#i went into the kitchen (it had blue tiles) and there was a woman who i think was blonde girl's mom

[whoa-where-did-the-pancakes-go]

I don't wanna sleep aughhh. I keep having nightmares

[bucknastysbabe]

5 + 1 Times Buck’s GF was the crybaby and the one time she wasn’t

Rating: Regular, smut only in one part

Word Count: 4,037

Tags: FLUFFY FLUFF, smut in one part, pnv!sex, soft tender luvin, Bucky is Vry Vry sweet, but he do be laughing at the reader, reader is oversensitive, and also a journalist for the Bugle aka How?, bucks haters get flamed, crying over spilt milk literally, some angst, TW: ptsd, J.Jonah Jameson is out there somewhere shaking his head at his employee

1. In the arms of the angels- FLY AWAYYYY

Bucky could safely say that his precious, precious girl could be somewhat oversensitive. He liked that about her, having someone around who was extremely caring and kind. The former Winter Soldier would be lying if he claimed that he knew how to handle her spells every time.

Although Bucky gotten better over the time they had been together.

They were cuddled on his new, much bigger couch on a lazy Sunday. His girlfriend wore one of Bucky’s t-shirts, the cloth hanging down to her soft thighs. She was spooned against the brunette, head padded on his flesh bicep. The random movie they had been watching went to a commercial. Bucky’s eyes widened when he realized what exactly kind of commercial it was.

The depressing ass ASPCA advertisement. His girlfriend donated to the local humane society and multiple non-profits but would lose her ever loving shit over the poor pets. Bucky instinctively curled his other arm around her waist when the sad song came on. His girl sniffled, “Oh god, I hate this!”

He murmured, “C’mon just look at your phone baby.”

Her sniffles turned into sobs, bemoaning, “I don’t understand how people could do that to the poor animals! It’s ah-ah-awful!” Bucky frowned, vibranium thumb rubbing circles into her hip. He reassured her, “Sweetheart, we about donate to the entirety of Brooklyn. You’re doing good.”

One of her fists banged on his thigh. She cried, “I need to donate to the entirety of the United States!” Bucky’s lips curled up in slight amusement. As much as he hated to see his best girl cry, it was entertaining to see her fit. He shushed her, “Okay we will, s’not like I’m a broke fugitive anymore.” The girl’s watery eyes flicked up to his smirk.

She poked him at an awkward angle, croaking, “Don’t say that about yourself!”

He tried to keep a calm face but ended up snickering. To which Bucky received another annoyed poke and a scoff. Thankfully the ad was done by the time she turned back to the TV. Bucky kissed her hairline and said, “Okay then, no more waterworks and I won’t trash my name. We’ll go buy another damn pound out later.” She seemed to relax, snuggling tight into Bucky’s larger frame.

2. On the floor

A shriek and a crash echoed from the kitchen. Bucky threw down his tattered book and hopped up. He hoped his girlfriend didn’t injure herself, again. The super soldier slid into the kitchen, blue eyes surveying the scene. He half-shouted, “You okay?“

“NO!,” came the distressed reply.

Bucky’s poor girl was half soaked and milk covered the floor, the gallon leaking onto the tile. His brows raised at the mess, hand rubbing at his neck. She threw her hands up and squalled, but made no move to escape the flood.

“I just wanted to make some cereal and the stupid damn jug slipped from my hands!,” she cried.

Bucky sighed and rolled his eyes. This would be the second time she had cried over spilt milk, literally. He strode across the kitchen and picked the sobbing woman up, her arms wrapping around his neck, assuming koala protocol. Or at least that’s what the loon called it.

The brunette rubbed her heaving back, cooing, “Oh poor baby, s’no big deal. I’ll go get another gallon from down the street, okay?” She looked up at him and began crying harder. The distraught woman whined, “No! I screwed it up being a klutz I’ll go get it!”

Bucky lowered them onto a dining room chair, wiping her tears away. He shook his head, eyeing her adorably blotchy cheeks. She pouted, tears lessening in time. The brunette hummed, “Jus’ let me go get the damn milk. You had an accident, I can’t have my pitiful girl crying over actual spilt milk.”

She laid her head in the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, grumbling, “It’s so damn sticky. This is gonna take forever to clean!” Bucky nuzzled her sweet smelling hair, smiling softly. She was too soft for her own good. But that’s why he was here, of course.

Her achingly wide eyes were back peering at Buck. He raised a thick brow, waiting for a response. Slim hands grabbed his stubbled cheeks, asking in a deadpan, “You don’t think I’m the most worthless girl ever right?” She averted her eyes as she continued, “Idiot who can’t make cereal.”

Bucky leaned into her sullen face to capture trembling lips into a kiss. It was chaste and sweet, Bucky murmuring into her lips, “I don’t care if you grew into a hulk monster and crashed the place. Why don’t we clean up and go grab the milk, make it a date huh?”

The brunette bit back a laugh as she hugged him tighter and sobbed out how much she loved him. Bucky tucked her hair back and grinned down at his pretty, crybaby, best girl.

3. Feline fail

Bucky and his girlfriend were cooking dinner together. They were laughing and sharing sweet pecks, bumping hips and slinging sauce. Bucky had remembered an old lasagna recipe and wanted to try it. She obliged with glee.

She changed the song to one of those strange ‘rap’ songs. Bucky was still getting accustomed to the 80’s power music so this was out of his league. She talked along to the lyrics, using a spoon as her microphone. Bucky leaned against the counter, helplessly grinning, hopelessly in love. She did a twist and some weird footwork.

MREOOOWWWW

“Alpine!,” they simultaneously shouted.

The poor cat had run off heavily limping. Bucky cursed, “Ah, shit.” The woman dropped the spatula and went after the fluffy white cat. She frantically apologized, “Alpine! Alpie! I’m so sorry baby! Oh god I didn’t mean to step on your paw babygirl!” Bucky wanted to point out the feline did not understand but held his tongue.

He followed his girlfriend into a back bedroom, then to the walk-in closet. Poor doll was in hysterics now. She wailed, “I’m the worst! What if I broke her paw? Just kill me n-n-nOWWWW!”

Bucky grabbed the sweet thing and hushed her, “Stop howling, Alpine is probably overwhelmed. Let’s be quiet and calmly approach.”

She nodded with a sniffle, mascara running down reddened cheeks. Bucky flicked the light on and softly called, “Alp, Alpine? Pspspsps c’mere baby.” He waggled his fingers at his shoe stand. Slowly the big blue eyes of Alpine came into view. The cat let out a sad ‘maaaoow’. She sucked in a wet sob behind Bucky, little hands fisted into his shirt.

Bucky crouched further down, keeping his palm extended. He cooed, “Over here psps Alpine.” Alpine unfurled from the shoe stand, limping over to the couple. Tears dripped down the young woman’s face as she let the sweet cat sniff her palm and nuzzle against it. She sniveled, “Ohhh- Alpine, m’so sorry,” Bucky was poked as she continued, “Buck? Can you check the paw out?”

Bucky grunted, “Yep. I’m sure she’ll be fine, just a smush and got startled. Bucky picked the white feline up, huge hands so tender with Alpine’s tiny paw. He gave it a few tentative presses and the cat squirmed in pain, making another sad noise. Bucky turned to look at his girlfriend and said, “Yeah I think she might be injured. We can take her to the vet in the morning. Probably just wants to lay down.”

After putting their pet back into the shoe stand, Bucky had stage three to do; console the distraught angel. She had already retreated to the bedroom, cocooning under her copious amounts of fluffy blankets. Bucky had bought them due to supersoldier heat and the ensuing thermostat on the coldest setting possible.

Bucky crawled onto the end of the bed, calling out, “Are you burrowing away from me?”

“Yes. I am the worst. Throw me into the snow already.”

Bucky crawled closer to the familiar lump and teased, “I don’t think paw stomping is equal to hypothermia.”

“It should be.”

His pink lips split into a grin as Buck yanked her blankets back and hopped on top. She squealed and batted at him, howling, “Not funny you jerk! Poor Alpine is hurt!” Bucky laughed, “Poor Alpine has been in shootouts, she’s a-okay.”

She stared up at his stupidly handsome face and pouted. Bucky’s big hands slid up her waist, commenting, “I’ll give you something to cry about if that’s what’cha want babydoll.” His dick never failed to throb at her cute little hitch in breath, pupils blowing wide.

“W-what about the lasagna?”

Bucky licked a hot stripe up her neck, promising, “Oh, this won’t be long. A little pick-me-up for my babydoll.” Her irritated huff quickly turned into a moan. Bucky grinned. So damn cute.

4. Never alone

Bucky had been having trouble sleeping recently, recurring nightmares plaguing any chance of shut eye. His girlfriend worried over him, offering any sort of help. He shook his head, eyes tired, explaining, “It comes in waves, certain times or seasons activate the trauma.”

“Okay, I just wish you didn’t have to sleep on the floor. But whatever will make you more comfortable.”

She wrung her hands nervously, pretty lips curled into a frown. Bucky sighed, patting his lap. He held her tightly and whispered, “I never wanna hurt you, so just for a little bit it’ll be like this okay? I promise, it hurts me too.” She wiped away runny tears, nodding resolutely. His precious baby warbled, “I’m being selfish, don’t mind me prattling and whining. I want what’s best for you. I love you so much,” she pinched Bucky’s thigh, “Go back to therapy tomorrow or I’ll drag you there.”

“I will,” he pecked her lips, “I will.”

They went to their separate beds, well their bed, and Bucky’s blanket and pillow on the floor. He managed to drift off before spinning cycling never ending loops of the Soldier killing and taking swamped his dreams. The asset shot upright with a painful howl, jerking his head around for the enemy.

He jumped up and grabbed a stashed knife, stalking across the floor. So confused on the lines between reality and fiction. He snarled at the sound of a high voice. It was his girl. Bucky was Bucky. Not the asset, soldier, fist of Hydra. He dropped the knife and apologized, “Oh Christ. Are you okay?” He was scared to come closer upon the fear etched into her looks. Fucking monster.

She ran to him and wrapped warm arms around his sweaty torso, crying softly. Bucky couldn’t find words to express his disgust and sorrow, holding her back tightly. His angel croaked, “I was worried about you! I’m s-sorry you had that awful nightmare. Oh Buck, let me sit with you for the rest of the night.”

Bucky peered down with resigned blue eyes. He was more exhausted now after that mind fuck. The brunette needed to get his poor baby to stop crying then maybe he could sleep. Even the cat nervously peered from behind a chair.

They migrated to the couch, her firm on top of him, gently scratching his scalp. Bucky pled, “Please know I would never hurt you. As soon as I heard your voice I knew where I was again.” She pressed her forehead to his and replied, “Then let’s just try this. You don’t have to go through this alone, ever.” She cried in little aborted huffs, trying to hold it together.

Bucky felt his heart swell at her sweet words. She was right, he didn’t have to be alone again. He had friends and his best girl who loved him, hell even the cat. Bucky squeezed her soft waist and gushed, “I love you, so, so, so much. Sweet girl.” He got a couple more tears but soon she became sleepy and winded down.

He managed to fall back into slumber, no dreams this time. Her scent and puffs of soft breath kept him grounded. Bucky hoped he deserved this, praying to whoever granted him this boon.

5. Honey I’m Home! - Smut

Sam hollered out of his big ass truck, “Get ready for the waterworks lover boy!” Bucky held up his middle finger and unlocked the front door. Sam drove away with that annoying guffaw of his. Bucky dropped his bags at the door, Alpine’s blue eyes peering up. He grinned and picked up the kitty, cooing and petting her white fluff. Bucky asked, “Hey, sweet Alp. Where’s mama hm? I know she’s all excited.”

“BABY!,” came the familiar cry. Bucky had to owe it to his supersoldier serum for managing to gently let down Alpine and pick up his girlfriend within 10 seconds. Bucky laughed and picked the woman up, happily swinging them around with a goofy grin. His heart felt so full. She spoke through hefty sobs, “I- Oh gah-ah-ah some pi-pizz-za!” Bucky chuckled and tapped her on the ass.

“The waterworks already angel? So soon?”

“YOU KNOW I MISS-SS-SED YOU!,” she caterwauled, loading Bucky’s face down with kisses. He used a big hand to stabilize her head, sealing his full lips over her shaky ones. She sighed into the lip lock, rambling about how much she missed Bucky between kisses.

Bucky pulled back and hummed, “I missed your pretty face, even the tears.” She nipped his lower lip at the jab, retorting, “Very fu-funny!”

The former assassin chuckled, “No really, I get to hug you.”

She narrowed her eyes, wiping her wet cheeks, “Uh-huh.”

Bucky lowered his lids and gave his best charming half smirk to her, purring, “Y’know what I really miss?” He groped at the globes of her ass gently, eating up her reaction. She gasped, minutely squirming, lashes fluttering. Bucky leant into her ear, humming, “Hm baby? Not gonna ask me?”

She murmured sulkily, “What is it Buck?”

He drew his words out, fanning hot breath across her ear, “I miss the way you cry and rake my back bloody when I’m between those damn thighs.”

“Mmfuck, oh, yeah?,” she squeaked, face heating up. Bucky nodded, long fingers massaging the giving flesh of her cheeks. He rumbled, “Yep sweet baby, couldn’t help myself. So pretty when you come on me. Pizza can wait, I want my girl.” The woman nodded profusely, babbling, “Pleaseplease yes wan’ it Bucky. Missed you!”

In a frenzy she lapped into his plump mouth, kissing like a madwoman. Bucky’s best kept secret is the needy little slut he only gets to have in bed. He stopped to push her against the wall, nosing around at her tits. Bucky’s Henley she wore had slipped down, displaying the soft skin. He lapped at a swollen bud and suckled on her tit, earning a high whine and fingers in his steadily growing hair.

Bucky rutted against her barely clothed pussy, feeling it already damp. He rumbled, “Must’ve been real needy dolly, so wet for me.” She shoved her breasts into his face, gasping out, “Not the same w’out you- ah!” Bucky’s eyes rolled back in his head, her words stoking the fires of that possessive place in his heart.

She pulled at his brown hair, urging Bucky along desperately, hips canting against his need. The super soldier panted, “Yeah, yeah, right m’bad.” He stomped to their bedroom, grinning and kissing her hotly. Bucky laid his girlfriend down and frantically began to untie his boots, throwing them against the wall. His eyes flickered up to her yanking off the shirt.

A punched out groan left his throat when her glistening pussy was revealed to him, panties tossed carelessly to the side. Bucky shucked down his briefs and climbed between her thighs, muttering, “Fuckin’ hell— thought about you every night. Pretty pussy,” he pressed his lips to her thighs, “Legs, all of you. Damn.”

Her wide eyes softened, the girl simpering, “Thought ‘bout you too babe, most handsome guy in the world.” Bucky snorted as he pressed himself flush to her smaller body, “I don’t know about that, I do know that I’m yours though.” She smiled against his cheek, wrapping arms around his wide shoulders. Bucky sighed at the feeling of his baby’s gentle kisses to his scruffy skin.

“You want to wear a condom, me stretch you out?,” Bucky asked, eyes searching her own.

She shook her head and whispered, “Got an IUD, I’ll explain later but we don’t have to wear any condoms,” lips grew wider, “So go on and fuck me Buck.” Bucky groaned in ecstasy, situating himself flush to giving flesh. He pumped his leaking cock a couple of times before rubbing the tip against her slick entrance.

She whined and scrabbled at his back, spreading open wider, pleading, “Yeah, yeah, please Bucky, James, baby.” He replied, strained from how adorable and sexy that was, “I gotcha, hold on, fuck.”

They both cried out softly when Bucky slid in to her warm core, the noise filling the room. The brunette braced a hand beside her head, cursing lowly, “God-fucking-damn you feel so good sweets.” She whined his name, face scrunching up adorably, pussy pulsing around him.

Bucky’s flesh hand curled under the back of one of her knees, pushing the girl wider open with a grunt. He pecked her lips and began to piston into her. His blues fell closed, the rapture of being joined with his love was intense. Even more so when some asshole jacked him with the serum. She cooed softly, “Feels- ah, so good, my sweet Buck.”

He didn’t speed up, as much as the soldier wanted to jackhammer into tomorrow. He would enjoy this reunion, savor every pull of her sweet pussy around his cock. Bucky leaned into her forehead, panting into her mouth, soaking up her cries and whimpers. She gave desperate little kisses, pulling at the hair on Bucky’s nape.

“Ah! Love you!,” she moaned.

Bucky panted back, “Love you, so damn much, fffuck.”

He nuzzled into her neck, listening to himself spread her open with a groan. Selfishly, Bucky sped his hips up some, got his knees under him. That way he could fuck his baby’s g-spot, make her (really) cry. His girlfriend responded quickly, arching her back and jerking back onto Bucky’s cock. A slew up goosebumps lit up her skin, mouth hanging wide open. She scrunched her eyes shut, yelling, “Oh- oh that’s it!”

Bucky crooned, licking up her sweaty throat, “Yeah sweetheart? That’s your spot?” She nodded and babbled hitched ‘yesses’. The girl tightened around him, making the drag impossibly hotter. Bucky whined deep in his chest, strokes stuttering. He brought his vision up to look at his love, whining again at her flushed face and hooded eyes.

She whimpered, “M’so close James, oh god!” Tears pricked pretty eyes, clumping the long lashes. Bucky picked up the pace, relishing in her nails ripping his back to shreds. He would lying if he said the pain didn’t exacerbate the pleasure. The brunette gently nipped at her jaw, begging for his girl to come, hand rubbing at her chest and shoulders tenderly.

Bucky’s eyes about crossed when she tightened and howled around his swollen cock. His hand tore at the mattress while her pussy convulsed around him. She sobbed now, tears leaking down her darkened cheeks, “F-fuck Bucky! S-so good!” Her slick coated him, making the glide ever so messier.

Bucky was close now, listening to her pants and whiny cries of ‘come in me please’ was throttling any sort of longevity. His balls drew painfully close, the vein on the underside of his cock throbbing. He cried her name out, muscles seizing with a twitch, emptying into her tight cunt. Bucky’s fingers seemed to lose their motor function, arm careening with a whine. She heaved, “That’s it! Yes! Yes!”

The soldier sucked in a rough breath, finishing his climax with a soft whimper. Bucky rolled them to the side, softening cock still seating inside her. She pressed kisses to his cheeks and nose, smiling and crying per usual. Bucky wrapped his big arms around her waist and kept her flush to him. He murmured, “Perfect baby, jus’ perfect.” She responded with another stolen kiss.

+1. Public Menace!

They sat together at a restaurant, sipping some drinks. Bucky eyed his beautiful girlfriend, effortlessly styled and flawless. He told her so, earning a bashful smile and roll of the eyes. She countered, “Not as flawless as you, Winter Smolder.” Bucky narrowed his eyes, laughing, “Hey, you wanted me to do that photoshoot!”

The waiter came up with their appetizer. Bucky could tell his girlfriend was not a fan of the other man, lips turned down. She was a good judge of character though. The young man had been staring Bucky down for awhile now, even pointing at him from afar. The brunette furrowed his brows and asked, “Can I help or anything?”

The waiter replied, assuming a defensive stance, “Are you the Winter Soldier?”

Bucky felt his girl’s glare threatening to kill the boy. He offered a sheepish smile and elaborated, “Uh- at one point I was. Not anymore.” The man pressed harder, “Yeah but he’s still in there right?,” they motioned at their skull, “Just a couple of words and you snap right?”

Bucky blanched, but the knife didn’t stop digging in his chest, twisting and hot.

“How were you allowed to be pardoned? I mean The Avengers already are at death’s door, why not let a mass murderer join?,” they hissed. Bucky tried to look around for help, stammering an apology. Panic began to lace at his chest, pulling his throat tight. Their mouth was moving angrily, but all Buck could hear was ringing.

A familiar hand gripped at his, her voice clearing through the attack. His girlfriend calmly replied, “I should report your manager for harassing customers, sir.” She leaned in with a snarl, “What would you do if you were captured by a secret agency embedded within the United States for 75 years huh? Beaten, brainwashed, tortured, and forced to hurt others with no say?”

The waiter attempted to retort but she cut him off with a hand.

“Luckily Bucky here,” she poked the man’s chest, “Has a name! His name has been cleared and has worked very hard on amends. If you got your head out of your ass and looked around maybe you’d see the good work him and Cap have done around the globe!” Bucky’s girlfriend jerked into her purse and threw a bill at the dumbfounded man.

“C’mon sweetheart, we’ll go somewhere else,” she stood up and loudly announced, “I’ll make sure to give my nicest review in the DAILY BUGLE!!!”

The young waiter gasped and stared in a fog.

Bucky shuffled along, still gathering his wits. He’d never seen his girl so pissed. Once outside the restaurant she hugged him tightly, cursing, “Fucking asshole. Sorry I went a little crazy. Jameson would be proud, ha.” Meanwhile the brunette was blinking away tears, grateful for her swift save. He blurted, more of a croak, “Thank you angel.” Suddenly his eyes were blurry with hot tears.

Bucky sobbed in her arms, the panic, shame, and embarrassment from earlier breaking down. The woman soothed him with a shush, rubbing his muscular back. She cooed, “That’s okay, let it out, about time for you to be the crier.” Bucky smiled slightly, eyeing her with red rims. She swiped away his tear, stating, “Don’t ever let an idiot like that make you feel less than, you are good.”

Bucky shook his head, murmuring, “Does everybody still think I’m about to snap?”

She raised a brow, “Buck. The amount of good press you got from the GRC debacle has shown you in a different light,” she laughed, “I can write puff pieces of you napping with the cat if that makes you feel better baby?” He swatted her ass with a roll of teary eyes, thanking his girlfriend again.

Bucky asked, “D’ya just wanna order in instead? I’ll rub your feet.”

“Free of charge, no foot rubs, let’s go home big guy,” she shrugged. Bucky would be a little weepy for the rest of the night, but she made it bearable.

[daisyblog]

Our Baby

Harry's House Masterlist Summary: YN and Harry have their first ultrasound.

Seven weeks of changes, it was almost like the minute YN found out she was pregnant, the symptoms all hit her at once. Morning sickness was the worst. But whoever decided to call it “morning” sickness clearly didn’t experience it, YN thought to herself. It lingered throughout the day, up until she went to sleep, exhausted from emptying her stomach multiple times a day. When Harry was there, he would be by her side, holding back her hair and rubbing her back but one day without thinking Harry arrived back from his meeting with the boys and their management, with a tray of sushi. As soon as he entered the kitchen and YN was met with the strong smell, she felt her stomach turn and rushed to the bathroom, with Harry following behind.

Once she had wiped her mouth, brushed her teeth and sipped some water, she turned to Harry “You’re banned from eating sushi around me..the baby doesn’t like it”

Harry chuckled to himself “The same as the baby apparently wants to watch pretty little liars on repeat”

“Just get rid of the fish” YN ordered with a glare.

Mood swings were another symptom YN was experiencing and didn’t Harry know about it. She would be crying one minute and shouting the next. Harry found her in the kitchen one morning, milk tipped all over the tiled floor and YN crying whilst trying to mop it up, and when she heard him chuckle at the scene in front of him, she snapped “WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME?”. It was going to be a long pregnancy, Harry thought.

Today YN and Harry had their 12-week antenatal appointment where they would finally be able to see their little baby. They had managed to squeeze in a scan before Harry was jetting off to Australia for the next part of the Up All Night tour. YN had agreed to fly out and join him on tour for the America leg of the tour, as she had a break from college for the summer.

YN was unsure if it was a coincidence that she hadn't experienced any sickness this morning or if it was just a matter of time before it began again, but she was making the most of it. Sitting in the waiting room, four white walls surrounded them as they sat in the corner, hoping nobody would recognise Harry. So far nobody glanced in his direction. YN picked at the skin around her finger, a nervous habit she had done since she was younger and Harry's leg bounced up and down, waiting for YN's name to be called. Noticing her picking at her fingers, Harry reached for her hand and intertwined their fingers.

"Everything will be fine" He reassured her in a whispers, his own fingers rubbings circles onto her hand, trying to calm her nerves.

"This just makes it..I don't know...real I suppose" YN explained her feelings, as her eyes focused on their hands sitting together on his lap.

"I know-"

"YN LN" A young midwife wearing a blue uniform called as she stood by the double doors. YN stood, pulling Harry with her and both walked towards the woman, who was looking on with a friendly smile.

"I'm Laura..I'm going to be your midwife for your antenatal appointments..follow me" the couple continued to walk hand in hand as they followed Laura to a side room.

"Please take a seat" Laura instructed the pair. They both sat in the black chairs whilst Laura sat in a swivelled purple one opposite, with a stack of papers in front of her. "Okay..so as I explained I'll be your midwife for any antenatal appointments and also I'll come out to visit you once the baby has arrived..so YN I'm going to ask you a few questions if that's okay?"

"Yeh that's fine" YN agreed and sent Laura a nervous smile.

"I'm so sorry..I didn't even ask Dad his name" Laura laughed as she glanced in Harry's direction "I do apologise...we often forget about the Dads"

YN and Harry chuckled "I'm Harry"

Laura continued to ask YN, the date of her last period, how she was feeling, if she had noticed any unusual changes or if she was taking her vitamins, and if she had experienced any bleeding or painful cramps. Once Laura had filled in some paper work and explained all things pregnancy to the couple, and taken some blood samples from YN to send off to make sure everything with the baby was okay, it was time for their scan.

"Okay..well now I'm going to take you down to where you'll have your scan and I'll see you in another couple of weeks for another check-up" Laura explained.

"Thank you" YN and Harry spoke together.

Once they were introduced to Eliza, the sonographer, YN was instructed to lie down on the bed that was in the middle of the room. Harry sat on the chair next to her, with his arms leaning on his legs.

As Eliza sat on the stool on the other side in front of all the equipment, she spoke "Could you pull your top up so it sits above your tummy and then roll your leggings down a smidge please my darling"

YN did as she was asked, and Eliza explained that the gel may feel cold against her skin as she poured some onto her stomach. As the gel hit YN's stomach she sucked in at the contact. Making Harry chuckle at her reaction and reach for her hand to hold in his, as Eliza began to move the probe around the bottom of YN's tummy, pushing and prodding in each place as her eyes focused on the screen in front of her.

After a few minutes, the silence was broken "Aaaand here's your baby" Eliza spoke as she turned the screen towards the couple, causing both their heads to look up. "Here's baby's head, tummy, legs and arm" She pointed out each one.

YN could feel a tear slip from her eye, completely in awe at what she could see, their little baby. Half of her and half of Harry. The moment she would never forget, seeing their baby for the first time, it was surreal. She was in love with someone she hadn't even met. She felt Harry squeeze her hand, and as she turned her head to face him she saw his own eyes tearing up.

"That's our baby" He whispered, wiping a tear that had escaped.

"Our baby" YN smiled back.

"You have a very active baby...they keep wringing around" Eliza commented, still moving the probe against YN's tummy.

"Just like their Daddy" YN joked whilst giving Harry a smirk.

"Would you like some photos to take home with you?" Eliza asked as she gave YN some tissue to wipe off the gel.

"Yeh please" Harry and YN said together.

That evening whilst the couple were lying in bed, Harry's arm tucked behind YN's neck and tickling her arms as her head laid on his bare chest, YN spoke quietly "I wish I could tell my Mum"

"I know baby...but she definitely already knows and she's the one who's sent us this little one" Harry tried to ease the situation as he pulled her body closer.

"Can we go to the cemetery tomorrow before we go to your Mum's?"

"Of course we can...you don't even need to ask" Harry pecked her head with his lips "Why don't we put a scan photo on her grave too?"

YN looked up to him, with a grateful smile "I'd love that"

"Let's get some sleep...we've got a busy day tomorrow...because let's be honest my Mum's going to do a lot of crying and asking questions"

Tag List: (let me know if you would like to be added) @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @hittiesontour @harryssattelitestomper

[smurphyse]

Bloodied Up In A Barfight | Spencer Reid

Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 3 of Routine Maintenance

Warnings: barfights, fistfights, mentions of death, tension, arguments, BAU talk

Summary: You head to Tooky's bar to tend bar for Holly, and a fight breaks out. Later, Spencer finds something out about you and things get worse.

After a long irritating day of trying to fix a toilet in Room 2, I went up to my apartment for a nice hot shower, stared out the window for a bit like always, then made my way to Tooky's. 

It was one of my favorite spots in town. Nestled in the middle of the bay on the beach, the ramshackle bar held a special place in my heart. It was where I first kissed Ernie right before an eighteen year old me went home with him that night we met. If only I'd known what happiness would come after that night, I would have cherished it more. 

A whirlwind engagement, three years of bliss and love and the sea, all culminating in one violent night that took him from me. I should have known I wouldn't get to keep him or my happiness. 

I tried to shake away the crushing weight of my own memory as I did every day driving through these streets, but some days it was harder than others. Instead, I focused on driving my shitty old VW bus around the pothole that Spencer hit on his first day. With a smirk I noticed it was bigger than the day he got here. 

A majority of the seating was laid on the sand, hand placed stones that Tooky herself had put down when she first came here. She’d turned this beach into a paradise of hammocks, tables, and a small theater with a sheet hung with the ocean behind it. The woman was ancient, but she was more than happy to show off her much younger forty year old wife Vera who looked at her like she was made of gold. 

The bar was open, little cut tiles shaped in the design of fish and the waves outside under a wood top. Glasses hung from mounts just in reach for servers and the mirrored back held all the tequila and alcohol a girl could ask for. Tooky had small swings on the outside of the bar walls, and the patrons used the windowsill as a table. People already milled about though the sun was just beginning to set, the ocean blue shimmering with the bright pink-purple of the fading light. 

“Hey Tooky!” I called as I stepped in, that old familiar smell of cigarettes and palm fronds washing over me like the sand in the wind. 

Tooky, aged like the mountains and canyon ranges around us, rested on a stool behind the bar. Blue and pink neon flashed over her silver braids, the ends of which laid in her lap they were so long. Turquoise and sandstone jewelry hung from her long earlobes and wrinkled wrists, and she gave me a big smile and a wave when she saw me.

“Honey Bee, c’mover here!” The silver backed bracelets clacked with her movements, her sundress swishing along. Tooky Builds-the-Fire was as old as the sea itself, but she didn’t let it slow her down. She was as full of light now as she likely had been as a kid.

