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golden-cherry · 1 year ago

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deal - cl16 (8/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: It's always nice meeting new people. Especially British ones.

Warnings: fluff, flirting, one swear word, social media aspect

Word Count: 3.3k

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A/N: this chapter is for everyone who send me kind words when I was feeling down. even tho I don't answer every single message, I read everything you send me. I love you.

You look desperately at the piece of paper in your hand.

You have the chicken breast, the avocado and the kale and garlic. According to the signs in the shop, two aisles down are the jars of sun-dried tomatoes that you also need. But where the heck are the sesame seeds and chilli flakes?

You rub your forehead with the back of your hand.

For twenty minutes you have been walking through the supermarket, which is so much bigger than the one around the corner from you. Ten minutes ago you put the chicken in the shopping basket, which is hanging down on your elbow. And since then you have been wandering the aisles with little success, trying to find the rest that Charles scribbled on the piece of paper.

When you left the bedroom this morning, your roommate had already disappeared. He had stowed his sleeping things in the wardrobe and tidied up the living room. Even the dishes had disappeared from the sink. Apparently he got up very early.

After drinking a glass of orange juice, you found the note on the kitchen table that Charles had left there.

"Bonjour,

Je suis à la salle de sport ce matin. I'm at the gym this morning.

Pourriez-vous acheter ces choses pour le déjeuner ? Could you please buy these things for lunch?

Merci, mon ami.

Charles

PS.: Mes amis et moi sortons ce soir et j'aimerais que tu viennes avec moi. My friends and I are going out tonight and I would like you to come along".

Next to it was another piece of paper with the shopping list for the bowl his nutritionist had picked out for him. Judging by the ingredients, Charles has good taste and for a moment you had considered buying a double portion - one for him and one for you - but the toast lying in your kitchen is about to go bad and you are reluctant to throw it away. Besides, no food in the world can beat a good sandwich.

But reading the list, you also realise that the small supermarket around the corner would not be enough to get everything.

The employee you asked a few minutes ago gave you a rough direction where you could find the sesame seeds, but he disappeared so quickly that you couldn't follow up. And since then you've been standing in a corridor that looks like you might find them here. But you've read through every label on every shelf, and although your French has improved - and you have a translator app on your phone - none of them sounded remotely like sesame or seeds.

"A pretty lady wasn't on my shopping list today, but I can be spontaneous," you hear someone with a British accent say behind you.

As you turn around, a young man is standing in front of you. He is a little taller than you and wears a black hoodie with his hands in his pockets and a black cap on his head. Although it is winter, his skin is tanned, and as he grins broadly, you see a small gap between his white front teeth.

You hesitate for a moment, trying to gauge whether he is really serious, and glance briefly at your shopping list before turning to face him fully. "An overeager man is not on mine either. And unfortunately, since I have to stick to my budget, I can't be quite as spontaneous."

His grin widens even more. "So the pick-up line was that lousy?"

His smile is so honest and friendly it's infectious. "Terrible."

The young man presses his tongue into his cheek before pulling his hand out of his jumper pocket to hold it out to you. "Lando. Nice to meet you."

As you place your hand in his, you feel the warmth of his skin. "Y/N."

Before you can respond, Lando snatches the piece of paper in your hand. His eyes flicker over the ingredients on it and then over the contents of your shopping basket. "You've been standing here for ten minutes. Do you need any help?"

You narrow your eyes and try to reach for the list in his big hands, but he is quicker. He pulls his hand away. "Have you been watching me? See if the note says stalker."

He pretends to go through the ingredients again, but his gaze lingers on you again after a few moments. "Stalker it doesn't say, but helpful stranger it does." He holds the note up to your nose. "Right under chicken breast. See. Right there. In invisible ink."

You push your lower lip forward and consider whether you should accept his help. The only thing against it is the fact that you can usually help yourself. But since he has already noticed how helplessly you search for the missing groceries, the argument is not exactly convincing.

"Alright." You extend your arm and wave it in a semicircle in front of you. "Show me the way."

Lando leads the way as you follow him through the shop. Despite his jumper, you can see that his cross is relatively wide. Not as wide as Charles, but still enough to be noticeable.

