his mum’s voice soft.

she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear as she set her empty mug down, pulling her legs into criss-cross in her chair. “you’re different when you’re like this.”

he furrowed his eyebrows, curiosity piqued. “how so?”

she bit her lip, eyes averting from harry’s as she thought. “relaxed.” she smiled gently. “it suits you.”

harry blinked, unsure of how to respond at first. he wasn’t used to being seen like this - stripped of the persona he so carefully put together - but there was something about Y/N that made him feel like he shouldn’t pretend, despite her interest in the truth. he leaned back, bicep stretch along the back of his chair. “i don’t know how to do relaxed.” he confessed, voice gentle and low.

she smiled again, pillowy and sweet as a dessert. “you’re doing it now.”

there was something about the way she looked at him - like she could see straight through all the mess, straight to who he really was. it was disarming, and he found himself leaning in just a little, his fingers brushing more deliberately against hers now. “maybe you're rubbing off on me.” he murmured, his voice teasing but laced with a sincerity he couldn't hide.

Y/N's breath hitched slightly, but her smile didn't waver, looking up at him through her lashes. "maybe that's not such a bad thing."

for a long moment, they just sat there, the space between them filled with a quiet intimacy. harry's fingers slid up her fingers and enveloped her hand into his. the touch slow, deliberate. she didn't pull away. instead, she leaned in slightly, the rounded edge of the table resting beneath her breastbone.

his heart raced in a way that felt foreign but not unwelcome. it wasn't the adrenaline of a close call or the rush of making a dangerous move. it was something delicate, slower. he wasn't sure what to do with it, but he didn't want it to end. “you’re not scared of me, are you?" he asked hesitantly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N's eyes flickered up to meet his, her expression light but sure. "no, harry. i never was.” she confessed. of course it was the truth, she had always felt pulled into him like he was the center of gravity. even when uncertainty loomed over her, a flicker of fear toward harry himself never washed over. perhaps it was natural selection, his beauty a siren call to a sailor - and she followed the melody blindly.

there was a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken feelings, before harry shifted closer to her, raising his bum off the seat ever so slightly to lean farther in.

he swallowed, his hand moving from hers to gently cup her cheek. he hesitated for a split second, searching her eyes for any hint of doubt, but all he found was the same quiet confidence she always carried.

without thinking too much, he leaned in and pressed his lips softly against her forehead. it was a simple gesture, but one that made her heart swell. she closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the warmth of his touch, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn't exist.

when he pulled back, their faces were still close, and Y/N couldn't help the smile that spread across her lips. "that wasn't so bad, was it?" she teased lightly.

harry chuckled, his thumb brushing gently against her cheek. "no. I suppose not."

they stayed like that for a while, harry having adjusted the chair to round the table and sit next to her. the morning stretched lazily around them as the world outside carried on. but for now, in the quiet warmth of her apartment, everything else seemed to fade away.

before harry bid his goodbye, he left another kiss on her forehead. her shampoo smelt of strawberries and her soft strands of hair felt like velvet against his skin. “need you to join me for an event tonight.” he mumbled into her forehead, pulling away to look into her eyes. he was kneeled in front of her, one leg underneath him while the other in front. his breath smelt like coffee and the jam biscuit she had given him earlier, the familiar scent of the smoky lounge embedded in the locks of his curls.

she hummed, eyes closing as she leaned back ever so slightly. if she was that close again, she might’ve been tempted to press her lips against his. “what for?”

he swallowed, an anxious feeling threatening to creep up his chest and out his throat to word vomit all over her. but he sighed, breath warm against her face. “a colleagues house. black tie event. you were invited.”

her eyes peeled open, eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched in confusion. “why?”

“think they’re testing this girlfriend theory out.” he said lowly, the palm of his hand resting upon her knee gently. “don’t believe they suspect much, but i’ll need you on my arm. will you?”

she nodded, searching his expression to look for something hidden. “only if you’ll give me more to write.”

he gave a small smile, sending her a soft nod as he patted his hand against her knee, standing up. “y’have my word.” he stated, stepping off toward the door. and he meant it, she really did have it; both as a promise and written with the ink of her pens.

*

that evening, Y/N stood in front of her mirror, her hands smoothing down the delicate fabric of her dress. if she had owned any dresses, it was definitely an evening gown or two. the pine green gown hugged her figure just right, the hem barely above the floor as she twirled once in front of her reflection. the neckline was that as many of the bras she owned, though a bit more conservative - only a glance of her cleavage available to the eye. the back hung loosely, draped down to the highest point of her waist. the bones and muscles in her back rippled in the light gorgeously, that in itself could be her accessory. her hair was pinned back with loose tendrils falling around her face, and her silver necklace sat at her collarbone. she didn’t often dress up like this, but tonight wasn’t just any night. harry had asked her to play a part, and she intended to do it well.

a knock at the door brought her out of her thoughts. her heart skipped a beat, and she quickly gathered herself, giving one last glance in the mirror before padding to the door. she opened it to find harry, his dark curls neatly tamed, a black suit tailored to perfection, and a bow tie hanging loosely around his neck - unfinished. he stood there for a moment, his eyes sweeping over her from head to toe, and for the first time since they’d met, she swore she saw him falter.

“wow.” he breathed, blinking as if trying to steady himself. “you’re breathtaking.”

Y/N smiled softly, feeling a warmth creep up her neck. “you don’t look too bad yourself,” she teased, gesturing to his unfinished bow tie. “though i think you need a little help.”

harry chuckled, stepping inside as he fiddled with the fabric. “never could get the hang of these things,” he muttered.

Y/N stepped closer, her fingers gently brushing his as she took over, expertly tying the bow. they stood there, inches apart, her gaze focused on the task while harry watched her intently. the air between them seemed to crackle, and for a brief moment, the world outside their little bubble ceased to exist.

“there.” she whispered, smoothing the collar of his shirt. her hands lingered for just a moment longer than necessary, her eyes flicking up to meet his. “all set.”

his gaze held hers, something unspoken passing between them. he swallowed hard, the tension from the nights before returning, but this time, it felt different - heavier, more intimate.

“ready?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N nodded, though her heart raced in her chest. before shutting the door; she reached over to the coat rack, pulling out a black shaw to wrap around her shoulders. “ready.”

as they stepped outside and made their way down the dimly lit street, the autumn air crisp and cool against their skin, harry reached out and placed his hand on the small of her back, inches below the bare skin revealed by her dress - or lack there of. it was a simple, but the way his hand felt closer than before sent goosebumps over her skin like a tidal waves. it wasn’t just for show anymore; there was something genuine in the way he touched her, something that made her feel more grounded than she had in days.

they arrived at the event after a wave and a whistle to a taxi - a grand estate, the kind that screamed old money and exclusivity. the soft hum of jazz music filtered out into the night air as they approached, their shoes clicking softly against the cobblestone driveway. Y/N squeezed harry’s hand slightly, her nerves bubbling to the surface.

“remember,” he whispered, leaning down so only she could hear. “you’re my girl tonight. no questions. just follow m’lead.”

Y/N nodded, her resolve strengthening as she straightened her posture. she could do this. she wanted to do this. it wasn’t just about the story anymore - it was about him. the world he was caught up in, the danger he carried on his shoulders. she wasn’t going to let him bear it alone.

they stepped through the grand doors, the warm glow of chandeliers illuminating the opulent room. men in tuxedos and women in sparkling gowns mingled, the soft clink of champagne glasses and muted laughter filling the air. harry’s hand never left hers as they wove through the crowd, his grip steady and reassuring.

moving through the throng of people, harry’s demeanor shifted. he was calm, collected, every inch the confident musician with connections to powerful people. he greeted a few familiar faces, keeping Y/N close by his side, his arm occasionally resting around her waist in a way that felt both protective and possessive.

at one point, they stopped by a group of men deep in conversation. one of them, a tall man with slicked-back hair and a knowing smile, turned his attention to harry, then to Y/N. his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

“this must be the lovely lady we’ve heard about.” the man said smoothly, extending his hand to Y/N. “arthur’s told us quite the tale.”

harry tensed beside her, but Y/N met the man’s gaze steadily, slipping her hand into his for a brief shake. “it’s a pleasure,” she said, her voice calm despite the unease creeping up her spine.

the man’s smile widened, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “likewise. you know, we’re always curious when new faces come around. especially ones as..captivating as yours.”

harry’s grip on her waist tightened, his jaw clenching ever so slightly. “she’s with me,” he said firmly, his voice low but clear. “and that’s all you need to know.”

the man raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t press further. instead, he gave a slow nod, his gaze lingering on Y/N for a moment longer before turning back to the group. “of course. enjoy your evening.”

as they moved away from the group, harry’s tension didn’t ease. he guided her toward a quieter corner of the room, his hand still firmly on her waist, though now it felt more like a shield than a gesture of affection.

“harry.” Y/N murmured, glancing up at him. “what was that about?”

he didn’t respond immediately. he ran a hand through his curls, his eyes scanning the room. “they’re watching us,” he muttered. “arthur, the others..they’re testing me. testing us.”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, but she didn’t waver. she placed a hand on his arm, grounding him, bringing him back to the present. “m’not afraid,” she whispered, her voice steady. “are you?”

harry’s gaze softened as he looked down at her, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. he placed his hand over hers, squeezing gently. “ ‘course not.”

for the rest of the evening, they stayed close, a united front in a world full of shadows and whispers. and though the stakes were high, Y/N felt a strange sense of calm wash over her.

as the night wore on, the atmosphere in the grand estate only seemed to grow heavier. the elegance and tinkling of champagne glasses became a backdrop to the undercurrent of suspicion and subtle power plays. Y/N could feel it - the tension in the air, like a taut string waiting to snap.

harry remained by her side, guiding her through the room like a chess piece he was careful not to lose. every so often, he would lean down and murmur a soft reassurance in her ear - small words meant to comfort, though they were as much for him as they were for her. when he was sure no one else could hear, he would occasionally feed her bits of information of those in the room. things she could write down later.

they drifted from one group of people to the next, exchanging pleasantries with men and women who, by all appearances, were simply enjoying a lavish evening. but she could see the way their eyes lingered too long on her, the flicker of curiosity when they spoke to Harry. she was an outsider in their world, and she knew it.

as they approached another cluster of guests, Y/N’s gaze was drawn to a tall man at the center of the group. he stood out, his dark suit impeccably tailored, and his brown locks slicked with gel gleamed in the soft glow of the chandeliers. arthur. his eyes landed on them almost immediately, a slow, calculated smile stretching across his lips as he stepped toward them.