I made my way over and gave her a big hug. Her spindly arms held me in a death grip, nearly cracking my back. She let me go and placed a kiss on my cheek and gave a sneaky pat on my backside. "Where's that lovely wife of yours?"

Tooky pointed a shaky finger toward the beach, "She's helping the band get set up. You know how much she likes the music."

"Hey Honey!" Micah called, carrying a box of bottles from the kitchen, his long braids hanging over his shoulders. He set them on the counter and pulled me in for a quick hug. He pointed at Tooky, "Thanks for helping mom out tonight. Holly doesn't do so well here during this time of year."

"Oh, I don't mind," I told him with a smile. I set a hand on his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. "Besides, gives me something to do other than fix toilets all night."

Micah gestured to his uniform, "And you couldn't say no to the town sheriff, right? Cuz I'm so intimidating and all."

"Oh, Sheriff Builds-the-Fire, you are the only man in this town I both fear and admire."

"As it should be," Micah grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. He wasn't much taller than me, and the fact that he looked almost exactly like his mother made him insecure at times. People didn't tend to take him seriously. 

Micah pointed over to the corner of the bar and leaned in close enough to whisper, "Your boy's been here all day drinking his feelings. You might wanna check on him."

Sure enough, there was Rico in the corner hunched over a glass of whiskey. I could see the liquor in his eyes all the way from the bar, and I sighed before putting my stuff away in a locker in the kitchen, then made my way over to him. 

He was drawing on a cocktail napkin, and even before I came up to the table I knew he was drawing a picture of Ernie. Rico had painted the mural of him outside Collie’s, and Ernie was the one who bought him his first sketch set. The two of them had the same crooked smirks, always together no matter what. Even when Ernie and I took over the inn for Mattie May, Rico would stop by every day for lunch just to hang out with his best friend.

I slid into the chair opposite him. He didn't bother to look up. "Do you need me to take you home, Rico?"

He shook his head slowly, "I'm doing just fine here, Honey."

I couldn't stand it, his standoffish pose. He was on the defensive, but I could never resist poking the bear. It was something Ernie loved about me, but it was something Rico became easily frustrated by. 

"You should go home, get some sleep."

He finally looked up at me. His eyes were wet, red rimmed and exhausted. My shoulders sank with the weight of his gaze, and he knew it. 

Rico swallowed thickly, "You gonna marry me?"

"Ric-."

"I didn't think so," he said softly, waving a hand. "I knew the first time I asked that you'd say no."

"I do love you, Rico. Okay? I'm just…." The words spilled out like a geyser, but it needed to be said. I was never going to marry him, no matter how much I wanted to just to make him happy. "I can't stand the thought of you hating me because of this."

“I don’t hate you,” he said earnestly, but I couldn’t help myself.

“Rico, I can’t have you mad at me because I don’t want to get married. I’m not ready to do it with anyone-.”

"I'm allowed to be mad,” he cut me off firmly. “I'm allowed to be upset, okay? I know it makes you feel guilty but… it can't be my problem if you're not going to marry me. I need to feel what I feel, too. You’re not the only one who’s sad and fucked up around here."

I looked down at my lap and nodded as the tears welled. My voice strained as I tried to keep myself together. "Yeah… I know."

Rico pushed his empty glass toward me, “Will you get me another?”

I got up on shaky legs and took it with a trembling hand, “I’ll have Vera bring it over.”

I didn't even know why I was so upset. I didn't want to marry Rico, and the only real reason we'd started up in the first place was because of a drunken night last year. We were both lost without Ernie, and the thought of having to go on without Rico as at least my friend killed me inside. 

Turning on my heel, I made my way back to the bar, the glass hung loosely in my fingers. I pushed it across the bar where Vera had made her way to, cleaning a glass with a cloth. “Hey, Vera. Can you get Rico another one?”

She leaned on one leopard-printed hip and shook the washcloth at me, “You don’t wanna serve your boyfriend?”

I felt tears threaten to spill as I shook my head, “Can you just take care of him for me tonight?”

“Sure, Honey,” she said quietly. Vera filled the glass with Rico’s favorite, pressed a hand to my cheek as she passed and gave me a smile. Her bouncing blonde curls made me feel better, as did looking over just to see Tooky watching her backside with a lopsided grin. 

I let out a breath and decided to take over for her, picking up a glass to clean. When I turned toward the door I nearly jumped out of my skin at Spencer Reid sitting on the other side of the counter with a cheeky smile and a wave. 

“You, uh, you made it out Mr. Buzzkill,” I said shakily, trying to covertly sniffle. It didn’t work, and he squinted my way.

“Are you crying?” I waved a hand in front of my face and shook my head, but I couldn’t help glancing over to where Rico sat in the corner talking to Vera. Spencer twisted on his barstool enough to look at him with a furrowed brow and a frown. 

“I’m fine,” I told him, and he turned back to look at me. His face told me he obviously didn’t believe me, but there was no way in hell I was going to talk to him about this stuff. “What can I get you?” 

Spencer watched me for a moment, a pair of not-quite hazels searching me in an almost analytical way. He seemed to scan me and know in that moment that if he pushed me I was going to freak out, so he pulled out his wallet and a ten, then slid it toward me. 

“Bourbon, neat,” he decided. 

I pushed the bill back to him, “First one’s on me.”

“You know, nobody around here will let me pay for anything."

"You should take it and put it toward something fun like seeing the sights," I told him with a watery grin. I leaned over the bar and put my chin in my hands. "There's a lot of great places around here."

Spencer made a face and nodded, his gaze flicking down to my boobs. He made no effort whatsoever to disguise it and smirked like a cat, "I've got sights aplenty right here."

With that I snatched the ten and held it up for him to see, then stuffed it down my bra, "Just for that, I'm keeping this."

Spencer leaned back and laughed, "You earned it."

I poured Spencer his bourbon and made my rounds, waving hello to the people who came in. Nell ambled in after a bit, waving goodbye to Bernie before coming inside. Rose and Mattie May came up to the bar, trapping Spencer between them and Lonnie and Lloyd on the other. He conversed with them lightly, clinging to his bourbon like it was a lifeline, but I saw him eye the twins with caution. 

Lonnie and Lloyd Evarts were fraternal twins who just…sucked. They were assholes, and I avoided them and their leering every chance I got. They drank as much as they wandered around town picking fights and bothering people.  

Lonnie was the oldest by a few minutes, with a beer belly, rough gray speckled beard and greasy hair. Lloyd was tall and lanky, over a head taller than his brother, and liked to speak with a low creepy voice. They just liked to be a bother, so I got them their drinks and went on my way. 

I sang along to the music as I worked, the band playing soft acoustic rock as the street lights came on and the hot sun turned into an only slightly cooler night. Sweat made its way under my arms under the heat of the lights and errant conversations, but I tried to keep myself busy and not focus on Rico. 

Eventually, I couldn't really help myself. He just looked so damned lonely in the corner by himself. I poured some water into a big cup, ignoring Spencer's watchful gaze and pleading eyes to save him from Mattie May's questions and went over to Rico. 

Setting the water in front of him, I slid into the chair next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He sighed heavily and met my gaze with a watery smile. 

"Hey," I murmured, giving him a squeeze. 

Rico licked his lips and chuckled, "Hey."

He covered my hand with his and returned my squeeze, "I think I need help getting home."

I leaned my chin on his shoulder and nodded, "I already called Micah. He's on his way."

Rico let out a long sigh and glanced up to where Spencer was sitting stiffly next to Lonnie and Lloyd. He waved a drunken hand that way, "My mom says he's really nice. He knew she was Basque just by her accent."

"She even brought him karouga," I told him playfully. "She might ditch your dad for him if you're not careful. Augustin is gonna be traded in for a new model."

Rico laughed quietly, slurring a bit, "She said the same thing about me and you. Said he may have eyes for you."

"Oh, well if Augustin is on the table I'll take him."

"You're sick."

I reached out to palm his chin and smile brightly. "You kinda look like him. Maybe that's why I think you're cute."

He groaned and pushed at me, "You're disgusting. I'm gonna throw up all over you if you don't shut up."

We laughed together for a moment, and it faded into us watching one another sadly. Twelve years of grief and friendship tied us together, Ernie the knot that kept it all from falling apart. I pressed my lips to his shoulder, breathing in the scent of smoke and sweat on his skin. 

"Collie and Augustin would have been great grandparents," I whispered, and he nodded, his hand absentmindedly reaching out to palm my empty stomach. I placed my hand over his, "They still will be. You have time, Rico."

His fingers tensed, then released, his thumb rubbing circles for a few seconds before he pulled away. Rico ran a heavy hand over his face and let out a grunt that told me he was trying to contain his emotions. "We shouldn't have a serious conversation right now. I don't know if you know this, but I'm pretty drunk."

"Drink your water and we'll settle the tab."

It took a few minutes, and some spillage, but he finished it. Rico held out his hands like a child, and I took him by them both and hoisted him to his feet. A handful of wobbly strides later and I got him up to the bar between Lonnie and Spencer. 

"Vera, can you settle his tab? Stick it on my card."

Rico set a heavy hand on Spencer's shoulder, who stiffened up tightly from it. He leaned in close to drunkenly whisper to him, "How you likin' the town, hipster?"

"It's Spencer," he said slowly back, flinching away from Rico’s breath. "It's…fine. How's my car?"

Rose leaned back enough to tug on the back of my shirt for my attention, "Did you call Micah?"

"He's on his way." I swatted at Rico, who was leaning far too heavily on a stranger he didn't know or even like very much. "Rico, leave the man alone."

"'M being polite to your guest, Honey," he told me flippantly. I shook my head and gave Spencer an apologetic frown. "Your Jeep's got a lot of miles on it for the year. How long you been on the road, man?"

I spotted Lonnie smirking at me out of the corner of my eye, trying to catch my attention. I did my best to focus on the receipt for Rico’s frankly astonishing amount of drinks he'd had today. 

"Two years. I've been just about everywhere," Spencer told him sheepishly, and he put a steadying hand on Rico’s chest to keep him from falling on him and out of my arms. 

I signed the receipt and slid it back to Vera, but as I turned back to Rico and Spencer I felt an unfamiliar hand on my backside. Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted Lonnie grinning at me with tobacco stained teeth. 

"Back off, Lonnie," I snapped. When I pushed at his wrist, his grip only tightened. "Ow! Goddamnit, Lon-."

Rico twisted off my shoulder before I could stop him, ripping Lonnie's hand from my ass. Spencer got up sharply from his stool and stepped up next to him, his hand going for his belt. 

Lonnie wasn't phased, and he ignored them completely. He loomed over me and cocked his head, his equally nasty brother standing behind him. "I hear Rico didn't knock you up. Lloyd and I are more than happy to step in, do what he can't."

"Back off, Lonnie," I urged, trying to keep Rico behind me. "Tonight's not the night."

"I think it's a perfect night," Lloyd sneered, grinning at me like the creep he was. "We'll show you a good time, Honey. Let you feel a real man for once."

"You boys better head home if you know what's good for you," Rose spoke up, and when I looked back he was up on his feet too. 

“Mind your business, old man,” Lonnie snapped. I was closer to him than I ever wanted to be, stale beer and cigarettes washing over me as I struggled to keep Rico in place and standing. Lonnie knew that Rose and Rico had served, and both were certified badasses, but Lonnie and Lloyd both served too, and for some reason they thought that gave them the right to fuck around and not find out.

“I’m talkin’ to the lady here,” he continued, reaching a dirt stained hand out to push back my hair. I swatted him away but he wasn’t phased, nor by the sudden silence that overcame the bar. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and it was my least favorite feeling in the world.

“I don’t want to talk to you or your brother,” I told him in a low voice, hating to be the center of attention. “I’m taking Rico home. You two just enjoy your night.”

I pulled on Rico’s arm until he moved with me, staggering and glaring at the twins over his shoulder. We barely made it two steps before Lonnie called out again.

“Maybe I’ll find you one of those nights you’re walkin’ home alone, then, bitch!”

Fuck.

Rico turned on a dime, the droopy effect of alcohol reverting to fierce stupidity. I was caught between them, his chest against my back as he swung a heavy fist toward Lonnie. It connected with his cheek with a loud smack of Rico’s knuckles. 

Everything seemed to explode in a millisecond. 

Lonnie barely flinched through his own alcoholic haze, his fist barreling toward me before I could react. A blast of pain cracked across my vision, a bright haze of red and white bursting over my sight as my body twisted from the force, a sharp yelp bursting from my chest. 

I hit the ground hard, my wrists and knees taking the impact. Yelling echoed in the back of my mind, the sounds of fists hitting flesh and broken glass. Hot blood dripped down my nose and chin as I struggled to blink back into focus. Somebody had their hands on my shoulders, which I feebly tried to push away. 

The napkin Rico had drawn Ernie on lay on the floor beneath me, trickling droplets of iron red beading the surface before bleeding into the paper. Memories swirled in my mind as I gazed bleary eyed at a drawing of my dead husband. Blood and the whipping wind jerking my hair from my scalp… sharp lightning cracking and thunder booming around us… the sight of the love of my young life bleeding out in the ocean. 

Then just as suddenly as it all began, it stopped. 

I looked up cautiously to find Rico on his ass next to me, clutching his nose, but that wasn't what made my heart stop in my chest. It was Spencer.

Lloyd laid flat on his belly with Spencer's boot between his shoulder blades, struggling to get up. Lonnie's arm was twisted behind him and out, Spencer pinching between his thumb and his pointer finger with one hand, the other tangled into his hair. 

"Get the fuck off me, man!" Lonnie snarled, but Spencer just twisted his arm further, earning a strangled yelp from the drunken asshole. 

Mattie May and Rose both had their arms under my armpits, hoisting me to my feet. Hastily, I snatched the napkin from the floor and enclosed it in my fist. I could hear her speaking softly to me over the ringing in my ears, asking me if I'm alright. All I could focus on was him, and the shift in his body. It was like staring at a whole other person.

"Apologize," Spencer snapped, his dark eyes sharp and more focused than I'd ever seen. Even with a handful of drinks in him he was steady and strong, his grip unyielding. "Now."

“Fuck y- argggh!” Lonnie tried, but another sharp turn on his shoulder had him howling. “Okay, okay! I’m fuckin’ sorry, man!”

“Not to me, dumbass,” Spencer growled lowly. Keeping one foot on Lloyd’s back, he turned Lonnie to face me and my spurting nose and lip. “Apologize to her.”

“I’m… sorry,” Lonnie gritted out, but the burning hatred in his eyes told me he wasn’t, and that this wasn’t over. 

“Alright!” Micah’s voice sounded out as he sauntered into the bar, and all turned to him. His weathered hands planted on his hips as he glowered down at the Evarts brothers. “That’s enough, boys. Head home.”

Rose pushed me gently behind him as Spencer released the twins. They both got to their feet rubbing their shoulders and scowling at me. Micah knew me well enough that I wasn’t going to press charges, so he waved them out of the bar and went for Rico.

“I’m guessing I have him to thank for this escalation?” Micah grunted as he bent down. He and Rose looped their arms under his and pulled him to his feet as he tried in vain to quell some of the blood flow.

“Yeah. I’ll help you get him to the car,” Rose replied gruffly. He kissed Mattie May on her cheek and I avoided the sight painfully as they drug Rico out of the bar.

“Honey, lemme look at ya,” Mattie May urged, tugging on my jaw. When I wouldn’t turn she instead twisted in front of me, slightly obscuring my view of Spencer.

I watched him and his reddened cheeks, the way his hands started to shake now that the fight was over. I watched him watching me back even as he snagged his bourbon off the bar and downed it in one go. 

“I’m fine,” I muttered. She ignored me, as did Vera and Tooky, poking and prodding around. I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t seem to look away from Spencer. He couldn’t look away either, it seemed, just gazed at me with a deep bone aching sadness and shame I’m sure reflected in my own eyes.

Another squeeze down my arm, a sharp rocketing pain that burst through my wrist. It was enough to drag me away from Spencer Reid, my angry gaze flicking to Mattie May, “Ow! Goddamnit!”

“Let’s get you some ice, Honey,” she replied quickly, her former nurses’ training kicking in. Before I knew it I was being dragged around the bar and into the kitchen, but when I looked over my shoulder Spencer hadn’t moved his gaze from me, but something had changed.

The sadness had switched to grief, and a little bit of fear.

The world spun as the girls pulled Honey into the kitchen. Spencer watched helplessly as the door swung shut, his body shaking and too stiff all at the same time. 

Is this who I am now?

He could see her through the window, see that she was okay and talking. One of the women blotted her nose with a dish rag as Mattie May pulled out a first aid kit. Spencer leaned against the bar for support, but he was certain if he looked away from Honey he would crumple into a ball of tears. 

Spencer was an idiot, reacting like that. The first sign of trouble and his training kicked in, that old familiar chivalry he’d thought he left behind on a cool DC morning as he skipped town like a ghost. He saw Lonnie and Lloyd, looking too much like the men he’d met in his work, and worst of all…

He saw Honey, frightened and too hard-headed for her own good to not back down from a fight she couldn’t win. You can’t win against men like that, people with their minds made up… and all he saw for a moment was Maeve with Lonnie’s fist heading right at her. His agent training burst out of him without permission, and the next thing he knew it was like after prison again, stopping some asshole from messing with Tara… when he was out of control and pissed off at the world.

Is this who I am now?

A heavy hand on his shoulder made him flinch and duck, turning sharply to find Rose looking at him with his dark eyes. Spencer’s heartbeat pounded in his ears, his breath struggling to return to normal. Rose motioned to the barstools in front of them, pretending as though he didn’t notice.

“Sit down, son.”

With a shaking hand, Spencer took a deep breath and pulled out a stool. He slid onto the cool leather and gripped the bar while Rose went around the other side. He pulled a bottle from the bar wall and poured him another drink, then pushed it toward him. Spencer snatched it like a man dying of thirst and poured it down his throat. 

"It's a good thing you did, taking over like that."

Another deep breath, count to five, let it out. 

"Bar fights are a dime a dozen. Don't worry too much about it. Lonnie and Lloyd aren't stupid enough to press charges."

The glass barely had the chance to hit the bar again before Rose poured him another. Spencer lifted it to his lips, just moments away from temporary salvation in the arms of liquor when he spoke again.

“Ex-con or cop?”

His only reprieve from the world hung mid air, just out of reach of his mouth as Spencer stared shell-shocked at him. “What?”

“Mattie May says you didn’t serve, but you don’t like fireworks.” A quirk of his heavy brow told Spencer he wasn’t getting out of this one. “Your hand went straight for your belt, like you were reaching for a gun. You got that haunted look in your eyes like a man who's seen some things. You didn’t serve so… ex-con or cop?”

Spencer swallowed thickly. The cool beads of condensation from his bourbon trickled down his hand and wrist. Rose sighed, “Nobody’s judging here, son. We welcome all kinds in this town, as you’ve surely noticed.”

Is this who I am now? What would ever be the right answer to that question? Both. Neither. 

Spencer’s heart weighed a thousand pounds as he stared painfully back at Rose. Licking his lips to prepare himself, his jaw quivered. His voice shook as he admitted for the first time in years, “FBI. Almost twenty years.”

Rose didn’t say anything about that, but the slight twitch that etched across his weathered features told Spencer everything he needed to know about his thoughts. Really? You? How could someone like you be capable of such a thing?

“Thank you for your service,” he said instead.

“Don’t,” Spencer replied. 

He downed his drink, pushed it forward for another. Rose obliged, tipping the spout over the rim. Spencer found himself looking once more to the kitchen window, his eyes sliding over without much thought. Honey seemed pissed off as ever, glaring at something in her hand as Mattie May wrapped her wrist with an Ace bandage. The distinct swell of a coming bruise tattooed across her cheek and lip, her nose red from cleaning blood away.

“She’s fine,” Rose’s voice came through, tearing his gaze away. “Honey’s taken harder hits than that.”

"Her husband?" Spencer asked, a bit unsure of such a bold question. "That why she wears that ring?"

Rose scratched his chin as he thought. His eyes wandered around the bar, seeing who was close. When he was satisfied nobody would hear, he leaned on his elbows on the bar. "You know, Honey don't look like it, but she grew up catching lobster on a boat off the East Coast."

"How'd she end up so far from home?"

"I don't know specifics," Rose muttered with a shrug. "Her daddy was a real religious type. Made it clear one day she could live there with his rules as gospel, or leave. She left, hitchhiked until she met Mattie May at a truck stop on her way home from visiting her sister."

A sweet genuine smile stretched across his cheeks, "She brought her to town. Honey met Ernesto. It was…instant. They just fell in love like that."

Sigue viviendo, Ernesto, Spencer remembered, thinking back to the mural outside Collie’s. 

"Yeah, those two were something else. Before she came along, Rico, Holly Henson, and Ernie were just three boys who came back from Iraq with hell to raise. They were wild. Honey walked in one day and those boys all turned into men. She showed them they could be more than haunted."

Spencer couldn't help but squint at his words, glaring at Rose as he downed his fourth shot in as many minutes. Rose dutifully poured him another, continuing on, "They all loved the water, fishing. Honey trained in water rescue back in the day, and she still went out when they needed her. Ernie and Honey would go on these week long trips up and down the coast. Ernie used to wear his ring on a chain around his neck so it wouldn't get lost.

"One day they didn't come back on time," Rose said, and this time it was his eyes that became haunted. They traveled back to a time Spencer couldn't see, remembering something he didn't know. 

"They got caught in a storm, a big one that came outta nowhere. They tried to get control of the boat, but a lightning bolt hit the deck, blew the damned thing into pieces."

The breath caught in his chest, Spencer's body subconsciously leaning forward as he found himself wrapped up in the story. He could hear Honey griping about being left alone, but it all seemed so far away. 

Rose sighed, his dark heavy gaze landing on Spencer's once more. "Some tourists found her a few days later holding onto a piece of driftwood. She was holding his body to her by that chain with his wedding ring on it. Hers had slipped off in the waves."

Spencer looked over to the kitchen window once more. Sure enough that ring hung around her neck. She fiddled with it as she stared dead eyed at what looked like a napkin, rolling it between her fingers. 

"She brought my Ernie home to me," Rose spoke quietly, earning Spencer's undivided attention once more. 

"He was your son." It wasn't a question. 

"Yeah, he was a good egg." An unspoken declaration of devotion from a man going through unimaginable pain. 

"Goddamnit, I'm fine!" Honey snarled, stomping her way out of the kitchen. It seemed to be her favorite word. "Leave me the fuck alone!"

The door swung behind her like a dog's wagging tail. She squinted at Spencer and Rose as she came out, but Rose reached out a hand for her bicep, pulling her back to him. 

He tapped her chin, "That's a good shiner, kid."

Honey's scowl morphed into a slow chuckle. She shook her head and pulled away from him with a big grin, "You're a dick."

Mattie May made her way out of the kitchen next, inching her way back into the main room as if she was a bit fearful of Honey’s wrath. Her arms made their way around Rose's waist as she watched her flit back around the tables.

"Will you stay with her? Help her close up and drive her home?" Mattie May asked Rose softly. "I don't like the idea of her alone after what Lonnie said."

"Yeah, but you know Honey. She's gonna growl at me all night about it."

Spencer's mouth opened before he could think to stop it, "I could drive her home so Mattie May doesn't have to go by herself."

Both of them turned surprised to an equally surprised Spencer, but they were far more amused. 

"Boy, I know you've had more drinks than the five I poured you," Rose told him sternly. "I wouldn't trust you to drive a stationary bike right now."

"Well, that is true," Spencer replied, realizing in embarrassment the slur of his voice. "She can drive me home. There's no way I'm finding my way back to the inn by myself anyway."

They looked at one another, seemingly having one of those silent conversations couples do when they've been together long enough. Not so funnily, he used to have similar ones with the BAU. 

"Okay. You two be careful, though," Mattie May smiled. "Gets pretty dark around here at night on the beach. There ain't many streetlights."

"Will do," Spencer replied. He saluted her with his drink and polished it off, welcoming the amber gold and the edge it took off with it. 

He vaguely registered Rose asking Honey to drive him home, focused on drowning his feelings in his bourbon. After a few more hours, the patrons shuffled out. The old woman behind the bar and the pretty blonde left before closing time, and eventually it was just him and Honey alone. 

She ignored him mostly, avoiding his gaze as Spencer tried to avoid hers. She made her way behind the bar, pulling out trash bags and tying them off. 

"You didn't have to do that, y’know," she muttered, and when he looked up she was watching him through her lashes. Her cheeks flushed a dark pink, only making her bruise look darker. 

It was already blotching purple, and by the morning it would turn black and blue. Part of her lip had split, and god help him, it pissed Spencer off more than anything. 

"I can take a punch, Mr. Dreary," she said when he didn't reply. She pointed at his glass. "You didn't need to do that. You obviously didn't want to."

"Oh, I wanted to." 

Her hand reached out, fingers loosely grabbing the tumbler. She twisted it for a moment and bit her bottom lip as she thought. "He was trying to hit Rico and missed. He's a drunk asshole."

"No, he wasn't." Spencer told her. Honey's brows twitched, but she didn't say anything. "He may be a drunk asshole, but he aimed right for you in a place that would bleed the most and bruise the worst. I'm sure he's had plenty of practice accidentally punching women."

"And you know so much about that?" she challenged, stubborn as ever. "He's all bark and no bite."

"I know more about it than I'd like." Spencer's own hand found its way across the bar, clasping around her good wrist. "I've seen hundreds of Lonnie's. They seem all bark and no bite, but they're impulsive. Especially when they're angry. When he said he'd wait for you to walk home alone one night, he meant it. He'd have no problem finding you and raping you in the street before leaving you there."

Her jaw clenched tightly, but she nodded with tears in her eyes. Honey cleared her throat and held up one of the trash bags, "You might as well make yourself useful. Dumpster’s through the kitchen."

Spencer slid his hand from her and got to his feet. He rounded the bar and took it from her hands, his legs more than a bit unsteady. 

"You okay?" she asked quietly, watching him nervously. 

"I might be on my knees painting the inside of the toilet later," he told her with a watery lopsided grin, "but I'll be fine."

Her laugh was all he needed to walk away from her, smiling to himself. She chucked quietly behind him as he made his way into the kitchen. It was dark, illuminated only by the red light of the EXIT sign. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he passed through the hot room, still emanating heat from the hours of serving up burgers and fish fry to the patrons.

The night was only a few degrees cooler as Spencer pushed open the heavy back door and stepped into the alley. It reeked of stale beer, piss, and sand, making his nose curl up. He tossed the bag into the dumpster, the bottles inside hitting the inside with a loud clang. 

He gripped the slatted wall for support as he turned inside. His legs didn’t want to cooperate along the shifting sands, his veins mostly alcohol by now. Tugging the door back open, he stepped back inside into the glowing red blanketing the kitchen. 

"Get away from me!" Honey's voice came from the bar area. 

Spencer's body kicked into gear, his hand going to his belt for a gun that wasn't there. His badge wasn't either, and he was drunk. Old familiar instincts blazed to life, his ears picking up on a shuffling to his right. Spencer turned just in time to see the business end of a baseball bat coming toward his face. 

It connected with his nose, the fragile cartilage cracking under the force. Spencer was swept off his feet with the impact, landing hard on his ass on the concrete. The bat came down again as Honey screamed in the other room. 

Blinking blearily through the pain, Spencer's foot shot out, his boot catching the side of his assailant's knee. The man screeched in pain and collapsed, clutching his kneecap and howling

"Oh fuck, Lonnie!" he cried out, and Spencer recognized him in the dark. It was Lloyd Evarts. 

The swinging door flung open and in came the bastard Lonnie himself, dragging Honey in by her hair. Fresh blood dripped down her nose under the red lights, and he tossed her to the ground before swinging a heavy foot out. It caught Spencer in the ribs, his movements slow with the alcohol and stun of the hit to the face. 

“Take that, you piece of shit!”

Lonnie kicked him again, and again. Spencer tried to swing out his fist, but caught nothing but air. Lloyd was on his feet in Spencer's drowsy haze, stomping down on his shoulder and side as he tried in vain to get up from the floor. 

If he didn't get up, he'd probably die. 

The unmistakable rack of a shotgun ran ice water through his veins. He couldn’t see Honey, couldn’t find a way to pick himself up to get her the hell out of here. What an embarrassing way to die for who he used to be… shot on a cold floor in a town he didn’t know or like, trying stupidly to protect a girl he didn’t want to be attracted to.

The gun blasted out with a loud boom! that rattled the kitchen. Spencer braced for the all-too familiar feel of bullets in his flesh, but they didn’t come. Instead a loud howling ripped through the room through the ringing in his ears.

Another pump of the gun, the clattering of a spent shell casing petering across the concrete. The gun went off again, followed by the screech of a wounded animal. The blows stopped battering his drunken body, shuffling feet and screams echoing around him.

“Let’s go! Go, go, go!” Lonnie’s voice cried out, followed by them scrambling out the door. 

Spencer rolled onto his back, vaguely registering the gun hitting the ground. All the fight was gone, and he was just a pair of black eyes. The EXIT sign glowed ominously above him, the acrid smell and copper taste of blood in his mouth. He couldn’t breathe through his nose, sure that it must be broken. 

“Spencer,” a soft voice came, full of tears and worry. 

A shadow moved in front of the sign, dark and surrounded by the red light. Soft dark hair glimmered even in the darkness, and Spencer reached a bruised hand up to run his fingers through it. He palmed her cheek, his breath catching in his chest as his brain struggled to remember where he was.

“Spencer, stay awake,” the voice said again. “I’m going to get some help.”

It was so quiet, shrouded in darkness and mystery. Familiar, but where was he again? He didn’t know. He didn’t really care, either. His thumb ran across her cheekbone, a slight hiss of pain escaping lips he couldn’t see. Her skin was warm, the fresh scent of saltwater and sweat washing over him. All he wanted was a hug, someone to hold him until he felt better. 

“Spencer, can you hear me?”

“Maeve?”

Smurph's Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Notes: PLEASE tell me what you think... Also, what do you think is going to happen next?

