#jean is not there but will be there in the middle of the night

[hsjazebel]

Meant to be

Summary: Y/N never expected a college party to change anything—until she met Harry. What starts as a quiet connection over books and movies slowly turns into something deeper, proving that some things are simply meant to be.

Wordcount: 32k+ (I have been carried away, sorry 😅)

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day! ♡ Here’s a little story about love finding you when you least expect it. Hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think!

Masterlist

— — —

The party was louder than she expected.

Y/N wasn’t sure why she had let Charlotte convince her to come. Maybe it was the way her roommate had pleaded, eyes wide with excitement, promising it would be “just for an hour.” Or maybe it was the fact that she had spent too many Friday nights curled up in bed while the rest of campus buzzed with energy.

She had thought, just for once, that maybe she should say yes.

But now, standing in the middle of the crowded living room, she regretted it.

The music thumped against the walls, the bass so deep she could feel it in her ribs. Laughter and voices blurred together in an endless hum, broken only by the occasional shout of someone calling out to a friend. The air was thick—too many people, too much perfume, too much heat.

She tugged at the hem of her sweater, suddenly self-conscious. She wasn’t dressed for this, not like the other girls in shimmering tops and short skirts. She had gone for comfort—jeans, a fitted top, her favorite oversized cardigan—but now she felt out of place, like she hadn’t read the unspoken dress code.

Charlotte had disappeared almost immediately, swallowed up by the crowd, probably off to find that guy she’d been texting. Y/N had tried to follow for a bit, but the sea of people made it impossible to keep up.

Now she was alone, pressed against the wall, holding a drink she hadn’t even sipped.

She exhaled, glancing toward the front door. Maybe she could just leave. Charlotte wouldn’t mind—she was too caught up in her own night.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an open door leading to the balcony.

Without thinking, she headed for it, slipping outside and closing the door behind her.

Cool air washed over her, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat inside. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and leaned against the railing, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal. The city stretched out in front of her, distant lights flickering against the night sky. From here, the noise of the party was muffled, just a dull hum beneath the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle over her.

And then—

“You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

The voice was smooth, warm. British.

Her eyes snapped open.

Turning slightly, she found herself face to face with someone she recognized immediately.

Harry Styles.

Her breath hitched, just for a second.

She had seen him around before, of course. It was hard not to notice him. He wasn’t the typical loud, overly confident guy that thrived in these kinds of settings, but he had a presence that made people gravitate toward him anyway. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—calm, collected, always with an air of quiet amusement, like he was in on some inside joke no one else knew about.

Now, standing in front of her in the dim balcony light, he looked impossibly at ease.

His dark curls were pushed back messily, a few strands falling over his forehead. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, framing sharp green eyes that studied her with quiet interest. His loose button-up was unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the intricate tattoos winding down his forearms.

He held a drink casually in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket, like he had all the time in the world.

She swallowed.

“I—uh—yeah,” she finally managed. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

His lips quirked, as if her answer didn’t surprise him at all. “Figured as much.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how exactly did you figure that?”

He took a slow sip from his drink before answering. “Well, for one, you’ve been out here for at least five minutes and haven’t checked your phone once.” His eyes flickered toward the door. “And two… you look like you’re trying to disappear.”

She huffed out a quiet laugh. “That obvious?”

Harry smirked. “A little.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city lights flickered in the distance, and the air between them felt charged—not uncomfortable, but something else entirely.

Then, he shifted slightly, turning more toward her.

“I’m Harry, by the way.”

She let out a small breath, amused. As if she didn’t already know.

“I know,” she admitted, then immediately winced. “I mean—everyone knows who you are.”

Harry chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That’s fair.” He tilted his head slightly. “And you are…?”

“Y/N.”

He repeated it, softer this time, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue. Then, with a small smile, he extended his hand. “Well, Y/N, it’s nice to officially meet you.”

She hesitated for just a second before slipping her hand into his.

His palm was warm, his grip gentle but firm.

“Nice to meet you too, Harry.”

His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary before he let go.

He leaned his elbow against the railing, glancing at her thoughtfully. “So, if parties aren’t your thing… what would you rather be doing right now?”

She bit her lip, thinking. “Watching a movie, probably.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly. “Anything in particular?”

She hesitated, then decided to be honest. “A romcom.”

His lips curled into a slow smile. “You like romcoms?”

She nodded. “I grew up watching them. Notting Hill, 10 Things I Hate About You, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days… I know they’re cheesy, but I love them.”

He studied her for a second, then let out a soft chuckle. “Cheesy doesn’t mean bad. Those are classics.”

She tilted her head. “Wait… you actually like them too?”

Harry smirked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Course I do. I mean, have you seen When Harry Met Sally? It’s got my name in it. That’s a sign, don’t you think?”

She laughed—really laughed, for the first time that night.

Harry watched her, his expression softer now, like he was pleased to be the reason behind it.

The conversation flowed easier after that. They debated over the best romcom of all time, exchanged favorite scenes, and argued about which movie had the most unrealistic yet satisfying ending. Somewhere in between, Y/N forgot about the party altogether.

But eventually, her phone buzzed in her pocket—Charlotte, probably looking for her.

She sighed, realizing she had to go.

Harry noticed. “Leaving already?”

“Yeah, I think so.” She hesitated, then, feeling unusually bold, added, “But… maybe next time, I’ll skip the party and just watch a romcom instead.”

His smile was slow, almost knowing. “Maybe next time, you won’t have to watch it alone.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

And as she stepped back inside, disappearing into the noise and the crowd, she couldn’t help but hope—just a little—that this was only the beginning.

———

The next morning, Y/N woke up to the sound of Charlotte’s voice.

“Well, well, well,” her roommate drawled, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “Look who’s finally awake.”

Y/N groaned, burying her face into the pillow. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” Charlotte said, walking over and flopping down onto the bed beside her. “And you have some explaining to do.”

Y/N peeked at her through one eye. “Explaining?”

Charlotte grinned, far too awake for this early in the morning. “Don’t play innocent with me. You disappeared at the party. And when I finally found you again, you looked… different.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “So spill.”

Y/N sighed, rolling onto her back. “There’s nothing to spill.”

Charlotte gasped dramatically. “Lies! I saw you talking to Harry Styles.” She poked Y/N’s side. “You—quiet, book-loving, avoider of all social gatherings—somehow ended up alone on a balcony with the most intriguing guy on campus.”

Y/N felt her face heat up. “It wasn’t like that,” she muttered.

Charlotte smirked. “Then what was it like?”

Y/N hesitated. The truth was, she wasn’t exactly sure.

“It was… nice,” she admitted after a moment. “We just talked.”

Charlotte studied her, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Talked? That’s it?”

Y/N nodded.

Charlotte huffed, flopping back against the bed. “You’re impossible.”

Y/N smiled, sitting up and stretching. “Did you at least have fun?”

Charlotte let out a dreamy sigh. “Oh, absolutely. And I might have secured myself a coffee date with Mason.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Mason?”

“You know, Harry’s friend? Tall, kind of scruffy, ridiculously charming?” Charlotte waggled her fingers. “I think we have a connection.”

Y/N laughed softly. “I’m happy for you.”

Charlotte sat up again, her expression turning devious. “And speaking of coffee dates…”

Y/N’s stomach fluttered. “No.”

Charlotte pouted. “Come on! I think he likes you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “We talked for, like, twenty minutes.”

Charlotte shrugged. “That’s plenty of time to make an impression. And if he really likes you, you’ll see him again.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Because the thought had already crossed her mind.

Would she see him again?

———

She did.

Three days later.

At the campus café.

Y/N had been curled up in a corner booth, a warm cup of tea beside her as she flipped through a book for class. The café was quiet, filled mostly with students studying or catching up on assignments. The hum of conversation and the occasional clinking of cups created the kind of atmosphere she loved—calm, steady, familiar.

And then, a shadow fell over her table.

“Y/N.”

She looked up.

And there he was.

Harry Styles, standing beside her table, a cup of coffee in one hand and a curious tilt to his head. He wasn’t wearing his glasses today, but she still recognized the quiet amusement in his eyes.

“Hi,” she said, feeling her heart pick up speed.

His lips twitched. “Mind if I sit?”

She hesitated for only a second before shaking her head. “Go ahead.”

Harry slid into the seat across from her, setting his coffee down. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Alright, I might have hoped I would.”

Her stomach did an embarrassing little flip.

“What are you reading?” he asked, nodding toward the book in her hands.

She glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. “Uh, Wuthering Heights.”

His brows lifted, impressed. “Intense choice.”

She shrugged. “It’s for class, but I like it.”

Harry studied her for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, stretching out comfortably. “So, tell me—are you one of those people who think Heathcliff is romantic, or do you see him for the walking red flag that he is?”

Y/N blinked in surprise. “You’ve read it?”

He smirked. “I have.”

She bit her lip, eyeing him. “And?”

Harry sighed dramatically. “Look, I get the passion, the whole ‘soulmate across time and space’ thing, but let’s be honest—if Heathcliff were around today, he’d be sending late-night ‘u up?’ texts and brooding over his ex’s Instagram posts.”

Y/N let out a surprised laugh. “That is… disturbingly accurate.”

Harry grinned. “And you? Are you a Heathcliff apologist?”

She shook her head. “I think he and Cathy deserved each other—because no one else should have to deal with that level of drama.”

Harry chuckled. “Harsh, but fair.”

There was something about the way he looked at her—curious, amused, like he was genuinely interested in what she had to say. It made her stomach twist in a way she wasn’t used to.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Then—

“So,” Harry said, breaking the moment, “you never told me your verdict.”

Y/N frowned. “My verdict?”

“The best romcom of all time.”

She smiled, relieved by the lighter topic. “That’s impossible to answer.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright. Then let’s make it simpler. What’s your go-to comfort movie?”

She thought for a second. “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”

His eyes lit up. “Classic.”

She nodded. “It’s just fun, you know? The whole fake dating thing, the ridiculousness of it all. And Kate Hudson? Iconic.”

Harry smirked. “And the ‘You let it die!’ scene? A cinematic masterpiece.”

Y/N laughed. “Exactly.”

Harry studied her for a moment, then said, “I like that.”

Y/N suddenly felt warm under his gaze. She looked down, tracing the rim of her cup. “What about you?”

Harry pretended to think. “Mmm… Notting Hill.”

She grinned. “Oh, come on. You just like it because of the ‘I’m just a girl’ scene.”

He laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe I like the idea that two people from completely different worlds can still find their way to each other.”

Something about the way he said it made her stomach flutter.

The conversation drifted after that—talk of books, movies, little things that made them both feel at home. The more they spoke, the more Y/N felt that strange, unexpected ease settle between them.

And when she finally glanced at the time, she realized an hour had passed without her even noticing.

“I should probably get to class,” she murmured, closing her book.

Harry nodded, but didn’t look particularly eager to leave.

As she stood, sliding her bag over her shoulder, he tapped his fingers against the table. “So…”

She looked at him expectantly.

He smirked. “Movie night?”

Her heart skipped. “Are you asking me out, Harry Styles?”

His expression was all mischief. “Maybe.”

She bit her lip, pretending to consider. Then, feeling unusually bold, she said, “Okay.”

Harry’s smirk turned into something softer.

“Good,” he said.

And as she walked away, she could feel his eyes on her the whole time.

———

The library was quieter than usual.

Y/N liked it that way. She liked the solitude, the way the world seemed to shrink down to just her and the words on the page. It was calming—predictable.

What she didn’t expect, however, was a voice breaking through the silence.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to hide away in a library for fun.”

She looked up, already knowing who she would see.

Harry stood in front of her table, a familiar smirk on his lips, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He had a notebook tucked under his arm and a coffee in hand, looking completely at ease despite the way his presence sent her heart racing.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “And yet, here you are.”

Harry hummed, sliding into the chair across from her. “Touché.”

She watched as he set his coffee down and flipped open his notebook, as if he belonged there—like this was routine.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you actually here to study, or are you just bothering me for fun?”

Harry grinned. “Can it be both?”

She huffed, biting back a smile as she returned her gaze to her book. But she could still feel his eyes on her.

A beat passed before he spoke again. “Wuthering Heights, huh? Still brooding over Heathcliff?”

Y/N sighed, looking up. “You do realize I read more than one book, right?”

Harry’s smirk widened. “Do you, now?”

She rolled her eyes and turned the book so he could see the title.

His gaze flickered over the cover before he raised an eyebrow. “White Nights?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Surprised?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, studying her. “A little. Didn’t take you for a Dostoevsky kind of girl.”

“And what kind of girl did you take me for?” she challenged.

He smirked. “Jane Austen, maybe. Brontë sisters, definitely. But Russian literature? That’s a surprise.”

She shrugged. “I like stories about lonely people.”

Something flickered in his expression, but it was gone too fast for her to catch.

“Lonely people,” he repeated. “And here I thought you just liked tragic love stories.”

Y/N hesitated, then said softly, “Aren’t they the same thing?”

Harry studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, in a voice quieter than before, he said, “I guess they are.”

Silence settled between them again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like something had shifted—like she had let him see a part of her she didn’t show to just anyone.

Then, after a moment, Harry’s lips twitched up into a smile. “So, is White Nights a re-read, or am I catching you in the middle of a first-time experience?”

She exhaled, grateful for the change in tone. “Re-read.”

His grin widened. “Interesting. That means you must really like it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you about to judge my taste in books?”

Harry smirked. “Not at all. I was actually going to say… maybe I should let you convince me to read it.”

Y/N studied him. “You’ve never read it?”

“Not yet,” he admitted.