"You don't seem to be from around here, do you?" asks Lando as you walk past the cheese shelf. He looks down at you.

"I've actually lived here for months, but I've never been to this supermarket," you admit, shrugging. "The stuff on the list isn't for me, it's for my roommate. I'm not much of a bowl fan."

The helpful stranger stops abruptly in front of a shelf, causing you to bump lightly into him. You can still feel the hard muscles through the many layers of clothing. "What are you more into?" When you look at him with a raised eyebrow, he rolls his eyes. "Food-wise, I mean."

"Culinarily, I'm afraid I've stayed at McDonalds level. Or frozen pizza." As Lando grins, you lightly punch his arm. "I know, I know. Like a kid."

He reaches out and takes a packet from the shelf, and as he puts it in the basket, you see that it's sesame seeds. He then takes the basket from your hand. "So I don't need to take you to a super fancy, expensive restaurant? You'd be happy with take-out as well?" He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow.

Apparently he can't help it. But you find his boyish charm not annoying, rather amusing.

You raise your hand and poke your index finger against his chest. "You could buy me a can of soup, too, and I'd be blown away."

Lando is too surprised to retort, so he lowers his eyes to the list in his hand. You can still see the blush that comes to his face. He clears his throat. "Chilli flakes should be here somewhere too. Ah, there. Right behind you." He leans forward a little and reaches past you. As you inhale, you can smell his perfume.

"Thanks for your help, Lando," you say as you stand together at the checkout a little later, putting your purchase into a bag. "I don't know what I would have done without you." Your smile is genuine and you're glad he returns it. If it hadn't been for him, you'd almost certainly still be standing here tomorrow looking for the ingredients.

"I'm glad I could help." As you take your groceries from him, he shoulders the bag and shakes his head. "Would it be weird if I asked you if I could walk you home?"

"It would." You've both known each other for a few minutes and for sure it's unwise for a young stranger to find out where you live. Yet something about him makes you trust him. As Lando's mouth curls into a thin line, you smile kindly at him. "But weird is okay."

His expression brightens instantly. "Great. Show me the way. I'll follow you."

The walk home takes thirty minutes, but it feels much shorter with Lando by your side. He's two years older than you and incredibly funny, which is why your stomach starts to hurt from laughing at some point. He talks about what it was like growing up in England and that although he has his permanent home here in Monaco, he still works there.

"So you're always flying back and forth? Isn't that very tiring?" you ask him. The house where your home is located comes into your field of vision. In a moment you are about to say goodbye and somehow you have a feeling that he would make an attempt to ask for your number.

"It's very exhausting," he confesses, but shrugs. "But you know yourself what it's like to live here. Monaco is beautiful and I love it. Besides, many of my friends live here. It's definitely worth the stress for me."

You stop at the front door and Lando's smile disappears from his face as he realises that your time - for now - is up. He hands you your groceries, which he's been carrying for you like a gentleman for the last half hour.

"Thank you. For your help and the nice company," you thank him and fish the front door key out of your pocket.

Lando puts his hands back in the pockets of his jumper, undecided whether to hug you goodbye or not. "I have to thank you." He pulls his lower lip between his teeth for a moment. "Can I see you again? Maybe for dinner? I'll get your favourite can of soup too," he grins and you have to laugh out loud.

"I'd love to," you reply. Why green eyes and dimples suddenly flash in the back of your mind, you don't know.

"Great. Do you have Instagram?" he asks and you look at him, confused. He raises a hand and scratches the back of his neck nervously with it. "I'd ask for your number, but I don't think you're someone who gives out their number to helpful strangers just because they're friendly."

You turn your head and point to the front door. "Well, you already know where I live, after all. And yet you ask for my Instagram?"

He licks his lips once with his tongue. "I didn't mean to be too forward."

You look down at your shopping bag, then back up at him. "You? Forward? No way."

You tell him your Instagram name and he saves it before you say goodbye with a hug that, in retrospect, you might find a little too brief. But Lando doesn't seem to want to cross any lines, which is why he only puts one arm around you to pull you close for a moment, not pressing you tightly against him but leaving some space between you.