“harry,” arthur greeted, his voice smooth but with an underlying sharpness. his gaze slid to Y/N, lingering for a beat too long before returning to harry. “and his daphne.” he winked, laced with a teasing undertone. it struck something in Y/N, like a foreboding whine on a cello vibrating in her chest. daphne. apollo. the huntress he fell in love with. a journalist ravenous for truth.

harry’s grip on Y/N’s waist tightened slightly, but he kept his voice steady. “arthur. you’ve made your introductions previously.” his tone left no room for further taunts, referring to the night before.

arthur’s smile didn’t falter. if anything, it grew more amused. “ah, yes. but i’m afraid I didn’t get the chance to know her better.” he looked at Y/N now, his sharp gaze flickering over her dress, his lips curving into a smirk. “you do make quite the striking pair. no wonder people are talking.”

she felt the weight of his words, but she didn’t waver. she offered a polite smile, her hand resting lightly on harry’s arm. “i’m afraid i don’t pay much attention to gossip.”she said, her voice calm and measured.

arthur chuckled, a low, menacing sound. “smart girl. but in this world, my dear, what people say can be just as dangerous as the truth.”

before Y/N could respond, a woman joined the group, her gaze sharp and calculating. her long, dark dress shimmered as she moved, and she carried herself with the grace of someone used to commanding a room. her blonde hair was pulled into a bun, adorned with pearls.

“arthur,” she purred, placing a hand on his arm. her eyes flicked between harry and Y/N, and a knowing smile curled her lips. “i see you’ve finally met harry’s companion. been the talk of the evening.”

he inclined his head slightly, his shoulders relaxing. “indeed, i have. a pleasure.”

Y/N could feel the weight of their scrutiny, the way they were testing her, pushing for a crack in her composure. but she kept her head high, refusing to let them see her falter. she wasn’t here just for harry’s sake - she had a job to do, a story to uncover. this world, as uncertain as it was, held the key to something much bigger than any of them.

harry, sensing the tension rising, spoke up again, his voice cool. “it’s been a lovely evening, arthur, but i think it’s time i took her for some air.”

arthur’s eyes glinted with amusement. “of course, harry. i’ll see you as the night continues.”

the was a subtle threat buried in those words, but harry didn’t take the bait. instead, he nodded curtly and gently guided Y/N away from the group, his hand firm on the small of her back.

they found a quieter corner of the grand ballroom, away from the prying eyes and sharp tongues. Y/N exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her nerves finally catching up to her.

“what was that?” she whispered, turning to harry as soon as they were out of earshot.

harry ran a hand through his curls, his expression tense. “he wants t’rattle me. but i see it in his eyes, he’s fallin’ for it. slowly.”

“and what happens if he doesn’t?” Y/N asked, her voice soft but steady.

he met her gaze, his green eyes filled with something unreadable. “he wont, dove. i won’t let that happen.”

she swallowed, feeling the weight of the evening pressing down on them - the stakes higher than she had anticipated. this wasn’t just a simple gathering of the city’s elite; it was a power play, and she was right in the middle of it.

but she wasn’t alone.

he reached for her hand, his fingers lacing through hers as he pulled her a little closer. his voice was low when he spoke again, almost too soft to hear. “y’doing so good, yeah? jus’ keep following m’lead.”

Y/N nodded, feeling the warmth of his hand steady her. his praises allowed a heat settle between her thighs as well, his cool breath a contrast that allowed her breath to hitch.

they lingered in the corner for a moment longer, the noise of the party humming in the background. Y/N could feel the weight of harry’s eyes on her, the way he seemed to be thinking about something he wasn’t ready to say. but before she could ask him what was on his mind, a familiar voice interrupted them.

“there you two are.”

Y/N turned to see louis approaching, a relaxed smile on his lips with a flute of champagne in his hand. his easy demeanor provided a brief respite from the tension that had been hanging in the air. harry’s hand loosened slightly around hers, though he didn’t let go.

“didn’t expect to see you tonight, lou,” harry greeted, his voice still holding an edge of caution though a small smile tugged the corner of his lips.

he shrugged casually, swirling his drink before taking a sip. “figured i’d pop in, someone’s gotta supply the alcohol.” his eyes flicked between the two of them, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “you two seem to be handling the attention well.”

Y/N glanced at Harry, sensing the subtle shift in his stature. he was more relaxed with louis around, but she could tell he was still nervous. it was as if he was waiting for the next move, the next subtle threat hidden behind a pleasant smile.

lou has been a friend of harry’s since arriving to america, having worked behind the bar alongside with him before the opportunity of music presented itself. louis had a kind heart with a tough exterior. he wouldn’t have expected him to be in this line of work, but louis explained it was necessary to support his family. the economy struggled, and jobs were few and far between. he’d rather risk being caught bootlegging than burning alive in a factory with a boss who couldn’t care less.

the shorter brunette raised an eyebrow, catching the tension between them. “arthur giving you a hard time?”

harry’s jaw tightened briefly before he nodded. “he’s testing the waters.”

he chuckled, shaking his head. “sounds like him. loves to push people, that one. see how far they’ll go before they crack. but don’t worry, mate. he’s all talk tonight. no one’s going t’make a scene here.”

Y/N couldn’t help but feel a little relieved at his words, though she still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. the event had an air of sophistication, but beneath the polished surface, there was a current of something darker - something she was only beginning to understand.

louis set his empty glass down on a nearby table and turned to Y/N, his expression softening. “y’holding up alright? not the easiest crowd for a newcomer.”

she smiled, though she felt the evening pressing down on her. “i’m fine, really. just trying to keep up.”

he gave a small nod of approval. “you’re doing more than keeping up, love.”

harry shot lou a warning look, but he waved it off with a smirk. “relax, H. they’re impressed. they don’t know what to make of the relationship yet, but that’s good. keep ‘em guessing.”

she was in a role tonight - harry’s partner, his girlfriend as far as the others were concerned - but it was a game, and she was still figuring out the rules.

before any of them could say more, the sound of a glass being tapped echoed through the room. the buzz of conversation faded into silence, attention turning toward the center of the ballroom where arthur now stood, a drink in hand and a smug smile on his face.

“ladies and gentlemen,” he began, his voice commanding the attention of the room. “i’d like to make a toast. to good company, to old friends, and to the future that lies ahead of us all.”

there was a murmur of agreement as glasses were raised, but Y/N noticed the way arthur’s eyes lingered on her and harry. a smile spread across his lips, a glimmer in his brown eyes.

“to new faces,” he added, his gaze locking onto Y/N. “and to the fresh opportunities they bring with them.”

Y/N’s stomach tightened. the toast was meant for her - thinly veiled, but it was there. she could feel harry tense beside her, his fingers pressing gently into her waist. he didn’t move, but she could sense the shift in him, his calm facade now cracking under the weight of arthur’s words.

“cheers,” the brunette finished, his glass raised high as the rest of the room followed suit. the clinking of glasses filled the air, and then, just as quickly, the room returned to its previous hum of conversation and laughter.

but she could feel the change. arthur’s toast had been more than just a public greeting - it was a message. she wasn’t just a guest here anymore.

louis leaned in slightly, his voice low. “watch your back tonight, love. arthur doesn’t like loose ends.”

harry shot a pointed glance toward his friend before tugging on Y/N’s hand toward arthur’s direction. she smiled softly at lou before quickening her stride to keep up. “saying our goodbyes.” he mumbled, “we’re leaving.”

his pace was quick and purposeful as they made their way across the extravagant room. she followed closely, her pulse racing as she felt the weight of arthur’s gaze settle on them before they even reached him. it wasn’t just a casual departure - it was strategic. harry knew how to play his cards.

arthur shot them a wide grin, a knowing look flashing in his eyes. he tilted his head slightly, swirling the golden liquid in his glass with a lazy grace. “leaving already, harry? night’s still young.”

he didn’t falter, his voice calm but firm. “got t’get her home at a decent hour. just came to say goodnight.”

arthur’s eyes flicked to Y/N, his smirk lingering. “a shame. was hoping to learn more about your muse.” his words were light, but there was a distinct undertone of menace.

Y/N stood a little straighter, refusing to shrink under his gaze. she smiled politely, though the steel in her eyes matched harry’s. “m’sure we’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted in the future.”

he chuckled softly, the sound sending a chill down her spine. “i look forward to it.” he glanced back at harry, raising his glass slightly. “safe travels, old friend. see you soon.”

harry gave a sharp nod, his grip on Y/N’s hand tightening just enough to signal the need to move quickly. “of course. goodnight, arthur.”

without another word, harry guided her swiftly toward the exit. the cool night air hit them like a wave as they stepped outside, the tension in the room left behind but still clinging to their skin.