A small smile played on her lips. “Maybe you should.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe I will.”

———

That night, her phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

Unknown [9:07 PM]: So, lonely people, huh? Convince me why I should read White Nights.

Y/N frowned, staring at the screen. Who the hell—?

Y/N [9:08 PM]: Who is this?

A pause. Then—

Unknown [9:08 PM]: Wow. That hurts.

Her heart skipped.

She squinted at the message, then at the number, but it wasn’t saved in her contacts.

Y/N [9:09 PM]: Seriously. Who is this??

A few seconds passed before a reply popped up.

Unknown [9:09 PM]: It’s Harry.

She blinked.

Then—

Y/N [9:10 PM]: …How did you get my number?

Harry [9:11 PM]: Your lovely roommate gave it to me.

Y/N groaned out loud. “Charlotte!”

Across the room, Charlotte barely glanced up from her laptop. “Hmm?”

Y/N waved her phone in the air. “Did you seriously give Harry my number?”

Charlotte smirked. “Oh. So he finally texted you?”

“Charlotte.”

“What?” she said innocently. “He asked, and I figured it would take you forever to do it yourself.”

Y/N let out a long, dramatic sigh, turning her attention back to the screen.

Y/N [9:12 PM]: I hate you.

Harry [9:12 PM]: No, you don’t.

She rolled her eyes.

Y/N [9:13 PM]: Maybe you should read it and see for yourself.

Harry [9:14 PM]: Bold of you to assume I have time for Russian literature.

Y/N [9:15 PM]: Bold of you to assume I’d let you borrow my copy.

Harry [9:16 PM]: So possessive. I like it.

Y/N [9:17 PM]: You’re impossible.

Harry [9:17 PM]: And yet, here you are, still texting me.

She bit her lip, trying not to smile.

Harry [9:18 PM]: You still good for our not-date movie night?

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

Y/N [9:19 PM]: You mean the highly academic film screening of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days?

Harry [9:20 PM]: Exactly. For research purposes.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen.

Y/N [9:21 PM]: Yeah. I’m still in.

His reply came almost instantly.

Harry [9:21 PM]: Good.

She stared at the word for a long time, ignoring the way her face felt impossibly warm.

———

“You’ve checked your phone three times in the last minute.”

Y/N shot Charlotte a glare from across the room. “I have not.”

Charlotte smirked, finishing the last touches of her makeup. “You so have.”

Y/N huffed, locking her phone and tossing it onto the bed like that would somehow make her friend drop the topic. “I’m just checking the time.”

“Mm-hmm.” Charlotte turned, arms crossed. “Because, of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that Harry is coming over.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her face felt warm. “It’s just a movie night.”

Charlotte grinned. “And yet, you’ve changed your sweater twice.”

Y/N groaned, flopping back onto her pillows. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Charlotte grabbed her bag, checking her reflection in the mirror. “I think it’s cute that you’re all flustered over him.”

“I’m not flustered.”

Charlotte raised a brow. “You are so flustered.”

Y/N groaned again, covering her face with a pillow.

A knock at the door made her sit up way too fast.

Charlotte smirked knowingly. “That’s my cue.”

Y/N watched as Charlotte opened the door, revealing Harry—standing there in his usual effortless way, glasses on, a bag of snacks in one hand.

“Oh, hey, Harry,” Charlotte greeted with a grin, throwing Y/N one last look. “I was just leaving.”

Harry glanced between them, looking mildly amused. “Leaving?”

“Yep.” Charlotte winked at Y/N. “Have fun.”

And before Y/N could even form a reply, she was gone.

Harry stepped inside, brow raised. “Did I just interrupt something?”

Y/N exhaled, shaking her head. “No. She’s just being Charlotte.”

Harry chuckled, setting the snacks down. “That explains a lot.”

Settling onto the couch, Y/N pressed play on 27 Dresses, tucking her legs under her.

Harry sat beside her, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. The space between them was small—too small—and she tried not to focus on the way his knee almost brushed hers.

“Have you seen this before?” he asked.

She scoffed. “Please. At least twenty times.”

Harry smiled. “Figures.”

For the first half hour, they made occasional comments about the movie—Harry teasing her about knowing all the lines, Y/N defending why it was a romcom classic.

But eventually, the room grew quieter. The soft glow of the screen cast shadows across Harry’s face, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the way his glasses slid down his nose.

And Y/N—despite her best efforts to stay focused on the film—felt her eyelids growing heavy.

She shifted slightly, trying to stay awake, but the warmth of the room, the steady sound of the dialogue, and the presence of Harry right beside her made it impossible.

At some point, she leaned just a little too far to the side—

And before she could stop herself, her head landed gently on his shoulder.

For a second, she almost panicked.

But Harry didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

If anything, he relaxed.

She felt him shift slightly, adjusting so that she fit more comfortably against him.

And just like that, sleep took over.

———

The next morning, the first thing Y/N registered was warmth.

A slow, steady warmth surrounding her, lulling her in a sleepy haze.

Then, she felt movement.

Her eyes fluttered open, and it took her a moment to realize:

She was curled into Harry’s side, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders.

The snack bag was on the floor. The TV screen had long since gone black. The early morning light was filtering through the blinds, casting soft shadows across the room.

And Harry—

Was still asleep.

His head rested against the back of the couch, lips slightly parted, curls falling across his forehead. His glasses were slightly askew, one arm still tucked around her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Y/N barely breathed.

She should move. Should sit up, stretch, do anything to break the moment before he woke up.

But before she could, she felt him shift.

A slow inhale. A stretch.

And then, with a small frown, Harry’s eyes blinked open.

For a second, he looked confused. Disoriented.

Then, his gaze landed on her.

They both froze.

Silence.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

And then—

Harry’s lips twitched, still laced with sleep. “Morning.”

Y/N swallowed. “Morning.”

Another pause.

Then, realization dawned in Harry’s sleepy eyes. He glanced down at their position—her body still tucked into his side, his arm still loosely wrapped around her.

And yet—he didn’t move away.

Instead, his mouth curved into something softer.

“Didn’t mean to steal your couch,” he murmured.

Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh. “Didn’t mean to steal your shoulder.”

Harry smiled.

And for a moment, they just… sat there.

Close. Warm. Unmoving.

Y/N was still sitting on the couch, trying to process the fact that she’d just spent the night curled up against Harry Styles, when she heard him stretch beside her.

She glanced over. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, one hand running through his curls, the other adjusting his glasses.

And he looked… way too good for someone who had just woken up.

Before she could stop herself, she spoke.

“Do you—” She cleared her throat, trying to sound casual. “Do you want some coffee?”

Harry turned to her, blinking.

Then, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Are you offering me coffee, Y/N?”

She rolled her eyes, standing up. “I regret it already.”

Harry chuckled, pushing himself up from the couch. “Too late.”

———

They ended up in the small dorm kitchen, Y/N fumbling with the coffee machine while Harry leaned against the counter, watching her with amusement.

“I didn’t peg you as the type to function without caffeine,” he said.

She scoffed. “Who says I function at all?”

Harry smirked. “Fair point.”

Once the coffee was ready, she handed him a mug, grabbing one for herself before hopping up onto the counter.

Harry took a slow sip, humming in approval. “Not bad.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Not bad?”

“Yeah.” He nudged her knee playfully. “Could be better.”

She gasped in mock offense. “You are such a snob.”

Harry grinned. “I have high standards.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling.

They fell into comfortable conversation, talking about everything from classes to 27 Dresses to how Harry apparently had a very strong opinion about the correct way to make tea.

And Y/N—despite the fact that she had woken up to a situation that should have been extremely awkward—found herself relaxing.

That was, of course, until Charlotte walked in.

She stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight before her—Harry standing in the kitchen, hair still tousled from sleep, drinking coffee from their mugs.

Y/N sitting on the counter, wearing the same clothes from last night.

Charlotte’s eyes widened.

Then, a slow smirk spread across her face.

“Oh,” she said, drawing out the word. “Good morning.”

Y/N groaned. “Charlotte—”

Charlotte ignored her, turning to Harry with an exaggerated expression of surprise. “Wow, Harry. You’re still here?”

Harry, to Y/N’s horror, grinned.

“Apparently, I make decent company, and your couch is not too bad” he said, sipping his coffee.

Charlotte gasped dramatically. “Did Y/N let you sleep on the couch? That is so rude.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Charlotte.”

Charlotte pressed a hand to her heart. “I mean, I was gone all night, you totally could’ve used my bed—”

Y/N almost choked on her coffee. “Oh my God, stop.”

Charlotte just smirked, eyes dancing between them. “I’m just saying…”

Y/N glared. “You’re the worst.”

Harry chuckled, setting down his mug. “I should probably get going before Mason starts wondering where I am.”

He turned to Y/N then, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “Yeah. Anytime.”

Charlotte wiggled her eyebrows.

Y/N shot her a warning look.

Harry—completely amused—grabbed his bag and made his way to the door.

“See you later, Y/N.”

And with that, he was gone.

Y/N barely had time to let out a breath before Charlotte pounced.

“So.”

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t.”

Charlotte ignored her, flopping onto the couch with a wicked grin. “You slept together.”

“Oh my God—”

“Not like that,” Charlotte amended. “But still. You slept together.”

Y/N groaned. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Charlotte scoffed. “Oh, honey. It so was.”

———

Y/N had spent the entire morning convincing herself that nothing had changed.

That waking up next to Harry hadn’t felt different.

That the way he had smiled at her over coffee hadn’t made her stomach flip.

That she wasn’t replaying every second of their time together like some lovesick idiot.

But she was failing—miserably.

And Charlotte wasn’t helping.

“So,” her roommate drawled, flipping through a magazine on her bed, “are we just gonna pretend that last night never happened?”

Y/N, sitting at her desk, sighed. “Nothing happened.”

Charlotte scoffed. “You cuddled on the couch, made him coffee in the morning, and practically gazed at each other the whole time. That’s something.”

Y/N turned to glare at her. “I wasn’t gazing.”

Charlotte smirked. “Oh, honey. You were gazing.”

Y/N groaned, dropping her head onto her desk.

Charlotte laughed, tossing the magazine aside. “Look, all I’m saying is—he’s different, isn’t he?”

Y/N frowned. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I mean, I’ve never seen you act like this over a guy. You usually keep your distance, but with Harry… I don’t know. You let him in.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest—but nothing came out.

Because, as much as she hated to admit it, Charlotte wasn’t wrong.

Harry was different.

And that was what scared her the most.

———

That afternoon, she tried to focus on studying.

Tried being the keyword.

She was in the library, sitting at her usual spot by the window, but the words on the page blurred together.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, already knowing who it was.

Harry [3:27 PM]: You’re not skipping the library today, are you?

Y/N [3:28 PM]: I’m literally here right now.

Harry [3:29 PM]: Good. Would’ve had to question your commitment to academia otherwise.

She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips.

A minute later, she heard a chair scrape against the floor.

She looked up.

Harry slid into the seat across from her, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Hi,” he said, smiling.

Y/N tried to ignore the way her heartbeat definitely sped up. “Hi.”

He set down his bag and pulled out a book. “What are we studying today?”

Y/N sighed. “I’m trying to get through this reading, but it’s not working.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Do you want me to quiz you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You just got here.”

He smirked. “And?”

She shook her head, amused. “Fine.”

And so, they studied. Or at least, they tried.

Every time Harry read a passage aloud, he did it with exaggerated dramatics, making Y/N laugh.

Whenever she got an answer right, he’d tap his fingers against the table like a drumroll.

At some point, he reached for her book, fingers grazing hers—and neither of them pulled away.

The touch was brief, but her skin tingled where it had been.

Harry didn’t say anything, but his gaze flickered to hers, something unspoken lingering between them.

For the first time, Y/N felt like she was on the edge of something.

And she didn’t know whether to step forward—or run.

———

An hour later, Y/N packed up her things.

“I should go,” she murmured.

Harry nodded, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. “Alright.”

She hesitated before speaking. “Thanks for—y’know. Keeping me sane.”

Harry’s lips quirked. “Anytime.”

As she turned to leave, he called after her

“Oh, Y/N?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

Harry reached into his bag, pulling out a book.

She frowned as he held it out to her.

“The Symposium?” she read aloud, eyebrows raised.

Harry smirked. “Figured you might like it.”

She stared at him. “Harry, this is your copy.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“So, I know you annotate all your books.” She flipped through the pages, confirming her suspicions—his familiar, neat handwriting filled the margins. “I can’t take this.”

“You can,” he said simply. “And you will.”

She glanced up at him, confused. “But… why?”

Harry held her gaze for a moment, then leaned in slightly.

“Because I think you’ll understand it,” he murmured.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Because there was weight behind his words—something deeper than just a casual book recommendation.

She swallowed, gripping the book a little tighter.

“…Thank you,” she said softly.

Harry smiled. “See you later, Y/N.”

And as she walked away, The Symposium pressed against her chest, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

That, maybe, she had just crossed a line she could never go back from.

———

The night wrapped around them like a quiet secret. The streets were nearly empty, the world softened by the golden glow of streetlamps.

Y/N and Harry walked side by side, their steps unhurried, as if neither of them wanted the night to end just yet.

She wasn’t sure how they ended up here—how a simple goodnight after studying turned into do you want to take a walk? But she didn’t regret saying yes.

It had been a week since that night at her apartment, since they’d woken up together on the couch, and things between them had shifted. Not in an obvious way—there were no declarations, no grand confessions—but something had changed.

Harry had always looked at her like he was intrigued. But now?

Now, he looked at her like he knew. Like he was just waiting for her to admit it, too.