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[nixie-writes-aot]

Among the Peonies

Chapter One: First Day Jitters

Warnings: implied social anxiety, all characters 18+, sfw

Pairings: eventual Reiner x female reader, eventual Bertholdt x female reader, eventual Reiner x Bertholdt

Word Count: 4k words

You opened your eyes with a tired groan as the insistent beeping of your alarm clock, which was on your phone. Tangled in the blanket and sheets, you shifted until the blanket was easy to throw off your body. You sat up, reaching to your bedside table and dismissing the alarm. Through squinted, bleary eyes you read the time with another groan. All the same, it was the first day of a new school. With a shake of your head, you stood up, grateful for the warmth and softness of the beige carpet under your bare feet. A soft mrow sounded past your bedroom door, which was slightly ajar. 

“I know, I know. I’m up, Squeaks.” You grumbled, walking across your room and grabbing a clean towel out of your dresser.

You walked out of your room, eyes falling on the silver tabby with the softest of cream adorning her shorthaired fur. The cat, named Squeak, was sitting in the middle of the hall and meowing up at you before standing and rushing towards the kitchen. You softly chuckled, following your pet with an even paced walk until you made it into the kitchen, quickly getting into the bin that her food was in. You used a scoop to feed Squeak, who was quick to start eating. You walked back into the hall and into the bathroom, turning on the water and hanging your towel before going back to your room to get clothes. Once you were in the shower, washing off the dirt and stress of the past week of unpacking and getting Squeak to relax in her new home. The shower went quickly and before you knew it, you were stepping out and dressing yourself in a simple black t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. 

You looked in the mirror, brushing a hand through your hair and sighing. Your mind drifting to the potential outcomes of the day, the fact that it was entirely possible that you got rejected by your peers. You had not wanted to even move! Yet… Here you were. With an inhale, you held your breath as you silently counted five seconds and slowly exhaled. You nodded at your reflection with a weak, definitely not reassuring smile. 

“You’ve got this, (name).” you muttered before exiting the bathroom. 

You had been out the door after having a simple breakfast of cereal. Your backpack hung off one shoulder as you walked, keeping a keen eye on the time and what Google Maps dictated your route would be. You had made short work of the walk, arriving just before the first bell rang out. You were sure that if you knew what classes were your own, you’d be able to arrive at your first on time. You took a second to observe your environment as you walked through the front doors. There was an office directly in front of you, two halls splitting off past it with stairs leading upwards in the building. The floors were white tiles with black specks and the walls were a plain beige color. You were sure there was more to this school but your first task of the day was getting your schedule from the office in front of you. You approached it, walking through a door that was correctly labeled “front office”, the inside was carpeted with various chairs. Off to the side was a desk and a doorway to its left, leading to another area. Behind the desk sat a woman with a blonde undercut, calming blue eyes settling on you. You fought through your anxiety, approaching the desk. 

“Uh- hello. I’m new. I’m the new student.” you explained with a weak lopsided smile.

“You’re (name) (surname)?” The woman questioned.

You nodded, watching the woman lean back in her desk chair, accompanied by the sound of a desk opening and some rustling before she supplied you with a single sheet of paper and an ID with your student pin number and photo, that you came in over the weekend for, on it. You looked down at the schedule, seeing “locker 221” and the combination sprawled on it in red ink before grabbing both items and quietly thanking her. After pocketing the ID, you left the office to search for the locker. After roughly ten minutes of searching, you found it. After rather haphazardly throwing your backpack in, you took off to find your first class. 

By the time you found it, room 139 on the second floor, the bell had rang again and you watched as the class emptied with a discouraged face. The last out was a blonde with quite a bit of facial hair. The amount that made him look like he was a bit old for high school. However, that didn’t seem to actually be the case. His blue eyes, unlike the office lady’s, were piercing and unnerved you. Despite that, he approached. He had to know how intimidating he looked, right? Even with glasses, which your aunt once said made someone “friendly” and “easy to approach”, this particular peer was downright scary. Maybe it’s his height that makes him seem that way? You silently questioned. 

“Hello, you look lost.” The blonde offered his hand to shake. 

You nervously chuckled, shaking his head and sighing, “Actually, my name isn’t “you look lost” but good guess.” You joked, surprised at the tall blonde laughed. Even if said laugh was more like a soft chuckle. “But yeah… I’m new. I guess I found photography, right?” 

“Who do you have next then? I’ll help you.” He offered after nodding to affirm that you had, in fact, found the art classroom. 

“Uh, science?” You muttered, “With Mx. Zoe?” 

“My brother has that class. I’ll show you the way and then you can hang around him, he probably has quite a few classes in common with you.” The blonde explained. 

With that, the two of you left the art classroom with you following him. Something you would never do, given how intimidating the blonde was. During the walk you learned that his name was Zeke, he was a senior whereas you were a junior, his brother was in your grade, and his brother’s name was Eren. Oh and Eren’s childhood friend Mikasa lived with them. You two stopped in front of the classroom.

“Here you are.” Zeke hummed, “Oh and feel free to join me for lunch. I’ll be by the track outside with a few others.”

With that Zeke walked off, leaving you in front of the classroom. You inhaled deeply and then exhaled after five seconds to ground yourself. “I’ve got this.” you whispered before pushing the door open and walking in. Nearly the whole class was already there, the teacher standing in front of a black board. You looked at the black board, reading the name alongside “they/them” under it. You walked over to them, quietly whispering to them, “Uh– I’m new.” They grinned, patting your back. 

“Its a pleasure to finally meet you!” Hanji exclaimed, “Class, this is (name). She’s a bit late this semester but I expect her to be met with hospitality!” 

A brunette at the back, between a black haired girl and a blonde boy, raised his hand. You nervously looked over, meeting his teal gaze.

“Yes, Eren?” Hange questioned.

“I have an open seat behind me, she can sit there.” The brunette, Zeke’s brother as it turns out, offered.

You let out a relieved sigh as Hange nodded. You walked through the sea of desks, passing Eren and sitting down.

“Hey.” Eren greeted with a comforting smile. 

He was much less intimidating than his brother, that realization was comforting. Although, you thought, Zeke was really nice. Might as well become friends proper with him, right? You realized you hadn’t responded, being deep in thought about his brother. “Oh, uh, hi.” You muttered, “Zeke’s brother, right?”

Eren laughed, “Yeah that's me.” He paused, “Can I see your schedule? Zeke texted me to help you around soooo.”

You handed the sheet of paper over, listening as Eren scribbled on the paper. He handed it back as Hange properly started class, having an assignment passed back. You looked down at your schedule. Each class you shared with Eren had his name beside it in red pen, the handwriting was certainly not the neatest but it was endearing to you, in a way.  You looked down at the assignment, reading the background to what seemed to be an assignment about genetics. 

Easy enough, you decided.

While science, especially genetics, didn't come the easiest to you, it's not like it was actively hard. So, keeping an open mind about the problems, you silently did your best. By the end of the five page assignment, the bell had rung. Your next class was not shared with Eren but the brunette, with his long hair tied back in a bun, showed you to it. Which was also how you learned his locker was beside your own. You anxiously tapped your foot outside the class, the first one to arrive thanks to Eren. It was nerve wracking, really. You almost preferred getting there late. You had no time to question that line of thinking for gym class, with one Keith Shadis, as a voice sounded from behind you. 

"Hey, you're the new girl?" 

The voice was deep, rumbly. It prompted you to turn around, facing a tall blonde. His golden eyes peering down at you, it felt like they could stare right through your eyes and into your soul itself. You waved your hand with two fingers and thumb extended in a greeting.

"Yeah. That's me." You muttered quietly. 

"I saw you with Zeke Yeager earlier, how do you know him?" Reiner questioned with a chuckle, "He's not normally the friendly type." 

You looked up at him, blinking a few times in confusion. "He's not?" Reiner shook his head, "I suppose he took pity on me. Either way, I don't really mind." You shrugged with an anxious but friendly smile.

Reiner chuckled, "I like you. I'm Reiner! My friend is somewhere around here. Can't miss 'im really. Tall, lanky, the disposition of a mouse." 

You chuckled in response, "I'm sure I'll see him then. He sounds delightful."

"Oh he is." Reiner agreed, "Me and Bert spent our childhood together! Been friends for years, really."

You smiled sweetly, you don't think you ever had a single friend like that. Especially considering the company that had your surname associated with it. Albeit, that had never been your choice nor even your father's. A man that did nothing like his own father. Goofy and silly with a penchant for terrible puns that didn't even pretend to make any sense. There was very little rhyme and reason to any of the jokes he said. You never met your grandfather but from what your father and mother said, he was a very no nonsense, cold, and little time for "the eccentrics of the slums". You supposed he was a lot like your aunt, who always insisted you call her "Miss Klara". Even then, her preference was that it was "Miss (L/N)" and not Klara. 

"That sounds amazing." You complimented, "I've never known anyone but family that long. I bet it was hard to stay friends with all the changes people go through." 

Reiner shrugged, "I guess I never thought about it like that. Bertholdt kind of just made it easy." 

You were starting to really miss your old friends but with no one but Klara to care for you, there was no real choice in the matter. 

"I had a few friends in Stohess." You noted.

Reiner stared at you as if you had grown a second head, you raised a brow in confusion. He shook his head. 

"You're from Stohess? Like– capital of Sina, Stohess?" He questioned, bewildered. 

You supposed you never really thought about the different incomes that came from the Country's wealthy northern region and Rose, the central region. Albeit, the southern region of Maria had a bigger gap with Sina's income. Talk about income inequality. You nodded, confirming Reiner's "suspicions". If you could even call it that, he was just questioning if you meant the exact capital that was the only city by that name. 

"God damn! That must've been damn beautiful!" Reiner exclaimed. 

"I prefer Trost." You admitted with a small smile. 

"I haven't been to Stohess so I can't compare but I like this place too." Reiner hummed, "Bertholdt and I are from the countryside." 

"Speak of the devil, is that him?" You asked, pointing at an extremely tall and lanky brunette.

Reinee turned around to see where you were pointing, "Ah! So it is. Berty! Over here!" Reiner called.

You only truly realized how much taller than you he was when he walked over. Seriously, how were the people here so tall! Zeke and Eren were notably tall and Reiner taller than them. Impressive still was Bertholdt. Who had a good two inches on even Reiner. 

"You weren't kidding about the tall part, shit. How is it everyone I've met is tall!" You huffed with a chuckle. 

Reiner snickered whereas Bertholdt only stumbled over his words, "I– uh– well, I'm not… Sure?" 

"Rhetorical question, don't sweat it." You assured him.

The disposition of a mouse, you mused, Reiner hit that nail on the head.

"I'm (name)." You greeted, holding your hand out for Bertholdt to shake.

The brunette nodded, shaking your hand, "Ah.. I'm Bertholdt." You took note that his shake was unsure and loose, his hand almost immediately returning to his side. You also took note that his hand was fitting for his height, dwarfing yours in comparison. Bertholdt was tall and whereas Reiner called him lanky, he was lean and wiry. You could only guess where he got such hidden, unseen muscles from. Bertholdt may not have been as notably big as Reiner but his physique was just as impressive. 

You didn't get to talk to Bertholdt past exchanging names due to the bell ringing out. You looked towards the changing rooms then to where Bertholdt and Reiner had been. You sighed, drawn in by the two. Reiner's friendly attitude and Bertholdt's shy attitude. You wanted to know more about the both of them. You surveyed the gymnasium before seeking out someone who looked like they were quite possibly a teacher or a teacher's assistant. You found that in a fairly small girl leaning her body weight on a pair of crutches. Her hair messy and black, running past her shoulders and dangling there. The girl looked almost tired, wearing a skirt unlike many of the girls you had seen in Hanji's class. You approached.

"Uh, hi." You murmured to get her attention, "Are you a TA?" 

The girl peered over at you, a friendly smile crossing her face. "No, but I can probably help regardless." She answered. 

You felt your cheeks flush in embarrassment at getting your assumption wrong. "Oh. Sorry." You muttered, wringing your hands, unsure now that you got a 'no'. Pieck's smile didn't falter despite that.

"You're new, right?" Pieck hummed, "I saw you talking with Reiner and Bertholdt so that probably means you're new since you didn't go to the changing rooms too. Are you looking for Shadis?" 

You perked up at the name of the teacher falling from Pieck's mouth. "Yes! I am." You confirmed, "I don't know where to go since I don't have any gym clothes." 

Pieck tilted her head, pointing out an older man who was bald. He seemed to be yelling at a bald kid. "Shadis is over there. He shouldn't yell at you but he is a hardass." 

You murmured, "Thanks." Pieck smiled at you, nodding in response. You walked across the gym, starting to hear some of Shadis' words that were targeted at the bald kid. 

"Are you kidding me, Springer? How many times do I have to yell at you, your heart is not on your right!" 

You were surprised and absolutely amazed at the fact that this "Springer" kid was being yelled at for something so inconsequential. At least, to you it was inconsequential. You watched this kid nod, rushing off. The man, Shadis, turned to you.

"What is it?" He demanded.

You cleared your throat, "I.. Erm, I'm new here. I don't really know where I'm supposed to go. I don't have anything to change into." You explained.

Shadis nodded, "Go sit on the bleachers then." He instructed, pointing across the way at said bleachers. 

You simply turned, walking over with a sigh. Your idea of an interesting class wasn't actually having to sit around and watch the other students run or whatever the hell they would be doing. Although when your eyes fell on the black haired girl from before, waving at you no less, you felt hopeful. She was sitting in the second row, her crutches beside her. You really didn't think much of the crutches, why would you? Although you had decided then and there that if she needed help, you'd give it. You climbed over the first row seats, empty naturally, and sat beside her on the side that didn't have her crutches. 

"Hi again." You greeted.

"Hello. Nothing better to do, then?" Pieck hummed.

You awkwardly rubbed your neck, "At least he didn't yell at me like that poor kid." Pieck chuckled in return. 

You heard the bell ring out again, students clambering out of the locker rooms faster than before. Your eyes drifted to the only two you recognized, Reiner and Bertholdt. 

"You met them then." Pieck noted. 

You looked at her, nodding, "Do you know them?" 

Pieck smiled sweetly, "Yes. They used to hang out a lot with my friend group but they drifted from us all. Annie still hangs around I suppose. Have you met her too?" 

"No, I haven't." You answered with a shrug, "Is she nice?"

"You will meet her if you hang around them too often. She can be nice, she's pretty quiet though." Pieck stated.

"You mentioned a friend group?" You questioned.

Pieck nodded, "Yeah. Just a handful of us. There's the Galliard brothers, Porco and Marcel, myself, and Zeke." 

"Oh! I know Zeke. He helped me get to my second period class." You perked up at the familiar name.

Pieck didn't seem surprised, nodding, "Zeke is striving for student body president, I think, so that's not too surprising. He's got quite the competition though. Historia has been on the seat for as long as she's been at this school. Beat Zeke back when she was just a Freshmen. Now she's a Junior, like you and the boys." 

You looked down, watching the students clamber onto numbers on the basketball court. You watched Shadis go down the lines, eyes narrowed and seemingly keeping in mind any gaps where students were unaccounted for. When he got to Pieck's and yours, he threw a glance towards the bleachers before scrawling something on the clipboard in his hands. You were quick to ascertain that it was the attendance for the class period. After the short conversation between you and Pieck, the two of you fell into a comfortable silence as you watched the students below go through the daily exercises, running, and sports. To no one's surprise, it was basketball. Your eyes shifted to Reiner in particular, how he seemed competitive and good at the sport. It was easy for him. Through practice or natural, inborn talent was anyone's guess. Well, more so your guess. You had no idea if it was something easy because of skill or talent. Unless you were corrected, you'd assume skill. That was nicer than dismissing someone off with "you were born that good". As time ticked on, you let your eyes watch Reiner and Bertholdt. See how vastly different the two were. While on the same team, Reiner was definitely the star player. He was good. Tall enough to throw the ball to the hoop easily. Bertholdt was also tall, taller than Reiner in fact, but he seemed to hesitate. It wasn't anxiety, at least that you knew of, it seemed as if he just didn't have much of a will of his own. Waiting for others to tell him where to throw the ball or if he should go for it. Together, Reiner and Bertholdt made one hell of a team.

The bell rang out, you stood, looking at Pieck. She had grabbed her crutches, sighing. You offered a hand wordlessly, helping the ravenette stand up and get her crutches situated. She smiled, nodding her thanks. You hesitated but chuckled, "Zeke said I could hang out at lunch and I.. Well… Um…" you trailed off, the nerves of just having met both of the Seniors today getting the best of you. Pieck seemed to understand though.

"Yeah. You can help me get there. Sometimes my legs don't work right." Pieck chuckled.

Despite what Pieck claimed, she seemed decently skilled at using the crutches when possible. The help that you could provide, if any, was minimal at best. Mostly, you tried not to get in her way as she led the way to the track. You avoided the students in the bustling hallway of the school's building, especially a group that seemed to crowd around a short blonde girl and a taller brunette that leaned on her. You caught sight of "Vote Historia Reiss" on the poster by her head but paid it no attention, really. You had no intention of even really voting. You didn't know a thing about any of the school's politics. You jogged forward, swinging over the doors for Pieck. She giggled, muttering a small "thank you" as she walked through. Pieck pointed at a track across a grass field, by it was a tree and under the tree sat three figures. 

Pieck leaned forward on one of the crutches that were linked to her forearms, waving at the figures with the other before placing it and starting towards the tree. You meekly followed, eyes focused on the three as you came into sight. You studied them for a moment. Zeke and a brunette were sat on the grass, seemingly going over a poster. You assumed it had to deal with Zeke running for student body president, like Pieck mentioned. The other was leaned against a tree, hazel gaze narrowed and focused on you specifically. He was blonde but looked very similar to the brunette that was sat on the ground.

"Pock, be nice." Pieck hummed, using the crotches to get over to where the blonde was and sitting down with a soft plop.

"That's not my name!" The blonde growled.

The two other guys looked up, Zeke's blue eyed gaze settling on you through his glasses. "(name), you came." The blonde hummed. The other guy, the brunette, looked over. His own brown eyes meeting yours, patting the ground beside him.

"Don't mind Pock, he's just grumpy." The brunette assured with a smile.

This brunette's smile was kind, lighthearted. Nothing like the unreadable gaze of Zeke, Pieck's tired and half hearted smile, nor the blonde's soul piercing scowl that only worsened at the second muttering of "Pock". Which was met with a bark of "that's still not my name, asswipe" from said blonde. You sat beside the brunette. 

"Don't mind them." Zeke hummed, "That's Porco and his brother, Marcel. Porco is always like that." Zeke explained. 

You looked to the blonde, Porco, who had now sat beside Pieck. The two were watching someone on her phone, on TikTox you think, the audio mostly of soft mrows and surprised hisses. You'd recognize the sounds anywhere, cat videos. Marcel and Zeke fell back into a steady pace of talking about what changes could be brought to Zeke's campaign against Historia. Especially since she no doubt would have the Freshmen vote, at least according to the soothing tone of Zeke's calm voice. You simply listened to the blend of Pieck and Porco laughing, the cat noises which sometimes were accompanied by the occasional random song, and the discussion between Zeke and Marcel. You let your anxieties and worries fade away, laying down on the grass and looking up at the cloudy noon sky. 

Today was going well, you decided, your mind drifting back to the two tall friends. One as timid as a mouse and the other friendly, not unlike a young dog excited at the prospect of new friends. 

> you're here <

> next chapter <

[ohjustkreat]

Closing the Distance

A Shuri x Riri Fanfic

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Notes: Hi guys! Thanks for all the love and feedback! This chapter is a bit shorter because it will be two parts! Enjoy!

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Chapter 6.1

Any other morning, Shuri would gladly welcome the sun’s bright rays on her face. This morning she wanted to hide from it. She wanted to create as much distance as possible between her the light that was making her head pound worse. Moving past the initial pain in her head, Shuri opened her eyes. Opening them, she found her arm still wrapped around Riri, who was still peacefully asleep. Shuri wasn’t too surprised, as most mornings she woke up to having some contact with the other woman. She sat up fully and rubbed her eyes. Rising slowly to her feet, Shuri stood for a moment to gain her balance. She realized she was having her first hangover. The events of last night were still fuzzy.

“Grgrgrgrrrr”, Shuri looked down and rubbed her stomach. She needed to eat something. She made her way into the cozy kitchen. After taking the milk out of the refrigerator, she got a box of cereal from one of the cabinets. As she bent over to pull a bowl from the bottom cabinet, she was met with a surge of nausea. She cautiously held her hand over her mouth and ran to the bathroom. The cold tile met her running feet. Shuri fell to her knees and started emptying the contents from last night. It seemed as if everything she had consumed in her lifetime ended up in the toilet. Her chest rose and fell heavily. Her breathing was slow and deep. The sound of another pair of feet hitting the floor grabbed her attention.

“Shuri?” Riri’s quiet, sleep ridden voice called out.

“Are you okay?” Riri asked as she appeared in the doorway stillbrubbing the sleep from her eyes.She stood there with the same black outfit from the night before. The only thing missing was her shoes.

Shuri raised her head and met the worried girl’s face. Suddenly all the events from the previous night flooded her mind. The back to back games of beer pong, the loud music, the dance they had shared.

The kiss. Shuri lurched back over the toilet feeling she would be sick again. This hangover was the least of Shuri’s problems. After a few moments of silence, Shuri felt a hand start rubbing circles on the small of her back. Riri’s small gesture was providing Shuri a world of comfort. Shuri sat up and for good this time and leaned on her knees.

Riri stopped her current movements and went to the sink. After turning on the hot water, she grabbed a blue hand towel that was hanging up. Her hands ran under the running water, checking to see if the temperature was right. Deciding it was to her liking, she let the warm water run over the towel. After wringing out the extra water, she turned her attention back to her hungover company. She gave Shuri the warm rag and allowed her to wipe her face. She almost felt bad and a little guilty for Shuri’s current state. She definitely should have warned the other girl. Riri started to try and think about how many drinks they each had. She remembered the crowded room and the reign at the beer pong table. This triggered thoughts of them dancing, and how igniting it felt. ‘Oh shit.’ Riri said suddenly remembering what followed. She had kissed her friend. And her friend had kissed her. Shuri’s movements brought her back into focus.

Neither woman said anything as they both got up from the floor.

“Thanks.” Shuri muttered. “I think I’m fine now, I just need to eat…” Shuri all but mumbled off the last part. She made her way over to the sink and started brushing her teeth. Riri sat back down on the toilet and sat there still trying to gather herself fully.

Shuri finished up and exited the bathroom. Her bare arms hugging her body tightly, as if providing some form of protection from her body’s current state. Her feet, ushered her body to the kitchen.

Riri watched Shuri as she left. She could only imagine what thoughts were going through the other woman’s head. Did she even remember all of last night?

Finally gaining the courage, Riri walked out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Shuri was standing at the table, pouring milk into a bowl. Riri grabbed a bowl and spoon as well. With her supplies in hand she sat at the table. Shuri sat down next to her. Riri reached for the milk that was in front of Shuri. Accidentally, she brushed Shuri’s hand. Both of them jerked away as if the other was suddenly made of lightning.

“Sorry. “ They both said at the same time.

Riri diverted her glaze back to her bowl, wishing she could somehow jump into it. Shuri just stared at her, wondering if she should say something or not. Now wasn’t the time, she decided as she went back scooping the cereal from her bowl.

Just like earlier, their breakfast continued in a heavy silence. Their minds were the opposite. Shuri felt the anxiety coming from Riri. She hadn’t fully decided how she felt completely about their kiss. She initiated it, but she wasn’t sure how to follow. Her feelings for Riri were growing by the day. She was sure of that. The only thought plaguing her mind was having to return to reality. Was Riri just a momentary escape? Were her feelings real outside of this sanctuary they were creating in the small dorm? The losses the people of her kingdom took, her personal losses were still fresh on her mind. As well were the emotions that came with them. Here with Riri, she was safe from them. Slowly everyday she was helping her to see the light in the world. To find peace. But what would be waiting for them on the other side of healing? Would Riri leave her if the life Shuri had was too much? All these questions were running rapid through her mind.

Riri was lost in her own world as she mindlessly ate. She couldn’t say didn’t have feelings for Shuri. She’d be lying. Her own insecurities were playing on her mind. What could Shuri see in her? ‘It had to be the alcohol’ she thought. Riri never found herself to be the apple of anyone’s eye. Especially not of the most powerful woman on the planet. How did Shuri even feel about her? This entire stay Riri had never been able to delve into the pain the other woman was dealing with. Would she hurt Shuri if she turned out not to be what she wanted? Riri couldn’t even bare the thought of hurting the other woman. To most people Shuri seemed fine, but Riri knew otherwise. Shuri held herself together well, but Riri looked into her eyes she saw different. She saw all the pain and turmoil that haunted the other woman. How grief left her her eyes weak and tired. Riri knew because it was the same look she saw in herself when she would look in a mirror. Riri just hoped she could be there for the hurting woman in the way she needed.

The sound of Shuri’s chair scraping across the floor caused Riri to finally look up and make eye contact with her. Riri met the same sad eyes, except this time they held something else. Distress. Riri was about to ask what was wrong but was cut off by Shuri turning the water on at the sink.

“I know it’s…weird right now. But I just-“ Shuri started as she turned around to face Riri.

“I need some fresh air. So I’m gonna go on a walk, just to clear my head.” She said, emphasizing the last part to reassure Riri.

“Of course. Whatever you need.” Riri said, partly annoyed. She felt like Shuri was avoiding the topic even more.

Shuri started to head out the door. Riri got up from the table to wash her dishes. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Shuri start to approach her. Before Riri could realize what was happening, she felt a hand on her jawline. Next thing she knew her face was being pulled to meet those same brown eyes she had been falling deeper into. Shuri leaned down until their lips met again. This time the kiss was short and quick. Just as quickly as it happened it ended.

“I just needed you to know I didn’t regret last night. I need to work through some things before I can fully explain how I feel. Okay?” Shuri said as she stared at a speechless Riri.

If Shuri wasn’t nervous before, Riri’s silence had solidified it.

“Uh- uh- yea. Yea. You do that.” Riri said, still shocked by what happened.

Shuri pulled Riri into a tight hug. Releasing her, she gave her one final look and walked out the door. Riri watched the door close and sat in utter silence. While her main question had been answered, bow she only had more. She needed to do sone getting away of her own. The confinement of her dorm was too much.She headed into her room and packed her work bag. She would go to the one place where all her problems were solved. Her lab.

[beezoobledoodles]

Big Brother Is Here (Chapter 4 B.I.A AU)

papyrus sighed softly, getting sans off to school was an incredulous task all on its own, trying to get him to eat, to put his shoes on, his coat- to even get him out the door on time- it was rather weird- especially since sans did the opposite- whenever he took him out- he never screamed- or cried- or made a fuss...well....sometimes..

but trying to get him to be on time for school was just- a harboring task- papyrus sighed softly as he sat him down "now- head to class dont be late.." he watched as the little skeleton toddles toward his classroom.

-

glancing around the house- it was a mess- not as bad as it could be. papyrus took to cleaning the house the entire afternoon.he felt a presence behind him, the room seemingly getting darker- a soft cyan light emitting.

The taller skeleton turned, he stared infront of him "...d-...dad?" his eyelights stared dead ahead "dad?!" he covered his mouth, dropping the mop in hand. he slowly reached a hand out, to feel, to touch- or just something- his hand fell though. the apparition disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a small cloud of cyan dust, tears welled up in his eyes. 

he stood there for a few good long minutes. the phone rang, buzzing in his skull, he shook softly, shaking his head to clear it of any stray thoughts as he walked into the kitchen to pick the phone off the reciever "hello? the great papyrus speaking!!' he spoke boisterously, wiping away his remaining tears from his eyes.

"to whom am i speaking?" he asked, the voice on the other end was a feminine voice, he recognized it as sans' teacher "ah! yes! Mrs Mulberry! hello! what can i do for-" he was cut off, as he listened, his brow furrowed, confusion laying on its face "yes-" he nodded "yes of course, ill- i'll come by immediantly-" he pulled the phone back on the reciever as he grabbed his coat and scarf, pushing on his boots and heading off toward hotland.

he huffed softly, he'd have to ask undyne for more training- running out of breath made no use for someone training to be in the royal guard.

Papyrus stepped foot into the building as he looked around, the blue and green tiles of the floor, leading down the various halls and corridors all in a nice, soft pattern. he opened the door to the principles office. The receptionist sat behind her desk and gave him a knowing nod as she jabbed her thumb in the direction of the office.

He opened the smaller room door- to be met with sans, who seemed to be curled in on his chair, holding his backpack, a rather angry deer monster, sitting next to her son."i'm sorry im a little late, the ferry was rather slow today and the elevator was-" "oh hush!" the deer woman spat harshly, papyrus was taken aback.

the principal sighed "well, you're here now- lets just begin" he said, the door opening again as sans' teacher, mrs mulberry sat down in between the four.

papyrus watched "so what happened?" he asked, giving a worried glance toward sans, who shy'd away behind his bag, turning his face away-

"your demon spawn of a brother hurt my lil billy! he- BIT him!" she yelled, bawling her fist, pointing an angry finger at the small skeleto, papyrus gasped, almost offened she would even say such a thing "how! sans is just a baby bones! he cant even talk! let alone bite!" that made his little brother recoil, further into his chair.

"well, i dont know how, but all i know is when i went to pick up my son, he claimed a skeleton child had bit him! and there's only ONE. in his class!" she glared harshly, papyrus glared even angrier, "if i may interject?" mrs mulberry started "i dont want to make your claim go unheard but...thats not exactly what happened" she pointed out "we we're in the middle of snack time, sans didnt have a lunch so i saw your little billy give him part of his- he was sharing as it seemed- i dont know where the whole biting thing came from!" she finished.

papyrus gently patted sans on the head-

-

the meeting droned on and on- mainly just yelling, papyrus was allowed to take sans home "i'm sorry about that sans" he held the little skeletons hand gently as they headed to the elevator, papyrus smiled as he pressed the button "why dont we visit muffet today? hm?? get some nice hot spider cider? and a donut?" he smiled softly as he adjusted his coat.

"papywus..." was all that echoed in the elevator-

papyrus stopped, everything in his body became stiff, he turned toward the little babybones "w-what?" "im.....sowwy...fow......biting.....i didn...mean...tu" sans, the little monster he knew, to never utter a single word- actually SAID A WORD!! he lifted the little skeleton into his arms "You actually said a word! a few words! AUGHH! SANS! IM SO PROUD OF YOU!!" the the little skeleton covered his skull, papyrus sat him back on his feet "sorry about that- its just- you said your first technical word!" he couldn't help contain his joy, it was overwhelming- he took a few breaths to calm himself as he sighed "anyway- it's quiet alright brother" sans shook his head, "you didnt mean to right? atleast you apologized" he gently kissed his skull, the elevator doors opened to spider junction of hotland. sans let out a tiny squeal, papyrus picked him up "hey its okay sansy, just spiders, they cant hurt you!, besides their muffets" he gently pet his skull as he walked over.