Y/N exhaled sharply, her breath visible in the cold as she glanced at harry. “what now?”

he ran a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched as he looked down the dimly lit street. “take y’home and help you write.”

she nodded, hoping to shake off the lingering unease that wrapped around her like a shroud. “do you think he’ll try anything?” she paused, glancing up at him. “he seemed interested.”

he held onto her hand, guiding her down the long driveway and to the sidewalk. “interested in you, yes. but it’s more about power for him. wants to see how far he can push, wants to have an aspect of control over me to keep me from leaving. i don’t think he knows.”

as they walked down the neighborhood to meet the main road, he kept a pace brisk. his fingers were still interlocked with hers as if anchoring them both. once turning a corner and being met with the lights of the city, harry waved down another taxi to bring them back to her apartment. the ride was quiet, the low buzz of a radio echoed a host’s incoherent words along with the sounds of the tires against the road. he guided her up the steps of the complex after being dropped off, reaching for the keys she had told him to hold onto and allowing the door to open.

hey both settled in at the coffee table, shoes having already been taken off but they still resided in the evening’s attire. harry softly told Y/N things to write down, her hands flicking out the prettiest handwriting he’s ever seen. “i still feel guilty.” she murmured, continuing her movements. “for making your life more difficult.”

he shook his head, softly placing his hand across her paper to stop her writing. “nonsense.” his tone was soft, but firm. sincerity. he sighed, pulling her soft, cold hand into his. the pen rolled off the edge of the notebook, falling onto the rug. “arthur has a way of getting in someone’s head, makin’ them doubt themselves.” he paused, thumbing gentle circles on the back of her hand. “but s’nothing. i know you’re smarter than his antics.”

she nodded, her cheeks turning a tinge of pink. his touch was soft and electrifying all at once, a rubber band stretching in her belly threatening to snap. the grip on her hand went loose, his lips parting ever so slightly. her hair was down, having taken out the clip once she walked through the door. the sight of her sitting on her heels across the small table was a teasing in it of itself. his chest tightened as he let go of her hand, scooting around the coffee table to sit beside her. her perfume was light and floral, and when he noticed her chest start to rise and fall more hastily he felt himself twitch. “Y/N..” he trailed off, voice barely above a whisper. he kept his hands on the table, nervous to act on the thoughts that bounced around his head.

the pads of her fingertips trailed along the fluffy rug until she reached his thigh, her touch light and meticulous against him. “harry.” she whispered, almost breathless. “can we still pretend?”

his hand met hers before he gripped her wrists lightly, halting her movements all together. “pretend?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. of course he knew what she meant, but watching her cheeks blush into a darker shade of pink made his pulse quicken. “pretend you’re still mine?”

she nodded sheepishly, a heat pooling between her thighs pathetically. she wriggled her wrist in his grasp, her lips in a slight pout. “treat me like your girl.” she pleaded quietly. “just for a while longer.”

harry hesitated, eyes burrowing into hers like he was searching for answers. her eyebrows furrowed with need, eyes clouded with a desperation that pulled harry away from her eyes. he tugged on her wrist, gently pulling her into him as she tried to scoot her bum across the space between them simultaneously.

he cupped her cheek with his other hand, capturing her lips in a searing kiss that sent her heart racing. she melted into him, the kiss deepening as he maneuvered her wrist-in-hand to his lap, bounding her to him. the warmth of his body against hers ignited a fire within her, and she felt herself yearning for more. he bunched her grown above her knees ever so slightly as he pulled her onto him, his large hands kneading the flesh of her bum as his tongue swiped past her lips, brushing hers.

with a sudden shift, harry broke the kiss and guided her to sit on the sofa, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. "relax, sweet girl.” he murmured, hands trailing up her soft legs and dragging her dress back up along with it.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as he settled between her legs, trailing gentle kisses from her knee, up her inner thigh until he could see the thin fabric of her panties clinging to her wet cunt. his hands looped around her thighs and spread them apart. the cool air against her skin sent shivers through her body, heightening her senses. she leaned back against the sofa, her heart pounding in more places than her chest. "harry," she gasped, her hands tangling in his hair hesitantly as he continued his exploration, his mouth leaving a trail of fire in its wake. the anticipation built within her, and she could feel herself aching for his touch. she knew what was he was intending to do, though she’s never felt it before. she lost her virginity in high school, but only heard the idea of a man’s face between her folds through her best friend. she believed it to be a fantasy, only existing behind her eyelids as she fingered herself underneath the covers - until now.

"just a taste" he mumbled, his voice low and sultry, but it sounded as if he was talking to himself. his lips grazed over the wet spot of the fabric, the gasps that fell from her lips melodic, and he wondered if he could mimic the melody on his guitar. his thumb grazed up her covered folds, pressing down on her clit hidden between. she hissed, his fingers finding themselves looped around her underwear, pulling them down in a swift movement. he bunched up her dress a bit more, nearing her core as he gazed up at her through his eyelashes, an eager grin on his lips before he pressed a soft kiss against her most sensitive spot. his breath was hot against her, hands gripping the place where her hips and thighs met. his lips brushed over her folds before he spoke, “y’trust me, Y/N?”

her fingers remained threaded in his curls while she nodded feverishly, which only earned a tsk from harry. he placed a few kisses on her inner thigh and around her folds, the girl squirming underneath his hold. “my girl would use her words.” he taunted gently. he inched closer to her core as she whimpered multiple pleases. the sensation was foreign and electrifying, a shiver cascading down her body.

he placed a tentative kiss on her bud to get a feel for her sensitivity. her back arched involuntarily as she tried to pull his face closer to her dripping cunt. he responded eagerly, tongue flicking out to taste her - a jolt of pleasure shooting through her. his lips enveloped her clit, sucking and lapping like it was the best flavored lollipop in the local candy shop. although he only promised a taste, he would go against his word - already addicted to the way she felt against his mouth. “this okay?” he asked against her, keeping his movements the same until she answered.

“yes-” she whimpered, riding her hips against his face. “more, H. please.” she breathed, desperate for his movements to continue. the sensation wasn’t anything compared to her fingers - intimate and raw, filled with a heat that threatened to consume her.

his tongue flicked hungrily as he explored her with deliberate care. he licked and sucked, tongue swirling in ways that made the coil in her belly tighten. she bucked her hips against him, strings of desperate moans falling from her parted lips. nothing existed outside of this moment, including the neighbors behind thin walls. she cried out profanities that mixed in with his name, harry continuing his assault on her cunt. the knot in her tummy tightened, threatening to release - but she didn’t want it to end just yet. his mouth was ecstasy against her, and she wanted to ride out this high as long as she could. he didn’t rush, his tongue moving in slow languid strokes. his left hand trailed softly down her leg, his thick fingers sitting at her her entrance before he slowly pushed two in, feeling her walls clench tightly around him.

he couldn’t stifle the small groan that escaped him, reverberating against her pussy as he flicked the tips of his fingers upward. he leaves sloppy kisses around her thighs while his thumb encircles her clit greedily, watching the sight before him as if it was the first colored film with clear audio. “har-“ she moaned, having trouble forming coherent words. “m’gonna-“

“y’gonna what?” he asked lowly, quickening his place. “tell me, dove.”

her moans were messy, getting louder as she nears her release. he removes his hand, gripping onto her hips again and pulling her flush against his face. she could feel the tension coiling in her core, the pleasure mounting in a way that was both overwhelming and intoxicating.

she was on the edge, teetering on a precipice she had never experienced before, and harry seemed to know it. he slowed down, drawing out every moment, savoring her reactions, until Y/N couldn't take it anymore. her back arched, her hands gripping the sofa as her body gave in, the pleasure crashing over her like a wave.

her body trembled, every nerve alight as she rode out the overwhelming sensation, harry's touch steady and grounding. his mouth never left her core, lapping at her as he drank in every drop of her release. and when the waves of pleasure finally subsided, she collapsed back against the cushions, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

harry lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he climbed back up, resting beside her. his lips and chin glistened with the remnants of their passion, placing a gentle kiss atop her head.

once the tremors subsided, he stood up in a fluid movement, taking her hand into his as he gently pulled her up from the couch, guiding her to the open bedroom. he helped her sit on the edge of the bed, combing his fingers through her disheveled hair. “y’clothes in the dresser, dove?” he almost cooed, to which he earned a nod. he crossed over to the dresser with flowers etched into the wooden surface. he pulled out a thin, white nightgown, helping Y/N out of her dress to slip the gown over her head with care.

he leaned over the bed as he helped her get into the spot against the wall, tucking her blankets her frame. before he could step away, her fingers caught his, her expression weary and but wanting. “pretend a while longer?” she frowned, “don’t go.” she pleaded, fingers slipping from his as she patted the spot beside her.

“y’want me to sleep here?” he thought out loud, his gaze tender as it lingered on her. “y’sure?”

she only nodded as harry began to shrug off the blazer, undoing his belt that hugged his slacks around him. his fingers struggled with the bow tie, a sigh falling from his lips as he put a knee on the bed, leaning over with a small smile. “requires your assistance.”

she giggles quietly, undoing the bow tie before he pulled away and stripped down to his boxers. the moth on his abdomen fluttered with every breath as he slipped into the spot beside her, head resting flat against the pillow as she pulled herself into his side, draping an arm lazily around his torso, head on his shoulder. “thank you f’today.” he mumbled, tracing slow patterns along her back through the fabric of the nightgown.

she hummed, eyelids heavy as her breathing slowed. she listened to his heartbeat, the warmth of his skin a perfect contrast to the coolness of the blankets. it felt like heaven against her. she drifted further into slumber as she parted her lips, whispering out, “thank you for everything.”

[mediumsizedpidegon]

Another avenue I want to explore in an Amity Park is Weird scenario is all the niche sub-cultures going on.

There is absolutely NO WAY there isn't a thriving goth community in Amity Park. They're holding picnics every full moon. They're holding crafting sessions in their friends' basements. They're adopting ghost animals left and right: eight-legged dogs and blob-cats, skeletal fish and neon bearded dragons.

There's a young man called Raphael who performs live music every week at a dance club with his band: he's got a myriad of shiny piercings, and a phone camera roll full of his rabbits, Morningstar and Salem. Perhaps those ghosts are bad business like the Fentons say, but the club's never felt more alive.

The scene and emo kids are multiplying at a rapid rate. The punks and grunge folks are doing shit with textiles that makes every quilting grandmother in a five mile radius swoop in to pass on their skills. Josie and Betty, old friends who periodically upload photos online of their handmade lace, suddenly gain an influx of young folks who want to learn how to make their own ghoulish patterns.

There's a new group peeling off from the goths that dress like the embodiment of Halloween– all bones, pumpkin orange and lengths of costume jewelry.

The historical costuming community is alive and well in these times, and they fall upon the few ghosts from times past willing to share knowledge like starving wolves. Their minds are full of patterning-math and fabric prices, and their excitement is, quite literally, infectious.

A revolution starts up in food service: a great many restaurants closed or moved to follow the many people who left Amity after the ghosts first came. A pair of brothers open a restaurant that has the best Polish food around: people politely don't comment on how the owners are dressed in clothes a century out of date or how their eyes gleam. Two cat cafes open, one space themed and another with loose definitions of what counts as a "cat." Assorted coffee and tea shops dot the landscape: some serve donuts, some have cupcakes, and others have breakfast wraps, sandwiches or savory hand pies.

People that can't afford to open a restaurant sell food out of their homes, advertised by cardboard signs with phrases like CAKES FOR $10, and BARBEQUE RIBS FOR SALE painted on them in gigantic bright letters. High school students bring in bags of cookies they made the night before and completely sell out of stock before the day is done. One woman's house has no signage and yet is known by word of mouth to be a herbalist, selling tins of homemade tea blends, flowers, assorted plant clippings, and cough drops.

Someone down the street of Casper High sells small batches of eco-friendly soap at a nearby corner store.