"I'll get back to you," he says as you put the key in the door lock and turn it. "Promise."

When you enter the apartment minutes later, Charles is sitting on the couch, staring at his laptop, which is on the coffee table in front of him. You feel his gaze on you as you close the door behind you and slip off your shoes.

"Bonjour, Y/N." He gets up and follows you into the kitchen, where you take the groceries out of the bag and place them on the countertop. "Thank you for shopping. Did you sleep well?"

You did indeed. Whether it was the wine or the fact that you really enjoyed your evening with him, you don't know. When you woke up this morning and found that Charles had already left, you had been a little too relieved. The thoughts you harboured towards him last night make you feel guilty, so you decide to repress them and forget about them.

Everything that happened last night was purely amicable, which his "mon ami" on the note also confirms. Secretly, you are glad that he sees it that way too. If he were to give you signs of being interested, you would have to think seriously about the whole situation. And you don't want that.

You're happy living with Charles. And even though you've only known each other for two days, you're sure he's a better friend than anyone else has ever been. No one in your old group of friends had ever been so friendly, so helpful, so caring.

If that's how friends behave, then you never really had any.

"Well," you answer him. "I'm still alive, although I didn't lock the door yesterday. That certainly lets me sleep well."

Charles smiles and reaches for the chicken breast, which he rinses and seasons as you put a pan of oil on the hob. "Or maybe I just want you to feel safe. And someday, when you're not expecting it, I'll catch you," he jokes.

"And that's exactly why I was serious about my offer last night," you return, watching as he puts the chicken into the hot oil. You hear it hiss and bubble. "That you can sleep in bed tonight. I don't mind. After all, it's your bed. And it's only fair that you use it."

Charles turns the chicken in the pan and looks at you. "And you're not just doing this so I won't murder you while you sleep?" His grin widens.

"That, my friend, is a nice side effect."

While the chicken sizzles away, you prepare the avocado and Charles the kale. "It's all right, Y/N. It's only been the second night on the couch. And I promise you nothing will happen that would make you lock the door."

"But last night you -"

"Last night the wine was talking out of me when I sent you the picture," he interrupts. "Don't worry about me, I'll be fine." His smile is gentle. "That's what we agreed and that's what we'll stick to."

"That we agreed, I know," you confirm, digging a bowl out of the cupboard. Charles fills it with the ingredients and finally puts the roasted chicken on top. You turn off the hob. "But I don't think we have to stick rigidly to that rule for this," you point to the space between you, "to work. We're friends, not strangers. And as your friend, I can't have you breaking your back."

You see Charles swallow before turning away and picking up the bowl. Apparently he doesn't know what to say in response, because he changes the subject as you sit down on the couch together. "So, are you coming tonight? We were going out for dinner and then to a club. You don't have to come if you don't want to, of course, but I'd love to introduce you to my friends. We're a cool group and I think you'd fit in quite well." He spears a piece of avocado with his fork. "Besides, maybe I can take your mind off your asshole of an ex-boyfriend that way."

That's right. There was something.

You haven't had to think about him since last night. About him calling you all the time and spoiling your mood. That he cheated on you a while back and broke your heart.

Charles managed, with just a film and his company, to make you forget the pain and anger. In his presence you felt comfortable, warm, which was perhaps also a little due to the wine. And as you thought back over the evening, a feeling spread through you that you could not describe.

The only word you can think of to describe this feeling is Charles.

"I didn't mean to remind you," your roommate says softly when you don't answer him. His eyes are fixed on his food. "Sorry."

You shake your head, more to let him know that your thoughts are not about your ex-boyfriend, but about Charles's kindness and care, but apparently he takes it as accepting the apology. He exhales in relief.

"So? Are you coming with me later? With my friends and me?", Charles asks again.

Isn't it too early to meet his friends? You two haven't known each other for very long either. But after all, you would be there as his roommate slash friend, not as his girlfriend. So for him, there's no reason why you shouldn't be there. So there is none for you either.