Muffet sighed softly as she held her teacup in her hand, she paused at the sight of the larger skeleton and his little brother. "papyruss!" she waved excitedly "hello ms muffet! how are you?" the spider baker let out a sigh "business is slow...as usual....." she shook her head, the taller smiled as he sat a small bag of gold "here you are muffet! one hot cup of spider cider and  two doughnuts please!" muffet nodded happily as she handed papyrus a cup of cider "with extra honey! i made sure it was sugar free"

"oh you spoil me!" papyrus chuckled as he took a sip, sans made grabby hands for a tiny taste "oh alright a very tiny sip!" sans nodded as he took a tiny sip, going back to his donut.

"i just have one more stop before he can head home okay??" he looked at sans as the little skeleton nodded "okay" the taller smiled as he waved a friendly goodbye to muffet.

[l2bbocsstuff]

Korrasami

This is another chapter of the drabbles I write using prompts from a Discord server I belong to.   It Happened One Night This is all Kuvira’s fault!! I knew I shouldn’t have let her talk me into having a party. Korra sighed as she stumbled through the living room, down the hall, and into the basement. After, thankfully, not falling on her ass, she was surprised that no one was passed out on the floor. The rec room was a jumble of chairs, lawn furniture, and pillows. Obviously, a beer pong table had been created using a couple of cardboard boxes and the chalkboard removed from the wall. The whole room was full of red solo cups, some still containing liquids, some not. Korra’s eyes latched onto the yellow container near the corner of the room. Let’s make some jungle juice. It’ll be fun she said. I’m gonna kill her .Korra flashed back to the day before yesterday. She and Kuvira had cut up a huge amount of fruit, thrown it into the brand-new garbage can, added a ton of liquor including a bottle of Desert’s Finest Cactus Juice, and then poured in some mix. The concoction sat for twenty-four hours marinating until it was consumed last night. That shit was tasty but fuck I’m so hung over. No hurling. No hurling. I’m never drinking again. She scanned the basement again. Thank the spirits. Nothing seems too out of place except the washing machine in the bar. Who the fuck would disconnect the washing machine?? I’ll fix it later.

 Korra opened the bar fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. She chugged most of its contents. She trudged back up the stairs to her bathroom and retrieved two Advil. She swallowed them quickly draining the rest of the bottle. She took a long look at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her face looked pale and as she stuck out her tongue, it was covered in a greenish scum. I want to die. Turning away from her reflection she noticed a mark on her neck.

Why do I have a hickey?

She had a vague memory from the night before of taking an incredibly gorgeous woman to her room. Was that even real? Korra returned to her bedroom. There, lying on the furthest side of the bed from the door was what she assumed was the gorgeous woman from her fuzzy recollection. The woman’s head was in the other direction so all Korra could see a mop of ebony hair spread across the pillow. I can’t deal with this right now.

Korra looked down and finally noticed she was in the same outfit as the night previous. She had obviously slept in her clothes. She pulled her sleeveless t-shirt over her nose, sniffed and almost gagged. NO GAGGING! NO GAGGING! I need to clean myself up. I’ll feel better and definitely smell better after I do. She went back to the bathroom, shut, and locked the door. She removed all her clothing and stepped into the shower. She laid her head against the tiles and let the water flow across her back. It was exactly the right temperature and she began to feel a little better. After washing and conditioning her hair and cleaning her body, Korra stepped out and dried herself off with a huge blue towel. She wrapped a smaller towel around her head and wrapped the larger towel around her body. Korra tiptoed back to her room and grabbed some clean underwear and sweats. She dressed quickly and quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping woman. She departed her room and went to the kitchen. Korra started the coffee maker and waited for it to brew. After about five minutes the aroma of the fresh pot seeped into her consciousness and she smiled to herself.

Ahhh….coffee. It’ll cure what ails ya. She poured herself a large mug full.

“May I have a cup, please?” Korra jumped at the sound and she whipped around to see the gorgeous woman standing in the doorway. She was wearing a red URC t-shirt and a pair of high-cut red panties. Korra’s brain disconnected for a moment. Holy shit!!! She’s stunning. “Let me get you a mug.” Korra filled a cup full and passed it to the stranger. “I’m Korra and you were sleeping in my bed. I’m sorry but I really don’t remember much about last night at all. Wow, that sounds really slutty saying it out loud.” “It’s not slutty. I don’t remember much from last night either but from the look of your neck, I need to apologize too. I’m Asami.” Korra’s hand flashed up to cover the love bite on her neck. Asami and Korra sat at the kitchen table in uncomfortable silence sipping their beverages. After finishing her first cup, Asami spoke, “How bad is it? The party I mean. Is your place trashed?” Korra smiled and said, “It’s actually not too bad except that someone disconnected the washing machine.” She just shook her head. “I have no idea why. I’m going to finish this coffee and then go downstairs to start the cleanup.” “Let me just finish getting dressed and I’ll help.” “You don’t have to do that!!” “I’m pretty sure I should,” she said as she began to blush, “I think I remember uncoupling some plumbing.” Both girls began to giggle.  It was the start of the most amazing relationship of their lives.

[punk-in-docs]

🕷 Don’t Need Telling Twice 🕷

Eddie Munson x Reader

10.4k words

Summary: Movie Night at Eddie’s place. All the little things that sneak into the cracks in between new love and affection. So I was intending to get a lot filthier with this but somehow it turned out sweet enough to rot your teeth- Eddie being insecure. Wayne being parental, Pencils being nervous. Let’s see how they iron it out man. (It’s really just me waffling about insight into these two lovebirds)

Saturday morning in your scruffy yet clean kitchen. Stereo cranked high. Melded into your happy place.

The bright slip and drip of the opening guitar licks to ‘Should I stay or should I go.’ Joe’s condescending spitting voice begins. You twirl around with the greased baking sheets in hand.

The kitchen is warm, it’s got this odd glow about it, from the slanted sun gushing in through the cream drapes that have yellow flowers on them. The shabby wood cupboards and the creamy tiles of the breakfast counter with its little peach-pink roses, which is now cluttered with baking trays.

Entirely rose tinted in your view. But you’re blasting the Clash. Loud enough to wake the neighbours.

You’re making cookies for your date tonight. Moms tattered pink apron hanging limp off your body from too many washes. Really it’s a scratchy old thing.

This morning did come around quick. Sunrise like a copper-red wound knifing slashes across the sky. Burning the whole horizon to that fantastic blood orange. You’re too squirmy to sleep. Too excited.

Seeings as you were up early, you put it to use and ran to the store. And now you were knee deep in cookie batter. Chocolate chip. Little starbursts of Cocoa powder and flour dusted everywhere. Head banging, head shaking and hair flicking along to Joe Strummer and his ridiculing tone.

You kick the walnut stained cupboard door closed. It’s wonky and juts out like a stubby tooth snapped off a jaw. It’s always been like that.

Every door in your kitchen creaks. Whines all aged. The appliances have their knacks and sticky tricks that come with years and years worn behind them. Temperamental.

Sure even your whole house is nothing fancy. You’ve never had that much money to scrape together, or give a shit that the whole place is dated. One thing wins favour over all that; your place is cosy.

It’s stuffed with life. Scored deep with it. Consumed. It’s not some ultra chic monotone black-red wasteland. It’s got posters and art on the walls, the crazy bohemian touches that come from your entirely whacky mother.

Sure this house wasn’t all that. But she made it great, and celebrated it in it’s own uniqueness.

Same goes for the best kind of people too. She’d say that to you with a wink.

Handfuls of pennies and some imagination went a long way. Clicking her tongue and shooting you her fierce brand of optimism that seeps out her every pore: eternally unflinching.

A lot of it, this house, echoed its funky warm pattern after the musical, magical, mental, woman who birthed you.

Forever hunting thrift stores for funky things. Weird shaped clocks. The Who posters. 60’s pop art. French Impressionism posters. Stupid cartoon lamps with Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck on the shade. Broken and chipped from the Goodwill but she liked that it wasn’t perfect or level.

She bought prints of famous artworks. Degas. Van Gogh. Millet. Flower drawings, or pressed leaves and flowers behind a sheet of glass. Not one piece of furniture matches in your living room. Or any room. The rugs are old and squishy soft, worn to death. It’s whacky to say the least. But you’d take it over any home they’re always flashing from the interior pages of a magazine.

She has blue daisy pillows on the couches. Always buys godawful cheap lemon candles that are all sugar acidic when they burn. But it cements that scent of home to you now.

There’s no inch of wall space not covered by frames or colour. One day she got up and impulsively painted your kitchen a bright buttery yellow. Just because. Flowers stamped everywhere cause she saw the idea in some hippy book.

And she filled this house with second hand books, too many, spilling over with them. She crammed your home with laughter, and literature, arts, and so many idols of your taste in music came from her.

You wouldn’t trade her for the entire world.

Flighty and bonkers as she is. You hate her being away so often, and with Charlie gone off now with her serious boyfriend, it does chip at you on the sadder days. Being here alone. It gouges just that little bit more when she’s not around.

The days when Linda says something particularly cutting, or times when jocks insults jab just that little too deep. You do miss her then. You can’t hate her for it. her job is a real earner and it makes her so happy. She brings you back souvenirs from every little corner of the globe she’s seen. Postcards. Snow globes.

She trusts you. She always says you’re her favourite kid in the world. That she knows of.

She’s not like some of the other Hawkins Moms you’ve seen. Not at all. The ones who all go to the same lousy hairdresser for the ruler straight highlighted bob. Go to Jazzercise on Thursdays. Hate their ignorant husbands. Wear beige cardigans and chunky gold jewellery and are the queen of boring casseroles and insist their kids be in bed by nine.

Then there’s her. Jagged and wound down and much looser. Etched in coolness. Less controlled - more quirky. Crazy hair even on a good day. Cherry ice cream smile. Young by their standards. Berkeley dropout. Strolling around in her suede fringed jacket and a Patti Smith t-shirt and boot cut jeans.

You’ve always seen the way other moms raised their brows at her appearance. They think she’s trashy. A single mom who dresses and eats and acts the way she does.

Scoffing behind her back at the rhinestone jacket or her vintage cowboy boots. She’s punchy. She doesn’t give two shits. She loves both her kids passionately and would be the first to swing a punch, split her knuckles open for you. Always in your corner. No matter what.

She had you both so young and braved through your dad walking out. Good riddance. He never did have the balls to do the important shit.

She told you that once you were just on the cusp of being old enough to understand why he wasn’t around.

Told you as she wrapped her arms around you and engulfed you in a hug. Smelling like Yves Saint Laurent Paris and gold Newports. She kissed the top of your head.

He couldn’t hack responsibility babe. He had his chance. Too bad he blew it. Cause I happen to think you’re the coolest pair of kids in the world.

She bucked up and scraped money together and it stung a bit sure. Pinched the corners of life at times. But she turned the back of her Brooke Shields shiny hair to the stares she gets in this town. Flipped the bird to those Carol’s and Susan’s who dared to judge her.

Somehow they thought she was a deadbeat mom. But she’s now raised two honour roll kids. First Charlie. Now you.

You’re on track for Indie State. Charlie went to Purdue. She said she’d love you even if you wanted to flip burgers or fix greasy old clunker cars for a living.

The phone shrills out loud as you’re scooping sticky chocolate chip dough into the greased sheets. It clumped between your fingers.

“Hang on.” You call out with no patience to the ringing, as you lean over to pluck it from the wall. Cradle it between your shoulder and ear. Trying to locate a dish rag for your smeared messy hands.

“Yeah.” Figured it would be someone for Mom, or a telemarketer.

“How’s it hangin, Pencils.”

Immediately a grin bursts on your lips. It’s Pavlovian. He smiles. You echo it.

You hear his voice? Ok then. Your stomach flew to bits. All fluttery like confetti.

“Well well well. If it isn’t my favourite metal head.” You say as you balance your trays down. Bumping the counter with your hip.

He chuckles through the phone. You hear the crackle of his exhale. You can picture his smile and it’s doing something to your guts that is just, crazy.

“Hey, c’mon now. Play fair. You never told me you were seeing other metal heads? I bet it’s that lanky haired bastard from the pizza place on Beechwood Drive, in his Slayer tees.” He twirled the old green phone cord around his finger. It clacks around that chunky silver ring of his.

He’s so quick to step up and play around and you love it. You can hear the jokiness layered on his voice. Hear him moving around cause staying still is his worst nightmare. Typical Eddie.

God. Look at you. You’re both twirling the phone cords around your fingers like middle school girls. Crushes thick in your throats and smiles. Choking your hearts fully. Paper airplanes tossed with love notes folded inside. Initials crossed together in a pink love-heart.

“Yeah.” You tease. “But his hair isn’t as great as yours. And don’t you know by now that I’ve got guys lined up around the block. I’ve had to have a ticket booth installed.” You pick up your wooden spoon to mix.

“Oh I’m so sorry, Linda. I thought I rang my pencils.” You hear the soft scuff of his laugh.

“Hang on one second, my lipgloss needs refreshing.” You pout. “And I feel like I should be singing ‘If I only had a brain’.”

He beams and it’s so wide his cheeks hurt.

“That’s not the Wizard of Oz I’m hearing over there pencils, right?” He deciphers.

“Saint Joe of Strummer. Our lord and saviour.” You tell him proudly. Cursing when you splodge a little of the sticky dough on the countertop. Looking around for the dish rag.

“I’m of the Anti-Christ church myself. Ozzy is my devil and I’m bound to obey.” He leers. His voice drops and it slithers between your legs to hear it get deep.

“Mmm. Sounds kinky.” You flirt. Trying your hardest not to drop dough on your bare toes where you’re scooping it to the tray. He’s a great distraction to your focus.

“If you’re into blood play and satanic practices baby, I got some great news for ya.” He fiddles with the empty microwave packets on the kitchen counter.

Chicken pot pie from two nights ago. The Kraft mac n’ cheese that he shovels down like air. Usually scraping it out the pan, eating it with a too big wooden spoon. As he reads a rock magazine at the kitchen counter.

“Sadly no. Dungeon stuff only. Oh and leather. Face masks. Lots of whipping too. And biting.” You tease.

“Hang on. Lemme get a pen and some paper… I’ll make a note…” He rustles around like he’s actually searching for it. Wiry body with the twisted phone cord wrapped around his torso.

You smile at his eagerness to please you.

“I don’t think you need to take notes, Munson. Last time was pretty sensational.” You blush. Mixing your batter and flirt is creeping onto your lips.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Jesus. You’ve no idea. It’s been driving me crazy. I should be committed. Look, I couldn’t even wait til tonight to hear your voice. I-“ He sighs in wanting. His tongue was tripping away from him. He drew back. Worried he was being too much.

He couldn’t wait. He had to call you.

“Munson. You never have to be sorry for calling me.”

Cause, I fucking like you.

“You know, you can call me Eddie. Pencils.”

“First name basis? How brazen.” You rib.

“Yeah, later on I was planning to show you my ankles. Risqué or what?” He flirts. You chuckle.

He’s wandering over to the window and flicking the curtain aside with his fingertips to see the same old drab and murky Forest Hills staring back at him.

“What would the village elders say-“ You gasp. “My reputation will be in tatters.”

“Not possible. Your name isn’t Linda.”

“I may have to kiss you for that one.” You warn.

“I’m very open to that.” He says very quickly. Twirling a packet of reds around the shiny surface of the table. Considering lighting one up. The rush of your voice is his nicotine until he hangs up.

You close a cupboard door and Eddie’s ears perk at the sound. “Learning drums over there?” He seeks.

“I’m baking.” You offer up.

Phone at your shoulder and between your ear still as you mix the dough with your other hand to fold in the chocolate chips. Shaking the packet and watching the chips fall. Plinking into the thick batter. It’s very messy and clumsily done.

“Tell me you’re wearing a tiny pink Betty Crocker apron?” He all but purrs down the phone. Licking his lips.

“It’s pink and frilly.” You drawl.

“Mmm. More-“ He rasps down directly down the phone. Grinning. Holds it right to his mouth to talk louder into the receiver.

“Pretty heels too. Lacquered hair like Donna Reed. Whole shebang.”

“Fuck.” He twirls hair around his finger. Almost bites down on his skull ring.

“The images in my head are so unmatched right now. You’ve no idea.” He charms.

“Damn.” He moans again. It’s low and it strikes a direct chord with your pussy.

Shit. You’ve had delicious filthy dreams about those moans. Your hands on that hard dick of his.

“Yeah and don’t forget my strand of pearls.” You grin.

He splutters. Oh he could give you pearls if you wanted them. It’s what he’s been dreaming of.

Such a horny boy.

“You’re the perfect date you know. Kinky as fuck, into whipping and leather. But pearls and baking.”

“You don’t even know what I’m baking-“

“You say pot brownies pencils, I’m gonna go out right this second and buy a goddamned ring.”

“Remember the four C’s. Colour. Clarity. Carat. Cut.”

“Shit. You want a diamond? Hmm I was thinking more along the lines of a pop ring. More in my budget. Or maybe something out the claw machine in the arcade.” He bargains.

“I like a man who puts in the effort. And, hey I’m not picky. I’ll take it. Diamonds are way overrated anyhow.” You decide.

“And just to lay your mind at rest I’m making Extra Chocolate, chocolate chip cookies.”

He cradled his aching throbbing heart. Hand splayed over his chest. Made a groaning noise like he was mortally wounded. A crackle of the sigh rattled the phone.

“Alright. You’re officially too good for me. I’m gonna have to hang up.” He jokes. You laugh.

You really hope he doesn’t.

“Don’t do that.” You ask quietly. “I need to talk to someone sensate. I beg of you.” You urge. “I had to listen to Linda bitch all the way home on Friday about how low fat ice cream sucks, and how much she wants to bang James Spader in Pretty in Pink.”

“Wow that really says a lot about her taste in guys.” He commented. She really was Tiffany-twisted, that girl. Wrapped up in her own over groomed looks, bouncy blonde curls, and sex life. Lived by rules out of Cosmo magazine and fad diets.

“My ears wanted to commit suicide by the time I got home. Thank god cause as I got out the car she started to mention the words sleepover and boyfriend and I just about had the sanity to slam the car door, before anymore came out.”

“Wise move baby.” He beamed.

You preened at the nickname that did dirty things. Finally you now had the cookies ready for the oven.

“Alright...” You clunked the wooden mixing spoon down. “First wave of troops going in. I’ll you know their condition after battle. Hopefully they make a worthy addition to our night as I am trying to impress you with my passably mediocre baking skills.” You charm.

“Hey don’t practice too hard now. You know us guys like em stoopid.” He puts on a southern-belle twang.

“If you can navigate yawself round a tree girlie. Keep on walkin. Them slick city fellers can have ya.” He drawls.

Your laugh makes his whole mood hop into giddy.

“You’re such a goof.” You smile. He couldn’t wait to see that grin of yours in person again. In a mere handful of hours-

“I didn’t need another incentive to be impressed by you, pencils...” He smiles. Tone slipping back into genuine. “Already there.” He offers.

Before you can respond. Hurricane Munson struck elsewhere.

“And uh, Whatever condition those troops are in. I’ll take it. I’m not picky either. Charlie. Tango. Bravo.”

“Good.” You answer. Twiddling with the corner of the dish cloth. Fondness settled like warm oozy mush on your chest. Inescapable.

You could spend hours down the phone listening to Eddie crack his jokes. Twirl around. Get distracted. Put on stupid drama club voices like he was at Hellfire

“There aren’t trees in the way of your trailer are there? Cause I won’t be able to navigate round them all on my own.” You joke in reference to his earlier remark.

“You’re the perfect lady.” He sighs in a sweet hum.

“Oh and uh, I picked the movies for tonight.” He suddenly announced. Sounding cheeky. Brimming with it.

“Yeah?” You asked with inflection. “Yeah.” He answered. With none.

“You’re not gonna tell me are you?” You clued up.

“Leave me to have my wicked wicked fun.”

“VHS tease.” You complained all snarky.

“Scoot your pretty ass over here and come see for yourself you coward.” He dares. Tongue tipped out between his smiling teeth.

“Six still good?” You check. Up on your tiptoes and swirling around the tiled floor. Stomach swooping with anticipation.

“Golden.” He answers.

“Guess I’ll see you then. I’ll be the one in the skirt.”

He sucks air through his teeth. “Ah same here. I hope we don’t clash.”

“Bye, Edward.” You joke. He gasps.

“Mm. Definitely gonna have to let you see my ankles now.” Comes his voice. Smile traced on it. You could tell.

“I’m counting the minutes.” You dip your voice low.

“See ya.” He parts. Slinging the phone back into it’s cradle on the wall. Smile charged to megawatt from your conversation. He wants to twirl and flip his hair. Goddamnit. He couldn’t keep still.

Then he drags his eyes to his surroundings. The crushed beer cans crumpled up on the kitchen counter, and the coffee table. The overflowing ashtrays. Trash in the kitchen. The dishes. The laundry strewn sofa. The dust- he chews his lip.

It was like he was seeing this place through fresh eyes. And it needed rectifying. He rolled up his sleeves.

Shit. He needed to hustle.

~

It was fair to say Wayne and Eddie had to grow used to living with each other.

The veil of constancy was Eddie’s safety blanket when it came to the gruff and earnestly stoic man, that was Wayne Munson; he pretty much remained himself. Didn’t change much.

Liked his bacon crispy. Made a peach cobbler that would blow your socks off til next Tuesd ay, but couldn’t assemble a sandwich neatly at all. Used to drive big semi trucks across the states. Did the crossword in the Hawkins Gazette. Adored Billie Holiday. Collected comical mugs. Liked strong coffee with cinnamon and had a dislike for cilantro. Loved old spaghetti westerns and that twanging soft country music he always hums too, which had carved space out of his soft-soppy Tennessee heart.

He had hatred for people with nasty gossiping sniping souls. Ugliness born inside, he thinks people don’t ever shift it on or lose that. He worked his fingers to the bone for the modest home and the little money they raked by on. He was unfailingly honest and generous. He had few words to give. He was Eddie’s weather-beaten yet reliable rock.

Eddie can imagine that Wayne getting to know him was more of a challenge; tricky to navigate; herding cats, walking on-knives-and-eggshells kind of difficult. How do you get to know someone when their character is set on shifting sand?

Thing is. Eddie never really changed that much.

He’s still the starry-eyed kid leaping on the couch, shredding air guitar to Metallica in filthy sneakers cause the moment just ran away with him. He’s the one making a huge show of not stepping on cracks in the pavement cause he’s down enough as it is. Not breaking mirrors, ever, and picking up sidewalk spilt pennies. And apologising and stepping over weeds in the trailer lot. Not trampling them underfoot.

Eddie was still the boy inside that felt bad for struggling weeds. The one to feel sorry for a squashed little dandelion.

Wayne wrenched open this home to this kid as a stranger. Barbs and shame-wrapped guilt set in his heart that he didn’t know his brothers own kid better than he did. He kept to his lane. He stayed out the way of his brothers numerous convictions. Remained a stranger to trouble.

But then, when need came knocking; he offered up, no questions asked. The way a bird offered the gentle lift of their wing, to something foreign needing shelter, in a warm bramble nest, from the raging storm.

Eddie will never forget the first words he heard out of Wayne’s mouth. Around the corner of some bland police precinct. Warm. Firm. Dependable.

“He’s my family. He’s blood. That’s enough. Kindly let me see him.”

He didn’t regret stepping up to bat for one minute. Maybe he’s grouchy and he’d never fully ‘get’ or approve of everything his nephew did, or enjoyed. But he didn’t chew him out, or pick at him for it.

He learned what flavour pop tarts Eddie liked best for breakfast. When he needed sleep or help. When he needed space. When to warn him to watch his attitude, or his mouth, or manners, and when to back off. Parental things.

Eddie was a stale eyed kid when he first met Wayne. Perhaps innocent and maybe just jaded enough to see beyond the rose-tinted prism of childhood. He was jaggedy-rough round the edges and not worn into himself yet. Caught up in the hard knocks of social care and down-and-out on his luck, as a mostly unwanted eight year old. That stuck some nasty pins in his ego pretty early on.

Wayne could see how Eddie kept expecting to be shuffled on elsewhere. Big shining eyes that a puppy would envy under a scruff mop of hair. Clutching all he had for dear life. His scruffy collection of tattered comics and stubby pencils and half broken toys.

Kept looking around the trailer like he shouldn’t get too attached. Sat gingerly on the edge of the sagging bed. Shouldn’t make mess or get comfy. Cause soon, he’ll have to pack his scrappy things into that sad cardboard box and eek out a wobbling lipped goodbye. Sad that home hadn’t stuck, again.

Eddie kept that empty scruffy little box sat in the bottom of his closet for six months. Just in case.

Wayne threw that box right in the trash.

Bought him a beat up old turntable. Put a shelf up in his room and a stood a few second hand fantasy paperback books on it. Bought him a few new things that didn’t belong to someone else first.

Wayne watched Eddie fall into stability. To learn how to put roots down. Grow steady and then in quick spurts, into who he was. In that way kids do. The way they grow into clothes that were too big. Shoes that would eventually fill out to fit their steps.

He watched the love of music come blasting in. Middle school. Rolling Stones magazines. Catching Black Sabbath on the radio one day. The appreciation for that loud thrashing dirty-steel rock he now loves. The one that ran vein deep. His idols with the crazy scruffy long hair. He discovered Ozzy and Axl, Judas Priest and Lemmy.

Watched him sew on badges that he bought for pennies at dime stores, and get bloody fingertips cause he really was useless at needlework. Found his signature rings at a cool vintage place outta state. Watched him saw off the arms of his denim jacket and come home with a swing in his step and a DIO shirt from the goodwill - a twinkle in his eye. Determination threaded in this burgeoning passion. Tip of the iceberg.

A plan Wayne. I have a well executed, thorough plan. Foolproof.

Mmmhmm. Is this gonna end up exactly like the last plan you had, kid?

Let’s find out.

Gone from the sweet boy who was too scared of everything, and everyone boring, and being judged, and now he’s turned inside out, full circle, to become this genuinely sweet young man, who turned against that boring tide of beige normalcy.

Eccentric and whirly with the unfocused energy that never burned out. Dynamite blaze kid. Even when he tried to hide scrapes on his knees, and raw knuckles. A shiner that he let his shaggy fringe cover, from an attempt to fight and claw back.

He still gave Wayne that shocking toothy grin with a fat lip and a busted nose, cause he was actually stupid proud of himself - and the way he stuck up for some freshman. The tiny nerdy one who had a carton of milk poured over his head by the meat head jocks. Having pages ripped out his science textbooks by them and spread to the wind like leaves.

Eddie sat beside the newbie with bleeding raw knuckles, cracked jokes, sellotaped those torn pages back together - wonky. Just to show that someone out there, cared.

The smiles became armour, devil horns and Gene Simmons tongue. The hair started to grow out into rioting curls. Doe eyes glinted promiscuity; to those who didn’t know him well enough to know there was no shred of malice anywhere in him.

Eddie collected parts of himself, the way someone would laundry plucked off the line- like the badges and pins he secured on his chest and flashed around for fun.

He found his first DND board and his dice at a yard sale. And then came that sweet head-muzzy strain of Colombia gold, and Reefer Rick and light frothy cans of beer on an empty stomach. He found acceptance. Ripped jeans and scuffed knees. The exquisite pin pricks of a scratchy tattoo the day he turned 18. Asked if he could wear the old sagging leather jacket he found hung in the back of the closet, from Wayne’s younger and more hip days.

The way he went full bonkers-gaga over seeing his 24 fret NJ warlock in the window of a music store in town. Bursting big heart eyes over it and saving up for months. Awfully tempted by the idea of some piercing, somewhere, but nearly fainted when he got in the shop. So that was the end of that. He founded Hellfire and he protected his fellow freaks. Scraped together his high school band.

Collected the little lost sheepies in armfuls, in bunches, so that no one within his reaches would ever have to sit and console that festering hungry chasm of being an unwanted kid, with nowhere to turn.

Cause Eddie knew well enough, it was a bottomless gremlin pit with gnashing teeth, and it would take take take as long as you bothered to feed it.

And all that learning and comfiness, and living, now it currently tapered down to Wayne not being at all surprised, by watching his nephew shaking frail little spindly spiders out into the doormat, talking soothingly to them.

Shooing them out off the glossy pages of his rock music magazine. Telling them to get used to the brave new world of Forest Hills outside these four walls.

“-And kudos by the way for eating the flies. Appreciate you for that. Sorry I’ll have to take down those cobwebs. Consider this your eviction notice.” As he jimmied the last one off the paper and it crinkled noisily. Bracelet on his wrist jingling.

Wayne is peering over the shield of his paper. Coffee steaming away in a chipped Snoopy mug by his side. Cigarette dangling from his fingers. Watching Eddie crouch right at the mouth of the trailer door. Holding it open and watching the insects lope away in new brave directions.

Pieces of clarity started to to swim together when he takes a look at Eddie’s clothes.

Different to his normal threads on a Saturday night; Either he’s kicking his feet into reeboks, shouldering on his leathers and vest to go out a party at some place, and come back reeking of grass and beer breath. Or; he’s shuffling around in his thread bare plaid pyjama pants and a ratty AC/DC tee, asking what’s for dinner through a smeary eyed yawn.

This is neither; he straightened up to go and neatly return the magazine to his room, as opposed to throwing it down to rest in any old place. Odd.

Wayne took notice of his clothes. Black jeans that were suspiciously clean of ash stains or frayed knee holes. His long sleeved black skull tee rolled up to his elbows, ink on display. Chest blazoned with a band name he’s never heard of, and down the sleeve too in gothic red. His hair was all fluffed up - like he’d finally discovered what a comb was.

Eddie saunters back into the room. Flitting from place to place. Shoving beer cans in a bulging garbage bag. Along with empty crushed food packets that he left out. Sweeping crumbs off the counter with his bare hands. Probably over the floor but the effort was there- picking cigarette butts off the floor that he was careless enough to drop.