During summer time, lemonade stands are everywhere. Some of the lemonade is made with the strange fruits from one of the parks: no one dies, so it's fine.

The Farmer's Market has gotten... intense.

[momolady]

Art the Orc

If you live in a small town, maybe you'll know this place. It's a little art store run by the same family for ages. It's not changed in all that time either. Picture it, feel it, you know it's the only place that sells that one supply you like. Now, imagine an orc behind the counter. Female Reader x Male Monster

The visage of the old place looked like it had once been a gas station. There was one of those big metal awnings and signs that gas pumps had once been outside. But everything else looked like the art supply store it was. The window was painted, done up with flowers and a flourishing font, but it hadn’t been touched in ages and was chipping and weathering away.

The old place had seen better days, you could tell. But you were excited to tackle such a special project with your own two hands.

Inside the place had a familiar smell of paint thinner, book pages, and coffee. You looked around the front as the bells on the door chimed. The old floor had seen better days and was worn out where you stood, even the welcome mat was hard to read.

“Welcome to Greengold Creative Station,” the deep voice came from behind the front desk where there was an open door. ‘I’ll be out with you in just a moment.”

“Take your time,” you replied. You continued to look around, noting the mismatched shelving and thrown together renovations dotting the place.

A moment later, a large orc came from the back. He was wearing thick glasses and had on a corded cardigan that covered a paint splattered t-shirt.

“Can I help you find anything?” He asked as he adjusted his glasses.

You approached the front desk again, extending your hand to him. “Hi! You must be Mr. Greengold, I’m from Regency Renovations.”

There was a surprised look upon his face as he shook your hand. “You’re the renovator?”

You smiled, half expecting some reservation based on your appearance. “I specialize in business and storefront renovations. That is what you wanted, correct, Mr. Greengold?”

He fumbled with his words for a moment, stuttering, touching his glasses until he spoke. “Call me Art, please.”

You held it in, but he knew where your mind went.

“It’s short for Arthur, but it's also my dad’s name so my mom calls me Art. Yes, I know, ha ha, very fun. A man named Art runs the art store.”

“It’s an easy target.” You tried to squash your giggling but a few came out.

He sighed and shook his head. “So, you’ll be handling the whole store. I want it updated completely. It was fine for my parents, but I need to bring in a new generation of artists and online shopping is destroying us.”

“It’s a common issue, Art,” you didn’t look at him as you said his name. “I already have some ideas brewing and I would be happy to discuss your thoughts for the business with you.”

He sighed heavily, gazing out at a store that was once his family’s legacy. “I would say I would like to keep some of what my parents did to this place, but I don’t think any of it is salvageable.”

“Well recycling is a thing.” You replied. “Like some of these old shelves, the wood can be reused to create a rustic facade for the front desk here.” You patted the worn out formica top. “And the vintage signage out from can be reused and framed, hung just right behind you there.”

Art made a face. “You can do all that.”

You returned his face, adding a smug smile to it. “I can do lots of things, Art. My father was a carpenter and my mother was a viper. Be careful of what you inflict about me.” You patted your chest proudly. You knew you were small and chubby, not many people expected much out of you, but your work spoke for itself. And that was how you told people off.

“Sorry,” he sighed. “I have a lot riding on this so-”

“So you hired the best. That I can promise you. Now I know you said you didn’t have a lot of funds, but I already have my plans made for how to help you with that. I plan on doing most of the work on my own, but for heavy lifting and other things-”

“I don’t mind helping with that,” he said with a shake of his head.

You had planned to bring in your brother for help, he enjoyed the destruction part of your job and he worked for free food. “Well uh…if you’d like Art, I wouldn’t say no.”

“I wouldn’t want you getting hurt on the job. It would be best if I helped out,” he said.

You couldn’t tell if he was being kind or underestimating you again, so you brushed it off and continued. “I would also like to film the process of the renovation. Stuff like that will help reach your new audience.”

He frowned, and his thick brows pinched together. “You must be joking.”

“I am not. You’d be surprised what the kids these days are watching.” You smirked up at him. “I know what I am doing, Art. Have some faith.”

His face read: easier said than done.

Discussion and planning was always the hard bit. You had to convince your employer of what needed to be done. Art was hesitant about some things, after all it was a family business and a place he had grown up in. But for the most part he was willing to go along with some of your ideas.

Art started the clean up process by first putting away his stock and setting most of the mismatched shelves outside. Once that was taken care of you began ripping up the old carpet and ancient linoleum.

“I remember when my dad put that stuff down,” Art said from behind you.

You looked up, eyes covered by goggles and mouth surrounded by one of those thick industrial masks. “Oh really?”

Art gave you a look. “Is all that necessary?”

“You’d be surprised.” You stacked another chunk of the linoleum to the side. “Lots of debris and who-knows-what is under these old floors. Decades of dirty shoes, dust, skin, and life are stored here.”

Art’s grimace deepened. “Skin?”

“Oh yeah, we shed like mad,” you laughed. “If you have dust in your house you can be assured it came from you!”

Art looked perturbed by this revelation but he continued in moving stock to the back and other store property outside.

Once the flooring was removed, you accessed what was underneath. It wasn’t marble or granite, but it was some type of stony tile that had existed when it was a gas station.

“Mom said it was inhospitable.”

You used a dust cloth to clean off a bit of the flooring. “But it’s easy to clean, and it’ll make the whole place appear brighter and bigger.” You turned and looked back at him, taking off the goggles. “It’ll be so much better in the long run. Plus! You won’t have to buy anything new except maybe a rug or two if you wanted.”

Art’s pinched brow was becoming the norm to see, but you could tell it was because the gears behind it were working so hard to process everything going on.

Once the tiles were cleaned and all the old flooring was hauled off to the dump, you started working on the walls, taking down slapdash shelving, and anything else hanging up. The old paint job, or jobs really, were layered on so thick and hadn’t been properly done. They had painted over the trim and electrical outlets, all of which needed to be replaced. The holes in the walls needed fixing too, and there were a few dents and scrapes from the years.

“You’re not hiring a painter?” Art asked one day.

You zipped up your coveralls and turned around to face him. “Not unless you want to shell out twice the money. Besides, I’m a good painter. A great painter even! Maybe not Rembrandt or anything, but I can handle a roller better than most.”

Art looked over your paint supplies. After days of you working on freeing the electric sockets and scraping the excess from the trim you could finally start working. You were painting the wall white, but you had found cheap sticker tiles to create a great accent wall, which could then be used for photo opportunities and special displays. Then another wall would also be painted white and used to display local artists and projects from the art class that Art taught.

“Mom always wanted to put wallpaper up,” Art murmured. “But said it wouldn’t be practical with everything we needed to hang up.”

There was a melancholy to Art’s face and tone as he said this. “What kind?” You asked as you poured your paint into the tray. “We could always find something close to what she had in mind for the office.”

Art glanced over his shoulder then shook his head. “I doubt I could afford it. I tried looking already.”

You put the roller into the paint, sliding it back and forth until it wasn’t too soupy. “Was this place your mom’s idea?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his gaze going all about the store. “I can’t believe how empty it is now.”

“It’ll be full again in no time.” You gave him a reassuring smile when his amber eyes returned to you. “Do you have any pictures of your mother you would want to hang up?” you asked. “I can plan a special place for it.”

He huffed, seeming put off by this suggestion. “Excuse me. The smell of this paint is giving me a headache.” He walked off, stomping his feet a little as he went.

Art came back by the time you were finished with the first coat of white. You were sitting in front of the checkout desk, leaned back against it so your foot propped the door open. He stepped over your leg and looked at your work.

“The white really makes this place look…different,” he murmured.

“Don’t worry, there will be some color back soon enough,” you sighed. “Is your headache gone?”

Art nodded, leaning against the desk. “Sorry if I’ve been…obstinate.”

You waved it off. “I’m used to you.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ve been questioning and judging everything, all because I never really wanted to do this.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Then why are you?”

He let out that heavy, burdened sigh again. “Because it was in her will.”

You clicked your tongue. “Oh.”

“She left me money, but only if I used a portion of it to renovate the old store. She said it was mine after all, it deserved to reflect the new generation. Even in death she was still hinting I get married.” He scoffed at this, but he still had a smile on his face.

“Sounds pretty motherly.” You stood up from the ground, standing beside him. Not feeling much taller than you did sitting beside his great size. You motioned to the front window. “Did she paint that?”

Art laughed. “No. I did. That’s why she kept it so long.”

Your smile beamed. “Really? That’s pretty adorable.”

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “For years upon years I’ve looked at that painting and wished every day she would wash it off and do something different. But I suppose her sentimentality was far too deep for that.”

“It’s a good painting,” you offered.

“I never thought she’d keep it so I barely tried,” he grunted and crossed his arms against his chest. “Boy, was I wrong.”

“Would you like to paint the new display? I was planning on just hanging a new sign and leaving the window clean.”

“I don’t know,” he muttered.

You patted his arm, and his eyes darted down to your hand, his brows unpinching for that one moment.

“I’ll wait till you decide then.” You stepped away from him, but his eyes still lingered on where you had touched him.

A few days later, as you were working on putting the sticker tile onto the wall, Art came from the back and offered you a ticket.

“A friend of mine has a gallery showing tonight. He gave me two tickets so I thought-” He hesitated and cleared his throat.

“How fancy is the affair?” You asked.

“Nothing too fancy. I mean, dress up, but not like black tie event or anything.” He cleared his throat again. “I was going to get dinner at my favorite restaurant since it was close by if you wanted to come.”

It clicked and you looked up at him. Your cheeks flushed and your mouth started to go dry. “Oh. Sure.” You tucked your hair behind your ear. “If that’s the case, maybe we should go in together. You know? Save the earth and stuff.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Smart idea. How about I pick you up tonight. Say…around six? Since the gallery is at eight?”

You nodded, biting down on your lip. “Yeah. Perfect. That should give me enough time to get ready after work.”

Art turned awkwardly away then back towards you. “Oh I uh, I guess I should get your address.” You traded info and the rest of the day went by in a jerky, tense sort of way.

That evening you waited in your living room until you heard from Art. You were wearing your favorite dress, and had even gotten your next door neighbor to do your makeup. You got his message and went downstairs to meet him at the front door.

Art was dressed nice in a dark purple suit and he had his long hair slicked back and tied into a bun. He didn’t have on his glasses, which surprised you. His eyes lit up when he saw you.