“You’re quiet,” Harry murmured beside her.

She glanced at him. “So are you.”

He smiled, a little crooked. “Guess I don’t always have something to say.”

“Impossible.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Harsh.”

They walked a little further before she spoke again, a quiet admission in the stillness of the night.

“I read your notes.”

Harry turned his head slightly. “My notes?”

“In The Symposium.”

Realization flickered in his expression. “Right.”

She hesitated. “There was one part that stuck with me.”

His gaze softened. “Which one?”

Y/N swallowed.

“The part where you wrote that love is about recognizing something familiar in someone else.”

Harry didn’t speak right away.

Then, quietly, he said, “That’s my favorite part.”

Y/N stopped walking.

So did he.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with something.

She could feel her pulse thrumming in her wrists, in her throat, in the space between them that was growing smaller by the second.

Harry took a step closer. Slowly. Like he was giving her time to stop him.

She didn’t.

His gaze flickered to her lips, just for a second, before meeting her eyes again.

His voice was softer when he spoke next. “You realize I like you, don’t you?”

Y/N felt something tighten in her chest.

Because, of course, she did.

But hearing it—feeling it—was different.

She exhaled, barely a whisper. “I think I do now.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good.”

He didn’t move right away.

He just looked at her, taking her in, like he was memorizing the moment.

Then, so softly it was almost imperceptible, his fingers brushed against hers.

Y/N inhaled sharply.

And that was all it took.

Before she could second-guess it, before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them.

She barely had time to process the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breath, before his hand came up, fingers grazing her jaw as he leaned in—slow, careful, waiting.

And then—

Then, he kissed her.

It was soft at first. Just a whisper of a touch, a silent question against her lips.

But the moment she kissed him back, the moment her fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, it changed.

It deepened.

Harry let out a quiet sound—like he had been waiting for this longer than he cared to admit—and then his hands were on her waist, pulling her closer, closer, like the space between them was unbearable.

Her heart was racing.

She could feel the warmth of his palms, the faint scrape of his stubble against her skin, the way he kissed her like he was learning her—like he wanted to know exactly how she fit against him.

And she let him.

By the time they pulled apart, her head was spinning, her breath uneven.

Harry’s forehead rested against hers, and he let out a quiet laugh.

“What?” she asked, still breathless.

He shook his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just… glad I finally did that.”

She bit her lip, trying—and failing—not to smile.

“Me too.”

Harry’s thumb brushed against her waist absentmindedly.

“Can I walk you home?” he asked.

Y/N nodded.

But neither of them moved.

Not right away.

And when they finally started walking again, Harry’s fingers found hers, intertwining them effortlessly—like they had been waiting to do that, too.

———

It had only been a couple of weeks since that night—their first kiss under the dim glow of the streetlights—but things between them had changed so much.

Not in an overwhelming way. Not in a way that made Y/N feel rushed or pressured.

But in a way that made her soften.

In a way that made it impossible to ignore how utterly smitten Harry was.

It was in the way he always found a reason to touch her, even in the smallest ways—fingertips brushing against hers when they walked, absentmindedly tucking her hair behind her ear when she was focused on something, resting his chin on her shoulder just because he could.

It was in the way he remembered things, like how she liked her coffee and how she hated the sound of loud chewing. In the way he always waited for her outside class even when they had different schedules. In the way he looked at her, like he was always choosing to.

Like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Today was no different.

Y/N sat curled up on the library couch, actually trying to get some work done, while Harry sat beside her, flipping through a book he had absolutely no interest in.

At least, that’s what she assumed—because instead of reading, he was staring at her.

She sighed, setting her pen down. “Harry.”

“Hm?” He looked unbothered, too comfortable as he rested his head against the back of the couch.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

She shot him a pointed look.

He smirked, unfazed. “Looking at my girlfriend?”

Her stomach flipped.

Even after two weeks, the word still did something to her.

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were warm, and Harry knew it.

With a quiet chuckle, he reached for her hand and intertwined their fingers, absentmindedly running his thumb across the back of her palm.

“Should I be studying?” he murmured, lips twitching.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Harry pretended to consider it. Then, with zero hesitation, he squeezed her hand and dragged it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against her knuckles.

“Too bad,” he murmured against her skin.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

This boy.

She was so doomed.

———

Y/N had tried to keep things subtle.

Not because she wanted to hide it, but because Charlotte was the biggest menace when it came to teasing her, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that just yet.

Too bad Charlotte noticed everything.

Like the way Y/N smiled at her phone when she thought no one was looking. The way she suspiciously left the dorm at night with an “I’ll be back later.” The way she got flustered when Harry’s name came up in conversation.

She had her suspicions, but she didn’t have proof.

Until now.

Because today, as Charlotte was walking toward the dorm, she saw them.

Saw Harry pressing a lingering kiss to Y/N’s forehead. Saw the way she leaned into him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that was all she needed.

“I KNEW IT!”

Y/N jumped, turning to find Charlotte standing a few feet away with the biggest, most victorious grin on her face.

“Oh my God,” Y/N muttered.

Harry—who clearly wasn’t fazed at all—simply raised an eyebrow. “Did you, though?”

Charlotte turned to him, still grinning. “YES. I just didn’t have evidence.” She turned back to Y/N, wiggling her eyebrows. “But now I do.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Charlotte sing-songed.

Harry chuckled, amused, before leaning down and whispering into Y/N’s ear, “I’ll leave you to it, sweetheart.”

She sighed dramatically. “Coward.”

He smirked, kissed the side of her head one last time, and walked away, leaving her to deal with Charlotte’s relentless interrogation.

Y/N was so in trouble.

———

After an hour of being mercilessly teased, Y/N flopped onto her bed, groaning in frustration.

Charlotte smirked from across the room. “Oh, come on, you love me.”

“Debatable,” Y/N muttered, reaching for her phone.

She scrolled through her messages before typing.

Y/N [10:08 PM]: I officially hate you.

Harry [10:09 PM]: That’s unfortunate.

Y/N [10:09 PM]: Charlotte won’t stop teasing me. This is your fault.

Harry [10:10 PM]: Guess I’ll just have to make it up to you, won’t I?

Y/N froze, rereading the message at least three times.

Before she could even think of a response, there was a quiet knock on the door.

Charlotte and Y/N shared a look.

Y/N opened it—and there he was.

Harry stood there, a lazy smirk on his lips, holding a small pastry in a white paper bag.

“Hey,” he murmured.

Y/N blinked.

Charlotte—who was watching the whole thing unfold—snorted. “Oh, my God. You are so whipped.”

Harry didn’t even deny it.

He just shrugged, handed Y/N the bag, and kissed her temple like it was the most normal thing in the world.

When she looked inside, she found her favorite pastry, the one from the café across campus.

She looked back up at him, eyes soft. “You went all the way to—“

Harry simply shrugged. “Felt like it”

Y/N pressed her lips together, trying not to melt right then and there.

Charlotte, however, had no such restraint. “You two are disgusting”, she muttered, rolling her eyes before dramatically throwing a pillow over her head.

Harry chuckled, then leaned down and whispered against Y/N’s skin, “Worth it.”

And just like that, Y/N knew—

She was so, so screwed.

[magical-reid]

The Bucky Barnes Cake Conspiracy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x (implied) Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 800

Summary: When Wanda convinces you and Natasha to do the “Hear Me Out” cake trend, you think it’s just harmless fun. That is, until every single one of your picks is a different version of Bucky Barnes, the entire Tower gets involved, and Bucky himself finds out in the most humiliating way possible—via Wanda’s viral video.

It started as a joke.

A harmless, ridiculous joke.

And then it spiraled into something much, much worse.

“I’m just saying,” Wanda said, shoving her phone in your face as the three of you wandered through the grocery store, “we should do it.”

Natasha glanced at the screen. “Oh, the ‘Hear Me Out’ cake trend? That’s dumb.”

“Exactly!” Wanda grinned. “Which makes it perfect for us.”

You furrowed your brows, watching the TikTok she’d pulled up. The trend was simple: buy a plain cake, decorate it with pictures of celebrities or characters you found attractive, and then justify your crush by sticking ‘Hear Me Out’ in the middle.

It was stupid. But also hilarious.

“I’m in,” you said.

Natasha groaned. “Fine. But I’m not helping if this turns into another Tower-wide disaster.”

Wanda hummed, already making a beeline for the bakery aisle. “Oh, it definitely will.”

Back at the Tower, you sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter as Wanda set up her phone. The cake—a plain white-frosted one you’d grabbed from the store—sat in the center of the table, looking all innocent. It had no idea it was about to be used for nonsense.

“Okay,” Wanda said, grinning. “Time to put down our picks.”

Natasha went first. She taped a photo of Keanu Reeves onto a skewer and stuck it into the cake. Classic. No one would question it.

Then Wanda went. Pedro Pascal. Another solid choice.

And then you—

“Y/N,” Natasha deadpanned. “Are you serious?”

You hesitated, mid-skewer placement. “…What?”

Wanda started cackling.

Because instead of picking three different people like a normal person, you had, without realizing it, picked three different versions of Bucky Barnes.

One was a picture of him in his tactical gear, scowling like he was about to murder someone (hot). Another was of him in a hoodie and jeans, looking all soft and domestic (also hot). And the third? The one that really sealed your fate?

It was a close-up of his metal arm.

You winced. “Okay. I see how this looks—”

“This looks like a confession,” Wanda said gleefully, already zooming in on your picks.

“Oh my God,” Natasha muttered, running a hand down her face.

“I panicked!” you hissed. “I wasn’t thinking—I just grabbed the first ones that looked good!”

Wanda was shaking with laughter. “Oh, babe. This isn’t panic. This is obsession.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto the counter. “I hate you both.”

The video went up on Wanda’s account that night.

By the next morning, it had one million views.

And the Tower was in absolute chaos.

Clint greeted you at breakfast with a slow, knowing grin. “So,” he said, spreading cream cheese onto his bagel, “should we start calling you Mrs. Barnes, or—?”

You threw a banana at his head.

Sam nearly fell off the couch laughing when he saw the video. “You put the metal arm?” he wheezed. “Oh, you’re down bad.”

Steve, who had clearly been dragged into this nonsense against his will, just gave you a long, unimpressed look over his coffee. “You could’ve just told him, you know.”

Tony, of course, had the most Tony reaction possible. “This is the most effort I’ve ever seen someone put into a crush. If I had known Bucky was your type, I would’ve set up an HR department just to make this more scandalous.”

You wanted the Earth to swallow you whole.

But the worst part?

Bucky.

Because by some miracle, he hadn’t seen the video yet.

Which meant you were living on borrowed time.

It happened later that night.

You were curled up on the couch, pretending to read a book but mostly trying to avoid eye contact with the entire human population, when Bucky strolled into the common room.

“Hey, doll.”

Your stomach flipped. “Hey.”

He sat next to you, arms stretched out over the back of the couch, his face unreadable. For a brief, fleeting moment, you thought—maybe he doesn’t know.

And then—

“So,” he said, far too casually. “You like my arm that much, huh?”

Your entire body locked up.

Your soul left your body.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

“I—what—who—?”

Bucky chuckled. “I saw the video.”

You shut your eyes. “Kill me.”

He hummed, like he was thinking about it. “Nah. ‘Cause then who’s gonna take me on that date you clearly want?”

You choked. “What—”

Bucky turned to face you fully, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips. “If you wanted me so bad, sweetheart, you could’ve just asked.”

Your entire brain short-circuited. “I—That’s—You—”

Bucky leaned in, voice low. “Next time, maybe write my number on the cake instead.”

You exhaled sharply, heart hammering. “Are you—Are you flirting with me?”

His grin widened. “You tell me.”

You stared at him. Then at the door. Then back at him.

Finally, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “Fine. But if we go on a date, I’m making Wanda pay for it.”

Bucky laughed, eyes warm. “Deal.”

[leaderwon]

VALENTINE'S DAY WITH SUNGHOON!

Synopsis : Sunghoon takes you stargazing on Valentine's night. Wrapped in blankets under the sparkling sky, you share heartfelt words and make wishes that only the stars can hear.

Warnings : Kisses, A little bit corny? ig lol

Wc : 4k+

masterlist

Valentine's Day had always been a day filled with flowers, chocolates, and grand gestures. But this year, Sunghoon had something different in mind. When he texted you earlier in the day with only a cryptic message that read, “Dress warm and trust me” your curiosity was piqued.

Now, as you stood bundled up in your thickest coat and scarf, you watched Sunghoon double check the contents of his car trunk. He was dressed in a cozy sweater and jeans, his sharp features softened by the excitement dancing in his eyes.

“Got everything?” you asked, unable to hide your smile. He grinned, closing the trunk with a satisfying thud. “Yup. Are you ready for the best Valentine's night ever?” “I’ll believe it when I see it,” you teased, though your heart was already racing with anticipation.

The drive was peaceful, filled with the low hum of music and the occasional chatter about your day. Sunghoon's hand found yours on the console, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. The simple touch made your chest warm despite the chilly weather.

After about an hour, Sunghoon pulled off the main road onto a narrow dirt path. Tall trees lined either side, their branches swaying gently in the breeze.

“Are you taking me to a secret hideout?” you joked. He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Something like that. You’ll see.”

When the car finally came to a stop, Sunghoon hopped out and hurried to your side to open the door. “Come on” he urged, his excitement infectious.

You stepped out into the crisp night air, your breath visible in the cold. The area was completely secluded, with an open field stretching out before you. Above, the sky was a canvas of stars, each one twinkling like a tiny diamond.