And Wayne didn’t even have to shoot his usual look, clearing his throat at him, about that nasty habit. He was clearing up entirely on his own. Without prompt.

He was rushing. Rushing was the antithesis of Eddie’s speed. A thin film of sweat on his brow under that choppy lollop of a fringe. He’s crammed garbage bags full. Shoving stuff inside.

Says something under his breath that sounds like “shit” as he darts back into his room. Wallet chain jangling behind him. Socked feet thudding softly on the carpets.

He keeps an ear open for what sounds like commotion. Frantic tidying. The shuffling of clothes by the armful. Closet doors shutting with a thwack. He talks to his guitar as he hums and tidied.

“I know I know. Sweetheart. I should have done this earlier. Don’t look at me like that…”

He rounds up his dirty clothes and does a sniff test - again. That was the third time tonight.

Movement clattering along the hall. Socked feet storm back to the washer. He’s stuffing an armful of mostly all black clothing into it like he’s trying to dispose of body parts in there. Ramming in so much he has to shut the door quick.

“Rat bastard.” He hissed after he shook the dream fresh laundry powder in and slams it shut. Punches it for good measure. His rings clack on the metal-metal contact. Shook his fist out I n the air cause that hurt more than he thought it would.

Now he’s back to the trash bags in the kitchen. Looping them up and walking across the door to dump them outside in the garbage cans. Hopping across the sharp gravel in socked feet like a jumping hare.

Wayne sees that determined set in his brow as the door snaps open and back in slams Eddie at a million miles a second. Frowning at everything he sees. Sloped brows. Mouth curled into a grimace.

He comes to empty the overflowing ashtray on the coffee table near Wayne. Well, it was an old soup can that somehow turned into an ashtray. Annoyed that he missed it. Muttering to himself. Scooping away dust. It was like watching a one man ant farm.

This led to him now being stood on the couch, suddenly reorganising the shelf behind it. Batting cobwebs away from mugs and wiping a hand on his jeans.

“Jesus. I mean how dusty is this place?” Eddie asks to no one in particular. Not expecting an answer.

Silence. Rustling.

Wayne folds up his paper and nicely slaps it down on the arm beside him. Folds his hands in his lap. “Eddie.”

Eddie turns around like a doe eyed deer caught in semi headlights. Twisted at the waist. Back of his shirt riding up over his lithe waist. Peek of his back and his plaid red boxer band showing over the back of his jeans.

The bony notches of his spine poke through skin where he’s leaning over. He blinks owlishly at his uncle. One foot braced on the back of their elderly moth-eaten couch.

“What the hell you doin?” Wayne asks with kind bewilderment. Shaking his head at his kid.

“Spring cleaning?”

Wayne’s eyes narrow as he lifts his hand up and sucks on his cigarette. “Sure?” He checks.

“No?” Comes the answer. Carefully. Wincing. Wayne takes a breather.

“There’s cobwebs. And, dust.” He explained. Pointing to the wall before him. “Look see, dust.”

“Why the sudden aptitude for household chores there, huh?” Wayne asks as he nurses his cooling coffee.

To his shame they don’t exactly keep the place pristine. He tries his best, but on some days work takes it clean outta him. Eddie’s room resembled a garbage tip bomb-site most likely.

Eddie swallows. “You know. Just- some light maintenance.” He shrugs. That was the most plausible answer his brain spat out upfront.

“On a Saturday night?”

“I’m um, totally slammed on Sunday.” He admits. Clapping off his hands.

“Kid. How stupid do you think I am. Because frankly, all I’ve seen, is all I need to see. If you get my drift.”

Eddie turns away and continues his frantic cleaning. Polishing a mug with his shirt sleeve.

“I have… guests… coming over tonight.” If he makes it plural maybe he can get away with it.

“Your DND club.” Wayne guesses. This earns a snort from the metalhead.

“I once saw Gareth eat pizza off the canteen floor. Like I’d bother dusting here for those doofuses.” He grins.

“Then question remains; who are you dusting, and laundry-doing and taking out the spiders for?” Wayne leans forward and asks. Scratching the stubble at the side of his grizzled jaw.

Eddie clings to silence. Which he never does. Never ever does this boy exist without noise bursting out his mouth. Looks like a sheepish kid again.

Wayne’s gaze meets his. ‘Well?’

Cause he would support whomever Eddie chose to bring home. Girl or boy, or undecided. He’s no dummy. He’s got eyes in his head. He’s seen things. The little quirky tics in Eddie’s character when he likes someone. He knows his kid pretty darn well enough by now.

“A girl.” Eddie concludes turning away, like it was casual, cool, and nothing to get worked up over. No biggie. Just… the girl of my dreams. So what? I can be casual about this. It’s totally fine. And normal. Normally fine.

“A girl.” Wayne nods.

“Change this record. It’s skipping.” Eddie leers. Pointing a funny wagging finger at his relative.

“This girl. She royalty or something.”

Eddie cuts a look. It’s just bordering on grumpy and peeved.

“Listen, she ain’t coming to inspect the place or audit us. A little dust and clutter isn’t gonna put her off spending time with you, now is it.”

Eddie sighs. Itched the back of his head. Screwed his eyes shut.

“No. See man. I wanted to be presentable. Cause when she walks in this trailer, she’s gonna be expecting me to look and act like sleazy, greasy trailer trash. And I just. Wanna-“ he clenched his fists.

“Just wanna be….presentable.” He mumbled. Repeating. As he softly scuffed the couch arm with his foot. He sighed. Rubbed a dusty knuckle in his eye until stars scrawled black and bursting.

“Goddd. Look at me. I’ve showered twice. And I untangled the knots out my hair. I used that fancy bar soap I got for xmas that smells like lemons. I brushed my teeth for a whole two minutes. May have used a splash of your cologne. That stung like hell by the way.” He added naughtily. Pinching the collar of his shirt in two fingers and flapping it up and down to cool himself off.

“I’m sweaty. My hair feels itchy. I don’t know what I’m gonna say. She’s gonna be stunning, and awesome and I feel like I’m having a heart seizure or probably a stroke over here. I don’t know man. Fuck-“

Wayne let’s him get it out. As he’s learned with Eddie sometimes it’s best. He often just needed a ramble. To let his tongue lash til he ran dry.

He kicked the couch again. Harder. Still standing up tall on it.

“What’s she like, this girl. She into the same kinda stuff as you?” Wayne enquired.

It dipped muzzily into his big soft heart seeing Eddies mouth hooked right up into a petite smile when he asked about you. One side curls.

“No she’s, uh, she likes Punk music and Bowie, Talking Heads, Billy Idol, and like, you should hear her, she talks about all these artists and shit I’ve never heard of. It’s amazing-“

She’s entirely too good for the likes of me.

“She’s so cool. Effortlessly cool y’know?- And creative?! She likes scary movies and she works in the record store. She hates jocks. I cannot believe she’s actually bothering to look twice at a moron like me. Super senior, King of the freaks.” He jabs his fingers into his bony skull clad chest.

Because Eddie didn’t think it was exactly a secret that flunk out’s like him, were never exactly crawling in babes, or cramming in dates on the weekends.

“I really like her.” He mumbled openly. Wiping palms on his jeans. That’s what this effort all whittled down too.

He couldn’t meet Wayne’s eyes as he said it. It seemed to good to be true. His hopes were so little. Floundering seeds.

He wanted this to go well. He whirled his eyes elsewhere and fidgeted through his words. Typical Eddie.

“I gathered as much from your general-“ Wayne waved his hand around in the air of the living room and towards the kitchen “…Running round. Giving me whiplash just watching you, kid.” He stubs out his cigarette.

Eddie stays where he is. Stood couch top. Absorbing the information Wayne fed him.

“Why don’t you get down from there. Leave the dusting the hell alone. And just relax.” He soothes. Always a balm to the frizzy fraying nerves.

Eddie looks like it could be a trap if he dares to let himself chill out. You say it like it’s easy.

“She must like you to come all the way out here to spend time with you. Just be yourself. I guarantee you, that’s what she’s interested in. Not the state of this place.” He shifts in his chair and groans a little. Adjusts his legs.

Eddie let’s out a huff. Slumps down the sofa and throws his body onto it. Crazy hair flicking after he moved. It’s fluffier too. Some lame attempt at his own hands to pretty it up from its usual insanity.

“What you guys planning on doing?” He seeks. Sips his coffee. Distraction worked well, too. He often found.

“Ordering pizza and watching a couple movies.” Eddie says up to the ceiling. Scanning for cobwebs. Fiddling with the rings on one hand. One knee twitching up and down.

He had the stack of videos ready on top of the TV. Night of the Living Dead. Nightmare on Elm Street. And then Ghostbusters for something undeniably cheesy. The microwave popcorn in the kitchen. A number for the pizza place hemmed in on the fridge with magnets, as per usual.

Wayne makes a soft noise at the back of his throat at hearing that. A smile creeps on his lips. He idly reads the folded back of his paper.

“What?” Eddie quizzes.

Wayne’s smile grows if anything.

“I may be an old man. But I was young once. I do happen to know what that means.” He stared Eddie down in that parental way.

“You’re gonna be careful with this girl, right. Safe sex ain’t no joke.”

That did it.

“Aww man, c’mon.” Eddie choked, cringing, as he launched himself up out the sofa and quickly scurried away like a jangly pillar of goth black missile. Aimed sharpish in another direction.

“It’s a first date, by the way. I’m not gonna be breaking out the condoms and whistles and bells here.” He lets out.

He’s shaking his head and losing himself in the confines of his room. Music is softly shredding out the low stereo. Alice Coopers ‘Welcome to my Nightmare’ sneers softly into his room. He cranks it up.

Wayne stood up. Smiling and shaking his head in making his kid cringe. Gathering his things for work. Walking to the kitchen slowly to empty the dregs of his cup. Leave it in the sink for later. He grabs his things as he walks on past the front door. Heavy work boots crushing soft on the carpets and then the lino.

He walks right up to Eddie’s door, peers into the clustered metal gilded mess of his room.

Shocked to notice he could actually see the floor. And the raunchy pin ups were safely shepherded away inside the closet. The playboy magazines he pretends he doesn’t know about shoved under the bed. The dresser and side tables were still messy as. There’s been an attempt at making the bed. The sheets are straightened and tucked in.

“Listen now, you’re 20 year old man, and you have a zipper. I won’t say any more than that. But you best play it safe. Y’hear?”

“NO.” Eddie fairly shrieks.

“Not listening anymore.” Comes the answer as he faffs around and pretends to be busy with some things in his closet.

“Eddie.” Wayne smiles.

He turns back around and stands up. Expression of limited enthusiasm.

“Wayne. I am the town fuck up in a lot of ways. But not in this way.” He marched back to his bedside. Throws the blue Trojan condom packet up in the air and catches it. A silent ‘see?’

His uncles brow crooks up. Shuffling his wallet into his jeans. Pulling on his heavy fleece lined denim jacket. “Jeez. Those things still in date?”

Eddies face falls.

“They expire?” He flips the packet and looks at the back.

“Lord. I am gettin out of here. Save me some pizza would ya.” Wayne dismisses with a shake of his old head.

This high school romance thing was better left a young man’s game.

~

Eddie thinks he forgets how to breathe, when the buttery headlights of your car slant into the big window of the trailer.

He poked his head out the door earlier. The air is cool out tonight. Hung with moisture, so thick you could sip at it. Icy cold like a dirty clear martini. The kind of night that bloats up and leaves the taste of wet grass on your tongue.

The headlights are a sobering neon yellow under the cushy spring night that was churning slowly in dregs and streaks, to a violet. Lilac bathed air punched with cold. One of those night slow nights that gets slipped into dark majesty, and the stars cluster bright like winking pearls.

Eddie’s eyes have been on the windows for an hour. He’s paced groves in this thick matted carpet, he’s sure of it. Eyes set on the windows like he’s on a mission. Trying not to chew his nails. Got him acting like a pound mongrel waiting for their owner to come home.

The car lights flick off. Engine cuts dead.

And now he can hear the slam of your car door. His heart rockets into overdrive with scary amounts of adrenaline and stabbing excitement that will, he’s sure, undeniably make a moron out of him before then night is out.

You’re stepping up the creaky porch. He knows those snaps and shifts of the old steps. You’re knocking on his door.

He takes a deep breath. Fills his crappy sentimental lungs, that he placated with a cigarette, twenty ache filled minutes ago.

He cannot open the door fast enough, and the sight of you the other side, roundhouse whirls into his chest. Smacks right between the ribs. Fists him by the front of his t-shirt and yanks-

You’re like that song Wayne hums and taps his feet too, when he makes eggs on a Sunday mo rning. ‘Like being hit by a falling tree, woman, woman what you do to me.’

“Ah woman bearing beer. You’re definitely welcome inside.” He grins. Leaning against his door.

He thinks he keeps on imagining how pretty you are. But here you stand with the cheap orange light of the trailer washing back over you, haloing your body like a wash of heaven, and he’s gotta remember not to stare.

You’ve brushed this smoky-sparkly purple eyeshadow on. Nightshade purple like the sky out tonight. Big lashes all dark too. Your lips are pink shiny and glossy. (You so totally stole a tube from Linda, naughty pencils)

You’re wearing a brown corduroy skirt and a black polo neck. Long brown leather boots up to your calves. Your hair is so silky. Eyes shimmering this angel honey warmth at him.

You’re holding an eggshell coloured plate of Saran-wrapped cookies. Piled high and dark chocolate. In your other hand you have a six pack of coors and something else-

“Best part?” You begin.

You hold something up, tilt your head and there’s that smile.

The thing you hold, it’s all canine teeth and fake tufts of hair. Two triangle ears. Tacky acetic smell of plastic. “For the Heist.”

A wolf man mask. A smile leaps onto his lips.

“You think of everything.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “Got yours I hope Pencils?” He asks with a levelled look as he widens the door for you to step in.

“It’s in the car. Messes up my hair.” You shrug. You climb up the last uneven wedge of a step and move to come inside.

“Hey.” You smile. He liked that you goofed around first. Went traditional greeting second.

“Hey back.” He said softly. Pretty smile all wide. Espresso dark eyes fixed unendingly on your face.

You nervously chew your lip and gaze down. You want to lean over and kiss his cheek but didn’t want to overstep or be weird about it.

You clunkily flounder on the doormat. Self doubt lingers on your fingertips. You wish you could just escape into the confidence to lean over and kiss him like you did the other night. But then you had a belly of vodka and Dutch courage backing you up.

Decide hand him over the plate of cookies. He can smell the cocoa and sugar sneaking out when he takes the thing off you. “For you-“ you gift.

“Troops made it. Well done boys.” It makes you chuckle. Wiggles the plate in one hand and talks to the cookies.

“Hope you got a sweet tooth. I made so many.”

“Always.” He answers to your enquiry. “My diet is 98% Oreos and mini powdered donuts.” He beams.

You nudge the beers in your hand too. “Fridge?”

He takes them off you gently. “Yeah, here, gimme.” He bundled them up and stepped past you. The door snapped shut behind him and you took in the space as Eddie padded to the fridge.

You smile as you gaze around the walls. The scratchy orange curtains. The warmness of the lamps splashing up light. A very well beloved couch and all the mug keepsakes and hats on the walls. It’s cosy. It’s a home. Capital H. Just like yours. You can see that from one glance.

The Campbell’s soup can used as an ashtray cause the actual red glass ashtray next to it was overflowing with pocket junk. The plaid shirts yet to be ironed, crumpled somewhat clumsily in a laundry basket. Some sepia family pictures tacked to the space above the counter where the sun won’t bleach them. The red pansy pattern on the sofa that clashes with the lone saggy yellow throw pillow. The marbled malty brown carpet.

A place that sure wasn’t fancy, but had character and warmth in swathes more than anything designer and clinical green money could buy. It’s a sagging trailer sure, no hiding that. But you imagine with a cold shower of outside patting at the roof, these friendly yellow walls would swallow you up in their charming blanket of old cigarettes, male cologne and powder dreamy detergent. Some scratchy record playing blues and a snuggly throw on that couch, it would be a sort of enclosing haven.

“It’s uh- not much. But… a place to crash or to hang your hat, as Wayne says.” Eddie trails off. Setting the cookies on the counter. Nodding in jest towards the numerous baseball caps.

“I like it. Honestly. You should see my house. Moms hippy-bohemian posters and pretty strange sense of interior decor reigns strong.” You tell him.

“I’d like to see that.” He says as he clunks beers in the ancient whirring fridge. You smile over at him. You nod and share eye contact.

“Come through the front door this time though, perhaps. Save your ass from that thorny rose bush.” You encourage warmly.

“Awh. You’re worried about the state of my ass.” He preens. Leans against the counter and gives you moony eyes.

“Damn right. Someone’s got to be.” You answer back.

“Thank heaven it’s you.” He simpers. Smile

Slowly crawls up and your stomach warms all dizzy. You bite your lip.

“Drink?” He offers. Hands splayed over the counter. “We got Pepsi, ginger ale.”

“Actually, a beer would be great.” You nod. Cold buzz light give you some courage to finally bump your mouth to those soft sweet lips you adore. And had missed.

You should have done it tonight the second he opened the door. Damn politeness. You should’ve sprung on him.

“Two beers. Coming up.” He grins. Drums the counter with open slaps of his hands. Dives for the fridge.

You unzip your boots. Worried about getting wet marks on the floor.

“Princess. Your shoes are probably cleaner than this carpet.” Eddie explains wryly from behind the fridge.

Coming back to see you standing into the mushy carpet in your bare feet. Painted toes mulberry purple. Sparkles glitter gritty over the deep paint.

“It’s the principle of the thing now, Munson.” You say as you toe them off. Stuff your socks inside. You place them by the door and wander over to the jut of the counter. Standing the other side looking at him. His skin itches and leaps with the realisation of your smiling at him. He more than likes it.

He’s got the beers before him. Cracking them open. The fizz and the hoppy mist. He slides yours on over for you to catch like a saloon bar in a western.

“Mi’lady” He says as he raises his can up for you to crash them together in a toast. A tinny clank where you toast. His rings clack on the side of the can.

“Thank you, gallant Knight.” You flatter. After taking back a cold hop filled sip.

It makes you think of that slanted drunken time in Kyle’s garden. Sharing polite sips of a warm beer. Stealing glances under fringes and sparing longing looks.

You watch his brows raise with surprise at your choice of title. “And here, I thought I was the jangly belled jester dude. Or the scrawny but lovable bard.” He grins all toothy.

“Fraid not. You’re my Knight in shining DIO vest.” You tell him.

If you had to, you’d rearrange the entire solar system by hand to see the sight of Eddie Munson blush again the way he is now. His cheeks full with it.

He scratches the back of his neck and looks like he wants to twirl away and hide in his hair all bashful.

“You rescued me from the pack of Ogres and brought me healing Campbells aid. Not to mention some very seriously delicious behaviour in a closet.” You played along. Fiddling your fingertips along the edge of the counter. “That’s Knightly behaviour, my guy.” You nod.

“You’d be ok with being my maiden then, huh?” He can’t ignore the very bloated intent behind those words. Chews the inside of his lower lip. He can taste beer and he’s so aching to kiss you again.

“More than ok.” You met his longing brown gaze. Those melty eyes standing stark under that chippy fringe. “Hey, as long as you don’t think I’m the Dragon. I’m fine with whatever.” You hold your hands up.

His smile brightens. “I think we all know who the dragon is, pencils.”

You laugh.

His heart swoons.

And then it twirls somewhere different. He looks intent. Like he wants to grab something but can’t. Pent up. Like he’s digging fingers into the counter to keep from something else.

“Ok, excuse the shit outta me but, fuck it, I should have done this the second I saw you tonight.”

He suddenly bursts into movement around the counter. You follow where he rounds it in record time. Chain jangling. Socked feet padding the floor.

Emotions are chunky jagged things that can’t contain him. Slip off his body like oil slick. Beat off him like rain bouncing off concrete. It can’t contain him or maybe it’s the other way around.

He comes your side and you can barely have a breath before he’s cupped your neck either side, so gentle, and pushed his lips onto yours in a kiss so sweet it made your brain wipe blank.

His body cages you back into the counter. Tile top digging the back of your waist. Your hands flounder for a second. You smile to his lips before your hands come to his back. His belt buckle jams to your skirt and it makes your stomach flutter with want.

He tastes the same and it’s a flavour you’re oddly fascinated by. Smoky brush and hoppy beer. Maybe a little acrid but you don’t mind it. So traditionally Eddie it makes your knees wobble.

His thumb is soft on the line of your jaw. Savours the way He languidly kisses you out of breath. He swallows a sugary clasp of a little gasping noise you made. Wants more- more more more of them. He’s caught in your orbit and never wants to fall out of this clutch of your gravity.

Tastes the gloss off your mouth and he prays you don’t think him a massive perverted creep for this.

When you break for air, his lips don’t wander far. Spit wet and near yours and now he’s wearing sugar high pink gloss too. His nose lays along the line of yours.

“Sorry-“ He gasps.

He may have short circuited your brain with that kiss. Glitched something out for sure.

“I don’t see what sorry has to do with that.” You murmur softly. Leaning up to brush your nose into his. Try to contain this harsh vein buzz he’s got going in you.

“Inviting you over to my trailer and mauling you.” He gasps as he rakes a soft brush of hair off your cheek. Back tenderly behind your soft ear.

You push on your tiptoes. Capture his mouth in a slowly melting peck. Hand sliding across his cheek. Palming a cheekbone. Fingertips nesting in that dry wild mane.

“I don’t mind a little mauling.” You explain. He rests his hands on your hips with a self satisfied chuckle. Thumbs stroking the waistband of your skirt.

“Not very Knightly.” He quipped. Going dumb the way you plucked kisses at his mouth in-between his attempts to speak.

“Chastity is overrated. I’m not waiting in a fucking tower to protect my virtue.” You tell him.

You’ve got his fucking chest skipping and his heart is on the roof of his mouth. Cheeks ache from smiling.

He holds your waist like he’s afraid you’ll move or drift away. Ridiculous. You’ve patiently waited to get here. You’re not budging. Eyes set on yours. The wet gloss glimmer of your lips and those eyes he pathetically wants to stare into like he’s discovered a new form of Eden.

“I can’t believe I didn’t work up the courage to talk to you sooner.” Bursts out his mouth before he can stop it. A shy little confession that he feels very nerdy to have given a voice too.

“Wanna know something?” You tell him all softly. Stroking over the wavy tips of those choppy bangs.

“If not guess I’ll just kiss it outta you…” He decides. Eyes dizzily on your lips. His hips sway into you and he tilts his head to plant a sweet kiss at the corner of your mouth.

“I think I had a crush on you from the very second you got sat behind me in history class.” You explain.

You couldn’t help it. There you were all wrapped and stirred up in your love of punk and anarchy. And then in walks this crazy, messy leather clad and metal dipped kid with doe eyes and trouble stroked deep into his smile. The frenzy and the non-conformity. Clutched you good.

“Why do you think I always tapped on your shoulder asking for a pencil, pencils?” He teased. But he wasn’t done;

Sense slotted into place.

“Do you know why I call you that by the way?” He checks. Voice such a soft chasm of purity.

“I assumed the way I’m always covered in graphite and ink, and paint splatters.” You shrugged.

“No.” He raises your hand up and marks a kiss the back of it. “But I do really dig that look on you.”

“Alas-“ He continued. “Its because you never snapped at me. Never once rolled your eyes or ignored me when I tapped on your shoulder. You didn’t dismiss me the way everyone else did.”

You’re floored. Stood pinned to this counter and you’re so touched.

“You always gave me a pencil. Always. And you smiled at me as you did it. Didn’t tell me to keep it with disgust or bark that you wanted it back right after. Look at it like you’d contract rabies from being touching something I’d used.”

You indeed smiled at him. You asked about the patches on his vest. About the bands you’d not heard of. Told him the answer to a random question of the pop quiz if you saw him struggling. Twisted around and caught sight of the horned devil skull he was doodling and thought it was cool.

You lit up when he came into class or when he said something funny. And sure, he did show off in the hopes it would earn that beam of yours. He always felt like opportunity slipped out his hands when you scurried away after class finished.

He tried every day, to stay and catch your eye- make you laugh again. Just something to rouse that little kernel of connection he had to you. And when he saw you around you were always alongside the blonde one he assumed was too cool to approach.

“Wow, we’re morons. It’s only taken us this long to get things going.” You supplied casually.

“Pencils. Trust me. I noticed you beside that blonde poodle friend of yours a lot. I thought how pretty and awesome you seemed. Would’ve tried to talk to you, but I kinda thought you hated me.” He admits with a wince.

“Why?” You ask almost sadly. Ready to crunch up your own conscience in guilt.

“That’s what people usually do. They don’t even get to know me they just decide to skip right to the ‘hating my guts’ part.”

You shake your head. Boldly.

“Not this people.” You say. Cupping his cheek. “And I’d like to spend a lot of time proving that tonight.”

Your free hand slunk to his waist. Holding him with a perfectly lovely touch that has his knees swooning. Fuck it, yes. He could swoon too.

He smiles at that. And it’s so stunningly honest it makes the slippy walls of your heart ache. Lays his lips onto yours again.

“What’s say we order this pizza, get buzzed and uh, do some very dirty hand stuff on the couch whilst we pretend to be interested in it?” He grins.

“Perfect.” You slip up and kiss him again. Arms crossed over his shoulders. Body entirely pasted to his.

“Does this mean we’re officially dating now?” You ask him sweetly when you pull back. Not having moved one inch away. Engrossed, entangled and entwined.

“It better.” He nudged his nose to yours. And it really was as simple as that.

“Fuck. I wanna kiss you again. Can I-“ He started, and before you can even answer. Before your tongue can shape and push words out your teeth. He’s on you again.

“Baby. We’re way past asking permission.” You break away and breathily tell him as the kissing gets heavier, more intense. Arms squeeze harder. Getting closer when there’s no room to spare already. Crushed. No breath. It’s glorious.

“Don’t tell me that.” He flirts. If you give him free-reign, you’ll never be able to reel him back again. You just won’t. He’s far too, far gone.

“Believe I just did.” You tell him. Ballsy.

He leads you stumbling by the waist over to the couch. Smiling. Nibbling your lower lip. Sucking and his tongue sweeping yours. Knocking and kissing, knees touching. Falling and falling into each other again. You gasp where you awkwardly clash together on the lumpy couch cushions.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that one Pencils.” He teases. Face all blushy and definitely love-drunk. Kiss dazed. Funny how you’d quite forgotten about those beers all of a sudden.

“Bring it on, Munson.” You urged.

~

🕷️This here? Oh no biggie. Just the next part of Eddie x Pencils 🕷️

My taglist for the JQ babes; @ceriseheaven @indouloureux @stiegasaw @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt @thincrusttheworks @manicpixiedreamcurl @therosietoesy @fanficappreciationblog @thicksexxualtension @tvserie-s-world @sharp-and-swift @dadsbongos @2clones-1kamino @edsforehead @chcolateeyelver @seven-glass-kids @forever-is-not-for-everyone @creme-bruhlee @bkish @wayward-rose @wyverntatty @latenighttalkingwithgrapejuice @churchmuffins @chickpeadumpsterfire @choke-me-levi @prozacandnicotine @xeddiesbattattsx

~

[ablxssm]

BY HIS SIDE

Tommy Shelby x WIFE!Oc

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘;—There is much more in being the wife of Tommy Shelby. So much more than the jewels, money, and reputation. What does it take to be the wife of a gangster?

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒;—Cursing, mild violence later on!

RATING;—M [mature]

She looked at the blood soaked shirt on the bathroom tile. It was his favorite shirt, she glanced to the bed where he slept heavily and she smiled to herself.

He was sleeping.

She picked up the shirt and hurried down to the kitchen and called for Frances and another maid, Claire.

“Mrs. Shelby? You called?” Frances said kindly.

“Yes. I believe we are out of bleach, do you happen to know where we have more?”

“Yes. I’ll fetch it immediately.”

Claire stepped up and then looked down at the shirt with a sad frown.

“It’s not his… I hope?”

“No. Can you go get the other shirts he has hidden for me? He keeps them somewhere in his study. I have to clean these, I know how much he likes this fabric.”

The maid scurried off and Sybil hauled a large metal tub and pot out from the cupboard and filled it with ice and water. She tossed the shirt in along with the other clothes and let them soak for a few hours as she went to the library. She took out his trash and fixed his desk the way she liked it.

There were plenty of nights like this.

Nights where he would come home tired and hardly speak to her. Nights where she knew he was happy with her presence, and didn’t need to hear her. Nights where he was half awake as she would help him into a warm bath and massage his shoulders as he would cry, or he would just hold her hand. Nights where she gave him a sleeping tablet so he wouldn’t see tunnels.

Nights where she would be the strong woman behind a powerful man.

After the shirts soaked, she hauled them out and started scrubbing away.

It was second nature.

When they first married, they didn’t have the money to get new shirts. She would wash them clean and then when they had the cash, he said-

“You don’t have to clean them anymore, love. Money will replace them.”

No money would replace these shirts. They’ve held too many memories. A plain white one that they kissed in, a light blue that he wore when he asked her to marry him, the cream one that he wore to the wedding.

The blood would stain them, but she made them go away. Her hands would scrub them raw as her arms aches, but it was second nature. Being his wife was second nature.

She let them dry by a fire and told Frances to sneak them into his closet when they were dry. Now she slept, making sure to sleep just enough to be well, but alert enough to know when he needed her.

She heard him on the phone. Stressed over money and other rivals. She guessed it was time to pay a visit to one of them. When he kissed her bye, she got dressed in her white dress and black coat with her special sapphire ring.

Alfie Solomons had only met the woman once. And even then he hardly knew her.

“Lady Sybil! What do you want?”

“I’d like to speak to your mother. I know she is here.” She smiled sweetly and held a basket up.

He cocked a brow,

“You want to speak to my mother?”

“Why yes! I made Challa bread for her and I’d like to see if my recipie is quite alright.”

“Альфи! Ваша шлюха здесь!” An elder voice said from the doorway.

(Alfie! Your whore is here!)

Alfie winced and sighed, “She’s not a whore, mother! I’m busy!”

The woman stormed in and rose a brow to the young woman standing there.

“Kто это….”

(Who is this….)

“Mum. This is Mrs. Shelby, Tommy Shelby’s wife.”