“Wow, you look great!” He said, a touch breathless.

You blushed and smiled. “Thanks. You look pretty great too. I’m not used to seeing you without your glasses.”

“Yeah, contacts tonight,” he said shyly. He then took your hand and led you to his car.

The restaurant was nice, the two of you had a clumsy start to it, but eventually you both started having an in depth conversation about color. From there, you both laughed and joked around, having a good time with great food and even better wine.

From there you walked to the gallery, meeting his friend then roaming through the show. Her artwork was lovely, but you noticed Art’s pinch brow had returned.

“A lot more nudes than I expected,” he whispered.

“I think it’s nice,” you replied. “I can see what her intent with the motif is. How it’s classic, it's natural, but also subversive.” You turned to Art, noticing him fidgeting and adjusting himself.

“Yes. I understand what she is doing,” he muttered. “I must have had just a little too much wine I think.”

You smiled at him, chuckling as your cheeks grew warm.

The car windows were fogged over, and in the dark all you could do was touch. His kisses felt rough but intimate. His tusks brushed against your skin, making your shiver. Every so often the darkness was halted by the motion light of the parking lot turning on. You’d still for a moment, then continue on with your youthful antics.

“We should stop.”

“We should.”

“Why aren’t we?”

“It’s hard.”

“Very hard.”

You kissed Art and breathed, looking into his eyes while you clasped your hands around his face. Maybe it was the wine or the nudes on display, maybe it was weeks of working so close and holding back so long.

“It’s hard.”

“Very hard.”

You smiled at him, kissing him again while his hands moved below. Your panties were pushed aside, his zipper brushed against your thigh. Big. Oh my god it was big!

You gasped softly and he stilled, watching your expression. You eased over him, taking as much of Art as you could stand. You pressed your palms to the roof of the car for balance, his strong hands kneaded into your thick thighs.

“Aren’t we a bit too old for this?” he breathed.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we.” Your laughter turned into moaning. Maybe you were both a bit too old for this, but you’d never had so much fun before! He pressed deeply inside you, and his hands couldn’t stop touching your body. He roamed over the soft curves, and plump form, his desire seeming to grow the more he did.

The next morning you came into work, seeing Art standing in the middle of the room. You held your breath, wondering if it was all a wonderful dream. He turned and smiled, his thick glasses back in place.

“Hi” he said breathlessly.

Your smile bloomed. “Hi.”

Art motioned to the desk. “I brought coffee.”

“I see that.” You smiled and took a cup he offered.

He sighed then laughed and you laughed. “So uh…last night.”

“I liked your friend’s gallery. It was very nice. I also liked your favorite restaurant.” You took a sip of the coffee, testing it before you added anything.

Art nodded, his gaze drifted until it fell back onto you. “Is that all?”

You smiled over your coffee cup. “No. Just barely.” You looked into his eyes. “I wasn’t sure if it was an appropriate work topic.”

“Not exactly but uhm…I just wanted to check.” His eyes darted over you. “Were we really too old for that?”

You laughed and cupped your hand over your mouth. “A little. But I’m not too sore. Are you?”

“No. But I would prefer somewhere much comfier next time.” he leaned in close and you closed your eyes, accepting his kiss and the touch of his tusks against your cheeks.

“Yes, it would be nice.” You saw he had paints and brushes set on the front desk. “What’s this for?”

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I thought I’d paint the window. I got a bit of inspiration last night.” He grinned your way. “Plus, I think mom would like to see how I’ve improved.”

You grinned. “I’ll be very excited to see how you work. Outside a car at least.”

[qualitysigns]

Tom Hicks, "Black Country Type"

West Midlands, England, UK

[copperbadge]

Do the gods of teeth take dog requests? If so, please intercede on behalf of my dog who will only let us brush one tooth per day

I have good news and I have...other news, Anon! The good news is that I took your plea to the gods of teeth, so fingers crossed there. Also good news, my crown is repaired at no charge, so while I'm sore and tired, I'm also not broke.

The other news, which is good or bad depending on your point of view and relationship to the concept of evil paintings, is that by popular demand I did this time stop and take a proper straight-on photo of the painting so you all can see it in its full glory, pardon the office plant in the corner.

[ID: a large painting hanging on a wall in a reception area, as evidenced by a small office plant intruding in the lower left of the frame. The painting has a background of red waves under an overcast sky. In the foreground are three humanlike figures in grey shirts, with unusually long necks, huge leering smiles, and hollows where their eyes should be. The one on the left has his hands raised to his chest and the one in the middle is tilting his head curiously. It is eerie, but the teeth ARE very white and straight.]

For those of you who have missed previous posts, this is the painting hanging in my dentist's reception area, which they bought in Japan and which they were going to retire except when they moved offices they didn't have signage for a while and this was the only way clients knew they were in the right place.

[wth-creates]

2024.03 getting a little more creative and "artsy" with this one. grabbed some ideas from canva and smooshed them together. gotta work on flower details but overall, this one was fun to do.

[lixzey]

Letters

a/n: PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION ‼️‼️‼️This has very detailed scenes which may not be suitable for everyone. The last four letters will be the same, so heads up!

warnings: mentions of panic attacks, fighting, mention of a gun, slightly detailed murder, mention of a lot of blood, police officers, ambulances, implied post-traumatic stress disorder, trauma, and foster homes

The Fourteenth Letter

As soon as the plane landed, Timothée quickly made his way off of the plane—he was practically pushing through passengers just so he could make his way out—he had no time left to lose; he needed to find Y/n as soon as possible. Timothée was, without a doubt, scared. He wasn’t sure what would be waiting for him at the address he had in his hands.

What if he had the wrong address? What if the place was long gone? What if….Timothée couldn’t even bear to think about the worst-case scenario—even if it was possible. What if’s and maybe’s were scattered throughout his mind. Timothée wanted to think positively—that she was alright, safe, and sound at least—but those negative thoughts were inevitable, given the contents of Y/n’s letters.

Timothée sighed, running a shaky hand through his curls as he strolled to the airport’s exit. His heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest as he scanned the area for the car his manager had arranged for him, his mind racing with all the possibilities of what could be. 

When he finally spotted his ride, Timothée stepped in and gave the driver the address, urging the driver to drive as fast as he legally could. The driver looked at him skeptically, eyebrows knitted in confusion, but nonetheless did as Timothée asked. As the car weaved through the crowded city streets, Timothée’s phone rang all of a sudden. The young actor sighed, picking up the call.

“Timmy, darling?” His mother’s voice spoke from the other line. “Where are you?” 

“I’m on my way to a friend's,” Timothée lied, staring out of the car window. 

“Oh, alright,” Nicole hummed, though Timothée felt like his mother knew that he was lying. “Anyway, there was a young woman looking for you just fifteen minutes ago.” 

Timothée’s brows knitted in confusion. “Looking for me? Who was it?”

“I didn’t catch her name, but she left a letter.”

Timothée’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of a letter. “A letter?” 

“Yes, a letter,” Nicole confirmed. “Like the last time.”

“The last time?”

“A basket of letters. Did you receive them?” Nicole asked. “I asked Pauline to drop it off at the hotel you were staying at in Paris, since she was going the same way.”

“Oh,” Timothée said, gaping at the realization. The letters were delivered to his childhood home, and his mother asked his sister to drop them off. But who delivered the letters? Was it Y/n? “Who delivered the basket, Mom?” 

“The basket was left on our doorstep, sweetheart,” Nicole replied, sending shivers down Timothée's spine.

It was possible that it was Y/n who delivered the letters, but she sent them. She had mentioned in a letter before that she had used all of her extra money for stamps and such, meaning she had sent them in the mail. How the hell did the letters get compiled? Who the hell sent them to him, if not Y/n? Why the fuck were the letters delivered too damn late?

Finally, the car pulled up to the address he had scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper, snapping Timothée out of his daze. He quickly thanked the driver and stepped out onto the bustling sidewalk, his eyes scanning the old run-down building with a large signage with Oregon Sweet Angels Children’s Home written in peeling red paint on a fading yellow background.

Timothée took a step closer, peeking through the boarded windows for a sign of Y/n—or maybe a glimpse of what was inside, of old photos hanging on the walls, or if there was anything else left that could lead him to her, as it was obvious that the children’s home was long forgotten. 

The actor sighed as he sat on the steps of the old building, disappointed at the fact that he had traveled forty hours for nothing. Maybe it was stupid of him to assume that he could find her; he had received the letters too late.

Taking a deep breath, Timothée fished the fourteenth letter from his pocket. “Fourteenth, four more left.”

August 15, 2023

Dear Timothée, 

I just had a panic attack. I haven’t had a panic attack this bad since……

I heard a loud, echoing gunshot from outside of my apartment, and I just froze in place. I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, and couldn’t think. Because a gunshot tossed me back into the system for the remaining years of my childhood—if I could even call that a childhood.

It was the summer before I started high school.

My aunt still treated me like shit, the bare minimum, and all that. CPS still came by every week, making sure I was happy—I wasn’t—and healthy. It was annoying to act like I was okay, that everything was alright, and that there wasn't anything wrong when clearly there was. But who was I to complain? I was the orphan forced to be raised against the only family I had left's will. In everyone else's eyes, I was happy and loved. But not one of them bothered to look behind the damn curtains.

I constantly stayed in my room, making sure the door was locked and my headphones were right beside my bed.

Why, you ask?

It's because my aunt brought home a man, her fiancé; let's call him Leo. 

It's not that I didn't like Leo—he was kind, he always gave me books, and we'd bond over our shared love for literature—but they always fought. It wasn't like normal fights; they would yell, they would scream, and it involved a lot of hitting and breaking things—courtesy of my aunt, I suppose, because she was the only unhinged person I've ever known. Their fights would always revolve around cheating; my aunt constantly accused Leo of cheating when he didn't. He was loyal, even though my aunt wasn't the best pea in the pod. Leo loved her, but my aunt kept on looking past that, always believing things he wasn't even capable of doing.

I was honestly scared that Leo would one day realize that my aunt was not the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Leo was like a second father to me; he said he sees me as his own and that he'd love to adopt me once he and my aunt got married.

But all that never happened. 

I was sitting in my room, reading peacefully, when I heard them fighting again. At first, I didn’t pay much attention to it because their fighting was practically normal at that point, and I was used to it by then. I shook it off to the side and put my headphones on, but before I even got to play the song from my playlist, I heard a loud, deafening echo of a gunshot from the living room downstairs. I quickly got up; my ears were ringing and my vision blurred as I held the doorknob, opening it with shaking hands. I stepped out of my room, slowly creeping down the stairs, peeking over the railings.