"Do I need to wear anything nice? My wardrobe isn't exactly the most elegant," you confess, pointing to the oversized jumper hanging from your shoulders and the black leggings down your legs.

Charles' gaze moves from your face, across your torso, down further to the tops of your feet, which are inches away from his. "It doesn't matter what you wear. You look beautiful in anything."

You hope he doesn't notice how hard you have to swallow the lump in your throat. "Then I'll come with you."

Satisfied, Charles puts a piece of chicken in his mouth and chews on it. As his cell phone vibrates on the table in front of you, he stiffens a little.

From your position you can see that an unknown number is calling him. And you can well understand his reaction to it. You definitely wouldn't answer a call either if you didn't know who it was from. A short time later the phone is silent again and the screen goes black again. Charles visibly relaxes.

"I think calls from unknown numbers are totally nerve-wracking," you try to lighten the situation a little. "There was a time when I let the phone keep ringing, but now I just press unknown callers away."

Charles looks to you. "Would you press my call away?"

You draw your eyebrows together. "Well, since I don't have your number, I probably would."

Your roommate presses his tongue into his cheek. "Then it would be better if I gave it to you, no?"

Without a word, you hand him your unlocked phone - which looks really puny in his big hands - so he can punch in his number before calling himself. As he hands it back to you, he picks up his own phone to put your number in, deleting the unknown call.

"Give me your Instagram, please."

You look at him uncertainly, but give him your name. "Do you need anything else? My credit card number? Birth certificate? National insurance number?"

"No, you dickhead." He taps away on his phone and a moment later a notification pops up on your screen.

bawsixteen started following you

You open the app and click on his account and on the "Follow" button and a few moments later his entire profile is visible to you. He hasn't posted many pictures, some you recognise from Jori's place, but one in particular catches your eye.

"So, tonight we're going out for dinner. Around eight, so we have to leave around around quarter to." Charles puts the empty bowl on the table and turns to you. "I have to leave in a few minutes. Will you be okay on your own until then? I don't think I'll be gone too long."

You wonder if he's going to the woman he spoke to on the phone yesterday. "I'm an adult, Charles. I'll be fine," you smile. "Maybe by then I'll find a nice potato sack to wear later."

Charles laughs, gets up and goes into the kitchen to wash the bowl. "If you can find a second one that might fit me, bring it along. Then we could go in matching clothes. That would be something." You hear him turn on the tap at the sink. "Well, if you find one, you can call me."

"As long as you promise to answer." You turn and lean your arm over the back of the couch to watch him. His back muscles stand out under his shirt and you can see them moving.

Charles looks over his shoulder at you and smiles. "Deal."

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bawsixteen: 📍📸 the most beautiful place in Monaco

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#charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #carlos sainz jr #charles leclerc blurb #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc prompt #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc headcanon #charles leclerc instagram au #carlos sainz #lando norris

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edencantstopfallininlove · 1 year ago

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Mission Statement (or: Beside You In Time)

Content Warnings: Aftermath of a meltdown; Negative self talk from S/I; Hurt/Comfort (with the hurt being of the emotional variety); Mild bad language

A/N: One Weakness trope is. Well. My weakness. Had this in my drafts for about a month and now it's finally done! Enjoy! Pr0sh!p get fricked

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The shared bedroom was pitch dark when Kale closed the door behind him, the only light now coming from the lamp on his chest as it pulsed into a steady azure from beneath his suit. Its illumination spread thin across the room, past metallic drawers and their table piled with assorted gadgets and knick-knacks, barely touching the red accent wall that popped against grey. Beyond it, he could hardly see a thing. Eventually it petered out at the left-hand side of their bed. There at the edge lay Rosie, his partner in an official capacity for the last fourteen days.

It was no use asking if she was okay. She had curled herself up into a ball, not knowing what else to do other than tremble on the spot. Her breathing, the one thing keeping the room from deathly silence, was nonetheless shaky and ragged. She noticed another presence in the room, then tightened up like a little hedgehog desperate to defend herself from the world. If it were anyone else but her, Kale would've thought them pathetic, expecting them to get back to work fast. But right now, it was beyond counterproductive to rush Rosie out of her panicked state. He hated the thought of her being afraid of him more than anything else.