The lady came up to her and circled her.

“Tommy Shelby? Yes? He married a little girl.” She scoffed then gestured for Alfie to walk away.

“Madame Solomons, I come bearing gifts.” She handed her the basket and they sat at Alfie’s desk.

“I made this bread for you. I’m sure you know what it is, but I want to know if it is alright. The recipe I used is rather old but…”

The woman cautiously took a bite and rose a brow, “Wonderful. Where did you learn to bake this. I’m under the impression Catholics don’t make challa.”

This made Sybil chuckle. “We don’t. But I know you understand the meaning.”

“Yes… continuity. No beginings or ends, I see you used three braids-“

“Peace, truth and justice. I did my research.”

Yvana Solomons narrowed her eyes.

“Peace.”

“I come asking you to keep the peace between the Peaky Blinders and your son.”

She laughed, “My son! You want me to keep the peace. You must be speaking to the wrong person, little girl.”

She shook her head, “I’m speaking to you. Your son is strong and knows what he wants. But you are his mother. Behind every man is an even stronger woman, I’m sure Alfie doesn’t do things without your intelligence or word.”

Yvana swallowed and shrugged.

“My husband is a good man. A devil to most. But a man still. We both know what each of our corners are capable of, but it shouldn’t come to that. Why should it when we can live in peace.”

Sybil played with the ring on her finger and this caught Yvana’s eye.

“You’re young.”

This made her smile more, “I am. Too young even. But that doesn’t mean I know things, and do things. I may not wear a cap on my head, but my heart is more than enough. I want to keep everyone safe, peace is needed in this world. I can’t count the times I’ve seen Tommy hurt mentally. The scars on his body are superficial, but it is his mind I keep sane.”

Yvana took another bite and sighed, “You’re too young to worry. My son is a terrible man, I can say that because I am his mother. But he is also my son….”

Sybil sighed and kept her eyes on her.

“My son needs peace to heal.”

“We all do.”

This made Yvana smile.

“Tommy Shelby is a very blessed man, Yekiratì, have a woman like you.”

Her cheeks felt warm.

“Peace. To keep our boys healthy.” Yvana nodded and then walked out of the room.

She looked at the papers strewn about his desk. Numbers were all over the place and scribbles were crossed out multiple times. She and Lizzie picked them up and sat down in the study as they boys went out on another ‘job’.

“I don’t see why he doesn’t just hire you at this point,” Lizzie chuckled and sat next to her as they organized them.

“He doesn’t want to worry about me. Now come on, you’re good with numbers. Let’s fix them.”

They stayed up till two rearranging their budgets and laughing ad the poor maths on the papers. Lizzie hated Sybil when they first met. She thought she was naive and a child to their world. But the more she spoke to her, the more she spent time with her, she saw that she as the Peaky Blinder’s redemption. Tommy’s redemption.

They are a class act of secret women that kept the men in line without them even knowing. Sybil was diligent with her work and played the part of a Peaky Blinder. Not a gangster wife.

She knew things she wasn’t supposed to know and did things that eased everyone’s stress, even Lizzie’s stress. She couldn’t hate her.

“You’re good to him, Sybbie.” Lizzie sighed and laid her head down on the table.

This made her laugh, “I only do what he needs. That’s hardly good.”

This made Lizzie snort.

“I hate it when you’re humble.”

She glared at the man as Isaiah tightened the rope around his neck.

“Betrayal has to be the lowest form of revenge, Inspector.”

The man’s eyes widened as she let out a soft plume of smoke.

“I-I didnt! I swear!”

She rolled her eyes and Michael sent a punch across his jaw.

“My husband paid your family well, kept them fed and upped your pay. You repay our kindness by selling him out?”

His eyes watered.

“Please… I would never. My children were in danger!”

“Yet you do not tell us! Trust goes both ways.” She knelt in front of him and gripped his chin tightly as she spoke in a calm voice.

“Fix this. Then leave…. We don’t need lesser men like you in our ranks.”

When he left, Isaiah and Michael stood in the old warehouse as Sybil leaned against the car with closed eyes.

“I reckon Tommy got his intimidation from you, aye?”

She shook her head, “I’m only doing what he needs.”

She laid in bed with a massive headache and pain all over her body. She hated getting sick. Tommy was out now and she couldn’t move, so she phoned for Polly. The woman rushed over as if she couldn’t move fast enough and glared.

“Look at you, telling the boys to take care of themselves when you can’t-“

“It’s not about me, Pol. It’s just a cold.” She laughed and coughed.

This made her flare soften as she set her hand on her forehead.

“He is going to work you to death if he doesn’t ease up in his orders.”

She smiled fondly, “They aren’t orders. You can’t tell him, it’ll only make him more worried.”

Polly sighed and pulled a wet towel from the small cool basin and wiped down the sweat.

“Shelby women. It’s the curse of being in this family for working twice as hard.”

“We wouldn’t have it any way now would we.”

Polly shook her head with a chuckle, “No. now move over so I can help you out of this sweat drenched dress.”

Sybil slept good that night knowing Polly would take over for the next few days.

He looked down at her sleeping figure sweat blanketed, but peaceful. He brushed her hair away and kissed her forehead only for her to wake.

“You’re home?” She tried to sit up with a groggy whine and he chuckled.

“Sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“No no. Don’t worry about me. I’ll draw you a bath-“

“Sybil, love. Lay down. Everything is alright.”

She was defeated and held his hand, “How was your day?”

He sighed and used his other hand to caress her head, “Uneventful. Solomons decided to finally back off on his ‘interest rates’. Now we can manage our number in peace.”

“Good… good…”

“Did you buy me this shirt? It looks new?” He gestured to the cream one she washed a few nights ago.

“No. I just washed it. I know how much you like that one.”

His heart felt warm and he crawled into bed next to her and held her close.

“I told you not not wash them anymore. You stay up late doing it-“

“I want to. I know how much these shirts cost and I know how much you like it. Suck it up and let me be a good wife.”

He laughed now.

“Angel, you’ve always been a good wife. One that I didn’t deserve and probably won’t, you’ve always been a good wife even when we weren’t married or seeing each other.”

They were quiet and he held her tighter.

“I can’t do things without you. I will forever be grateful for what you do. You may think them to be meaningless, but they are everything to me… to us.”

She closed her eye and listened to his heart.

“Loving me has always been a difficult fast, but you did it and still do it. Why?”

“Because, my Thomas, without you things don’t make sense. Our future is vital to our survival and I’ll do whatever it takes to make you succeed.”

His grip on her tightened.

“To make me succeed…”

“Yes,” she craned her neck and looked at him, “I am proud to be your wife. You do everything for me and the least I can do is let you sleep easy at night.”

He kissed her deeply, “I’ll never deserve you, Sybil Caldon, but I’ll be damned if I ever do something to break your heart.”

She would keep him sane. It was the least she could do.

Tommy stood looking out to the crowd that cheered for him. He made the seat of parliament. Everything was going according to plan. When he looked over his shoulder, she stood with a smile. He reached out to her and pulled her into his chest placing a kiss on her lips.

The crowd went wild and he felt her giggle into the kiss.

“I’d go anywhere with you by my side, love.” He whispered.

“I’ll follow you to the ends of time.”

His heart swelled and swung her in the air.

His angel, his life and reason.

She brought out the good. She made him strive to be a man worth loving.

[angelisverba]

thinkin’ bout you

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

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

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

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

*    *    *    *    *    *

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit. 

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

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

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

He changed them the week after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he wasn’t lonely anymore. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right? 

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

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

*********

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

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

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

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

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

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His home. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/n. 

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

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

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

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

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

Like dropping her card when she piped up again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Harry was having a shitty morning. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s no use. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

“Back again so soon, H?” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Harry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.” 

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

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

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

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

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

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-” 

Harry and y/n giggle at each other, 

“You go first.” 

“Y’speak first.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you text me?” She asked him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

Harry can’t stop thinking. 

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

This?

This was different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

y/n <3 : so… dinner? 

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

He couldn’t be happier. 

*    *    *    *    *    *

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

[bonbonthedragon]

Meeting You Changed Me (7)

Dad!bakugou x fem!redaer

A series

Summary: When Bakugou leaves an ugly divorce, leaving him as a single dad he never can imagine himself finding love again, not when he was never actually in love. People manipulate and lie and he can’t trust anyone but those close to him and now protect what he has left. But maybe...just maybe he can give her a chance.

Warnings: fluff, very tiny angst? Some suggestive themes

Series Masterlist

(Y/n) point of view

Mornings were difficult.

The sun beamed through the curtains of (y/n)s apartment, making the woman groan and turn over. It couldn’t be time to get up yet, it just couldn’t.

“Mphhhh” she grumbled into the sheets as her alarm rang “yeah yeah, I know.” Her hand hit the top and she swung her legs over the bed, almost hissing when her feet hit the cold tile. It should have been carpet...hers used to be carpet because she hated the cold floors. Her grummy mood didn’t last too long as a familiar feline came rubbing up against her leg. “Hey girl” she whispered, scratching the cats ears as she purred into it. Then the meowing began. Oh jeez. Aki sang as she left her humans warmth and began toward the kitchen.

“I knew you could only be cute for so long”

Walking out the room, (y/n) followed the calico out, who only continued to complain about her lack of food in the bowl. Until she opened the container and fed her did she calm. The old kitty was beginning to lack in weight and she could only eat so much seeing her age. Her nub of a tail waggled happily though and (y/n) was only glad she could provide a roof for the once street cat. At least she can do something right.

Coffee finished, cat fed and hair up, it was time to start the day. She slipped on her uniform and opened the door to the stairs and made her way down stairs. She couldn’t be more fortunate she lived above her work. Though she wished some days she had a helper to open up instead every once and a while, but she chose to hire non because being alone was better. Even with that she couldn’t stand silence, maybe that’s why the loud ass cat running around her apartment still lived with her. But with him gone it just-

Open sigh, go open the cafe up (y/n). Thinking about it does nothing.

Grabbing a window marker and the keys, she opened up shop. The door stood pegged wide while she erased the calligraphy ‘closed’ to a beautiful ‘open’ with pinks and yellows she drew on the glass. Stuffing the markers back in her apron, she headed inside and went to work, setting up every pastry and steaming the machines to be hot for when someone came in. She set her phone to play some Lofi beats and headed toward the chalk board.

She felt her chest ache as she stared at the green board. She chuckled and took out a Clorox wipe and began to wipe it down. Maybe today they would come in and That little boy would want to draw again. So she left it blank. It seemed weird being blank, she never left it blank. Gazing at it for a while she decided to grab a white piece of chalk and get to work. After an hour, with the additional customers coming in and having to attend too, she was now finished and satisfied. On it was just a simple sketch of a Spider-Man outline as the 2-D comical hero soar through the city on his web. She then took out red, blue and colors for the city to then on the board ledge.

“Spider-Man?” A regular customer asked, the old man smiling and raising a brow “never knew you liked marvel”

“As far as Marvels hero’s go, they are the only exception.” She smiled back, setting down the last chalk piece.

“Not even Allmight?” Fuji asked

“Hmmm, well he’s okay too” she shrugged, passing him and filling his cup with a pitcher

She checked her watch. 7:08.

It would be a while until then but at least the place didn’t feel empty.

“MeOwWwW”

Heads turned and so did hers at the sudden muffled sound. Oh lord this cat. Shaking her head (y/n) made her way to the door to the stair case. She must have opened the door again using thee table by the door and walked down. Opening the door the small cat walked out “well hello” she hummed, picking her up gently “who would have thought you’d visit?” The woman sarcastically snarled at Aki, who only mewled back “uh huh, great response” it wouldn’t be the first time she’s gotten out and roamed the shop, so far non of her customers complained. So she let Aki down and she trotted happily to the small cat tree in the corner by the window of the shop. People began to coo and Aw at her.

Well it seemed the shop settle this morning. Nothing to really do. It was just Wednesday after all. Maybe she should be productive instead of cleaning the shop for a sixth time since yesterday....

Before she could even think, the bell to the door rang and a force so powerful ran into her legs that she almost tumbled over. “Oh-“ (y/n) caught herself and held onto who ran into her before they too fell. Tatsumi looked up with big eyes and just snuggled his face more into her leggings, as if he were a cat rubbing on her. God he’s so cute.

“Tatsumi” a low voice called out, soft but in warning

(Y/n) looked up to meet his piercing red gaze, eyes like rubies as they stared her down. The hero was tall and built, it was easy to tell with the skin tight tank top of his hero suit he wore that he worked out often. His steps fell heavy against the flooring as his hand left the glass door and let it shut. With the glare he had on his scared face it was difficult not to know what he was feeling. Was he angry? Never mind, Pro hero DynaMight was always angry. Though it was hard to accept him that way now since seeing him coming into the shop and how he acts with his son.

Tatsumi tugged at her pant leg “Dada said I could come and- and say hi before I go to gradmas and grandpas!”

(Y/n) glanced back up at the man and back at Tatsumi, giving him a smile “oh well that’s sweet, good morning Tatsumi”

“Good morning!” He squeezed her tighter then backed up, giving the woman grabby hands.

Hearing Bakugou grunt, (y/n) looked up, his eyes hadn’t faltered one bit since she began giving Tatsumi her attention. He just kept staring at her. Like she just cussed him out or offended him in some way. With some hesitation and a small confirming nod from him, she bent down and took Tatsumi in her arms. He giggled happily and went to wrap his arms around her neck, giving her a proper hug.

“Ohhhh” she cooed. Gosh this boy was so sweet! “Big hug! Thank you!” (y/n) hugged him back best she could in the awkward position. He smiled and leaned in to kiss her cheek sweetly, and oh did her heart melt. Though when he did she noticed how bakugous frame went from bored and annoyed from waiting to being as still as a tree. His brow slightly twitched and his eyes were wider than before.

Getting the gist, (y/n) put Tatsumi down, but the boys grin left as fast at it had came. She couldn’t help but crouch down and boop his nose, making his furrowed brows soften “looks like it’s time for you to be going,” he frowned at her, not in a mean way, but sad “oh it’s alright!” She reassured “I’ll see you again, but I think your dad has places to be”

Tatsumi turned around and gave his father pleading eyes. (Y/n) almost wanted to shrivel from embarrassment because this wasn’t her child and as far as she was aware she was irritating the hell out of the No.2 hero. She was not about to get caught up in gossip or make someone mad. Bakugous eyes shifted to his child....and the staring contest began. You could almost visibly see the tension in Bakugou crack as the seconds passed. Tatsumi wasn’t giving up, she didn’t think he would. After a good minute Bakugou sighed and took out his phone. He glanced at it once before huffing, going to sit on one of the sofas and cross his arms almost in a childish way.

“Ya got 10 minutes” he gruffed

Tatsumi ran up to him and planted his hands on his fathers knees “hour!” He shouted back

A vain could be seen on the hero’s head as he leaned forward and became eye level with the smaller blond “15”

“50!” he protested

Bakugou growled slightly, still not threateningly but more to himself, like it was hard for him to say no to the kid “20”

Tatsumi whined from the back of his throat and bounced up and down impatiently. “40!” At this point (y/n) just guessed that he had learned his numbers high enough for this argument, he was the age Ren had began counting high.

Bakugou clenched his jaw, not blinking once as he stared down Tatsumi. Then he leaned back, legs spreading to get comfortable, making Tatsumi’s hands leave “30 minutes and that’s final” he said

Tatsumi beamed and jumped up and down. She didn’t think he knew exactly how long that was but it was more that 20. He climbed on the couch to kiss his fathers cheek, just as he did (y/n)s. “Tank’ you!” And Bakugou grumbled a small ‘welcome’ under his breath, helping Tatsumi off the couch and ruffling his hair a bit before he took off.

What just happened...?

She didn’t have time to process until Tatsumi had grabbed her hand and led her to the chalk board. “This is what you want?” She asked. He nodded his head eagerly.

“S-sp’ire man!” He pointed and squealed

She chuckled and showed him the chalk already laid out, telling him to have fun. Just like that he began to color in the sketch, just as she had planned. She even went to get the stool so he could get higher and reach what he couldn’t. After a few minutes of watching she glanced at the blond across the room, who was watching Tatsumi until his eyes met hers. His face seemed to turn from it pale tan to a light pink, quickly turning his head away and lips tugging to a frown. Okay rude. All she did was look at him.

As much as she was hesitant about him, she didn’t want it to be awkward like this if he was willing to bring Tatsumi by all the time. It had been a good 3 weeks, almost a month and still she hasn’t had a proper conversation with the hero. Seeing as tatsumi was busy and there were no new customers, (y/n) went over behind the counter. Unbeknownst to her, red eyes were watching.

She moved around the back and set down two coffee cups, pouring in the espresso. Soon she followed in the cream and didn’t bother making a design for times sake. Grabbing the two mugs she went toward the couch. He didn’t dare look at her the whole time she walked over and set down the coffees.

“Ya own this place?”

(Y/n) hummed

“Ya always let cats in your cafe?” He grumbled

(Y/n) looked over at Aki, who slept in the sun by the window “only her, shes good though. The customers don’t mind her so I let her down.” She sat next to him on the other end of the sofa, crossing her legs and leaning against the arm rest. Silence. As much as she wasn’t too fond of him, she found herself getting annoyed he didn’t want to talk to her. “Uh...it’s nice of you to let Tatsumi come by.”

He grunted

“He’s really sweet, never met a boy so energetic and happy”

He rose a brow, “yours not that way?” He asked, generally wondering.

She shook her head. “No...he wa- he’s rather shy, doesn’t talk much.”

“Tatsumi can’t stop talking” he looked over at his son “does this thing where he has to narrate everything he does when at home. Even though he’s potty trained, for a while now, he still has to scream ‘ima go pee!’ Then he runs to the bathroom.”

(Y/n) broke into a fit of giggles at that, not noticing how the blonds eyes immediately left his son and snapped to her. When she looked back up though he instantly looked away. She fixed herself and sat back straight up, taking a sip of her coffee, he did the same.

Bakugou was about to open his mouth for his own question before the door rang, a customer. An officer walked in and he shut his mouth, knowing she had to take it. The barista stared at the man for a couple seconds before actually getting up “be right back” she reassured.

A million alarms were going off in her head as she went toward the counter, eyes never leaving the officers. He seemed pretty timid as well and it was obvious a tension was clouded around them. Bakugou went over to sit by Tatsumi, which was closer to the counter.

“How may I help you” (y/n) nearly gritted out, tapping the screen

“Miss (L/n)-“

“I thought we were done with this, so either order something or leave.”

No one would dare speak to a member of the police like this, they would be arrested. But this man was rather...familiar with the her.

He lowered his voice and leaned in “We have a lead on Asher, it’s not a good one. In the course of a separate investigation with one of our undercover hero’s, your name was mentioned by him, as well as your late sons.”

She felt her heart drop at his name, Asher. It had been so long since she heard that name and she was planning to keep it that way. A lump caught in her throat and she looked down, brows furrowing “I- I don’t know who your talking about. Please leave.”

“Miss-“

She gripped the counter and shut her eyes, whispering harshly “This is my cafe, and unless you have a warrant or something then Please leave.”

“I really think you should just hear me out-“

“Please” she looked up at him “not today”

The man stood for a couple more seconds before nodding his head. He had nothing else, he already felt guilty enough. So he tipped his head and left.

“Have a good day, miss (L/n)”

“Have a good day” she responded, tone not so cherrie. She turned to go back to the the couch, but Bakugou wasn’t there. Instead he had moved to be by his son.

“Sorry about that” she tried to smile as she crouched down by him and leaned slightly against the wall, Tatsumi still at it with the coloring. She shifted her attention to him, hoping to keep what just happen out of the way “it’s looking amazing, Tatsumi”

His little head whipped around and he smiled wide “tank you!”

Truly it was disastrous, the red and blue sneered outside of the lines and nothing was where it should have been. But it was his work and seeing him enjoy it was making her day ten times better. As she got lost in her thoughts Tatsumi’s hair began to turn a auburn brown and became a bit taller.

Ren looked back at her and his bright blue eyes glowed brightly in the cafe light. He stood on his tippy toes and bunnie stuck in his other arm.

“Mama” Ren smiled

She blinked rapidly as his hair went back to ash-blond and his shirt turned into a dark purple. His eyes were ruby red and she was looking back at Tatsumi.

“Miss (L/n)!” Tatsumi repeated

(Y/n) blinked a couple times before smiling again, nodding her head to show he had her attention

“Look!” And he pointed at the chalkboard

She looked up and saw that he had successfully colored the whole thing. She smiled and went to ruffle his hair a bit, making the boy giggle.

“That is amazing”

Out of the corner of her eye, she swore another pair of red was piercing through at her.

—

his hand began up her thigh, the other cupping her cheek “come on, (y/n)”

(Y/n) held her hand over his over her cheek, tangling hers in his “ash i-“

His other found her left cheek, blue eyes starring straight into hers as he kissed her hard. He pulled back “you’ll be fine babe~”

Tag list:

@notchesandbullets @jbunns-world @justanotherlifeff @boooooooooom @jazzylove @uwu-barnes @yaskna @shyonigirichan @schleepyflocci @kaldoesthings @sillyroyalty @waffleareniceandfluffy @riri002uwu @happygalaxymilkshake @the2ndl @lovelyakabane @cloudsgathering @bkgwrites @bookwormariah @officiallydarkgeek @cheesecakes-randomshitz @ahbeautifulexistence @lordexplosion-murder20 @vibrant-leaf @chims-kookies

@otaku474 @atsunflower @missalienqueen @ms-winnie-mathews @dis-baku-bitch @smellslikenonsense @artist-bby @ushislittlewife @bakugouswh0r3 @thekatsukisimp @stardream14

If it’s bolded then it didn’t tag :(

[in-ky]

An Old Scent [2] - Negan x Reader (A/B/O AU)

Summary: During summer break, you decide to come back home to visit your dad, Rick. Over the course of your stay, you realize that your dad's friend is pretty hot.

Warnings: Eventual smut, A/B/O dynamics, cheating, angst, age gap, Negan, a bit of gore if you squint

A/N: ok so everything is written i'm just gonna stagger posting a little bit :') 2.7k words

The first thing I woke up to in the morning was a dull ache in my lower abdomen. Great. My heat was starting up again. Growing up, Bee always asked why I never went on suppressants. I always got a bad vibe from them. Then, a few years ago, a large brand got recalled because it was shown to cause cancer in a lot of different patients. Now suppressants were harder to come by, more regulated, and needed a doctor's prescription. A lot of omegas took the hit hard, but out of it came an influx of at-home ways to take care of your heats by yourself. Super helpful for a single girl like me. When my heats started to get really bad around my junior year of high school, Bee took me out on a shopping spree and got me a bunch of toys to try and satisfy myself. It worked for a while, but they got worse as the years passed. By my age, a lot of omegas were already claimed and had an alpha to help them through their heats. I was still relying on the toys Bee had bought me. The box was tucked neatly under my bed, waiting for me. I rolled over with a small groan and sighed. The heat wouldn't be in full swing for another few days or so, so I could still go to the courthouse with my dad. Speaking of, I heard Rick shuffling down the hall and slid out of bed, gathering my bathroom stuff and walking out of my room into the small tiled room to start the day.

~~~

"So you weren't at the garage on the night of the eight?" Negan hummed, leaning against the railing in front of the tv. His eyes were glued to the face of the man sitting on the stand. The poor guy was drenched in a nervous sweat, tight blue shirt sucking at his chubby neck. He swallowed thickly and leaned forward to the microphone.

"That's correct," he croaked.

"Oh, Jeremy," Negan chuckled, shaking his head and looking at his feet. "Don't you know perjury is a criminal offense?"

"I-I'm not lying!"

"Is that so?" The alpha held up the remote to the TV "I have some footage here that directly contradicts your story, man. One last chance." He wiggled the remote teasingly and raised his eyebrows. Jeremy held his ground. "Alrighty then, let's see what we have here." He took a step back and furrowed his brow at the remote and pressed a button. The screen in front of him came to life. I had to lean forward in order to see the video, but in reality it wasn't the security tape I was watching. It was him. I couldn't look away. He had dominated the room for the past hour and a half. His deep voice was never raised, but it still carried a commanding tone that had every person sitting on the stand shaking in their boots. My eyes trailed down his body. His suit clung to him in every perfect way. His hair was slicked back in its iconic style and the way his glasses perched on his face made my insides burn. Part of me regretted seeing him like this so close to my heat, but another part couldn't imagine if I hadn't. Rick leaned over and tapped my elbow.

"We've got him now for sure." He whispered in my ear. A smile formed on my lips as I nodded to him. There was a child-like joy on his face. He really did appreciate my presence. I turned my attention back to the video screen. The footage was fuzzy, but there was a clear figure of a woman standing still hunched over what I presumed was her phone. She was texting away, fingers flying over her screen. Suddenly a large figure, who had the same height and build as Jeremy, slunk out from the shadows. He slowly approached the woman from behind and raised a crowbar high above his head. He swung it down with brutal force. There were small gasps of horror from the jury and the crowd as the crowbar connected solidly with the woman's head. She collapsed in a heap, but Jeremy didn't stop beating her until she was a pile of mush. Negan clicked the TV off.

"Well, shit, Jeremy," He boomed "I do in fact think you are lyin' to me." He tossed the remote down on his table top and gave a grim scoff. "Everyone just saw you turn poor Miss Parker's head into your personal punching bag. You still wanna claim you were no where near there?" All of the color had drained from Jeremy's round face. He swallowed again, tugging at his restricting collar. But soon, his face turned a deep shade of pink and he slammed his beefy palms on the flat surface of the box he was sitting in.

"That bitch deserved it!" He howled, gasping for air. "She had no business-" He stopped when Negan raised his hand silently.

"I really don't care," He sighed, turning around and grinning broadly when he saw the defense team resting their heads in their hands in defeat. "I'll let the jury do the rest, your honor."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Smith." The judge said, voice prickling with annoyance. Negan returned to his bench and pulled out his seat. But before he sat down he gave Rick a small thumbs up. And I could have sworn that he flashed me a little smile as well.

~~~

"You were incredible in there!" I cheered, giving Negan a high five. The contact made my skin tingle, but I passed it off as the consequences of the impact. "You really made that guy tremble like a kid!"

"It's what I do," Negan chuckled deeply. He looked around me and furrowed his brow. "Where's your dad?"

"He's pulling the car around," I said "I just figured I should let you know how good you did before I leave." He was so close. He smelled so good. The same combination of whiskey and campfire that could get me drunk in a few breaths. I was so focused on his intoxicating musk that I didn't notice the group of alphas that were headed our way. Negan did, though. I heard a rumbling from his chest and felt a hand clasp around my shoulder. Confusion clouded my mind and I looked up to him for some answers.

"The next case is starting soon," He said smoothly "Let's go wait for your dad outside." I agreed and he steered me out onto the steps of the courthouse. The short skirt and heels I was wearing weren't exactly comfortable for walking down stairs, so I held onto Negan's forearm as he guided me down to street level. There was a small breeze and I saw his jaw tense as a soft gust of wind swirled up from behind me and into his body. It no doubt carried my scent on it, and an alpha like Negan could probably tell what state I was in.

"So," I sighed, looking to engage him further "What's next?"

"Well," He tilted his head and ran a hand over his bear-covered chin. "Jeremy goes to jail. Your dad and the department get praise. And I get to go to the bar for a celebratory drink." He paused for a moment, looking me up and down quickly. "You want to join me?" I opened my mouth to say something. To be honest, I wasn't sure what I was going to say. I didn't really drink, but I was willing to do absolutely anything that Negan wanted. But it was then that Rick rounded the corner and gave the horn a little honk.

"I would love to," I settled on "But dad has a full day of father-daughter fun times planned, and I don't really want to keep him waiting." I gestured awkwardly to where Rick was sitting in the car, bopping his head gently to incoherent music.

"Totally understand, doll." He grinned.

"Maybe another time, though?"

"For sure."

"See you around, Negan."

"Bye, doll, have fun. And be safe"

~~~

Negan was pleasantly buzzed, as per usual. He got off his motorcycle and hung his helmet on the handlebar before lightly stumbling into the house from the dark garage. The sight he saw he did not expect. There sat his fiancé in the living room, arms crossed over her chest with a pissed expression on her face. And beside her was a woman he knew all too well.

"The hell is goin' on here?" He asked, slurring his words slightly.

"I could ask you the same thing, Negan."

"Lucille, what the fuck is she doing in our house?"

"Oh, so you know her?" Lucille growled. Negan just licked his lips and flicked his gaze between the two women sitting in front of him. "Of course you do. You have been fucking her after all." Negan groaned, rubbing his eyes.

"Baby, please-" He started, but Lucille cut him off.

"Don't you dare," She hissed, jumping to her feet and balling her hands into fists "You don't get to call me that after what you've done, Negan. You slept with another woman. Hell, maybe more than one. You ruined our relationship." Negan took a step forward but Lucille raised her hand and pointed to the kitchen table. "Don't take another step. Your stuff is in that box." Negan looked to see a cardboard box sitting alone in the dark kitchen, his belongings poking out of the top. "I never want to see you in my house again."

"Lucille, can't we just talk about this? You don't understand." He pleased, extending a hand to her. She batted it away.

"There's nothing to talk about." She spat "You cheated on me, Negan! What is there to understand? How can you expect me to forgive you for that?" A moment of silence passed between them. The other woman shifted uncomfortably on the couch. Negan glared at her before turning his eyes back to his now ex-fiancé.

"I have no where to stay." He whispered.

"That's not my problem." Lucille said boldly "Take your shit and leave. Don't come back. We're done."

~~~

I stirred the pot of spaghetti while humming a song I heard on a radio earlier. The father-daughter activities had consisted of driving around town and revisiting old spots we used to go to when I was younger. We got ice cream at the shop down the street and then watched the sun set at the park that we used to picnic at. It was nice. College did really fix our relationship. The TV in the next room hummed quietly and Rick was talking on the phone with someone. I heard him hang up and walk into the kitchen.

"Think there's enough in there for three?" He asks with a sigh, looking over my shoulder.

"Should be, why?" I return, meeting his gaze. He takes a deep breath and scratches his neck.

"Um, well, Negan's fiancé kicked him out of the house. Apparently she found out he was cheating on her. He doesn't have anywhere to stay." He mumbled "He's gonna be sleeping here for a bit." I stopped stirring. The water started to bubble too close to the top, but I blew a gust of air to push it down.