The first thing I saw was Leo.

Lying in a pool of his own blood, slowly dying.

I stood there, frozen. The sight of the wound on the left side of his chest, where the bullet pierced through, sucked the air right out of my lungs. The white Persian rug underneath Leo’s pale and lifeless body absorbed the blood, staining it completely and making my mind blank out. All I could hear was the loud firing of the gun, taking Leo’s life in an instant, that easily.

My aunt stood there, the gun still in her shaking hands, as she stared down at her fiancé’s body, realizing what she had just done was not reversible. She didn’t notice me approaching Leo’s body. I wanted to scream at her; I wanted to charge at her and hit her again and again for killing the only person I had left who cared and loved me after I lost everything that I’ve ever known. But I just stood there as tears flowed down my cheeks, feeling hollow and broken inside—the first time I ever felt that way. After what felt like an eternity, my aunt finally looked up at me—the gun against her forehead—and before I could utter a word, she fired the gun, taking her own life just as easily as she took Leo’s.

I fell onto my knees as the ringing of the gunshot replayed again and again in my ears like a fucking merry-go-round, choking out sobs as I stared at the lifeless bodies in front of me. I didn’t know what to do. Again, I wanted to scream and shout, but nothing came out of my throat other than raspy breaths. I knelt there like an idiot for what felt like forever, wondering what I did to fucking deserve this. How the fuck could anyone hurt a little kid? 

Eventually, I grabbed the phone—Leo’s phone—from the coffee table and dialed 911 with my hands shaking. A little while later, the police and ambulances arrived, and immediately one of the RMTs rushed towards me. I was still kneeling in front of Leo’s body, so the RMT wrapped me in her arms and slowly escorted me out to one of the ambulances. I was shaking and sweating while one of the police officers who responded asked me questions about what happened.

I couldn’t.

I couldn’t. 

The scene kept replaying itself again and again. I just kept on crying silently, until the RMT who took me out of the house said it was better to take me to the hospital first to recover from the trauma, and a psychiatrist would be better given what I had to witness. I just sat there until I saw bodies getting loaded into the other two ambulances—Leo and my sorry excuse for an aunt’s bodies—in black body bags. I never, ever expected that I’d see someone I loved die in front of my eyes again. First my parents, then Leo.

I was then whisked away to the nearest hospital. The hospital where I woke up three years prior. I was back to square one, now a literal orphan. No more family. 

I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. I spent a week in the hospital, crying and crying again and again until I ran out of tears. Psychiatrists, therapists, nurses, and doctors all tried to help me open up, but none of them were ever successful.

After my stay at the hospital, I was thrown into foster care—Oregon Sweet Angels Children’s Home—for good this time. I spent my first few days stuck in bed; I didn’t have the energy to mingle with the other kids my age—I was thirteen, turning fourteen in a few months at that time—no one wants a broken girl for a friend, and it’s sure as hell that no one wants to adopt a teen who has nightmares each and every goddamn night.

Now, the trauma’s haunting me. Every fucking time, and this one isn’t all of it.

I’m all alone now. 

My parents died, Leo got murdered, Ava moved out, and Julie’s moved to another state. Who do I have left now, Timmy? Do I have you? I'm scared that everyone I’ll love will leave me. You weren’t even mine to begin with, but I’m still scared to lose you. 

I've been praying again and again for somebody to save me—a knight in shining armor, for all I care—but no one’s been heroic enough. All that I did to try to undo it, all of my pain, and all their excuses. I was a kid, but I wasn't fucking clueless. At eleven, I understood that someone who loves you wouldn't do any of this. All of my past, I tried to erase it. But now I see, would I even change it?

What was I fucking made for?

All my love, 

Y/n

Timothée felt his heart clench, tears pricking his eyes, threatening to fall as he finished reading the fourteenth letter. Y/n had been through so much, so fucking much. She was just a little girl—a little girl who had already gone through hell and back again and again. Timothée felt his stomach twist with guilt, even though it wasn’t his fault.

Or was it?

Had he received all of her letters earlier, Timothée would've reached out to her sooner. She had been so alone and traumatized for years, living through a nightmare that a child should never have to experience. Timothée pressed the letter to his chest, wiping away the tears that had fallen down his cheeks with one hand. He stood up, tucking the letter back in its envelope and putting it back in his pocket. 

Timothée took a deep breath, turning around to take one last look at the children’s home—the place where Y/n spent four years of her life alone—before making his way back to the car that was waiting for him.

He wasn’t going to give up. He was going to find Y/n, he was going to be the hero she desperately needed, and he wasn’t going to stop until he did.

@helens3amstuff @gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @lovemelikecrazyiloveyoucrazy @tchalamss @ashlynnmalfoy @crazycat-ladys-blog @michakune @mxltifxnd0m @spencerr3idd @dangelnleif @sthkate @ferrjulie @imnotoverlyobsessive @mel-vaz @zunin-msty @lovely-maryj @meowmeowmau @bobthe-turmpetman29 @saintcosette @ashisabitgay @ladyladybuggg @nyrasunderwrld @remussbitch @jadahxx @starrystormwritings @ell0ra-br3kk3r @dreary-salem @drewsandsebastianswife @greenapplegrass @lilianelena39 @haybellewrites @cloudlst @si4ana @ev3ningrain @ttulipwritezz @lilmaymayy @bullets-from-another-dimension @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @reg-arcturus-black @marina468 @3stelar @timhalamet @st4rf00k3r @idli-dosa @jimins15thhair @blacksgarden @loving-and-dreaming @thefriendlyneighborhoodmomfriend

[astralexpressarchives]

Bird Symbolism on the Xianzhou

This all started with a question I asked my friend: "Well, have you ever seen a bird on the Xianzhou?"

Birds have played a major role in my very autistic investigations of Xianzhou lore. My intuition just knew that they were important so I started cataloguing every instance of birds appearing on the Xianzhou. I'll start with the more common appearances and then delve into the more obscure ones.

I would also like to preface this by saying I am not a bird scientist nor am I particularly interested in birds outside of the context of HSR. I simply noticed there were some repeating patterns and really wanted to make note of them.

So here's all the times I've seen a bird on the Xianzhou.

The Boring Ones

Sky-faring Commission/Starskiff Bird Symbol

This bird shows up all over the Xianzhou on buildings and signage. It is used on the signs indicating starskiffs but honestly can show up anywhere. Large associations with the sky-faring commission. Highly likely it is inspired by the white bird later in the post.

Jing Yuan's Finches

Another really obvious one as most people are familiar with his finches. As far as I know, they only appear in relation to Jing Yuan and don't seem to have any meaning outside of sheer vibes.

Before Dawn Lightcone:

"Do not make this decision lightly, general... Think about how you will be remembered in history..." The general of the Cloud Knights listens to his subordinates' words with eyes half-closed. "History will make its own judgment, but I have no interest in my legacy." "If I succeed, history will state that I am currently supremely confident in my masterful strategy." "But if I fail, then history will state that I am currently neglecting my duties in wanton pleasure, preferring finches over my people." A finch jumps down from his shoulder, and he extends his hand to catch the small creature. "I have simply made my own decision."

Yukong's Kestral

Similar to the bird that appears on Yanqing, Yukong's Kestral is a symbol that is connected to her beloved Caiyi.

Past and Future Lightcone:

The wings of the paper kite in her hands were broken, brutally reminding her of her beloved's tragic passing. She kneeled next to the fire of war, eyes full of sorrow. "If you are the only one left to do this, then our sacrifice would..." Gunfire raged on, painting the sky red without dampening its majesty. She looked up at the sky, eyes full of fury.

Edit: Qingque and Phoenix

These aren't related to anything as far as I can tell but there is also this bird that appears on Qingque's outfit.

There's also a phoenix that shows up in the Palace of Astrum and again in the Seven Arbiter Generals myriad. It may be something related to the history of the Xianzhou (the planet they came from in particular) because it appears on each of those panels outlining the backstory.

The Fun Ones

Yanqing's Swallow

Now starting to get into the territory of birds that are actually pretty interesting to the lore. The swallow is a bird that is literally everywhere on Yanqing. The painting is found near the Petrichor Inn. - this is significant because the Petrichor Inn has strong associations with the Vidyadhara. The also appear on the handle of his sword and in his splashart.

River Flows in Spring Lightcone:

The young boy took a short break from his sword practice. The sunlight was baking his already heated neck. He slowly got into the water, whose coldness touched his bare feet. When the bell chimes and birds tweet, even the people far away would know that springtime had arrived.

The Water Birds

Repeated appearance of birds made of water both in relation to Yanqing and found in cages in the Vidyadhara section of the Xianzhou. I believe these are some kind of spirit birds similar to the water creatures that swim through the Scalegorge Waterscape and Dan Heng's own azure dragon. These are probably similar to the Oceanids of Genshin Impact where they actually contain souls that take whatever shape they want in the water - probably the souls of dead Vidyadhara if I had to guess. Why are they being caged and sold around the Xianzhou in Vidyadhara areas? I have literally no idea at this point.

Yanqing has these ice swallows appear during his attacks. There's a recurring theme of swords containing souls in Xianxia stories which is also loosely connected to the concept of Blade's sword graveyard in the Hellscape. I think Yanqing's ice birds are somehow souls similar to the water birds caged around the Xianzhou.

The uber weird part about all of this is how at the end of Yanqing's ultimate you see this image. In the background of the image are the mountains associated strongly with the Vidyadhara and Dan Heng in particular.

I don't know what this means for Yanqing right now but he is an expy of a pre-existing character from Honkai Impact 3rd: Ma Yanqing. They probably have some plan for him that isn't immediately apparent right now but I would like to point out that his grandmaster, Jingliu, is also heavily associated with the mountain moon realm and can also summon a sword made of water/ice. This does not appear to be a technique known by anyone else and Jingliu herself needed to defeat the abomination in order to acquire her singular ice sword.

The Crane

Appearing initially only on Dan Feng's clothing, the crane has made a comeback in the new Cloud Knights Martial Doctrine, On Swords myriad trailer. They are significant because the also appear among the mountain realm and the moon. Notice the association Jingliu, Yanqing, and Dan Heng in particular.