“Wow” you breathed, tilting your head back to take it all in. “Pretty amazing, right?” Sunghoon said, his voice filled with pride. You nodded. “It’s beautiful.”

He grabbed a thick blanket from the trunk and led you to a spot in the middle of the field. After spreading out the blanket, he gestured for you to sit down.

“It’ll be warmer if we sit close,” he added with a sheepish grin.

You didn’t need any convincing. Settling beside him, you let him wrap another blanket around both of you. The warmth from his body was immediate and comforting.

For a while, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, simply gazing up at the night sky. The stars seemed endless, each one shimmering with a quiet magic.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be a star?” you asked softly. Sunghoon tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe. But I think I’d rather be down here with you.”

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. “That was smooth” you said, laughing to hide how flustered you were. He shrugged, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “I try.”

The conversation drifted to memories of your relationship, your first date, late night phone calls, and all the little moments that had brought you closer. Sunghoon’s laughter was a melody you never tired of hearing.

As the night grew colder, Sunghoon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small thermos. “Hot chocolate?” he offered. “You came prepared” you said, impressed.

He poured two cups, the rich aroma filling the air. You took a sip, savoring the warmth that spread through your body.

“This is perfect” you said. Sunghoon looked at you, his expression soft. “You make everything perfect.”

Your heart swelled at his words. Setting down your cup, you leaned into him, your head resting on his shoulder. The world felt quiet and still, as if it had paused just for the two of you.

“Do you want to make a wish?” Sunghoon asked suddenly. You lifted your head to look at him. “What do you mean?”

He pointed to a particularly bright star. “They say if you make a wish on the brightest star, it might come true.” “Is that a scientific fact?” you teased. He chuckled. “No, but it can’t hurt to try.”

Closing your eyes, you made a silent wish, your heart filled with hope and love. When you opened them, Sunghoon was watching you with an unreadable expression.

“What did you wish for?” he asked. “I can’t tell you,” you said, grinning. “It won’t come true if I do.” “Fair enough,” he said. “But I think I already have everything I could ever wish for.”

Tears pricked your eyes at his words. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.” “Only because you are special” he said, his voice earnest.

The night continued with more laughter, stories, and moments of quiet contentment. As the stars glittered above, you knew this Valentine's Day would be etched in your memory forever.

When it was finally time to leave, Sunghoon helped you to your feet and gathered the blankets.

“Thank you for tonight” you said as you walked back to the car. “Anytime” he said. “But I have one condition.” “What’s that?”

“We have to do this again next year.” You smiled. “It’s a deal.”

As you drove back, hand in hand, you knew that no matter where life took you, nights like this would always remind you of the love and magic you shared with Sunghoon.

© @leaderwon 2025. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

[ak-vintage]

I'll Pick You Up

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: On your first Valentine’s Day together, Javier shows you how much you mean to him.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Post-canon Laredo Javi, established relationship, Valentine’s Day on the Peña ranch, romantic gestures, all the fluff and sweetness, a little “M-rated” smut (references to other sexual encounters, oral sex (f receiving), P in V sex, creampie).

Word Count: 1.2K

Written as a Valentine’s Day gift for my dear friend Kat @sunshinehaze1! Credit to @saradika-graphics for the dividers.

Read on AO3 | Main Masterlist

Javier Peña has never been the type of man to express his love through grand gestures of romance. Instead, he attends to the everyday.

His hand against the small of your back, ushering you gently, protectively in and out of shops and restaurants and bars. Gas in your car every time he spots it running low. A doorstep delivery of pozole and decongestant when you’re sick. Your favorite brand of body wash in his shower. French vanilla coffee creamer in his fridge, even though you know neither he nor Chucho would ever dream of drinking their coffee any way other than black.

He takes care of you, in his own steady, thoughtful way. But when the subject of Valentine’s Day comes up – the first you’ve ever spent together – you have no expectation that he will have some grand plan to sweep you off your feet. You assume you’ll go out for dinner, maybe some place a little nicer than your usual haunts. A possible bouquet of flowers, a very probable night of spine-melting sex. Nothing fancy. That’s not who Javi is.

But he surprises you. When you broach the topic, he tells you, “I’ve got some ideas. Actually, I think I’d like to surprise you.”

You agree with a puzzled smile, your only request that he at least tell you the time and what you should plan to wear.

On the morning of February 14, you find a note taped to your coffee pot as you’re getting ready to leave for work.

Tonight – 5 PM I’ll pick you up. Dress comfortable. Happy Valentine’s Day, cariño!

He’s in your driveway at 5:00 on the dot, his broad shoulders testing the stitching of a long-sleeved flannel shirt he’s tucked into his signature blue jeans, and you doubt that he has ever looked more handsome. He opens the door to his old pickup for you, offers you a hand to help you up onto the bench like you haven’t ridden in it a thousand times by now. The gesture has heat blooming in your cheeks regardless.

Something by the Eagles hums low on the radio in the background as he drives, knees spread wide, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on your thigh. It’s so comfortable and pleasant, just to sit in the silence with him, that it takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize he is heading in the opposite direction of town.

He’s taking you back to the Peña ranch.

When you ask him why he’s just taking you back to his house, he simply replies, “I’m not taking you to the house, baby.”

You end up turning off the main road at some point, taking a dirt and gravel path deeper into his family’s land, far out of line of sight of the old farmhouse. Eventually, even the path disappears, and you’re left bumping through an open field until he finally comes to a stop in the shade of an old tree, standing lonely sentinel in the middle of the rolling acres.

Beneath the tree, a large blanket covers the scrubby grass, and you spot a basket and a bottle of wine (your favorite kind) resting against its roots.

Javi isn’t much of a cook, but as you unpack the basket and spread out your bounty, you discover that that hasn’t stopped him from going all out. Huge, fresh-looking sandwiches wrapped in butcher paper, a selection of prepared fruits and vegetables, and more single-serve bags of chips than you could ever eat make up the bulk of the spread, though there is a wide, shallow container at the bottom of the basket that he tells you is a surprise for dessert.

When he pops the cork on the bottle of wine, he proposes a toast – “To our first Valentine’s Day. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, cariño, but I promise to keep doing it.”

You hush his smiling self-deprecation with a swift kiss and assure him, “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

When you’ve had your fill of dinner, and perhaps one too many glasses of wine, he finally allows you to open the dessert container. Inside are a half dozen oversized strawberries, gleaming bright red and boasting fluffy green stems. All of them have been dunked rather haphazardly in dark chocolate, a few sporting wide, smudgy thumbprints in the matte brown surface, and you can tell immediately that he made these himself.

“Chocolate-covered strawberries? So fancy!” you cry, delighted, eyeing Javier with a playful grin. “Who are you, and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smirk, his dark eyes crinkling as he sweeps his gaze from your face to the swell of your breasts to the curve of your hips and back again.

“Just thought you might like a little something sweet,” he purrs, his tongue darting out to wet his plush lower lip. And there he is – that’s the Javier Peña you know and love.

He gathers you into his lap, slots your knees on either side of his narrow hips and plants you firmly on his denim-covered thighs. He feeds you the strawberries from his fingers, chases them with kisses. When the chocolate melts and smears across your face, he licks it away slowly, teasingly. When you slip your tongue past his lips, his mouth tastes like wine and sweet fruit.

Eventually the picnic is forgotten. Javier lays you back onto the blanket, spreads you out like his own personal feast, and takes you apart as the sun begins to sink lower in the February sky.

“Mírame, nena,” he growls from between your thighs, dress hitched up around your waist, panties yanked to the side as he buries his face in your wetness. “Look at me while you come.”

You demand the same of him when you have him on his back, his jeans hanging open and pulled down just far enough for you to sink down onto his cock. You can feel his belt buckle and the teeth of his zipper biting into the flesh of your inner thigh as you ride him, but you pay it no mind. In fact, you relish the sting. Beneath you, Javier’s deep brown eyes struggle to remain locked on yours, the muscles in his sharp jaw fluttering as he clenches down and groans into the rapidly-cooling air. Half an instant before you find your own pleasure, you feel the warmth of his release deep inside you, and you follow him over the edge with his name on your lips.

It is well and truly dark by the time you’ve gathered up the picnic supplies, tossed them into the bed of his truck, and made your way to the Peña farmhouse. Javier offers to drop you back off at yours, but these days you spend more nights curled up in his bed than you do your own, so you decline.

You run into Chucho in the living room just as he is heading to bed, the older man a rancher to his core and never awake past 8:30. You chat for a brief moment, and both you and Javier wish him goodnight, but not before he pauses in the doorway, looks you both over from head to toe, and with a knowing smirk, informs his son that he has grass in hair. Javi’s ears burn a vivid crimson as he swipes at the back of his head, and his father’s low, warm laughter follows the both of you up the stairs as your boyfriend quickly pulls you to the privacy of his second-floor bedroom.

Unable to help yourselves, the two of you come together once more under the light of his old bedside lamp, the door firmly locked, bedframe pulled away from the wall, and Javi’s hand over your mouth to stifle your moans. Chucho sleeps like the dead, thank god, but even one comment implying his full awareness of your sex life with his son is enough for you for one day. You can’t be too cautious.

After, Javier is his steady, thoughtful self. A glass of water on the nightstand, a warm, wet washcloth for the mess between your thighs, an extra blanket for the bed because he knows how chilly you get in the night. When he slips under the covers with you, you settle into his arms like that little hollow between his chest and collar bone was made for you. You tuck your head there, threading your arm around his waist, and drop a kiss to his soft, bed-warm skin.

“Hell of a first Valentine’s Day, Javier,” you whisper, face half-buried in him, sleepy smile pressed into his chest. “Don’t know how you’re gonna top it.”

Beneath you, his shoulders shift slightly in what you interpret as a shrug, and his arms tighten their grip around your body. “Me, neither. But I’ve got a lifetime to try.”

[comiclysmic]

Happy Belated Valentines Day! Have a flaming skull. 🫴💀🔥

Been working my way through The Magnus Archives, and I've been having a ol' jolly time! I'm sure this scene's been done to death (hah) but it was too good not to draw. ❤️‍🔥

Image Description under the cut for redundancy sake:

Content Warning: This description contains violent imagery, including fire, bones, blood, and fear.

Illustration featuring Agnes and Jack from The Magnus Archive. Agnes is a young woman with pale skin and auburn hair. She's wearing a black middle-length trench coat over a white pin-stripe blouse, belted at the middle with a dark grey-black middle-length skirt. She's reaching a hand up to cup Jack's face, holding it to her own, kissing him on the lips.

Jack is wearing a pale coloured scarf and brown gloves, and an olive winter jacket over jeans. His features are barely visible as fire consumes his face, but the one eye shown is wide, a look of terror and pain in them. Blood trickles down onto Agnes' face and hand, though her skin remains unburnt. The fire glows through her hand, silhouetting the bones beneath.

The flames billow out of the holes in Jack's skull: his eyes, the nose, the teeth, the ear, and pour over his head backwards into the dark of the night, blending from white, gold and red to blood red, green and blue. Jack grips at Agnes' arm, frozen in his attempt to escape her grasp.

They stand stark against the black of night, city lights unfocused and faint in the distance. Sparks of red, violet and orange float in the foreground.

[hai7ani]

plum blossoms in the winter / うめ

r(evol)ution | wc. 5k | chapter playlist | a late vday fic :>

Snow melts off of huge, old willow trees in Tokyo when Haitani Rindou finds himself in a maze.

It is February — cold, somewhat melancholic despite it being the month of love — and he’s shimmying himself into his pair of jeans in the chill of his quiet apartment.

The white turtleneck he has on does little work to keep himself warm. It’s thick but it’s thin, yet he still keeps it on anyway. It’s still something, at least. He’s always been picky and weird when it came to temperatures — though it is more important to note that Rindou has never been a fan of winter. Heavy clothing dumbs him down and he feels like a fool whenever he has that one ugly puffer on (it is thrifted from 2nd Street as a joke and turned out to be the only clothing that keeps him perfectly warm all winter, much to his dismay, because his expensive collection of The North Face puffers he’d spent a fortune on couldn’t even come close).

It’s awfully silent in his tiny home this morning.

Awkward, unsettling, eerie. One that raises mild feelings of distress while he’s buttoning up his ugly green uniform over his stupid turtleneck, that makes him shove belongings into his bag a little more rougher than usual. It just puts him in a bad mood. He hates it.

The only other sound that accompanies him and his jumbled up thoughts amidst it all is the low humming of his creaky heater — which obviously needs some serious servicing — sitting in the corner of his living room. It’s just there, old and rusty. Perhaps he should really get to texting his landlord by the end of this week.

Everything seems to be much more complicated in his head these days. Wires don’t connect, stars don’t align. It doesn’t help that Rindou feels as though the whole world is out to get him lately, too. His manager is going through some weird behavioural changes (a seasonal animal, he thinks), the lousy neighbour upstairs might’ve just morphed into an elephant with the loud stomps in the middle of the night, and his favourite indie restaurant has closed down permanently after filing for bankruptcy not too long ago.

Early sunlight creeps through the gaps of his cheap curtains in slow gradients as he stares at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. It is scattered with toothpaste splatters and water stains that he has not bothered to wipe off — it’s been months since the last proper cleanup around his place, and he still hasn’t found the motivation to do so. But lately he has been finding it harder to get simple things done.

The sight of his sullen, dull face alone has him sucking in a deep breath. He leans in closer, closer — a few fingers stretching out his skin, observing himself in the reflection carefully — until he can see the faded scars from his rebellion (mostly on his forehead and around his lips, accompanied by a few razor bumps here and there) and the ones on his cheek from picking at his acne too often when he was young.