"Why here?" was all I could muster.

"He really helped me with your mom. It's the least I can do."

I just hummed in acknowledgement and returned to my cooking. So Negan was engaged. And he CHEATED on his fiancé? Maybe I didn't know Negan as well as I thought I did...

~~~

"I just can't believe she kicked me out!" Negan seethed, shoveling a spoonful of spaghetti into his mouth. He was still chewing when he continued. "She didn't even give me a chance to explain myself!"

"I hate to say it, but you did cheat on her, buddy," Rick said carefully, not wanting to poke the angry alpha in the wrong way "She's upset."

"I was in a rut." Negan growled.

"For four months?"

I was making a plate for myself, listening to the conversation from across the room. Rick's phone buzzed on the kitchen table and he picked it up.

"Sorry, I have to take this." He sighed, shaking his head and standing to his feet. He left the room and suddenly it was just me and Negan. I took my plate to the opposite head of the table, watching Negan wolf down his dinner.

"This shit is really good, sweetheart," He groaned. Normally, the noise would have sent me over the moon. But there were so many other emotions clouding my mind. "You ever consider changing your major to culinary arts?" I didn't say anything, just twirled my fork in my serving of pasta.

"Why'd you do it?" I said quietly, almost in a whisper. Negan paused instantly.

"What?"

"Why'd you cheat on her?" My eyes never left my plate but I could hear him shifting in his seat, rubbing his face while trying to answer my question.

"I don't know," He said. His voice was soft, sincere. Something I had never heard from him before. My eyes drifted up and met his. They were the same tawny color, but there was something else behind them. Something I couldn't distinguish. "I thought...Something was off in our relationship. I guess I thought that I could fix it by trying something different. I ran into Tanya at a bar a few months ago. She's a beta, just like Lucille. Wanted to be with an alpha. I gave in. Just for a quick fuck, didn't mean anything. I didn't like her. I told her that but...she...she wanted more, I guess. She fucking threatened me. Threatened to ruin my life unless I kept seeing her. I chose to do it. I don't know if that decision was the right one or not but it's the one I made. I texted her last night to tell her it was over. Never fucking thought she would come to my home." I was chewing the inside of my cheek the whole time he was speaking. I didn't know how much of his story was true, but he sounded like he was hurting.

"Why did you break it off?" I whispered.

"That's your damn question?" He scoffed, giving a short smile. He looked in my eyes. I knew the answer. Or at least I thought I did. He opened his mouth, but Rick reentered the room before he could say anything.

"Alright, sorry about that guys," He said, slipping back into his seat. "What did I miss?"

~~~

Negan was set up in the bedroom next door to mine. Our doors faced each other from across the hall. We would have to share a bathroom. Rick didn't seem to have a problem with it, but with my heat starting I wasn't too sure about the whole arrangement. I felt more cramps riddle my body. I was ready to bed, ready to curl up in a ball and go to sleep, but something called me across the hall. Curiosity got me and I turned slightly, walking up and leaning on the doorframe. There was Negan, clad in grey sweatpants and a black tank top, unpacking his things.

"Hey," I said quietly, not wanting to startle him. He turned around. He looked older like this, hair unkempt and his glasses on. When he saw me his lips curled in a smile. Any trace of vulnerability I had seen earlier was now gone.

"Hey to you."

"I just want to apologize for earlier," I said "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'm also sorry that you have to be subjected to me and my dad for the foreseeable future." He let out a snicker and shook his head.

"Don't worry about it, doll. And you're not that bad. I appreciate Rick; he's a good man." He scratched his beard and looked over at the clock next to the bed. "It's late, you should get some rest." He took a deep breath and I nodded. I turned to leave but he called my name softly. "You know I meant what I said last night, you are looking good." I smiled but didn't say anything and crossed the hall, shutting my door and hopping into bed.

[neonponders]

Here’s a prologue for my The Mummy AU!

This all started because of the moodboards above, created by @memes-saved-me and @harringrove000 . I just couldn’t help myself.

Here’s my original post about this au (it includes links to the moodboards) ~

And @hoegrove I know you wanted to see this so 🌹

Read on ao3 ~

• • • • • • •

The overhead bulbs and candlelight cast harsh shadows and warm light throughout the grimy bar. Everyone glistened with sweat from the desert heat. The night brought with it gentle, cool breezes over the Nile, but in this packed place, the occasional thworp of paper and silk fans being thrown open could be heard. Even the swish of luxurious ostrich feathers swayed to cool people off.

Steve moved his legs to cross his knees, the papyrus green trousers brushing against the military beige breeches of the man sitting opposite him at their small, round, gambling table. They had gathered quite an audience; the messy pile of money had long since included bets beyond Steve and this man’s wagers. Steve hadn’t caught his name, but he felt the heat of his body through their trouser fabrics, and more than once caught himself staring at how the light gleamed in that dark blond, honeyed hair.

“You trying to distract me?”

“No,” Steve smirked, “I’m trying to get comfortable.”

“Stressed?” the man crooned.

Steve removed his gaze from those pin-made waves of his hair. They had long since given up their shape to the day’s heat, but a tress outright curled over this handsome bastard’s forehead. Steve dared to think he looked better unkempt. “Not one bit. Play your cards. You’re dressed like you have somewhere to be.”

“I’m in no rush,” he replied lethargically, like this was exactly where he wanted to be.

Steve let his eyes wander him a little more. “You sure? You look like a military man.”

“Honorably discharged.”

“Congratulations.”

Steve knew his eyes were blue, but in this lighting they looked like clear glass over onyx pupils when he tilted his head to look at Steve curiously. The latter retaliated before he even spoke. “Is that a strange thing to say?”

The blond shrugged with a gentle shake of his head as he plucked at his cards, rearranging them in his hand. “Only if you worship at the alter of hyper patriotism and military imperialism.”

Some chuckles sounded around them as harlots shared long, cigarette filter stems with their johns, and the barkeeps made glass clatter. Steve exhaled in a huff. “Whatever that means. I’d like to win, already. Play your cards.”

“You first, dear.”

He did, laying down his fan of cards underneath the row of cards from the dealer. The Madame of the place listened to their exchanges with amusement but kept it professional as she narrated, “Full house. Always something to brag about. And you, Mr. Hargrove?”

Hargrove, huh? Steve mused as he watched for any amount of discomfort on the man’s face. He didn’t get it.

“Straight flush,” the Madame said, aligning the winning cards with those from Steve’s and her own line. Steve had practically given him that win. And more of his father’s allowance than he would ever admit.

Hargrove moved a stack of chips to the Madame’s side of the table for a substantial tip, and then offered that hand to Steve. “Good game, Mr…?”

His eyes lolled under a slow blink before he accepted the hand. “Just Steve. It’s what I get for losing.”

“Let me top off your drink, at least, Steve.”

He took his loss with grace and stood to follow Hargrove to the bar. The crowd separated for him apart from a random slap on the back and long fingers stroking his hair in consolation. Hargrove reached the bar first, and watched all this while leaning back on his elbow. A light overhead moved across the exposed skin of his chest, just as honeyed as the rest of him, and the sparse hair there. Steve discretely lowered his gaze as if to not trip over the tiled stair raising the bar from the regular floor.

“Do you come here often?”

Steve snorted a quiet laugh and lifted his gaze. “You’ve already got me here. Ask me a real question.”

Hargrove smiled as the barkeep approached. “A bottle of red, please. Two glasses. It is a real question. People respond to you as if they know you here.”

Steve mirrored his stance and leaned into his elbow on the bar. “My sister and I come here sometimes. When we want to get away from…all of it.”

Hargrove hummed deep in his chest as the sound of a cork popping briefly diverted their attention. “Sister?”

“Stepsister, if you want to get specific, but she’s not here. You’ve only got little ol’ me.”

The barman poured two glasses without stopping, holding the vessels together with a practiced hand before he set them and the bottle on the bar. Hargrove paid him as he replied, “I have one of those. A stepsister, I mean. Although I don’t know how much it counts if you haven’t seen your so-called family in years.”

Steve reached for his wine and asked before he meant to, “Do you miss her?”

It was a bit too personal of a conversation between strangers. Hargrove’s pause made him quickly add, “You don’t have to answer that.”

“I’ll miss you, depending on how the rest of this night goes.”

Steve coughed on his wine. Hargrove chuckled as he offered a pale blue handkerchief to wipe his mouth. “Are you always this generous to people who’ve lost money to you?”

“Only the ones who are pretty enough to be a prize themselves.”

Steve’s eyes lolled in his head despite the rouge blooming in his cheeks and dusting across this throat. “If I’d known you were so used to winning I might’ve spent my money better.”

Hargrove’s eyes held steadily on him. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

* * *

Steve’s back pressed hard enough against the wall to break the kiss with a huff. He craned his face towards the sky as Hargrove made him shudder with soft lips and prickling stubble on his throat. They could hear the bar’s goings-on just on the other side of the exterior wall, but leaving the humid interior was refreshing on their wine-flushed skin. The darkness of the Cairo alleyway freed Hargrove’s hands to massage Steve’s backside.

As Steve caught his breath, he managed to slip his own hand between them, feeling the muscle of that chest for himself before he ducked to taste Hargrove’s skin. Salt and the neutral sweetness of a man’s skin. He liked the little sounds that Hargrove hummed while making a mess of Steve’s hair.

“I want this hair all over me. Better than silk.”

Steve lifted back up to frame Hargrove’s head in his hands, claiming and tasting and licking into his mouth. The way Hargrove kissed—like Steve was an oasis and honeycomb. Delicious and all his. It made Steve want to have him right here. Better than wine and cigars—intoxicating, having this kind of attention all to himself.

Hargrove hummed again, this time to get Steve’s attention. “Put your arms around me. I’ll do the rest.”

He didn’t fully understand until his trouser buttons slid free with ease. Steve openly moaned in the wake of Hargrove’s hand massaging his front, finding which direction his erection stood and easing it out into the night air. As his warm palm pumped him to aching readiness, Steve’s hands continued to wander Hargrove’s body. The man kissed him in a rush, almost brutally plundering his mouth before releasing to latch onto Steve’s collarbone.

One of Steve’s arms remained anchored around Hargrove’s shoulders. The rest of him rocked gently against the man intent to take him apart in a back alley—not that Steve minded one bit. His other hand pushed aside that half-open shirt to squeeze a nipple. Hargrove groaned deliciously and lifted his head to give Steve’s ear the same tantalizing attention—

Steve frowned a little at the hard and heavy rock of a thing knocking against his hand. It didn’t take much to pry the thing out of Hargrove’s jacket breast pocket. Steve didn’t have the time or the lighting to see what it really was. He had half a mind to hold onto it just out of petty spite. A token for taking so much out of his own wallet.

A reason for Hargrove to find him the next day.

Except a voice made Steve chirp, “Huh?”

And then Hargrove faced him with the same curiosity. They realized together that neither of them had spoken. Gas and oil lanterns were quickly moving through the alleyway, held aloft by harsh voices.

“Shit!” Steve hissed, rapidly putting himself back in his trousers. He yelped a choked sound as Hargrove yanked him out of the alley by his arm.

“We gotta go!”

“No shit!”

“Split up!”

“What?”

“GO.”

With that, Hargrove shoved him right into the vaporous air of a crowded hookah restaurant. Steve could only dodge and duck around rapidly standing patrons as the police flooded inside. The kitchen staff only reacted after he’d already dashed through the room, and by then, the police were too held up to catch up with him. Steve didn’t stop running. He heard yelling and whistles in the streets behind him, but he kept going—Hargrove’s strange stone clutched tight in his hand.

Only once he’d finished a very round-about path back to his lodgings, did he sneak quietly past his sister’s room and light a lamp to see his prize. The octagonal…thing…fit well in his palm. On one face, jagged lines had been finely carved, but all around its edges were familiar hieroglyphics.

“Oh. What the hell—better yet, what is a handsome American in Egypt doing with you in his pocket?”

Steve went over to his writing desk to find his glasses in a drawer. He popped them on and recognized a cartouche when he saw one. “Seti. Pharaoh Seti, huh? Well, Robin’s going to be all over this when she sees it.”

A shrill whistle outside startled him enough to drop it heavily on his floor. The whistle sounded far away, but he remained very still in case the wrath of a woman awoken before dawn barged into his room.

If Robin woke up, Steve remained blissfully unaware. He quickly undressed, washed as much of himself as he was able with the washbasin, and collapsed onto the bed. With Hargrove’s fancy artifact on his bedside table, Steve let the memory of sharp beard stubble and firm hands guide his own down to his cock. He got himself back to standing and finished what Hargrove started quickly.

But it was soft lips, open arms, and steady eyes that eased Steve to longing sleep. A slumber so deep that had his stepsister threw a pillow at him the next morning for oversleeping on her way to work at the National Library.

[fw00shy]

The Kneazle

This is the a woman breaks up with a man, and the man grabs their kneazle and runs scene from my 10:47 am microfic. Hermione tries to break up with Ron; she and Draco have a chat about mistakes.

Hermione brings Crookshanks with her to the cafe when she breaks up with Ron. The kneazle is under disillusionment, of course — Hermione picked a Muggle part of town, far away from their flat, and she isn't stupid like Ron. You'd think dating your childhood best friend would mean near-telepathic communication by twenty-two, not weeks-long sieges of shoulders turned away stubbornly in bed.

Enough is enough.

Ron's hair is uncombed. His stubble is two days old, though his jumper is newly knit from the week he spent at his mum's. The skin under his eyes is purplish, bruise-like when he squints. Hermione sits across from him and pets and pets and pets, her eyes filling with dread at what comes next.

Ron bangs his teaspoon. "Stop doing that," he says. "You look bloody maniacal, petting your purse like that."

"I want to break up."

Hermione's words come out in a heaving sob, the disillusionment cracking with her concentration, her grip tightening painfully over fur.

Crookshanks springs onto the table in an angry yowl. Hermione meets Ron's eyes over the kneazle's gnarled orange head and sees Ron's lips thin in fury.

"I can't believe you brought a kneazle out in Muggle London," he yells. "You know she can escape —"

"Like you care a rat’s arse what happens to her. You never liked her. You never like anything I —"

"She's my kneazle as much as yours!"

"No, she's not! When do you ever —"

"When you're at the Ministry working till three-am like you are every bloody night. Who the fuck do you think feeds her then? You think food magically —"

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

Ron parts his mouth in a silent scream. Then he grabs Crookshanks and runs. Hermione is so stunned that she just stares and stares and stares until Draco finds her, and invites her over.

Turns out, he lives across the street.

.

Draco pushes a plate of biscuits in front of Hermione.

"Chocolate. Nice," Hermione says. She lifts one to her mouth and bites the Malfoy crest neatly in half. The sweetness spreads across her chest to her hands. She wriggles her fingertips.

Hermione finishes the biscuit. "Did you infuse these with Pepper-Up?"

"Something like that," Draco says. "Drink the tea, too."

Hermione takes a sip and sighs. She’s so upset that she doesn’t even care if Draco’s poisoned her.

Draco glances at something just behind Hermione. Hermione turns and sees a wall clock. She flushes. "Sorry, you're expecting —"

"No, no. Please... please stay. It's not often that I have company."

They aren't friends. But they could be, with time.

Hermione shivers. Eat another biscuit. Stares, stares, stares...

Draco's kitchen is very nice. Adult. Lots of scrubbed-white subway tiles; navy blue cabinets with brass fixtures. Everything is put in place, except for the refrigerator, which has a whole album's worth of photos stuck on it in every which way.

Draco moves to block her view, but Hermione's already out of her stool and walking toward the photos for a closer look. And of course, there it is: evidence of a secret she's long suspected since Harry started begging off dinners to “go home and relax".

"Good job," Hermione says. "You won the lotto on this one."

Draco laughs. "I absolutely did."

"You’re so different. I can't imagine it's easy."

"Oh, never. Bickering all day and night. Broke up a few times, even. Though we always got back together."

"Really?”

Draco taps his fingers against the counter. "You may not be familiar with the concept, but you don't have to get everything right in one go. It's okay to make mistakes."

"I make mistakes.”

"Sure," Draco laughs. "But not like me. Last time, we broke up over a toilet paper roll. Couldn't take a shit without him nagging on about how I never replace it."

"Of course you wouldn't," Hermione snorts. "God forbid you sully your hands with house-elf work."

"You have no idea. Harry makes us do No-Magic Mondays. And he's as bad as I am on it, honest. Last week, he had us bake a quiche, but we don't own a single measuring cup. Or a baking dish. And he wrote down the temperature in Fahrenheit, thinking it was Celsius, so you can guess how well that went."

"How well?"

"Fire trucks. Are all Muggle firemen incredibly fit? And did you know that they have a calendar?"

Hermione laughs until she's crying again.

She wipes her eyes. "I guess I should say that I broke up with Ron."

Draco snorts. "The whole block knows that, Granger." He casts his gaze out the window before turning to look Hermione straight in the eye. "But do you?"

Does she?

She really only said that she wanted to break up, not that they were.

Hermione hugs herself, wishing it were Ron's arms instead of her own. Maybe she made a mistake.

[lumosinlove]

PREVIOUSLY ON RELIC KEEL:

We get our first glimpse of Finn, who is still in Saint Clair orphanage. Finn has worked out that Crucio is being given to the orphans because it allows them to see their families again and makes them want to stay at Saint Clair so they can keep receiving it—even if it means reliving memories every day that are not their own. Finn doesn’t want that at all, and he’s been in solitary for the last week because he refuses to eat, realizing that the drug is mixed in with the food.

Luke is struggling with his mother, who seems to be delighted that Luke’s father is gone. She has completely transformed into a woman Luke doesn’t recognize, offering him alcohol, and wanting to get rid of Luke’s father’s things. Luke escapes her words, retreating to his father’s study where he can take Crucio and re-arrange the events in his own mind, making it so his father never got taken away.

Remus and Sirius, at James’ house for a movie night, have an awkward exchange in the kitchen. Remus wants to ask Sirius if he wants to go sailing with him, quickly realizing the unexplainable but seemingly unavoidable crush he’s developed on Sirius, but they get interrupted by Saint.

Saint asks Remus to help him sneak into The Hogwarts History Museum, where Remus is working for the summer, but when Remus refuses, guesses he has to take matters into his own hands.

Saint finds Luke on the grasses with the others, watching a movie. Luke wants his father’s watch, which Saint stole, back, but Saint refuses. Luke can’t believe Saint has never seen many movies, but rudely puts it up to Saint’s “fucked childhood.” They argue, and it just makes Saint quietly angrier. Saint thinks more deeply about it than he lets on, though, reflecting on people’s need to control things—a need that Crucio plays on. Saint leaves, but not after stealing the keys to Luke’s car, deciding he can control things a different way—with ancient gold from an ancient pirate ship, perhaps.

Sirius follows Saint out of the house. He can tell that he’s more on edge than usual, that he has been ever since Logan arrived. Saint won’t tell him what he wants from the museum, though—a treasure map to the Voldemort. Sirius is hurt. He’s angry at himself for liking Remus. Both Sirius and Saint, it seems, have a hard time distinguishing pity and friendship.

Leo and Logan are waiting for Saint so that they can all go to the museum together. Leo asks about Finn and finds out that Logan and Finn are in love, that they’re everything to each other. It stings Leo’s slowly developing feelings for Logan.

Remus and Sirius go to the history museum to try and thwart Saint and find out he’s working with Logan and Leo, and that they’re all after The Voldemort. Saint confesses he’s trying to help Sirius, to Sirius’ surprise. Leo wants to finish his father’s work. Logan wants Finn—but no one seems willing to help him bust Finn out. When they find the drawer where the map should be kept in the museum’s archive room, however, it’s gone, having been taken out on loan by Luke’s father, Victor Deveaux. Victor and Luke loved the tale of the treasure, too. Perhaps it has something to do with Victor being sent to jail.

They go to Luke’s house where Saint climbs through Luke’s bedroom window. Saint studies a sleeping Luke, a strange, unexpected constant—a brooding, rude, beautiful one, that is. And oh, how Saint hates letting things surprise him. Saint wakes Luke, who has taken Crucio, and plans to use his father’s watch as leverage to get Luke to help them find the map.

~

*****cw: mentions of drugs, mentions of use of drugs, mentions of past deaths, mentions of past abuse, mentions of blood*****

~

part vii

Luke’s father was standing over Remus’ shoulder, flickering as the Felix wore off, and it was really fucking with Luke’s head.

“Some fellow treasure hunters,” his father said with one of his soft smiles. “Sounds fun.”

“Sober up,” Remus’ voice filtered in. “What makes you sober up?”

“I’m not drunk.”

Luke watched Remus just shake his head at him. His father’s flickering frame was looking closely at Saint, who was picking up everything in sight.

“We both know what you are,” Remus replied. “Now, come on. Coffee? Anything I can do without waking your mom up.”

“She’s not going to wake up,” Luke rubbed his eyes. “She takes these—sleeping things, I don’t know.”

“Well—“ Remus hesitated. Behind him, Luke’s father flickered out.

“I’m fine,” Luke said. “What’s going on?”

“We’re bargaining, remember?” Saint held up Luke’s father’s watch again. “Tell me about your father, Deveaux.”

Luke blinked. “What?”

“Well, Lupin’s already told us a little. You, him, and your treasure hunting days.”

Luke looked at Remus, who looked half-guilty and half-curious. “You mean—like when we were kids?”

Luke didn’t want to tell them about the time he had spent with his father in here, just the two of them, fantasizing about gold and pirates.

“We were at the museum just now,” Remus began slowly. “Your dad loaned out a map…it’s of the Cradle. Of a, what was it, a trading post?”

The tall, blond boy standing in a corner nodded.

Remus looked back to Luke. “Have you seen it? Here?”

“A map?” Luke scrubbed his hand over his face again. “What fucking time is it?”

“Oh, he’s swearing,” Saint said as he opened another drawer. “He’s back.”

“Fuck—” Luke clamped his mouth shut. He turned away from Saint and fully towards Remus. Sirius and another dark haired boy were standing near the blond one. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Treasure?”

Remus winced. “Like the Voldemort.”

“The—what? He was never serious about that stuff,” Luke replied. “It was just for fun.”

“And yet he takes it upon himself to acquire an ancient document,” Saint piped up from behind him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luke said again over his shoulder.

“Um—“

Luke looked towards the blond boy, who had taken a hesitant step forward.

“I know what it looks like. My dad had a copy.”

“A true father’s affair,” Saint mumbled.

“What?” Luke asked for what felt like the one hundredth time.

“If we could just look around—” the blond began.

“You come here at ass o’clock in the morning to look around may dad’s study? For a treasure map that your dad has?”

“Used to have,” the blond’s eyes went colder. “His version was lost with him and his boat.”

Luke swallowed, eyes drifting away from the other boy’s blue ones. He looked back to Remus. They used to spend hours playing pirate when they were younger. Remus looked like he was remembering those hours, too.

Luke only had to blink for that golden-edged memory to mingle with the hours Remus had held Luke close in Luke’s bed, letting Luke soak his t-shirt through when they’d taken his dad away.

“Why do you think my dad has it?” Luke said now. “What do you mean loaned?”

“We went looking for it at the museum just now,” Remus explained. “Well—not not we. Saint stole your car—”

Luke looked back at Saint. “I’m aware.”

Saint flashed a smile.

“—and went with Logan,” Remus pointed to the somber looking brunette, “and Leo,” the cold-eyed blond, “to more or less, God, break into the museum archives. If they’re going to find the treasure—which, in my opinion, they’re not—they need—”

“A map,” Luke said, then scoffed out a laugh. “You guys are fucking crazy.”

Remus ran a hand through his hair. “Look, none of this was my idea, but your dad’s name was on the loan card. If it’s here, it's here, and then they’ll take the picture they need and we can all leave. I mean, shit, I have work at seven tomorrow morning, guys.”

Luke let out a long breath. He was tired, from being woken up and from the Felix, and he frankly wanted Saint to stop messing with his father’s things.

He nodded at Remus. “You can look around. And I will. The rest of you, don’t fucking—” he snatched one of his father’s fountain pens out of Saint’s hands. “touch anything.”

Saint just tiled his head defiantly. Luke couldn’t help but hold his gaze for a moment, remembering waking up to those syrupy eyes and feeling—he didn’t know what. Like he was standing on the edge of the Howler cliffs, above a storm-warmed, rough ocean. Saint’s hand had been in his hair, and it had been ever so gentle, unlike the rest of him. His words were tough, and, from what Luke could tell by his own jabs at Saint, so was his skin. He guessed a kid didn’t grow up the way Saint had without at least a little armor—Saint was practically drowning in his own.

As if Luke could talk. Luke looked away and gestured towards Remus. “Let’s get this over with.”

Luke opened drawers and cabinets. He looked through stacks of paper and under dressers. He checked the den, even, just in case, but there was nothing. Everything was orderly—and even more, the police had taken so much. Any paper they could get their hands on. His mom wouldn’t tell him what they were looking for, and neither would the lawyers that occasionally came to the house.

But there was no map.

Luke began to double check, if only at Remus’ insistence, but he was at a loss. There were only so many places—

“What’s your birthday, tweedle?” Saint said suddenly.

“What does that have to do—” Luke began as he turned, but his words died in his throat when he saw Saint.

Luke’s father had had the old map of Hogwarts framed and hanging in his study ever since Luke could remember. He knew its markings as well as he knew the island as it was today. Saint had it tilted to the side, revealing a sliver of sleek steel. A safe.

“I told you not to touch anything,” Luke said breathlessly. He hadn’t known about that safe. He’d stared at that map a thousand times and he hadn’t known. Did his mother know? The lawyers?

“I bet you one of Leo here’s best breakfast sandwiches that the map’s in here,” Saint replied, nodding to the frame. “Little bit of an X marks the spot, don’t you think? Now,” Saint reached for the painting and unhooked it smoothly, setting it on the ground to reveal the neat square metal sunken into the wall with a dial in the center. “Tell me your birthday.”

“Why do you think the combination is my birthday?”

Saint rolled his eyes. “Because you’re his son. Fathers do that. Don’t they?”

Saint asked the last part like he was trying to be sure, but wasn’t.

“January first,” Luke replied.

Saint hummed as he leaned in. “New year, new you, huh?”

Luke just swallowed dryly as he listened to the dial tick. It felt so loud in the room that was now holding its breath. It felt like it lasted forever, but, finally, the safe opened with a gentle click.

“Damn, Saint,” Sirius said softly.

“I know, I’m so good,” Saint said, and made to push the door open when Luke pushed forward and grabbed his hand. Saint’s fingers were warm in his own. Saint raised an eyebrow.

“Like you said,��� Luke still felt breathless. “I’m his son. I’m doing this.”

Saint raised his free hand in surrender until Luke let go, and he backed away. Luke faced the safe. He felt the Felix in him all over again, though it was long gone. He felt his father, smelled his cigars. Luke reached for the door, too aware of the four pairs of eyes on him, and pulled it open.

It was relatively empty. There were papers that looked like they had once bound money, but lay ripped and lifeless now. There was a case of expensive cigars.

And there was an envelope with Luke’s name on it.

“There’s a letter,” Luke said faintly, picking it up. “For me.”

He looked up at Remus, and Remus nodded.

“Like the clues he would leave us?” Remus said quietly.

Luke went for the seal—only to have it snatch out of his hands.

He looked up, eyes wide, and found the unfamiliar brunette—Logan, Remus had said—staring back at him, at all of them, with wild green eyes.

“Logan,” Leo said, voice filled with surprise. “What the hell are you—”

But Logan just backed up towards the door. There was a familiar click, and the flame of a lighter appeared in his other hand.

“Hey—” Luke stepped forward, panicked, but Saint’s palm pushed against his chest.

“Don’t,” Saint said softly, for Luke’s ears only.

“That’s mine,” Luke snarled, shoving Saint away.

“Yeah, well I have something I want, too,” Logan snapped, and then looked at Saint. He held the flame closer to the envelope. “You want to know what this says? Then—”

“So do you, Logan,” Saint said. “You need that money. You know you do. The Carrows know it, too.”

“You owe me something first. I want Finn.”

“I don’t owe you,” Saint replied evenly. “I don’t owe anyone. That’s kind of my general idea in life, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Logan faltered, and the flame slipped close enough to the envelope to make smoke trail, but when Luke stepped forward, Logan took another step back. He looked small, framed by the grand desk and leather chairs. Small and scared.

“You left us in there,” he finally whispered, and Luke thought he heard Saint’s breathing stop and hold, like a punch to the gut.

“He was seven years old,” Sirius growled, and Luke didn’t know what they were talking about, was done waiting.

“Do you know the last time I talked to my dad?” Luke said, voice raising. He glanced upstairs, careful of his mother despite her pills, and dropped it to a deadly whisper again. “He’s not allowed calls. Not until the investigation’s over. This could—” Luke hesitated at putting his wildest, most desperate hope into words. “This could prove he’s—”

“Do you think I give a shit about the last time you talked to your daddy?” Logan snarled just as harshly. “When’s the last time I talked to mine? Oh. Right.”

“Please,” Luke heard the word rip out of his throat before he could help it, but Logan wasn’t even looking at him. Logan’s eyes were on Saint.

“Help me get Finn out. The windows are barred now. There are alarms, I’ve seen them.”

“I didn’t use a window,” Saint replied.

“Then show me how you did it.”

“You won’t be able to get in the way I got out.”

“Then do it for me.”

If Luke was begging, so was Logan.

“Fuck, I’ll help you,” Luke shouted. “Just don’t. Please. My father—”

“You don’t know shit about Saint Clair,” Logan snapped, then looked back at Saint. “We both know where he is. Why I haven’t seen him. Saint—”

“All right,” Saint said, voice calm. His brown eyes reminded Luke of stormy seas, ruddy with stirred up sand. “All right, Logan. Just don’t burn the letter.”

“Promise,” Logan said.

Saint laughed, cold and clear. “What has a promise ever meant to either of us? I said I would. Take it or leave it.”

There was a terrifying moment in which Luke worried that the letter would go up in flames anyway. That he would never know what his father had wanted him to have, wanted him to know. He didn’t know Logan, didn’t trust him.

The lighter clicked off and Logan held out the envelope. Luke took it and gave Logan a shove towards the door for good measure.

“Get out,” he said. “Get out of my house.”

“What does the letter say?” Logan replied firmly. “It could be about the map.”