The Black Bird

So not all the birds in this picture are distinctly black but their colour is ambiguous and they are similarly shaped so I'm lumping them together. They all appear in association with the mountain area - Blade's sword graveyard is also in the mountain area. The top right picture is from Dan Heng's first fansong.

The White Bird

Not sure what species of bird this is supposed to be but there's a white bird that appears repeatedly in association with the mountain realm. More specifically, it appears among the clouds and may freely travel from the Scalegorge to the Mountains through the hole in the clouds. Bottom left is from Blade's fansong. I think these birds may represent souls and the dead in the same way that Blade's spiderlilies and swords do.

There's also this bird above the realm-keeping commission that I'm unsure how to categorize because of it's unique shape but it's also among the mountains and moon.

Edit: Dan Shu's Bird

This one is actually important for the spirit bird concept. In the Longevous Disciple relic set she tells us of a story that inspires her:

According to the legend, a certain delvemaster saved her partner by placing their soul into a bird, granting them immortality. However, she eventually could not resist the call of the avian and also transformed into a bird, flying alongside them. Over time, the delvemaster became confused and lost her true form, becoming a half-feathered, half-human monster. When her subjects stormed the palace and pierced her with blazing spears and arrows, the two birds sang a final mournful song and turned to ashes together. She loved this story so much that she took the essence and marrow of birds and transformed them in the alchemical furnace, then had someone weave these materials into a luxurious feather coat. She could not see just how beautiful the coat was, but nonetheless enjoyed walking around the house while wearing it — it was meant to be seen by a person who no longer existed. As the garb fluttered, she always felt that a bird-like soul was flying and passing through her hands and shoulders, ever-present.

It's not clear how much of the legend is actually true but it could be inspired by the spirit birds.

I think I've said just about everything that I wanted to say. I'm curious if anyone else has any thoughts on the birds. I've listed most of them but there are one or two paintings I left out from fear of repetition.

I have a lot of additional Thoughts about the birds but I'll leave that for another post.

[jamneuromain]

Addictive Chapter 1

Santiago "Pope" Garcia x PhD Candidate!Reader (You)

Warning: Unconventional Sugar Daddy!Santiago Garcia, Implied age gap (Santiago is in his late 30s, reader in her mid-20s), first meet, fluff, TW: conversation over drug abuse

Summary: The beginning of an unconventional sugar relationship.

Word Count: 3.7k

A/N: I solemnly blame @innorogers for indulging me with sugar daddy!Santiago Gargia thoughts, and in addition, my thanks to @bigtreefest with her help on med school experiences.

Prologue< | Chapter 1 | >Chapter 2

Chapter 1 Sober

I do medicine.

>

*

Brown.

There’s a small bowl of brown powder right next to the coffee machine.

You retreat a couple of steps to observe the bizarre object.

The coffee machine, that one you know from the bottom of your heart. Someone specifically duck-taped the signage of “Cold” and “Hot” in ballpoint over the original buttons because they were worn out. The black crispy paint fell from all edges and corners of this crappy machine since it was moved around a lot. Legend has it that this machine nearly retired from the shared common room of the Physics Department and the Chemistry Department before it was rehired for the Med School.

The application for a new coffee machine was delivered to the Head of Pharmacology over a year ago, and some grad students were waging over whether the paperwork ended up in the Head of Pharmacology, Professor Yovanna Castillo’s private lab as nest materials for her rats.

No, that’s old news. This is new … You watch the brown powder cautiously, giving it a careful whiff.

You know someone on this level is doing a project that includes marihuana extractions, you honestly hope they didn’t leave their product here.

The strong spice knocks your brain dead for a minute before you can hastily put it back down and sneeze in the other direction.

Nutmeg?

“Oh, I’d probably not touch it if I were you.” Diego swoops into the breakroom, smooth as always, grabbing his mug from the counter, his eight white teeth on display as he spreads into a big smile, “Is that the marihuana product Professor Parker and Drew and their grads were working on? Gosh, I hope they don’t just leave this stuff around unattended.”

Diego got into the Pharma PhD program the same year as you did. He swoons every woman, from the age of eight to eighty with his warm, affectionate smile. Your friendship bonds over the shared catastrophic studying experience and your failed experiments. Although he looks into a different research field, that doesn’t stop you from helping each other now and then, from looking after lab rats to picking up his drunken ass in clubs you have only heard of.

You cough and wave in front of your nose to clear the smell, “No. Just spice. Nutmeg.” You frown, heavily, and ask in disbelief, “Who puts nutmeg in their coffee?”

Diego gives the brown nutmeg powder a whiff and pours a lethal dosage into his porcelain mug before placing it under the machine. His mug has that funny PhD joke on it that makes you smile every time.

I study famarcology phamacology pharmacologee I do medicine.

Diego shrugs behind his funny mug, “I do.”

“Lucky you.” You murmur darkly, grabbing your lukewarm coffee and gulping down as much caffeine as possible.

Diego downs his nutmeg coffee – a pure abomination, in your opinion – and frowns too: “You didn’t bring the nutmeg.”

“’ Course I didn’t.” You look taken aback, deeply offended, “I don’t want anything to ruin the coffee!”

“So, who did? And nutmeg coffee is brilliant. Chef kiss to whoever came up with this idea.” Diego looks pointedly at you making your second cup of coffee with milk and sugar and no nutmeg, “Milk ruins coffee, honey.”

You make a gasted expression at his mug, clutching yours tightly to warm your numb fingers. It is too early to be called winter, but the morning wind did a number of things that are close to getting your hand frost-bite. You have never been so grateful that your ugly university-issued mug conducts heat faster than the metal handles of almost every door on the campus.

“So … who brought the nutmeg. That’s the question.” Your gaze floats between the small bowl of nutmeg and Diego, the latter one shrugs again.

“I did.” Professor Castillo, Head of Pharmacology, clicks her heels on the ground at the door, “Kindly advise you both against occupying this break room because we have a potential donor who would be coming in …” She raises her wrists to take a look at her iWatch, “Fifteen minutes.”

You and Diego exchange a look.

Diego mouths, “Money’s on the lab rat nests.”

You chew on your lower lip from smiling too hard.

“Don’t you have a TA session in ten, Mr. Martinez?” Professor Castillo purses her perfectly lined lips, her eyes narrowing like a sharp dagger, her hair in a ponytail, soft and smooth, and not a single hair out of place like a conditioner commercial, “You know how the faculty views tardiness for undergrad courses.”

“Yes, Professor Castillo.” Diego dumps his mug into the sink and flees the scene.

“I have … my rats to attend to.” Bullshit because all your rats died yesterday. Your research is a total bust. You need a few new ones, that’s for sure. But it’s a good enough reason for you to escape the piercing look from Castillo.

“One second -” She stops you by the door.

“Uh, yes, Professor?”

She examines you with her disapproving look, from head to toe.

Lab coat, check. Jeans, check. White sneakers, check. Bright orange sweater with crimson ketchup stain, check.

You button your lab coat with flames flaring your cheeks, hoping that this will cover the stain. It must have gone up there when you had your breakfast earlier this morning.

“Never mind.” Professor Castillo huffs with her slit nostrils, “Just a reminder to be more careful of laboratory regulations of no food and drink allowed. Off you go.”

You slip from her claws as if your sneakers turned into roller skates. Your heartbeat is in a frantic state from the breakroom to the shared lab where you and a few other grad students cohabit. The beating remains for a few minutes as you pick out new rats for your experiment.

From the transparent glass walls of your lab, you see that Professor Castillo storms out of the breakroom and swipes her keycard on her way out.

Your phone pings as you drug the rats with heroin.

Diego: Is it just me or the faculty seems empty today?

Diego: No one bothered to come to work besides phds?

**

Three hours of watching mice getting stoned and recording data passed. Then an hour lunch break. Then it’s your TA sessions for Biochem 101 and Introduction to Microbiology, which would last three hours and a half.

By the end of your TA session, Professor Castillo nearly blew up your phone with five missed calls and a very polite but restricted “Please call back, it’s urgent”.

“Professor Castillo? Sorry, my phone was silenced because I was -”

“Yes. Yes. Doesn’t matter.” Professor Castillo cuts through your explanation curtly, “Our donor wants to speak with you.”

“Now?” You pause a second to look at the clock at the far end of the wall, “I - I think I have a couple of minutes. I have another … thing … elsewhere, at six thirty.”

Castillo clears her throat over the phone, “Not now. Our donor wants to have dinner, with you.”

“I’m sorry but I can’t, my part-time doesn’t finish until nine.” Your throat tightens at her not-so-subtle command.

“I’m sorry too, but I’m afraid this donor is bigger than your part-time.” Castillo repeats coldly, “This is a chance you wouldn’t want to pass up.” She hesitates before giving away further, her tone grows softer, “He wants to contribute to your work. Your funding, more specifically. Think about your personal LC-MS, microdialysis probes.”

“But -”

“We’re talking about hundreds of thousands. And possibly much more to come if your research yields results.” Her voice sounds tempting, slow but seductive – not sexually, God forbid, “What I’m about to say is blunt, but please, think about your TA stipend.” Which is a very pathetic eight hundred dollars per month, as you and Professor Castillo are both aware of. “Times that by fifty. Our donor is thinking about investing forty grand. On you. On your PhD.”

Your own grant.

That sounds extremely tempting.

You can’t help but hold your breath. Forty grand. You don’t think you have ever seen that much money in real life. And such a grant isn’t for academic-only. It would certainly help your budget, and your finances.

“It’s a now or never chance,” Professor Castillo calls out your name softly on the other end of the phone, “Talk to our donor, tonight. Reschedule whatever you have in mind. Go have dinner with him. Talk about how much you love biology and pharmaceuticals. Being a PhD isn’t all about research, you know.” Her unspoken words linger in the air. It’s about connection, persuasion, and asking idiots with a suitcase of wads to fund your passion.

“Professor, I-”

“Oh,” She chuckles to the speaker, sounding more pleasant and friendly than she has ever been during the past year, “Yovanna is fine. Six thirty. A place called Jean-Georges, I’ll text you the address. Don’t be late.”

Your fist clenches and unclenches on the podium.

“Oh, and uh-” She pauses for a brief moment, “I was told that Jean-Georges is a high-end restaurant. Wear something nice.” Before quickly hanging up the phone.

You check the clock again, three minutes to six. Great.