All of these are him, fine. He’s noticed these things about himself since they’ve started existing on his face — they have been a part of him for as long as he can remember and he hasn’t found a valid reason to be insecure. He is not an insecure person at all. He just doesn’t care. He is who he is.

But since when has he ever gotten so tired? Dark circles have formed under his eyes and his skin feels so dry. His lips have started cracking again from the cold and his hair. . . Perhaps some gel might help, but he thinks it’ll make it look even more oily. Guys with hair too shiny under the sun has always been an ick to him.

Sure, he admits he is a loser. From time to time, Rindou is a loser. He doesn’t have friends that last and he doesn’t believe in much. Whatever comes to him — whatever that happens to his shitty little life — he accepts it gracefully. He is a man who acts like one (or so he believes). He’s long past his prime at the big adult age of 24, working full-time in the same old city of Roppongi selling liquor for some income to support his hobby, who is surprisingly still a virgin despite the number of girls that flock to him for his name, to what once was.

But this?

This?

He turns on the faucet and lets it run for some noise — the silence was getting to his head, too much, too loud, too sharp. He watches, swallowing, as ice-cold water runs and runs and he listens to it run. Knuckles turning white while he grips onto the ceramic, cyan sink in anger.

Up until now, Rindou has been content with his life. This life, one of mundane and routine, where all he can hear when he gets home is sharp ringing from deafening silence and the occasional beeping from his laundry. He still wants to believe that this is the peace he has been wishing for since he was young. He still wants to believe that he is fine with being so alone, so lonely by himself all the time. It’s boring some days (most days), but he hasn’t found much fault with it until today. . .

Something in him snaps. Like a worn-out rubber band, like the old branch out his window under the heavy weight of snow. He lets out a breath when he hears it creak. Too much like him, he thinks. It falls to the ground with a muffled thud — on top of more snow — and he switches the tap off.

Fucking winter.

Always bringing out emotions that he does not want to face.

But he thinks this isn’t who Haitani Rindou is at heart at all. He isn’t some pathetic dude who wallows in self-pity for getting his guy feelings hurt by a girl, leaving his heart somewhat broken with her words.

Sure, it may be his first time experiencing love, real love, but he isn’t a goddamn pushover. He can’t be beating himself up for something he can’t control. If time is definitely what she needs, he’ll give it to her, alright.

Though a quote he remembers reading somewhere — perhaps online on some stupid website for advice — lingers in the back of his head. Something about the privilege of feeling so hollow, so helpless, so. . . stupid, for someone.

For a girl, a lady that is clearly not ready to love. A woman who he was so willing to wait for. It is apparently a privilege to feel so strongly for someone, and he almost thought it was a joke.

But it lingered somehow — words of Jay Vespertine had stayed in the back of his head like glue, stuck to his walls like spiderwebs. (His eyes flicker over to the poster of Spiderman hanging off his wall and he resists making himself laugh.)

Perhaps there is some truth to it, after all. He’s not sure. Rindou knows jack shit about love.

So when the phone rings and he sees that it’s a video call from you — or more like from your son, who is crying and fussing in your arms in the preview — he wastes no time in picking it up.

Calls in sick and all. Grabs his keys to go. He peels off his ugly green uniform on his way out and haphazardly throws on that lousy, stupid puffer hanging off his rack before slamming the door shut.

(He’s not as numb as people see him to be.)

— cw. childbirth (short)

You work in a luxury retail store in downtown Ginza. It is demanding and draining with a dog-shit management team, but it pays well, at least. Without this job you wouldn’t be able to comfortably pay for bills and your son’s daycare (a proper one with teaching sessions for his learning difficulties), and still have some extra for light shopping and desserts on the few weekends that you are off.

Shou is soon turning three in Spring.

You still remember the first time you had held him in your arms, in the cramped hospital room where the smell of blood and womb had filled your nose. It felt so overwhelming, and it was overwhelming. His father wasn’t in attendance and the only support you had was from the nurse who looked so much like your own mother. (You haven’t seen her in a while, and you do not plan on doing so anytime soon.)

His birth was painful and you remember crying so much. It was so rough and you wanted to die. You remember being so close to giving up right after his head was out and you swore you didn’t have the energy to continue anymore.

But you pushed through, held on, and your baby was fine. He was healthy and he weighed good — five fingers on each hand, long lashes on his eyes, red, wet lips carrying a voice that wailed so loud.

He was fine. But you were not.

You were just a young girl, like any other, who had her own hopes and dreams, too. You were only 22 and you wanted so much — you wanted love, you wanted education, you wanted to make money, you wanted to travel the world. . .

You wanted to blossom like the flowers in spring and spread your wings like an angel.

But girls can never have too much at once. They can never have what they want.

Girls can never be who they are.

Right when your education was going uphill you just had to get caught up with a bum — an alcoholic, a borderline abuser — and have his kid. It was a careless, horny mistake — a one-night stand that turned into a fling, who soon became someone you had to live with for the sake of a child you did not plan for.

(You truly loved him, you did, but it wasn’t enough to make you stay.

You cannot stay anymore.)

But Shou was never a regret to you. Without him, there wouldn’t be any motherhood to your life. He taught you so much with his little face, little hands, that sweet voice you love hearing it yell ‘Mommy’, showing you so many ways to love a person that you didn’t even know was possible. It’s rough, but it is for him, your baby, and you want to give him as much as you can, while you still can.

Which is also the reason why you find yourself waiting outside the prestigious Louis Vuitton store in the cold, carrying a sniffling child in your arms and fierce eyes boring holes onto the back of your head through the window.

Risa-san is annoyed, to say the least. This isn’t the first time your son has brought you trouble at work. There have been few counts of you bringing your son along because he cannot be found separated from his mother. To her, this isn’t professional. You aren’t a good mother. You should’ve taught him better. These were words she had said to your face during an angry confrontation because Shou had spilled milk all over her expensive leather shoes while he was running around in the store room and bumped into her legs. (It was dimly lit and Shou was afraid of the dark.)

And you understand her perspective, really. You do. You feel bad that she — and all the other employees — have to put up with your personal issues at work. You aren’t a professional staff at all.

But you feel even worse for finding yourself relieved and happy that today — for the first time since he was born — Shou is crying for someone who isn’t you.

God, you really needed the break.

His ‘be there in 20’ text right after you hung up the call was as true as it sounded.

Rindou never lies.

“Windou!” Shou-chan practically jumps out of your arms, wiggling his socked feet and all (his little shoes are off and hanging off your fingers) at the sight of his favourite person. The sniffling stops and he is back to a grinning, happy boy again.

“I’m really sorry for having you come over,” you say, face apologetic and worried when he locks his car and crosses the street. The bright orange puffer he has on is ridiculous — a huge contrast to the ivory white streets covered in snow, he looks so out of place — and you let out a shaky breath and pretend to fix your son’s jacket to cover the laugh bubbling in your throat.

“Where’s his scarf?” There’s a small, concerned frown on his face when you hand the boy off to Rindou. It’s smooth and it feels so natural that it sends something warm and tingly spreading all across your chest. It doesn’t help that he is standing so close to you in this tiny street, pushed together to make way for other pedestrians.

Something about his presence around you this winter feels like a heavy blanket in the night — comforting, warm, something that feels so much like home. You cannot explain it clearly.

“He didn’t wanna wear it.” You pass him his shoes, out of breath. The cheeky boy is unzipping the top of Rindou’s puffer for warmth (and because he is a cheeky boy, but Rindou lets him anyway) while you converse.

It’s been a week since you’d last spoken to each other and it feels awkward, to say the least. He’s looking at everything but you and you’re looking at everything but him. Every little thing, down to the way he is obviously pretending to fix Shou’s jacket too (you’re just the same, the both of you, you’re one kind), reminds you of the night you’d hurt him with harsh words (about him, about you, about your son) and he'd stormed out the door after getting his point across because he’d gotten so fed up with it.

Or with you. You do not know.

But you do notice a Thermos that he hands you with his free hand after a minute of dodging eyes and avoiding feelings. “Red bean. Picked it up on my way.”

And then they’re off. “Let’s go, buddy. We’ll walk today, yeah?” A huge nod paired with an equally huge, toothy grin, “yeah!”

Shou doesn’t even wave you goodbye because he is so busy playing with Rindou’s many earrings with one little finger. Naughty boy, doesn’t even want Mommy anymore after finally getting to see who he wants.

“We’ll be nearby. Text me when your shift ends.”

When he leaves, it’s with a look that he sends into your store — through the large window, past the luxury bags on display, into the eyes of a girl who dodges it before turning away awkwardly.

—

“Is he the father?” Her sharp voice breaks through the peaceful quiet of the pantry. The sound of steaming hot water dispensing into your cup is no longer pleasant while you ponder about her intentions.

Risa-san shoots you a look over her shoulder when you don’t reply. “I’m just asking. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

You only blink and screw the Thermos shut. “No, he isn’t.”

”I see. Was just curious about what he’s doing with you.” She shakes her head, “you as in a single mother, I meant. Nothing more.”

Her response makes you perk. “Do you know him?”

“You don’t?” She looks genuinely shocked, for once. “I went to school with him when we were young. Haitani Rindou, right? I think he recognised me, too. He was pretty well known back then, you know? He used to be in a huge bosozoku back in those days, but I heard he even went to jail or something, because he disappeared right after graduation.”

“Really?”

She raises her hands in defense when she turns to look at you, “I’m just saying. I guess he is a changed man now. But he wasn’t a bully or anything like that though. Just seemed to be a teen who had a huge phase.”

—

Rindou has been told once that he resembled an oyster.

He was sixteen in autumn — still in uniform with a fresh wound to his cheek after a petty fight with some asshole in the class next door — when an old shaman tapped him on the shoulder gently in the streets and whispered it to his ear like a secret. The wind blows and dried leaves rustle. From the corner of his eyes he sees a calico cat crossing the street. He truly thinks mother nature is mocking him at that moment. Almost as if to say, good luck with that info.

It weirded him out at first, but he let it sink in the whole time he was walking home that day.

He let it sink in for years.

It turned out to be true, kind of.

“You’re tight. I’ll need a knife to get you to open up.” She was dead serious, too. Her voice was deep, stern — she had an unsettling look to her face that would’ve disturbed him genuinely if it wasn’t for the music playing in his ears, distracting him sort of. He didn’t manage to get a word in before she left, didn’t fully understand what she meant until he did.

Seven years have gone by and Rindou still thinks of that encounter every now and then. But much more frequently these days when it’s zero degrees at two, melancholy clinging onto the cold nights of winter tickling him at his feet, and he’s falling asleep to the thought of you. The grave realisation comes to him like whiplash when lazing around in bed one day tossing stress balls in the air, thinking about him, you, what you could’ve been sooner if he’d met you a little bit earlier before you became a mother.

About the girl you were before, about the boy he was and still somewhat is.

His phone lights up from a notification on the counter and he perks. A customer speaks to him about a gift suggestion but he tunes it out like white noise in the wind.

Rindou doesn’t deny that he’s fallen in love.

For the first time ever, he’s opened up his oyster heart.

—

It takes two longing days for Rindou to ready himself to see you again.

Your text from the other day has left him over-contemplating on his thoughts, the suffocating what-ifs when you finally do meet. It doesn’t help that he’s alone most of the time so he’s often found swimming in his own world, hanging around in his bubble and beating himself up for things that only exist in his head.

It almost pains him to drive through the city to see you. When stopping at a red light watching a sweet couple cross the street with a large bouquet of roses in her hand, he wonders if he torments you just as much as you do to him. He wonders if you think about him at night to stars that laugh at the both of you all the time.

A small part of him still hopes that you see him the same way he sees you too — that things are not what you’d said the other time in your living room. He prays for some hope that things will change after today.

Shinjuku Gyoen is quiet at this time of the month. Quiet in a way that is calm, one that tells him something good is coming. At that, Rindou finds himself growing excited to something that is probably not going to come true. He stops his leg from shaking out of habit and looks away from one dead tree to another.

His nostrils hurt from the frosty air and he holds his breath. But the ones grazing his cheek are somewhat pleasant, at least. He likes that.

“Thanks for the flowers.” You finally say after a moment. When he turns, you are smiling down at the small bouquet of camellias held tightly in your hands, sniffing and admiring. You look beautiful today. Your dress — on top of layers of thick innerwear — is flowy and your hair is done nice. You look different than previous times when you’d meet on weekends and have coffee over games of Wordle, where he’d teach you simple English with your son who too has his own cup of chocolate, hot or iced, depending on his mood. And you’re wearing the shoes he’d helped pick on an impulsive online-shopping session on payday.

Rindou does not know why he’d chosen such a day to meet up as per your request. He’d only said this Friday — not on the 14th, not on Valentines. This Friday (today) simply lined up with work and he needed time to prepare himself before seeing you again. It’s only when he returns home and stares at the calendar while doing his laundry that he remembers the meaning this day holds. He slapped himself on the face. One more thing to worry about, you idiot — because Rindou sucks at buying gifts, and even more so for a girl.

But fuck it, he thinks. It’s now or never.

(He did a great job with his gift this time.)

“It’s. . . only right.” He responds, scraping the sole of his Converse on the ground for some noise. Rindou hates awkward silences. Though a random busker has started performing at the other side of the park, and he almost thanked her for it. The sound of light acoustic guitar and a pretty voice travels through your ears with the help of a cooling breeze — Best Part by Daniel Caesar plays, you hum at the noise. “It’s nice out today.”