Luke laughed, and it rang a close twin to Saint’s in his own ears. “You should have thought about that before you held it hostage for your orphan friend.”

Logan took a step forward, mouth opening to protest, but Luke was bigger than him, stronger and taller. He met him chest to chest.

“I said get out.”

“Logan,” Saint sighed. “Listen to him.”

Leo stepped forward then, a gentle hand on Logan’s fiery frame. Logan simmered for another moment, but let Leo lead him from the room, lighter still clutched in his fist. Remus followed them with a whispered, I’m sorry that Luke barely heard.

He faintly heard Saint say something to Sirius, who followed Remus.

Saint, the only one left in the room now, looked at Luke steadily. Luke expected some sort of joke, or a snarky remark about the desperation Luke had shown—something he tried to never let slip through. He didn’t care what it was. He just wanted to be alone, to have this room feel like his father’s again. Instead of a crime scene. Instead of a lead, or a pin-point on a map. Just his father’s familiar room.

Instead Saint tossed him something that shone—his keys.

“Let us know, if you want,” Saint said simply, and held the gold watch out. Luke took it with shaking fingers, watching him go.

Then, he looked down at the letter, at his name in his father’s familiar scrawl. He peeled back the seal with a lump forming in his throat.

~

Remus’ steps slowed to a stop when he saw who was waiting for him at the end of his dock in the five-AM light.

Sirius had his flip-flops beside him, his feet dangling over the edge into the water, the Wolfsbane rocking gently in the early morning waves to his left.

“Sirius?” Remus called, more so that the first thing Sirius felt wasn’t the shaking of his footsteps than anything else.

Sirius jerked around, startled either way, and scrambled to stand.

“Hi,” he said. “Or, morning.”

“Morning,” Remus laughed a little, glancing at the boat. “I…is this you taking me up on my offer?”

Sirius ran a hand through his thick black hair. “Ah, well, I’m here to say sorry about last night. Dragging you into it and all. That wasn’t fair of Saint, but he’s…I don’t know what he is right now. I usually do but…not this time, I guess.”

Remus nodded, trying to buy himself time to figure out what to say. He stepped onto his boat and took a rope in hand, just for something to do. To hold onto. Sirius had spoken the words plainly enough. There was nothing about Saint and himself being together, but Remus still sensed some sort of intimacy that wasn’t quite friendship, just as he had at the museum.

“It’s okay,” Remus said. “All’s well that ends well, right?”

Sirius’ smile was a small, relieved one. “I guess so. Still. He was on some sort of mission. He still hasn’t told me anything, so.”

Remus leaned back from stowing his phone and keys securely in a hatch. “He doesn’t seem like the type of person you can really get things out of.”

“That’s true,” Sirius laughed, and it was easier this time. “Anyway, I’ll let you…I just wanted to say.”

Remus wanted to ask again, if Sirius would come with him, but Sirius was already backing away and so Remus just nodded.

“Thanks.”

He turned after he said it, breathing in the ocean air and trying to still himself, to let the familiarity of his boat and sails wash over him. He would find someone. Maybe they weren’t Sirius Black. Maybe they just weren’t here. Maybe he’d fall in love on the water, or in a classroom, or—

“Can I?” Remus heard Sirius say, and turned to look. Sirius had stopped half way down the dock.

Remus raised an eyebrow.

“Take you up on your offer?”

Remus smiled, even if his hope at Sirius’ words paired with the thought of Saint made his heart a little tender.

“Of course you can,” Remus said.

Sirius jogged towards him with a grin of his own, but he paused before he stepped onto the Wolfsbane, looking down. Remus wondered for a moment if it was the gap over the water, but Sirius had said he sailed, too, he’d said—

Remus understood. He unmoored the nose. “Get that rope back there if you finally want to do something other than watch.”

Sirius jumped to unknot the rope with ease, and then stepped onto the waves beside Remus, using one of his feet to push them away from the dock. Remus let them drift a moment, feeling for the wind. It was quiet for now, but he could see rougher waves out past the point.

“Is it just yours?” Sirius asked as he watched Remus with the tiller.

“Yep, birthday present,” Remus patted the side. “My baby.”

Sirius smiled. “It’s a beautiful boat.”

The wind began to pick up as they got farther from the land, pushing towards the open water. Remus’ heart seemed to pick up with it and, glancing at Sirius, who looked contemplative and—well, beautiful—Remus didn’t think it was merely the sea’s doing.

Remus had never thought too much about Sirius Black. Sirius had been there one day, gone the next, and in the run-ins at James’ house once Sirius had started working there, he had been a suddenly handsome face. Grown into himself and strong from his outdoor work. In turn, Remus always became suddenly awkward around the boy who obviously didn’t like Gods. He and James poked fun at each other, he and Luke were downright hostile, and Remus didn’t know where he fit in.

He hoped the water and the Wolfsbane would do some talking for him, and maybe some listening, too.

They didn’t speak as they began to fly. The pontoons skimmed the waves and the wind would have snatched their voices away, but Remus swore he heard Sirius laugh.

Sirius knew how to sail, too. He breathed it all in, just as Remus did, and they worked together, balancing and pulling and leaning out to trace their fingers along the water’s surface. It felt as warm as a bath against the cool air.

Remus didn’t let them go too far out, he had to be back, but he would have. He would have sailed right to the horizon with Sirius without looking back.

As the wind died down, as they turned around, Remus felt something different. Like a wind change between the two of them. They grinned at each other, flushed with it, and as the wind cut down more, as they past the point, Sirius’ turned self-conscious but it didn’t disappear like before.

The boat settled into a glide towards the shore. Remus let his feet dangle in the water.

“So, the treasure,” Remus asked, because Sirius looked hesitant to talk, sitting there soundly on the other side of the boat. “Do you think it’s real?”

“Fuck if I know,” Sirius replied, and Remus laughed. “But if Saint thinks it’s worth it…I’ll try to go along with it.”

Remus nodded, taking that in. Saint. The mention of him slowed his heart back to a glide along with the boat. Remus cleared his throat and Sirius looked back at him from the horizon questioningly.

“What was that thing with—Logan? I mean, you don’t have to tell me but…”

Sirius took a long breath. “Logan has someone, Finn, inside Saint Clair. Finn helped him escape. And I don’t know if it’s guilt that’s making him help to get Finn out, or something more, but…Saint's the one who can help.”

“Because he escaped.”

Sirius nodded. “Right.”

“Is it complicated?” Remus asked. “Like, is he worried he won’t be able to do it twice?”

Sirius shook his head. “It’s not complicated.”

He was silent for a moment, and Remus didn't want to push him. He waited, seeing if Sirius would continue.

“Saint walked right out the front door,” Sirius finally finished, and looked at Remus. “I think he’s worried because it wasn’t a grand escape, even if he tells it that way. Even if he makes it seem like he climbed walls or something. He’s worried because…because it was a fluke. Sometimes there are doors you can’t walk back through.”

Sirius said the last sentence heavily, as if he had a door of his own. Remus guessed that maybe everyone did.

“So, what’s he going to do for Finn and Logan?”

Sirius just shook his head again. “I have no idea. But I’ll help him in any way that I can.” Half a smile raised Sirius’ mouth. “If he lets me.”

~

“No.”

“Tell me,” Sirius demanded. Saint just rolled his eyes and popped a sweet potato fry into his mouth.

“Tell us,” Dorcas cut in from her place beside Marlene.

“Right,” Sirius said. “Sorry.”

“Saint,” Marlene sighed. “If you’re not going to tell us, it’ll make us think you have no plan at all.”

“Who invited the God?” Saint said airily.

“My girlfriend,” Dorcas scuffed the back of his head.

“Not for long she’s not,” Saint replied, and at Dorcas and Marlene’s expressions, waved a hand. “Come on. She’s going to college, Dor, you’re not…don’t tell me you haven’t talked about it.”

“We—” Dorcas began, but flushed and closed her mouth. Sirius glanced at Marlene, whose eyes were firmly down towards her burger.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Sirius sighed.

“I’m not, I’m just telling everyone what to expect.”

“Saint,” Sirius leaned forward. “How are you going to get Finn out of Saint Clair? You said last time—”

Saint cut in quickly, “I say a lot of things to you that are just for you, Black.”

“Well, I don’t know what to do with what you said,” Sirius replied. “Come on. Please. Is it because you don’t know? Is that why you won’t say anything?”

Saint stayed quiet, looking down at his food. “I know. We’ll just have to see if it works.”

“Saint,” Dorcas leaned forward and Saint turned his palm up for her hand. He knew they were trying to help. “Babe, we just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“You mean you want to make sure it’s not too insane.”

Sirius nodded. “That, too.”

“Can’t you just rest assured that I’m doing this for myself, too?” Saint said. “I’ll get Finn out, Logan will calm the fuck down, and maybe Luke will let us know about the treasure.”

“Who gives a fuck about this treasure?” Dorcas said harshly.

“It probably doesn’t even exist,” Sirius added.

“You want off this island, like you said? Then you give a fuck.”

Sirius began to shake his head. “It’s not—” he said, but Saint pushed on, voice raising.

“We’ll get Finn out, we’ll get Luke’s help, we’ll get the map, we’ll find my mom—”

Saint stopped talking, frozen by the words that had ripped out of him of their own accord.

Sirius, Dorcas, and Marlene’s eyes were wide. Pity. The word seemed to hang in the air.

“The treasure, I meant,” Saint managed. “We’ll find the treasure and…”

“Saint…” Dorcas said, and when he looked at her…Pity. “Do you know where she is?”

Saint was furious with himself for the slip. He was looking for Sirius. He wanted the treasure for Sirius, he didn’t need it for himself. He didn’t need anything, especially not people who left. Not his mom, not Sirius.

“I don’t need help with Saint Clair,” Saint said and pushed his chair back, leaving them staring at each other across the table.

~

Saint hadn’t let any of them come. He didn’t want anyone here to see him tremble and shake at doing the one thing he had always promised himself he would never do. The one thing he didn’t think he could do.

But, thinking about it, the trick wasn’t getting out. Anyone could walk out the door. The nuns needed it that way, for business. For the appearance of normalcy. The real trick was getting inside without being let in. The way to keep secrets, after all, wasn’t keeping everyone out. Walls begged to be breached. The secret was to filter the truth. Let people see half, a quarter, or different parts at different times. The trick was getting in to see the whole picture.

Maybe Saint was half of Saint Clair, keeping his cards close to his chest.

The offices. He needed to get the the offices, and then he needed to get to Finn. In and out—just not through the door this time.

“What’s the plan?” said a voice just behind him, and Saint closed his eyes.

Sirius.

“I told you not to come,” Saint said.

“And I told me yes,” Sirius parroted. They rolled their eyes at each other even as Sirius rested a gentle hand over Saint’s where it was clenched over his own knee. They crouched beside each other, staring at Saint Clair in the darkness. It was two in the morning, maybe a little past it now, and Saint wanted everyone to be asleep.

He looked towards the chimney. It was wide and old fashioned. It would be too hot for them to be using it tonight.

“Jesus Christ,” Sirius sighed, following his gaze.

“The windows are barred. The doors are alarmed. I’ve cleaned that thing, I know it’s big.”

“Yeah, everything looks big to a seven year old,” Sirius countered.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

“And getting out?” Sirius asked.

“Alarms don’t go off if you open the door from the inside. There’s a kitchen door around the back. We’ll use it. We just have to get in.”

Sirius nodded slowly, and then asked, “Your mom?”

Saint pressed his lips together. He needed to get to the office, and then to Finn, and then out.

He started forward towards the drain pipe, just like on Luke’s house, and didn’t look to see if Sirius was following him.

~

Marlene didn’t like seeing that contemplating look at Dorcas’ face. Dorcas was chewing on her lip, eyes staring at the movie playing on Marlene’s laptop, but she was somewhere else entirely. Marlene put her pencil down at wiggled her toes, which were in Dorcas’ lap. Dorcas blinked and looked at her.

“Don’t listen to Saint,” Marlene said. “He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

But even saying that ate at her. Marlene thought of the acceptance email, of California and Berkeley, buried in her inbox right now. Tell her, said everything inside, but Dorcas already had that look on her face. The worrying, I-want-everything-that’s-good-for-you-regardless-of-what-it-means-for-me-or-us look.

Marlene didn’t want to see that look. She’d seen it the first time her father had banned her from seeing a Salazar girl. They had been fifteen and Dorcas had offered to stop, and Marlene had kissed the idea right out of her mouth, right out of existence.

This was different. She couldn’t kiss college away. She didn’t want to. But she also wanted Dorcas, and California felt far, far away.

Dorcas chewed on her lip some more, then rubbed a soothing thumb over Marlene’s ankle. “We haven’t really talked about it, though.”

“I know,” Marlene said softly. She pushed herself up and set her sketchbook aside before reaching over to close the laptop, cutting the actor off in mid-sentence. “I guess I’m sort of…avoiding it.”

“We are, you mean,” Dorcas offered her a small smile. “I…I know we said we wanted to just have our summer, and I do want that. But I think I would feel better knowing what you think. About, you know…about when you do start hearing back.”

Marlene looked down as she whispered, “I got into Berkeley.”

A short sucked-out sound of silence filtered in between them for a moment. Marlene looked up.

“I should have said,” Marlene sighed. “I know I should have. I just…”

“Sweetheart,” Dorcas sighed, and then Marlene was pressed back onto the bed, Dorcas’ hard kisses bringing a hot blush to her cheeks. “That’s amazing.”

Marlene hummed against Dorcas’ mouth, a sad-happy sound, and wound her fingers into her hair as Dorcas kissed along her jaw. “It can be as amazing as it wants, but it’s really far away. And you like it here, and—”

“I like you,” Dorcas said, and pushed herself onto her forearms so she could look down at Marlene. “Marls, the question about us was never a debate about you following your dreams and going to college, just like you want. The question lies with me. I don’t know how to pull off following you yet, but I’m working on it.”

Marlene looked up at her and felt tears join the heat within, felt her voice wobble. “I’ll miss you. I want you to be safe, and I want you to be with me.”

Dorcas’ kiss was softer this time. “Me too.”

Marlene enjoyed it for a moment, relief bubbling in her chest, until Dorcas began laughing into her mouth.

“Maybe the boys will find that treasure and give me a piece of it.”

Marlene laughed, too. “God, if that’s our best option…”

They wound tighter together, snuggling down into Marlene’s quilt. Dorcas pressed her forehead against Marlene’s.

“Whatever I can do, I’ll do it,” Dorcas said. “I want you, wherever we are.”

Marlene just kissed her again.

~

Sirius was noisier on the climb than Saint would have liked, but they made it to the slanted roof without trouble, standing on its apex to stare down into the soot-dark.

“Is this really going to work?” Sirius whispered.

“It could.”

“Why not climb the fence? Maybe that door is open.”

“Too loud.”

“Why didn’t you let Logan come with us?”

Saint huffed out an annoyed breath. “Because if this goes wrong, what Finn did was for nothing. If this goes really wrong, at least there would still be one of us on the outside who knows what it looks like inside,” Saint stared out at the trees and bit of coast they could see by moonlight from here. “One of us who doesn’t return every night, that is.”

Saint went down the chimney first, one step at a time. The stones and rusted iron rungs provided easy enough footholds, they just had to hope no one was having a midnight cup of tea when they reached the bottom. He looked up once, blinking through the fine grit of ash that seemed to hang in the air, at Sirius’ face, the silver moonlight like a halo around his dark hair.

And Saint kept climbing down. He went slowly, listening hard. If someone was down there, they’d hear him, and then he’d hear them, and he could scramble back up the chimney and out of sight. Once he was down, however, who knew what they would do to keep him that way. He could practically taste the heavy sleep of Crucio, and his stomach rolled against the images it brought back. The many different families—fathers, siblings, and mothers. So many mothers that he didn’t even know which had been his own anymore.

He hated them for it. He hated them for thinking he wanted that.

Saint’s trembling foot slipped on the last hold and he tumbled out, only barely withholding a cry as the log holders scraped heavily across his side.

“Saint,” came Sirius’ harsh whisper from above him, and Saint waved a hand beneath the flue to show he was okay, then pushed himself up from the now ashy floor, gripping his side.

He knew this room too well. He knew it through the over-active eyes of a five year old. He knew it through the only slightly more alert gaze of his seven year old self.

It was smaller than he remembered. Shabbier than it had seemed then, with its hard couches and children’s books, its desk by the window that still held a letter opener that he had eyed a few times, wondering if he could fight his way out like heroes did in the books he read. Now, he willed all to stay quiet as he walked over and picked up the dull knife. He hated the sight of it.

Sirius came after him, more smartly, landing feet first.

“You could have fucking impaled yourself,” Sirius whispered.

“I didn’t, though,” Saint said, and looked at his ribs. The cuts stung, but the bleeding didn’t look too bad, just enough to dot uneven lines across his t-shirt.

Sirius lifted his shirt to see, and passed a careful thumb near the worst of them, his other a familiar weight on the side of Saint’s neck.

“Let’s go,” Saint whispered.

“Wait,” Sirius said, and turned Saint’s gaze gently to meet his own.

“We don’t have all the time in the world,” Saint began, but Sirius just shook his head, silencing him.

“Listen to me,” Sirius whispered. “All right? Just this once. Just listen to me.”

Saint closed his eyes briefly. “We don’t have time to talk.”

That only succeeded in bringing Sirius’ other hand to his cheek. “If something goes wrong, you just run.” Sirius reached down and took the knife, setting it back on the desk. “Don’t think about me. They can’t keep me.”

“They’ll give you to your parents,” Saint warned.

“I don’t care,” Sirius said. “They can’t keep me. They could try to keep you and I won’t let that happen.”

Saint looked up at Sirius. The only person he could ever remember caring. Saint didn’t like that a side effect of being cared about was caring back, didn’t like that risk…but he liked Sirius.

“You’re leaving anyway,” Saint said. “It doesn’t matter where I am.”

“I never said that and you’re wrong.”

“But you will say it.”

Saint turned away, keeping a hand laced with Sirius’ to pull him towards the dorms. He knew the words sounded accusing and regretful, but he only half meant them that way. Sirius deserved to go.

Sirius didn’t respond. It wasn’t the moment, and they needed to listen for other things.

The dorms came up on their left. Boys to one side of the hall, girls to the other. Saint paused, looking in.

You’ll sleep here with the rest of the boys, Sebastian. Be a good boy and make your bed every morning and you’ll get a treat with breakfast. Chocolate milk, how does that sound?

“Was this you?” Sirius whispered, and Saint shrugged.

“I slept all over this place,” Saint breathed to Sirius. “I’d sneak into the other dorms, the attic, the reading room. I was just…” Saint turned away, unable to stand the softly rising and falling chests of the boys within. “I was just trying to find a place where I felt like myself. Maybe it wasn’t the place, though.”

Maybe it was the dreams. Maybe the drug.

“Maybe it’s just me,” Saint said.

Grimmauld was the closest he had ever gotten, the most settled he’d ever felt. He loved the ocean, and his gold draped vanity, and Sirius always beside him. But there was still—something. A misplaced, tweaked something inside of him that was feeling around in the dark for a comfortable position. Saint didn’t even know what he was looking for, but he did know that it was too dark to find it right now. Sirius had been the first gleam of bright, a pin-prick of a star, a friend, a lover, and a safe place. But stars weren’t a moon or a sun. He needed light to see.

“Let’s go,” Saint said. “This way.”

They walked the halls carefully, listening after nearly every step. Saint knew that the nuns slept at the other end of the house, but that they woke to check in on the children. He couldn’t remember when, though. With the Crucio, his young age, and the late hour, the nights had felt the same and endless. He’d shuffled around like a small ghost, trying to escape the unfamiliar dream-faces. They’d only caught him a few times. A slap on the wrist. Solitary.

That’s why he nearly jumped when they heard the first footsteps. He was seven again, haunting this place and being haunted in return. Saint froze, eyes on the bend in the hallway.

“Here,” Sirius whispered, and together they ducked into a room—the offices, Saint realized—and behind the open wooden door. They huddled together, barely daring to breathe as the footsteps got closer.

“Sirius,” Saint breathed, and didn’t realize he was trembling again until Sirius’ arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“Shh,” Sirius hushed him.

The footsteps passed right by them, towards the kitchen, Saint realized, and Sirius pressed Saint against him more tightly, no doubt feeling the dry pants that his breathing had turned into. They would be caught. They would be seen. Saint hid his face in Sirius’ neck.

Don’t be a waste of space, boy. Line up, after number six, come on.

He took up too much space here.

Try that again, Sebastian, and you know what happens.

Saint hated that name. He couldn’t remember who had given him that name. His mother? The nuns? What was a name if it was just a number, too? A way to keep track of him. A way to tell him what he was. Orphan boy. Five. Six. Seven. Abandoned. Good. Bad. Asleep. Awake.

Go to sleep now, there’s a good boy.

The hall was silent again and Saint felt Sirius’ embrace ease, felt his hand running soothingly along his spine.

“I’ve got you,” Sirius said the words so quietly they were barely words at all. “Let’s just go. Let’s get out of here.”

“Finn,” Saint rasped.

Saint looked up and saw the protest in Sirius’ eyes. It was wrong of Logan to make you come here.

“I told him to stay away,” Saint said softly. “I needed to come. I needed to come and get out again.”

Saint needed to get rid of some of this damned dark.

Saint pulled away from Sirius carefully and peaked around the door with a dry swallow before walking over to the cabinets. Records. They weren’t in alphabetical order, though. They were numbered.

Saint fingered his cross, looking towards 1-20.

7.

He traced a finger over a key hole dejectedly, and tried the handle anyway. Locked.

“Saint,” Sirius breathed. “Your mom?”

Saint shook his head, clutching his necklace. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I didn’t know you wanted…”

“I don’t,” Saint snapped. “Let’s get Finn.”

The door to solitary was one that Saint knew well. It was a normal door, and the room beyond was a normal room. It was the memories that made it unbearable to see. Almost every kid Saint had known knew what it meant to be in that room. Alone, the wallpaper flowers withered, the bed turned cold, and the ever-changing family members flickered through your mind without anything to counter it. No reality. There was a glass window with the shade pulled. Saint hesitated for a long moment before lifting it up.

“Finn,” he breathed.

Finn’s red hair was fiery against the white bed spread. He was asleep, and Saint swore he could see Finn’s eyelids flicker from here.

Saint wrapped his fingers carefully around the door. The trick was getting in to see the whole picture.

Everything in Saint Clair felt locked from within. Everything in Saint did, too. It had taken years of wandering around at night for Saint to discover that he could open more doors than he had thought. He was still trying doors eight years alter.

The hinges didn’t so much as squeak, and Saint felt like a ghost again.

“Don’t let this close on me,” Saint whispered to Sirius. His voice shook and just one of his feet just barely breaching the threshold.

Sirius held the frame fast and shook his head, leaning forward to press a steady kiss to Saint’s forehead.

Saint crossed the small room in two slow steps and knelt beside the bed, the motion making the punctures on his torso ache. He pressed a hand to Finn’s cheek and stroked a gentle thumb across the freckles on his skin until Finn stirred.

“Bash,” Finn murmured, eyes barely open.

“Hi, Finn,” Saint said softly and gathered Finn into a sloppy sitting position. “Let’s get you out of here, huh? See if you’re worth all of this fucking trouble.”

“Crucio,” was Finn’s only half-spoken reply. “They make it.”

And then Finn went limp again in Saint’s arms.

~

All Logan could taste was sour guilt, despite the heaven Leo had placed on a plate in front of him not too long ago.

For Saint. For Leo. For the letter and even Luke. For the map. The treasure. The Carrows.

Finn.

His heart ached with the thought of seeing him. Of holding him.

“Why weren’t we allowed to go with him?” Logan asked Leo for what he knew was the tenth time, but he couldn’t help it. “I asked him to help me, not go for me.”

“It’s easier to get one person in and out than two?” Leo said. He was puttering around the small kitchen, had been for the last hour, and the entire house smelled like sugar and cinnamon now, replacing the herbs, lemon, and chicken. He didn’t look at Logan when he said it.

He hadn’t looked at Logan much at all since the night at the museum.

Logan watched him taste a bit of what looked like frosting and wet his lips.

“Are you mad at me?” Logan whispered.

Leo’s restless hands paused. Logan watched his chest rise and fall once.

“I’m not mad,” Leo said finally. The heat of the oven had fluffed out his hair. “I mean, I’m not sure if we reached a dead-end or not…and you could have told me you were going to do that. I said I would help you, didn’t I?”

“I needed Ba—Saint,” Logan replied. “But I also…I should have told you. And I shouldn’t have made Saint go. I just want…he’s my family. Finn is my…”

“I understand why you did it,” Leo cut in softly. “I probably would have done worse if I thought that there was something that could save my dad.”

That just made Logan feel even smaller, sitting at the table. Leo glanced at him, gave him a tight smile, then went to the sink and began scrubbing dishes.

“Hey,” Logan said, then rose and strode over to Leo. “Hey, let me clean up.”

“I just need something to do,” Leo said shortly.

“Me, too.”

They stood, their shoulders pressed together. Logan washed. Leo dried. He slipped cinnamon rolls into the oven and then returned. They kept close to each other at the sink and it felt…so normal. Like a home. Leo felt like a home.

“I never really thanked you properly,” Logan said into the now more comfortable silence. “For letting me stay with you. And—I just want to say, and now with Finn…I understand if you want us to leave. I mean, three’s a crowd.”

“You’re welcome here,” Leo said quickly. Logan watched his throat bob. He was looking away again. “You should do what feels best for you, but you’re both welcome here. Just—”

Leo paused, and Logan found himself suddenly desperate to hear what he had to say. He knew he hadn’t been friendly all the time. He knew he’d been selfish. Leo had been nothing but kind. He was funny and warm, teaching Logan how to weld two pieces of metal, talking about the latest book he was reading while he whisked batter and handed Logan different new recipes he was trying out.

Finn would like Leo, Logan thought, and glanced towards the door. Maybe he was about to find out.

“Never mind,” Leo said, and flashed a smile.

Logan went to protest, but then his phone began buzzing madly on the table and he all but lunged for it.

~

Luke stared down at his father’s handwriting.

Luke, it began. And then there was a name.

Pascal Dumais.

There was no mention of himself. There was nothing. Luke had thought this would make him feel better, make it easier. Only, now, he was frustrated to the point of tears. He couldn’t seem to ease the lump that was lodged in his throat. He clutched the paper in his fingers hard enough to tear, willing something else to appear on it. He thought of Felix.

“Well?” said a voice from his window.

“Oh—” Luke flinched, surprised, then cursed at Saint, who was stretched out on his window sill. “Come on. Are you kidding me?”

Saint’s mouth twitched up in a smile, but it was strained. He was sitting awkwardly, tense rather than his usual languid posture.

“What’s wrong with you?” Luke asked hesitantly, trying to discreetly wipe at his face.

“What isn’t?”

Luke spotted the blood between Saint’s fingers and rose. “You’re hurt.”

“I fell down a chimney.”

“Is that a joke?”

“No.”

Luke blinked. “That’s how you got into Saint Clair? And you climbed to my window?”

Saint pulled himself all the way through the window with a soft groan and Luke walked forward, hands hovering near Saint’s shoulders, unsure if he should help.

“The orphan?” he asked instead, then at Saint’s sharp look, “Finn?”

“Sirius is bringing him to Grimmauld.”

“What’s Grimmauld?”

Saint sat down heavily in Luke’s desk chair, hand still pressed to his side. He had what looked like soot on his hands and face. “A place.” He picked up a book. Jane Eyre. “Didn’t take you for a romantic.”

“You’re bleeding all over my room.”

“Lucky you.”

Luke tucked the note into the pocket of his shorts. “Fuck—come here. Jesus.”

He walked into his bathroom and jammed the light switch up, looking back when Saint didn’t follow him. “Come here.”

Saint rose, still holding the book. “I am coming!” Saint quoted, head tilted in a way that made his neck look long. “Wait for me! Oh, I will come!”

“Very funny,” Luke sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a reader.”

“Why?” Saint said as he stepped out of the darkness of the bedroom and into the yellow-lighted bathroom. His brown eyes took on the soft yellow, too, and he leaned forward as he pushed himself up onto the counter carefully. “Because I don’t buy my books and,” Saint looked down at the book, flipping through it. “Write all over them like you do?”

“Because you didn’t go to school,” Luke said with a raised eyebrow as he ducked for the first aid kit beneath his sink. It was good to have one near during the lacrosse season—or it used to be.

Saint rolled his eyes. “You Gods and your single paths in life. You’re all stupid.”

“Then why are you here?” Luke asked as he unlatched the kit.

“Because this is the last place anyone would look for me,” Saint replied. “And you’re mean.”

“Mean? Are we in seventh grade?” Luke scoffed as he wet a towel in the sink. “I don’t know if it’s healthy to want to be around people who you think are mean to you."

“I just don’t want to talk about it,” Saint said. “And that’s all Sirius will want to do. And I don’t want to. And we don’t have this shit at Grimmauld.”

“Is that where you live?”

Saint just set the book down and reached behind himself to tug his shirt over his head. Luke tried not to stare at Saint’s smooth, light brown skin. He swallowed, busying himself with the bandages and the wet towel again.

“For all the breaking into places you do, maybe you should invest in some band-aids,” Luke said, and glanced down at the finely woven muscle on Saint’s ribs, at the red edges of the slashes. “If you flinch too much, you’re doing this yourself.”

Saint smiled. “Mean.”

“Fuck off,” Luke said, out of reflex, and then pressed his lips together. Saint laughed and then hissed as Luke pressed the towel to the cut.

They were close like this, Luke leaned in to dab the blood away, and then dot it with disinfectant, all while Saint’s muscles jumped beneath the palm he had steadied low on his belly. He could feel Saint watching him, and remembered waking up to those eyes. Saint’s hand in his hair.

“How did you do it?” Luke said into the small space between them. “Get in and out.”

“The chimney.”

So, he was serious.

“What did the letter say?” Saint asked.

Luke glanced up at him warily, but wiped a hand on his shorts before fishing the letter out of his pocket and handing it over. “Do you know who that is?”

Saint read it quietly, and then met Luke’s eyes. Luke was stuck there, pinned like a tack in a map, marking the place to be.

“Yes,” Saint said, and smiled brightly. “I know exactly who this is.”