With the ping of your phone, Professor Castillo – Yovanna texts you the address for Jean-Georges. Luckily, it’s about a ten-minute walk from your campus to the restaurant. Unluckily, it’s in the opposite direction of your apartment. There is simply no way for you to head home, change into something fancy – which is another problem because your wardrobe lacks anything that could be labeled as “high-end” – and head to that restaurant.

There is only one thing you can do now.

You call Diego.

***

You should be grateful that this donor guy gives you a chance to prove yourself.

You really should.

You tug the hem of your tight black dress in all discomfort, and can’t help but get a teeny tiny bit of annoyance in the back of your head.

As stated, you have two formal outfits for such occasions. One is a nice, cute, white shirt, and a black suit to go with it. Quick flashback, Diego did not find your dress pants. Which you were fairly sure that the pants were hanging just by the shirt. So, it left you with the only other option. Option number two, the tight black dress stuffed at the back of your closet. You once hoped that you would never use it again, but, well, here you are.

You are very grateful for Diego living right next door and being able to find your dinner outfit plus heels on such short notice and deliver it to you. It spared you a few minutes to apply lipstick – you really need to stop scraping its bottom with a toothpick and buy another one instead. You borrowed foundation and concealer from a girl in the lab down the hall. You are also thankful for her helping you with the concealer before you risked smudging the colored ointment over your black dress – the only thing that you could wear at this point. She also did your hair with a small comb that she carried with her make-up pouch at all times, taming it and styling it as much as she could.

She also wanted to help with your eyebrows, ready to pluck some of them off with a pair of tweezers before you gasped in horror and claimed that you had to leave.

Very nice of a girl. You think her name is Jessica.

Yet here you are, in front of the restaurant as the wind grows chilly by the minute.

“Do you have a reservation, Miss?” The waiter in a tux at the door asks with a smile.

“Under the name, Mr. Garcia, I think?” You take out your phone from your stark-white canvas bag. Yeah, you see the waiter subtly checking out your canvas bag. Not your fault that high heels hurt so much and you need to take them off and change them into sneakers the second you say goodbye to Mister Kind Sponsor.

The waiter checks the sheets of reservation in front of him, quickly finding the name “Garcia”, “Of course.” He gestures to another waiter in a tux, a taller and skinnier one, “Dave will lead you to your table. I hope you will enjoy our food.”

You smile back, following the other waiter’s lead.

Strong, blinding light emits from above your head. Thick, grey carpet underneath your soles. The restaurant is decorated in a neat black-and-white style. A woman wearing tight brown skims yoga pants brushes past you, having you somewhat relieved, as this place is not strictly dress-coded.

Gentle clicking of forks, knives, and plates, and glasses. Bare whispers of people talking. Not loud. Not rushed. Au contraire to the student’s cafeteria where you choose to spend your nine dollars and twenty-nine cents every Wednesday as a reward for your hard work.

Somewhere you don’t fit in. The realization hits you like a bus. Not the first time. But the most realistic one as you know the one guy you are about to pamper, the guy who simply has too much to spend on his yacht or villa or first-class tickets or privet jets, doesn’t belong in your ranks. Doesn’t belong in your world. And vice versa.

Just how would you be able to sweet talk him into investing in your research?

Dave leads you to the table without you even realizing it. Maybe it’s that you don’t recognize the man. Or maybe the fuzzy grey sweater and his brown leather jacket don’t really fit in like the rest of the men wearing tux and suits and ties.

Two misfits. You conclude in the depth of your own mind.

He stands from the table when Dave introduces the table set for the two of you.

“Mr. Garcia?” You pronounce your name loud and clear, extending a hand, “It’s very honored to meet you.”

“Pleasure is all mine.” He shakes your hand firmly, telling the waiter to circle back with two menus before turning his attention back to you, “Please, have a seat.”

Grey curls adorn his forehead, capturing your attention first. Then it’s his toned skin, a shade tanner than most who occupy the higher-up positions in your life. A light stubble covers the lower half of his face. Although you are no expert, you realize it’s trimmed with delicacy. When he smiles at you, there are wrinkles at the corner of his eyes.

“Here are the menus.” Dave brings two thick leather-bound books back and hands you each one, “Would you like to order now or … ?”

He leans over before Dave can finish, kindly smiling, “It’s okay if you need a few minutes to go over the menu.”

You open the leather-bound book – it contains two pages. One page of the cuisines under the name “Autumn”, as a fixed set for each and every guest, and another page filled with beverages and wines and cocktails.

There’s literally nothing you need to go over with. Besides the drink.

“I’ll just have the Autumn set.”

“Same.” The charming man on the opposite side of the table pipes up after you.

“And the drinks?” Dave continues in his uneventful tone.

“A little bit of alcohol, if that’s alright with you?” He checks with you, “It’s okay if you want something alcohol-free.”

Who are you to say no when your donor wants to have a drink with you?

You chew on your lower lip as a slight hesitation takes over, before realizing his intense gaze on you. “I’d love to have a bit of alcohol, but I don’t know much about wine. You can do the honors and help me order one, perhaps?”

A toothy grin reveals his sharper canines. He seems taken aback by your blunt confession over the subject of alcohol, yet he shows no signs of annoyance or impatience.

He turns to ask the waiter Dave, “What can you recommend for Champagne?”

“Bollinger for the more traditional flavor and richness. Or Moet for light and fruitful. We now have a bottle of Bollinger Special Cuvée, the flagship champagne of Bollinger which I highly recommend.”

Mr. Garcia nods. “Then we’ll have the flagship one. Thanks.”

Dave collects your menus and exits quickly.

Santiago Garcia folds his arms over the table, like a pupil eager to learn, cocking his head slightly, he asks, “I think I’ve heard a lot about you from your professors, but I’d like to hear it from you. What is your current research subject?”

This is a question that you get asked countless times. Even so, you can’t help but sweat a little. “I uh- ahem, I study pharmacology. My PhD research is Development of a Novel Therapeutic Drug Mimicking Endogenous Pain Modulators for Enhanced Pain Management in Addiction Rehabilitation. Basically, I’m aiming to develop a drug that would help individuals in rehab.”

“How so?” Santiago Garcia rests his chin on the back of his hand, “Forgive me for asking, I honestly don’t know a thing about pharmacology, how would this … therapeutic drug work?”

“Well,” a moment and you seem to have returned to the podium, lecturing the students on your ongoing research, “Most people do drugs again because of the pain-reducing component in the drugs. Think of it this way: your body contains muscles, bones, and ligaments. When your body is constantly in motion, like I need to pick up my fork.” You gesture by lifting your tableware, “Your bones and muscles create friction. But you won’t feel anything, as our body produces, well, mostly endorphins to counter the feeling of minor pain from within.”

Dave pours you both a glass of sparkly wine, but Mr. Garcia doesn’t reach for the glass, and neither do you. Though you both say “Thank you” to the waiter, interrupting the conversation briefly.

“As I was saying, when you start to do drugs, minor ones like marihuana or dangerous ones like Oxy, your body captures the signal that you have sufficient chemicals to reduce the small pains, and that it doesn’t have to produce endorphins for you anymore.”

“We have very stupid bodies.” Massaging his lower lip with his thumb, Santiago Garcia murmurs.

You shrug nonchalantly, “That’s one way of putting it. Anyway, when you stop doing drugs, your body has already shut its endorphin factory down, and that’s when you start to feel itches, pains, and discomfort all over your body. It is unbearable. To a lot of drug users, it’s not that they don’t want to quit, it’s because they can’t. Doing drugs again is the only way they don’t feel the pain anymore.”

Santiago nods, chiming in, “I think I’m getting the hang of it now. What you are doing, if I summarize it correctly, is mimic a drug similar to endorphin?”

“While also boosting our endorphin factory back to life – but yes, you get the gist. It should be a non-addictive version of painkillers that would allow doctors to gradually decrease the meds subscribed to these addicted patients until they could return to their full health. At least for their endorphin factory.”

Dave comes back with your entrées.

“That sounds …” He wrecks his brain for the right word, “quite impressive.”

Your cheeks warm up per his amazement. He sounds genuine. Unlike how your professors comment on every research as “very good” “interesting”, while in fact they just mean “This is a lot of bullshit and you need to do better” before marking each work with a B minus.

He proposes a toast by raising his glass, and you take up on that offer. The sound of glasses clicking has to be one of the most musical voices you have heard throughout the year.

As you progress from entrée to the main course, your inner curiosity is killing you, leading you to drop your question, “I am very thankful for the … dinner and your enthusiasm over biology, but can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“Why me?” You nervously add, “I’m not saying that I’m not a good choice. But why?”

He quirks his eyebrows, huffing a small laugh. “The short version is, I like your research.”

“And the long version …?”

Santiago Garcia washes down the food with a gulp of that golden sparkly wine. Leaning back in his seat, he responds, “Truth is, I worked for the Delta squad for over eight years, and I’ve been fighting drug lords ever since. That’s the eight-year-long version of it. If it helps with your question, I have also invested in a psychological research, a chemical one, and another one of social sciences, all related to drug abuse.” And I also have like forty million dollars I stole from the drug lord Lorea that I don’t know how to spend. So, it’s a hilarious way to spend some of that drug money, investing in research that would corrupt other drug lords’ business. He thinks to himself.

That is, in fact, very admirable. Both working for Delta Squad and now investing in such research that is beneficial to society.

“I am very much impressed, Mister Garcia.” A small smile perches up the corner of your lips.

He lets out a throaty laugh, “I think we’re beyond that. Santiago – I go by Santiago.”

“Right, Santiago.” You will never forget that name anytime soon, considering the amount he is about to invest in you.

His lips briefly graze the surface of the champagne in his glass. This man, Santiago Garcia watches you while he takes a sip of his wine.

He clears his throat, putting down his wine glass, “I think we have a deal then,” he calls you by your first name, “fifty thousand for a year. Then two or more years, depending on your research outcome.”

Fifty thousand for a year.

Your breath hitches in your throat. That amount is probably more than the wage your parents could earn in five years.

Your tuition. Your personal lab equipment. Your soup cans and tuna cans with red 50% Off stickers at the back of your cabinet.

“Is this the wine talk?” You joke, to mask the tension at the back of your spine.

“No,” Santiago says in his gravel but surprisingly warm voice, his beautiful eyes with the color that reminds you of melting hazelnut chocolate lingering on your face. The look, the gaze, it was nothing repulsive. Nothing offensive. Nothing intrusive. “I’m very much sober.”