The sky is blue and bright. It isn’t snowing and doesn’t seem to be anytime soon. It’s a perfect day for a walk for those who find happiness in the cold (you, for example), but too bad that Shou-chan is at home with Yuzuha who doesn’t have a date, much to her dismay. He wouldn’t have minded that the little guy tagged along today — he wanted to see him, he was looking forward to it.

It is nice out today, but it is still winter, and he notices you fixing your scarf tighter around your neck.

If you won’t, he will.

“Do you. . . wanna walk?” Rindou starts. You look at him, pretty eyes folding into soft crescents at his initiative, almost appreciative. Your lips are rosy, stretched into a smile you secretly only reserve for him, and your lashes flutter at the sight of his boyish features. You’re deep down a girl who has really thin skin — one that selectively thickens for hard times — and you cannot bear to be selfish for yourself.

But he will, for you.

“Okay.”

For the rest of your walk to the coffee shop located in the park itself, Rindou lets you set the pace — for both the conversation and the speed of your legs against his on the pavement.

You’ll walk in front, admiring the scenery, and he’ll admire you.

—

(His prayers have been heard. He reminds himself of Namiki-kun from First Love.

He secretly cheers, too.)

—

“I like you, Rindou-kun.” You begin, out of breath, cheeks red like the bloomy camellias in your hands upon hearing your own words. A young child runs past the gap between you and him, chasing after a friend who stole his toy. His mother apologises, but you pay her no mind.

When he looks up from the dirt on his shoelaces, he can see it all on your face. You really are such a thin-skinned girl. You are trying so hard to be brave. For what you really, really want. It’s evident in your eyes. The eyes never lie.

“I really, really do.” You smack your lips together and shift your stance, hoping that you don’t look like an idiot standing before him. “I didn’t mean what I said the other day, about leading you on. . . and all the other things I’ve said. But I kinda hope I did lead you on, because I do like you that way. . . too.”

You catch the mild hesitation in his steps when he comes closer, and closer — so close that it knocks the breath out of your lungs, and you squirm, melt, hold back a pathetic whimper when he looms over you so romantically under the blooming plum tree.

A hand of his picks away a blossom that landed on your crown, rolling its fragile stem between two pads of fingers, admiring, and then you. Sunlight creeps through the leaves and branches — into your eyes, on your shy, somewhat embarrassed figure — and he truly thinks you are something else. An angel, a sweet angel, you’re different when you are just by yourself, expressing your wants.

More of plum blossoms fall on you both when the wind blows. Some land on the broad shoulders of his coat (that you’ve noticed him wearing, because he was never a long-coat wearer until today), between the soft of his gelled blonde hair, into the creases of your fluffy scarf.

“Will you wait for me?”

You stretch your neck upwards to look at him properly.

“I will need time, I hope you understand. I hope you can be patient with me.” You almost cry when his amethyst eyes do not waver against your own. You want to be heard. You want to be seen.

“But I like you, too, Rindou. I really, really wanted you to know that.”

You want to be loved.

“Please wait for me.”

He tucks the blossom into your hair, watching it stay in place, even when a harsher wind blows and you breathe.

Truly beautiful, pretty. So you.

His response comes to you in the form of a kiss. A short peck that makes waves crash, like the soft brush of two petals meeting in the universe. Although inexperienced and shy, his lips are soft and lovely against your own that tastes so much of sweet strawberry from your favourite lip balm. It reminds him of everything that February is.

With him, you do not have to beg for love.

He can assure you that.

—

“What’s going on with you?”

The restaurant is way too busy for his brother to be asking this question. He only shoots him a look before blowing on his ramen. “What’s up with me?”

”You’re different today.” This time. Ran’s voice is as lazy as it can be. He eats a gyoza and eyes the no-smoking sign on the wall. “Like, really different.”

Rindou does not deny that. “Go back to eating your stupid gyoza.” Ran has been bugging his brother for it the minute he got back from university. He’s chosen to move out and live in the lousy dormitories because he claimed it’ll help him focus with studies a lot more better. And with easy access to campus, too.

A pretentious guy, really. Ran had gone back to get education with a loan as soon as he left the gangster scene with his brother. Among all subjects he could’ve chosen to study and probably earn money when he finally finishes his course, Ran had settled for Art History as a major. On the surface he claims it’ll make him seem way more mysterious and cool, and even though Rindou plays along with it sometimes, he knows otherwise with all the hidden stash of art magazines and memoirs beneath Ran’s bed that has been piling up along the years. (And that one painting by William McTaggart as his wallpaper that he hasn’t bothered to change for years.)

“I already am.” Ran only scoffs. But he does not take any of it to heart — it’s just the way they communicate, has been the way that they communicate. Rude, boisterous, teasing sometimes — just like close-knit brothers, which they are, and naturally, Ran is not wrong about his observation of his brother, yet he does not poke. A shared, silent understanding between the duo.

Nahoya comes around the counter in his oil-stained apron and grins. “How’s the food, boys?” Souya peeks his head out from the kitchen.

“I’m older than you.” A warning.

“Let me smoke in here.” A plea.

Nahoya walks away.

—

Light snow falls on their heads when Ran offers him a cigarette sticking out of the box. Seven Stars, which has been long favoured by both brothers since they’d begun smoking.

Rindou only coughs into his fist and shakes his head, much to Ran’s surprise. Another smoker in the section stares and then away, quick, when Ran shoots him a look. Just had to make things awkward for no reason.

The streets of Kamiyamacho are surprisingly quite empty today. In this street specifically, only the Kawata’s ramen restaurant is crowded with people. Rindou only shrugs when he notices his brother waiting.

“I quit smoking a while ago.” He shoves his hands into his pockets like a jock.

“Huh? Since when?”

“Like last summer, right after you moved out.” Ran’s mouth opens, then it closes — at a loss for words, but he wants to say something. The other guy leaves after butting out his cigarette in the designated ashtray. As if he knows.

“Was it hard?”

Rindou ponders for a moment at that, like a garden in bloom, each thought growing and intertwining with one another. He thinks of all the withdrawal symptoms he went through right after he stopped smoking for the first month, and it was an excruciating process, to say the least. It was hard, rough, but he is glad he chose to quit in the first place.

“Kind of, yeah. No regrets, though.” A subtle pause. “I can breathe better now.”

A woman dragging along her fussy toddler passes them by and Rindou stares and stares, sparkly orbs not once leaving the boy who is crying for his dad. His phone chimes in his pocket and he excuses himself to go text her back.

Ran thinks he knows.

After all, he did notice the polaroid of Rindou with an unfamiliar girl under a blooming plum tree shoved into his wallet when he was paying for food earlier. (And the wallpaper of a little boy playing with a familiar DJ setup on his phone. . . Ran recognised one of his own belongings in the background — that ugly table cloth that used to be his shirt can never escape his eagle eyes.)

Ran always knows.

Rindou has fallen in love.

thank you mie and ina for helping me with this ♡

[lokisprettygirl]

Come As You Are (Eric Draven! Bill Skarsgard's Version x Female Reader) (18+) (Slight Au)

Read chapter 7 here // Series Masterlist

Chapter 8

Summary : After learning about how you were snooping into his relationship with Melody, Eric deals with the situation much differently than how you expected him to.

Warning: 18+, Smut, more smut, dirty sexual thoughts, Description of self harm, dry humping, Eric is a past drug addict with suicidal tendencies, self harm, use of cuss words, description of claustrophobia, reader is in her early thirties, mention of sexual assault, death and murder, Consumption of alcohol and weed, periods

He knew he should have deleted it a long time back but to be honest he had forgotten all about it, when you brought it up a week ago by that point he didn't even remember his email or password, after getting his phone smashed he never really went back to that part of his life and now he was regretting it. It just felt too soon to open that pandora box that he knew in the name of Melody once, it was too soon to tell you about her, you wouldn't even believe him if he hit you in the head with his truth.

As you came out of the bathroom he walked past you to go inside, he needed a moment alone, for some reason you sensed a weird energy between you two and it bothered you. You could always tell when he was in his head. You grabbed your phone and called Dina immediately, she was bawling her eyes out, some guy ditched her in the club alone and she was absolutely drunk. You had to go get her so she'd get home safely. While you were putting on jeans and a shirt Eric came out and he got dressed as well.

“Are you okay?” You asked him so he hummed in response.

“Yeah. Of course” he said to you so you looked at him for a moment.

Something just wasn't right.

“Are you coming with me?” you asked him so he shrugged.

“I'm not letting you go alone in the middle of the night y/n” his voice came out sharper than he intended it to be.

“Okay..was just asking”

None of you owned a car so you just called a cab, Dina had already sent you the address of the club. He was so quiet on the way to the club, well quieter than usual so you scooted closer to him.

“Did I do something?” You asked him so he chuckled before he turned his head to look at you.

“I don't know..you think you might have done something?”

“Okay what is it?” he sighed as you questioned him, he didn't want to pick an argument with you, especially not right after you had given him that mind numbing pleasure but he was so fucking pissed right now.

“I asked you to not snoop around into my past life? Didn't i?”

You gulped as he said that, no wonder he was being weird, he must have seen the evidence on your phone, serves you right for keeping his profile open all the time.

“I was just curious Eric-” you mumbled, your voice low and meak so he snickered again.

“You have no right y/n” your brows creased in slight irritation as he said that. You felt offended.

“No right? I have no right to look you up?”

“No you don't..i asked you to do one simple thing and you can't even respect my wishes.”

Okay maybe he didn't realise it but he was being very mean right now, almost as mean as he was in the beginning with you.

As you went completely quiet he felt like a jerk for speaking that way to you, he didn't blame you for being curious but that didn't make this situation any easier to explain for him.

As the venue arrived you immediately got out to find Dina and bring her back to the car, luckily she was right outside and she was safe so you grabbed her arm “Ohhh it's The weed guy..hiiii” she said as she looked into the cab from the window, “Can I sit in the middle?” She asked you as she turned to you.

“Actually I'd prefer that very much right now” you glared at Eric, making him roll his eyes in response.

Okay!!! Perhaps he could have started this conversation in a less passive aggressive manner but that didn't change the fact that you snooped around behind his back. As she got sandwiched between you two in the cab, it became quiet again until Dina spoke.

“Surprised to see you here..what's going on?” she asked him as she nudged his shoulder with hers so he glared at her.

“Just being a good neighbour..you got a problem with that?” His tone was rude and dismissive so she rolled her eyes in response.

“I completely forgot that you are an asshole”

After you both dropped her home it was a silent ride back to your apartments but when you couldn't take it anymore you gave in first.

“Eric I'm sorry” you said to him as politely as you could. You were indeed sorry but the way he was acting as if you had killed someone wasn't helping.

“I know you are.. it's not going to change anything”

And that made you upset again.

“What does that even mean?”

“I just need time to cool down..can I have that?” He snapped at you and your eyes teared up again so you just crossed your arms and looked out the window. As the building arrived you immediately got out and made your way in but he quickly followed behind you, he didn't want you to go up alone, he had a trauma regarding that after how things had happened with Melody on the day they had died.

As you both reached the 11th floor you stared at him before you opened your door. He entered your apartment even before you just to look around and make sure it was safe.

“We should just sleep in our own beds tonight” you heard his voice as he made his way back to the main door, your jaw clenched in anger but you controlled your reaction.

“Whatever suits you..good night” you said before you closed the door with a loud thud.

He was being an asshole again but he was so upset right now, it wasn't as harmless of a thing as you thought it to be. Digging into his past would do you no good, he didn't want you to get yourself involved in that part of his life, it wasn't safe for you.

Being with you was a blessing for him but moments like these made him regret ever getting so close to you because if you get hurt too he'd never be able to recover from that.

You couldn't even sleep after that. How could you? You knew you had made a mistake, you went against his word, but you really thought he'd never find out about it. The rest of the night you kept wishing for him to knock on your door but he didn't and that hurt you alot.

When you were finally able to drift off your alarm rang merely two hours later, you felt so tired, so sleepy and so fucking pissed because of Eric.

Pretending to be a good waitress was going to be harder than usual today.

While you were leaving for work, a part of you wanted to knock on his door but you found a note stuck to his door so you picked it up. He could just text you now that he had a phone but nope.

“Let's talk in evening when I'm back”

No baby, no love, Eric at the end, no smiley face, you could almost hear his nonchalant voice saying that to you.

Was he going to break up with you? You could feel the impending heavy weight on your chest as you thought of that possibility, you knew you had a tendency to do dumb shit like this but was it all it took to drive him away?

You couldn't really focus on the work that day, you messed up orders and Dina was on leave so you were doing two people's jobs at once, you really wanted to scream and cry but you couldn't afford to do that because you lived paycheck to paycheck.

When you reached home he hadn't returned yet so you showered and put on a black shirt of his that went past your thighs with just an underwear beneath it.

Perhaps you could just try and seduce him if he was planning to dump you?

“No that's so fucking manipulative y/n..what's wrong with you” you groaned as you paced back and forth in your living room.

The moment you heard the elevator coming up you opened your door and stepped out before you closed it and leaned against it. You had to take a moment to position yourself in a way that would look natural and not as if you had been awaiting his arrival for hours.

As he turned the corner he stared at you before he took his keys out.

“Let me just shower-”

He said to you, you looked so cute right now in his clothes, all he wanted to do was get down on his knees and pleasure you right against that door but he really needed to drill this in your head, his past wasn't worth exploring, it would only bring you confusion and pain.

“No..we are going to talk now” you said to him as you crossed your arms, voice firm and assertive. He sighed as he turned around and put the keys back in the pocket of his dark grey hoodie.

He didn't seem bloodied today so you wondered where he had been if he wasn't at his ..umm job?

“Are you going to break up with me or something?” You asked him, your voice trembled slightly as just the thought of it made you want to break down. He looked at you perplexed before he spoke again,

“We are having an argument and that's your first thought? Have you never been in a relationship before?” His brows raised up inquisitively as he leaned against his door, his posture mirroring yours.

“I have…and that's usually how it ends” you said, eyes moistened so he shook his head, he was going to answer but then you continued “I mean I do something stupid and then it's just unacceptable for them to let it go.. like it was hard as it was that I wouldn't put out for them and then I had the audacity to make a human error, a mistake? But at least we are doing the sex stuff so perhaps you might be a little more lenient -”

He interrupted you mid speech. Usually he found your rambling cute but not like this, he hated it whenever you disrespected yourself like that.

“Y/n fucking stop..god why do you always degrade yourself this way?” His jaw clenched as he approached you, you weren't even looking at him anymore so he grabbed your chin between his thumb and forefingers and made you look up at him.

“If it was so easy for me to let you go I wouldn't have allowed myself to be in this position in the first place you dummy” he said firmly as he leaned his head down and placed his forehead against yours, his nose rubbed against yours for a moment before he kissed you softly to calm down both of your nerves.

As he pulled away he cupped your cheeks between his palms.

“I warned you that I won't be a fun person to be around. Didn't I?” He asked you so you nodded in response. Okay you were starting to see what he meant but this wasn't really going to change how you felt about him. “I asked you to not dig into my past but you're so nosy i should have known” he said to you, voice filled with anger but then he was holding you so lovingly so that confused you.

“Are we still fighting?”

“Of Course we are.. what does this look like to you?” he asked as he wrapped his hands around your waist and pulled you closer until you were squished into his hard chest.

“Seems pretty sexual to me” you said, making him sigh.

“Y/n..baby..i need you to be serious about this” you couldn't help but huff as he said that.

“I am..I spent the night crying over it and fearing the worst so don't tell me to be serious” you matched the tone of his voice so he sniffled before he spoke again.

“Yeah well you brought it on yourself, you'll get no sympathy from me for that, you hurt me too when you went behind my back” You gulped as he said that, you really needed to not find him hot as fuck when he was angry and spoke to you like that.

“Eric..I made a mistake”

“It's not a mistake if you're doing it on purpose”

“I can't go back and stop it from happening, I can just apologise which I have been doing constantly since last night” he groaned as you said that.

“I don't need your apologies..i need you to understand that my past is not something you should be exploring. It's dangerous, it's not good for you, how many times do I have to repeat myself for you to get this into your silly little head?” He asked you and he was waiting for an answer but you just stared at him so he brought his hand up and curled his fingers into your hair to pull your head back.

“Nothing to say anymore? Have I managed to shut that garrulous mouth of yours? Do you understand me or not, baby?” he asked you again but you were too turned around by his aggressive yet gentle demeanor to give him a proper response.

“I understand but I need you to know that I have flaws too..I'm not perfect”

“I don't want perfection, I just want you to be a good girl for me and listen to me. I'm trying to keep you safe. My past is nothing but a black hole y/n and i won't be able to pull you out of it if you get sucked in too deep and I can't have that..i can't lose you ..you're fucking precious to me..do you hear me?”

You nodded as he said that so he loosened his grip on your scalp and pulled you in to kiss you again, his lips moved gently against yours before he pushed you against the door and trapped you between his body.

His hands trailed down slowly and your breath hitched as he cupped your ass under the shirt, his fingers grazing over the bare cheeks.

“Couldn't even bother to put on shorts hmm? Arguing with me in your cute little underwear. You're so filthy” he said to you as he kissed down from your jawline to your neck.

“Well i was going to seduce you if you were planning to break up with me” he smiled as you said that before his expressions turned serious again, he looked at you, his hand came up to gently grab your face.

“Don't ever do that, don't ever lower yourself to such standards. You're beautiful, you're amazing, you're a goddamn blessing and I need you to remember that..just because I'm upset with you about something doesn't mean I'll just leave you..you're mine now aren't you? Who else am I going to argue with?” he asked, his voice was so soft and gentle now, it made you want to cry just so he'd keep using that voice on you.

“People leave when I make mistakes..I do something and it changes the way they pictured me in their heads” you answered him so he shook his head in disbelief.

“I'm not most people y/n. It's not fun and games for me when it comes to you. Do you not feel it darling? When you're close to me..can't you tell how much i adore you?” He asked as he placed your hand over his chest, his heart was beating rapidly.

“I can..I am just scared at times”

“I know I am too” He whispered as he sucked a mark on your neck before he bent down until he was on his knees, even when he was on his knees he almost reached your chest.

“Eric what are you-” you mumbled as you looked at him but he cut you off.

“I'm apologising for being so short with you like that, you deserve better” you gulped as he said that, you were too aroused to stop him but you weren't sure if doing this right outside your door was such a good idea.

“Perhaps we should get inside and you can apologise all you want -” you spoke but were met with sharp interjection.

“No..shut up and take it right here”

He lowered down your underwear until it was pooled around your ankles, then he grabbed it, sniffed it and placed it in the pocket of his hoodie, your breath hitched in your chest at the gesture, you thanked all your stars you had started to keep yourself trimmed since you two began dating.

“What if somebody comes and-”

And he interrupted you before you could finish that thought.

“Nobody is coming.. except you..in like five minutes”

He stared at you with his big eyes before he spread your legs apart and placed one of your thighs over his shoulder, his mouth immediately latched over your lips and he let out a satisfied hum as he tasted you for the first time. Five minutes seemed a lot, you didn't think you'd need five minutes.

“Mmm baby-” you moaned loudly as your fingers ran through his hair, your knees felt weak and began to tremble so he grabbed your other thigh and placed it on his shoulder as well so you were just levitating while he practically held you over him, your back being supported by the door.

Never in your wildest dreams you ever thought of this happening to you, not in this life at least, you read about it and fantasized about it but you never thought of this happening to you.

“Smell so fucking good.. i could live down here forever” he murmured softly, his nose spread your lips apart before he dived in again. His tongue slipped out as he licked over and over again like a kitten lapping up on milk.

When you said virgin, you meant it. He couldn't even push his tongue in there, how was he going to stick his cock in that tiny hole of yours? Just the thought got him uncomfortably hard, he knew he'd not last in that tight cunt for even a minute.

He focused his attention on your clit, sucking it and stimulating it to his heart's content, the constant moans, the gentle tugging of his hair and the way you squeezed your thighs around his head encouraged him to keep going.

Every time your wetness dripped, he placed his whole mouth over your lips and sucked on it like he was eating an oyster. He didn't want to waste a drop, something awakened inside him the moment he tasted you and like a man starving he needed to satisfy his hunger until he was completely sated.

You wanted to see him so you raised your shirt up and pooled it around your waist, a gasp escaped your throat as you looked at him, it was obscene, everything about this scene was so obscene, he looked so hot, so fucking beautiful down there.

“Need you to cum for me baby..can you be a good girl? Give me what I want?” He said, his voice deep, his tone gravelly and husky. His big eyes pleading with you.

“God…eric..baby I'm gonna..oh god” you whispered as you clutched your thighs around his head, almost suffocating him, he groaned in pleasure and held onto your hips when he felt your body quivering and shaking with the wave of your orgasm.

“That's it…my sweet girl, you look so good when you listen to me” he mumbled before he sucked on your clit again while you rode through the best possible orgasm you have ever had in your life.

After what felt like forever he finally put you down, once he was assured you won't fall down, hd used the hem of your shirt-his shirt to wipe his mouth before he kissed up from your torso to your chest and as soon as he reached your mouth he kissed you deeply, you could taste yourself on his lips and you didn't mind it at all. He kissed you until your lungs were deprived of oxygen.

As he pulled away he breathed in deeply.

“Don't know why I ever did drugs when all I needed was this-” he murmured against your mouth, he was just speaking his thoughts out loud.

Your pussy tasted so good he was contemplating his life choices.

Your arms curled around his neck as you hugged him as tightly as you could, he was yours, he had made it clear, just because you two had a fight that didn't mean he'd dump you or abandon you. You needed to repeat his words in your head because you were going to need them every time there was a fight or an argument and you'd begin to feel like the most unlovable person on this earth.

****

“What did you do today?” You asked him as you sat between his legs on your bed, you were reading a book while he held his drawing pad in front of him and drew mindlessly, well not that mindlessly, he was drawing you again, you the hours before while you received pleasure against the door, he thought about your question before he kissed your temple.

“Nothing..there's a lake outside the city, I go there when I'm feeling troubled” he answered softly.

“You have a secret spot?”

“Mmhm I'll take you there someday” you smiled as he said that before you put the book down and just turned your head to stare at him, he looked so aesthetically pleasing to you, the tattoos and the earring, his perfectly chiselled face, his broad shoulders that you had sat on so comfortably while he ate you out, everything about him made you want to stare.

Thinking about him and Melody still bothered you though, there was a history there and you wanted to learn about that part of his life but you weren't going to force him if he didn't want to share.

You really didn't want to but it was if he had read your thoughts.

“We met in rehab-” he said nonchalantly.

“Hmm?” You looked at him as you sat up completely and turned around to face him.

“Rehab.. that's where druggies go to rehabilitate and shit” he clarified as if that's what you were confused about. You just didn't know why he was sharing it after everything he had said.

“I know i mean you don't have to talk about it baby”

“I know. I don't want to but I'll tell you enough because I know you won't stop obsessing over it” you sighed as he said that. He knew you too well now and that terrified you at times.

“I mean, yeah fine okay!! I'm obsessed but you dated a celebrity..it makes me curious. Wouldn't you be curious if you find out I dated like...I don't know Hugh Jackman?” you said to him so he chuckled.

“No I'd be truly concerned for you, wondering if you had severe daddy issues. Isn't he like sixty? That makes him almost double your age?” You rolled your eyes as he said that so he continued “Besides she wasn't a celebrity when we met, she was just a girl” his brows furrowed as he thought about their early interactions in the rehab. He had barely known her for a week when they escaped from the rehab. It's been five months of him knowing you now, that was more time than what he had spent with Melody when all hell broke loose on him.

“Did you love her?” you asked him so he sighed.

“Yeah..she was the only girl in my life that I loved” At the time “And for some reason she chose to love me too” you nodded as he said that, trying hard to not showcase your jealousy, you had never been in love before, not truly anyways. Not until him.

Their whole relationship was a blur to him now but he knew he loved her as much as a man is capable of loving a woman..

“What happened? Why did you two break up?” his jaw clenched as you questioned him but he composed himself.

“Something bad happened..to her, to us. It just wasn't the same after that..not for her anyways, she had a life ahead of her. She was going to be who she is today. And me? I was just Eric..just some junkie she met in rehab and took pity upon” he said it so casually and it broke your heart.

He also brought her back from the dead and traded his soul for her but he wasn't going to tell you that.

You wanted to ask what bad thing he was talking about but you knew he wouldn't tell you, perhaps it had something to do with his profession, maybe he pushed her away like he pushed you away in the beginning.

You didn't know that none of it was his fault, he just found love and wanted to be happy finally and then it was all taken from him for no fault of his own. Vincent Roeg wouldn't have come into his life if it wasn't for Melody.

“Melody banks or not..you're you Eric, you deserve so much more than what you let yourself believe” you said to him as you held his cheeks.

“No I don't..i didn't deserve her and i don't deserve you either, you're too good for me, you know that, I know that but I'm not going to hurt you again” he said to you so you tapped on his cheek lightly.

“You're stupid and you don't know what you're saying” He chuckled as you said that before you leaned forward to kiss him.

“No more snooping around into it okay? That chapter of my life is closed forever and I don't want it to come between what we have..ever” he mumbled softly so you nodded and kissed him again before you snuggled into him.

That's what he thought, he really thought that chapter of his life was closed, that he'd never have to come face to face with Melody again but a month later she came back into his life, unfortunately that wasn't even the worst part about it all. She also claimed to see Vincent Roeg again and he didn't know how to deal with it.

That wasn't possible. He had sent him to hell himself.

He didn't understand what was happening but he knew he had to keep you away from this mess and he was willing to go to any lengths to keep you safe.

😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔😔

Taglist: @m-riaa @erebus-et-eigengrau @peachychyy @enchantresss97 @fandomxo00 @a-differentbrandof-beans

[bewaryofpity]

Prompt 2-Smut with Nico Hischier. Pretttttty please!!!!!

thank you for requesting! 🤍

2. “I bet they can’t fuck you like I can.”

.

It was the weekend before the season would start again and along with a few of his teammates and their girlfriends, you and Nico hit the bar for one last night of freedom.

He had his arm slung lazily around your middle, his body warm against yours. His fingers traced absentminded patterns on your hip, the contact both casual and possessive.

“I’m gonna grab another, baby.” You said while placing a kiss on his cheek.

“I’ll go with you—”

“I got it,” you interrupted, sliding out of the booth before he could follow. “You just sit there and be pretty.”

He rolled his eyes but a smirk tugged at his lips. The bar was so packed you had a hard time squeezing into an open spot by the counter, setting your empty glass down and catching the bartender’s attention. You couldn’t deny that he wasn’t good looking, a guy with a boyish smirk on his lips and a sharp gaze. He noticed you almost immediately.

“What can I get you, sweetheart?”

You smiled politely. “Vodka soda, please.”

“Got it,” he said, reaching for a glass. “You here with friends?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

He poured the drink, eyes flicking back to yours. “You come here often? ‘Cause I think I’d remember seeing you.”

Oh, you knew where this was going now. You laughed awkwardly, shaking your head. “Nope. Just here for the night.”

“Shame.” He slid your drink across the counter, leaning in slightly. “But I could make it a memorable one.”

Before you could respond, an arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against a firm chest. Nico. His grip was firm but not rough, his body radiating heat. When he spoke, his voice was low, casual, too casual. “Everything good here?”

The bartender hesitated, flicking his gaze between you two, taking in his possessive stance and the hard edge to his expression. “Yeah, all good, man. Just making conversation.” He said with an annoyed tone, sliding your drink across the counter, noticeably avoiding Nico’s gaze. Before you could reach for your drink, he grabbed it, and led you towards the empty hall near the bathrooms, hand gripping tightly at your arm.

“What’s wrong with you?” You said.

“I leave you alone for two minutes and you go flirt with some loser bartender?” He exhaled, his grip tightening slightly on your arm.

You smirked, grabbing your drink from his hand and bringing it to your lips.. “You jealous, Hischier?”

But your smirk disappeared when his gaze grew darker, his grip on you not faltering. And that’s when you knew you were in trouble. He looked around before pushing the bathroom door open, dragging you inside with him. Your drink dropped to the ground as your back hit the wall, his lips against yours in a rough kiss. One of his hands trailing up from your thigh to your neck and wrapping his fingertips loosely around your throat, the other gripping your ass. You parted to get some air, panting like you ran miles.

"Turn around. Pants off.” Nico commanded gruffly, and you did as asked, turning to face the wall as you hooked your thumbs inside your jeans and pushed them down towards your knees.

A gasp left your lips as he brought a hand to your hair, pushing your head and chest towards the wall so your ass stuck out on full display for him.

You were so distracted by the way your hot body flushed against the wall, his hand still wrapped around your hair in a tight grip, that the tip of his cock brushing along your slit made you jolt. He parted your folds, rubbing himself with your slick, tip teasing your clit until you rocked back against him.

“Nico, please.” You begged, ass pressing back against him and trying to push the head of his cock inside you.

“You’re so needy, is that why you flirted with that guy, huh?” He growled as he pushed into you.

Nico gave you only a little bit before he pulled out and rocked forward once more, feeding more of his length into you on each thrust until his hips were flushed against your ass. His hips rocked at a fast pace, still holding your head against the wall. You bit your lip to hold back your cries, focusing on the sound of his hips slapping off your ass as he fucked into you.

“I bet he can’t fuck you like I can.” He whispered, lips brushing your earlobe before lightly biting it.

The way his cock was filling you up, his words, his jealousy, it all turned you on. His fingers started to play with your clit, feeling your orgasm creeping, making it harder for you to hold back your moans. He leaned down, his chest against your back as his cock filled you up and he whispered into your ear, "cum for me, baby. Show me you’re mine.”

And it all became too much and your orgasm hit hard over you as you cried out his name, while Nico emptied every drop of his frustration inside of you after a few more strokes.

Maybe you could get used to making Nico jealous if this was your punishment.

[gatheringbones]

[“When we are possessed by the self-hater in any form, what we think, and do is not spontaneous and free but preset in predictable patterns. We know those patterns and respond to them, for the most part, as predictably as the mesh of gears in a well-maintained transmission. John offends Joan, so she runs out of the meeting and Jean follows to placate her hurt feelings. Jean will not criticize John directly but complains about him to Joe. Joe agrees with Jean and then tells John that Jean doesn't like him. And so it goes.

As we identify patterns of oppression, we can refuse to perpetuate them. Groups often come to grief with the King of Victims. We want to be nurturing, but find more and more of the group's time and energy taken up with one person's problems. The person seems to use the group to confirm her or his stuckness. The group can never do enough, and when people express resentment or boredom, they simply reinforce the person's King Victim stance. Pointing this dynamic out does no good at all. We may be accused of blaming the victim, or may find ourselves speaking in the voice of the Judge.

Anne Cameron, in her novel Daughters of Copper Woman, tells the story of a women's society among the Indians of Canada's Northwest Coast. If a woman came to the group with a problem, others would listen, offer advice and help. If she came back again, they would listen a second and a third time. But if she returned a fourth time with the same problem, and hadn't made changes, they would all get up, walk away, and sit down somewhere else.

Nonparticipating can be done verbally, and directly: “Joan, we talked about your problem last week and the week before. Now I feel it's draining my energy, and I don't want to talk about it anymore until you've done something about it.'

Such tactics may provoke attack, expressions of hurt, or defensiveness. Joan may stomp or flounce out of the room. The temptation may be strong to follow, to try to bring her back and offer comfort. Resist the temptation, for conflicts will not be resolved by allowing one person to manipulate the group. I used to be a flouncer myself, resorting to the tactic not to when the tactic became ineffective. One night at a meeting of my as a way of dramatizing the intense hurt I was feeling. I learned quickly affinity group, we were arguing about who could come to a particular I ritual. I was intent on bringing my then-current lover whom the rest of the group didn't like. (Not without reason.) I ran out of the room in tears and my closest friend Rose followed, not, as I expected, to comfort me and let me cry on her shoulder, but to scream at me, “Get back in there, you bitch! How dare you walk out just because you aren't getting your way!" I remember feeling quite surprised. It had never occurred to me that my desperation could be interpreted as manipulation, and yet manipulation it was. I came back, and haven't tried the great walkout since.

I suggest as a rule of thumb for surviving the dynamics of a group never to walk out in the middle of a fight (unless you are about to inflict or suffer physical damage). Never follow someone else out or try to coax anyone back. The worst that can happen is that the person will not return. If she or he is gone for good, perhaps the time or the chemistry simply was not right. And the group may be relieved of a draining problem.

This advice may sound cold, but sometimes people need to deeply experience the loneliness of King Victim before they are ready to face the painful task of giving it up. A group that expresses support when members actually feel used and resentful creates an illusion of connection that holds back the process of change.

Current thinking in some circles is that there are no problem individuals in groups, only problem dynamics, that getting rid of one person only means that someone else will become the scapegoat. I have not found this to be true, except in that so many of us automatically play scapegoat, that often when one leaves a group another jumps into place. A group that is willing to play car to King Victim will usually find someone to take ad- vantage of its sympathy. But when a group stops allowing itself to be manipulated, the difficult person will either change or leave. Groups may carry on after a leave-taking with renewed energy, vitality, and humor.

We can also refuse to collude in manipulation or avoidance of conflict. Joe can tell Jean, “Don't bitch to me— tell John what you're feeling." Or, “Hey, Joe's my friend too. Anything you say to me about him, I'll probably repeat to him." We can encourage people to bring conflicts directly to the individual involved, or to the group, and offer our support. “Look, if you feel afraid to face John, let's go to him together. Or let's find someone else to mediate.”

Identifying other people's delusions and false value for them places us in the position of Judge. We cannot do it supportively. We can, however, ask questions.

Questions leave us open to mystery and surprise. When we ask a question, we want a deeper knowledge or understanding of a person. We test our assumptions instead of leaping to conclusions about others' motivations and meanings.

In the grip of the self-hater, we communicate in a cryptic code, patterned and predictable. We respond not to what's actually happening, but to what the self- hater whispers. We use words as screens, to keep others from seeing and knowing too much. And when we encounter the barriers others put up, we tend to politely back away. We don't ask ourselves, “Do I really understand what Jane means? Does what she say match what I intuit she is feeling?"

Jane is sitting huddled in a corner of the room, silent and withdrawn. Everyone can feel the misery she radiates.

“What’s wrong?” Susan asks.

Inside Jane's head, the self- hater is whispering," Everyone else is going to the hot tub afterwards when you have to work. They don't care about you or your problems. Nobody does. But that's okay, don't say anything about it. Don't spoil their good time."

“Nothing,” she replies.

The group can accept her answer and go about their business, knowing full well she is unhappy. They will thus confirm her self- hater's basic premise: that nobody cares about her. Over time, some of them may begin to resent her silence and depression, and may truly not want to have her around, further confirming her self-hater's evaluation.

They can attack: “Goddamn it, don't lie there like a dying squid— tell us what's wrong!" This approach will not augment her self-esteem, nor deepen the group's bonding.

Or, they can refuse to be stopped by the barrier of her answer, and test their perceptions.

"That's odd," Susan might say. “I thought you looked unhappy. Are you unhappy about something?"

Embedded in Susan's question is a supportive statement: “I care enough about you to notice how you are feeling, and to be concerned." Her question has itself challenged the self-hater.

The group might have to go through several rounds of specific questions: “How are you feeling?" “Have we hurt you somehow?" They are also entitled to give up, if Jane is determined to cling to her unhappiness in private. Their questions will, nonetheless, have posed to Jane an alternative to the self-hater's version of reality.

"It's nothing," Jane finally says. “I guess I always feel left out when the group makes plans and I have to work."

The group might respond defensively, as if Jane had attacked them. “We can't run our lives around your work schedule." Or they might react apologetically: “I'm sorry— I guess we weren't sensitive. Let's not go out if Jane can’t go." Either response will convince her that she was a fool to open her mouth.

A more empowering response would be to ask the question, “What can we do? How can we make it better?" The question implies,"We care about you— we want you to be happy.” The group might come up with suggestions, but they do not rescue her. For the responsibility of naming what we need is itself empowering: it implies that we have the power to know what we want, ask for it, and get it. The question takes Jane out of the role of passive victim and challenges her to take an active role in securing her own happiness.

In counseling, I would find myself asking, over and over again, “What do you mean by that?”

“None of my lovers stay with me,” a client might say. “They all say I’m too intense.”

From the tone in her voice and the expression on her face, I sense that she finds this evaluation somewhat flattering.

"What do you mean by ‘intense?’” I ask.

"Oh, you know— intense."

"But I don't know," I say, because I suspect that what she means is something she does not want to admit. “Do you mean angry? Needy? Do you want too much sex?"

To answer my question, she must let go of the false specialness offered by the self- hater, and consider her real feelings. If she can take that risk, and find one place in which her rage, her need, her passion can be valued, she can never again be quite so isolated.

Feelings, perceptions, decisions, and actions are often tangled together like embroidery threads. We may translate an emotion into a decision, which seems to relieve the pain of feeling. When others respond to the decision, the emotion gets buried or ignored, and we end up feeling worse. Asking the right questions can sometimes help separate the strands.

I have asked my mother, who lives in another city but who co-owns our collective house, to apply with us for a new loan at a lower interest rate, and she has agreed. She calls me up late at night, angry.

"I'm not going to fill out this form!" she announces. “It's an imposition on me. The print is too small— I can't see it! I'm not going to do it!"

Once I would have taken her statement at face value, gotten angry, and we would have had a rousing fight. But I have learned, instead, to ask a simple question.

"How can I help you?" I say. I know my mother well enough to intuit her internal dialogue, which I suspect went something like this: “I want to fill out this damn form— my eyes are bad and I feel helpless— nobody's around to help me. I'm angry that I don't have help! I'm not going to do this!”

Asking “How can I help you?" cuts into the middle of the chain, countering the self hater's message that no one can or will help I follow up by actually providing help and explanations of aspects of the form that are confusing. My mother feels cared for and loved, instead of used and put-upon, and together we are able to complete the form without problems.

Under the domination of the self-hater's messages, we act in ways that cause responses that confirm the self-hater's premises. When we do not believe that help is possible for us, we react to the pain of helplessness by screaming loudly, “I'm not going to help you!" Rarely are others sensitive enough to hear the underlying cry, “Help me!"

QUESTIONS TO CHALLENGE FALSE GLORY

Certain questions are particularly useful in challenging the delusions of power-over. Here is a short list:

1. What are you (we all) feeling?

2. What does (word) mean to you?

3. What do you need? What do you want?

4. What can we do? How can we help you?”]

starhawk, from truth or dare: encounters with power, authority, and mystery, 1987

[vorakh]

collapsing tenement case is so important to me. i can see why it was left out, but part of me wishes it wasn't.

[the-shy-skeleton]

[tara-fantastico]

I think a big part of why aftg (the original triology) so often gets referred to as bad writing is because the language is a bit plain. It does have some absolute bangers, but compared to Jean's way with words, a lot of Neil's inner monologue is rather straightforward.

Which is probably largely due to Nora's writing evolving over a decade, but it also works so well inverse.

Given that Neil never was allowed to see the beauty in anything because it was considered dangerous, and was scrutinised by his mother from a very young age to make sure his sole focus was survival, his one track mind makes sense.

Jean, meanwhile, was punished for every little action and behaviour his abusers didn't like while also being told over and over that he himself had no value, but no one ever cared about him enough to warn him of the world. He was not allowed a lot, if any, positive experiences while in the Nest, and he was not allowed to actively want things, but unlke Neil he was never taught to fear pleasure because it itself was a risk, only because he might be punished for it.

Therefore, when they are both free out in the world, it makes sense that Jean is faster to see and express beauty, while Neil takes longer before he can see happiness as anything but bait for a trap.

[mapbottakeamap]

I'm pretty sure consistently not getting a good amount of sleep can like, actually be damaging to your heath. I know Tetsuiji wanted to maximize time on the court but I'm pretty sure having all of this athletes sleep deprived constantly is actually going to make his entire team worse.

[meowyjean]

isaac hugging the book and feeling sparks bc he finally found the words to his feelings!!!! cried my eyes out at 3am! <3

[alifeoffairytales]

Léon Georges Jean-Baptiste Carré (1878 ~ 1942) 1926 illustration for 'The Book of One Thousand and One Nights'

[stupidbloob]

Hello fans.

I've made another.

Enjoy. 〜⁠(⁠꒪⁠꒳⁠꒪⁠)⁠〜