"Rosie, no, I'm not gonna hurt you!" he said, a tad louder than he would've liked, but it was the best he could do. "You'll be fine, just breathe..."

Taking a second to dim the light from his chest, Kale flipped a switch to his left. Warm, gentle light flooded the room in an instant, aiding him as he took a seat next to Rosie. He allowed her time to recover as he encouraged her to take deep breaths and ground herself. In time, she got to the point where she felt able to explain why she was in such a state in the first place. She was already stressed beyond belief from work when she heard a loud pop like fireworks from just outside the room. Logically, she knew it wasn't anything serious. But the burst of sensory stimuli was enough to push her over the edge into a meltdown, one that she was only just recovering from when Kale returned.

Kale regretted not being there to help Rosie when she was at her worst. If only a certain head of R&D hadn't been pestering him about implementing impossible ideas for an hour straight.

"I'm sorry," muttered Rosie, "I know you probably think I'm being a burden right now, and-"

"No. No, no, no, no, no. You say the B-word one more time and you're getting a pay cut." As far as Kale was concerned, none of what Rosie said just then would stand. "I don't ever want to hear you talk about yourself that way again."

"...What?" said Rosie, thrown off from Kale cutting her rambling short.

"Rosie, I wouldn't lie to you. Look at me. Look at me and tell me I'm lying."

Despite having turned to face Kale, Rosie couldn't make eye contact. It wasn't that she didn't want to, God no — she saw a haven whenever she looked into those green eyes — but she just physically wasn't able to. This roadblock did little to deter Kale from refuting her self-slander, however.

"Fine," he said. "Just... At least listen to me, okay?"

He grasped Rosie's hands, with a gentleness he didn't know he was capable of. Though Rosie continued to look down at the bedsheets, a light gasp betrayed her.

"You. Are not. A burden."

"But-"

"No, you're not."

"But you could do so much better than me!" Kale's insistence prompted Rosie to whip her head upwards and meet his gaze. A threatening sheen of restrained tears lined her golden eyes. "I mean, look at me! I'm sensitive and I don't always ask for help when I should and I get in a state about the most meaningless crap! How could someone like that not be a burden on-"

"Rosehip, I wasn't kidding about the pay cut!" hissed Kale in an attempt to counter his partner's rambling, only shutting himself up when he noticed her flinching. The last thing he wanted was for the dam to burst and the situation to become insurmountable. So instead, releasing a sigh he almost didn't realise he was holding back, he gingerly raised his right hand and rested it in Rosie's hair, giving it slow, subtle strokes. That seemed to be the off switch for her irrational thoughts, her head leaning forwards on instinct until it found Kale's chest, perpendicular to his tie.

If you had asked the Kale Vandelay of a fortnight prior, he would've told you that he was above such an affectionate gesture. But here he was. Rosie's breathing slowed bit by bit as he spoke again; in hushed tones this time, as if he were violating an NDA with his own (metaphorical) heart.

"Look, I know there are things you still find difficult, even with my tech. But I swear to God I don't mind that. It didn't bother me on day one, and it sure as hell isn't going to bother me now. If you ever need a hand with anything, talk to me, and we'll fix it together. Whatever... garbage you're telling yourself about what I might think of you, you're wrong. I want to be there for you, Rosie. I know I'm shit at showing it but you mean the world to me.

"You being happy and comfortable is important, but I can't make sure you stay that way unless you understand that you're allowed to ask for help. I don't mind. You are allowed to need me, no matter what for, alright?" A pause, then a faint hum. "And you know me; that's not an honour I give to just anyone."

There was a long, comfortable silence as Rosie processed Kale's affirmations.

Just as Kale was about to say something to break through the quiet, he felt a pair of arms snake around his waist. They only rested in that spot for a moment before Rosie gave her partner a great big SQUEEZE. Kale's robotic frame beneath the suit resulted in the unusual tactile experience of soft suit fabric upon firm metallic body. Rosie didn't mind, though. This body belonged to her beloved, and she was going to show her appreciation for everything he did for her the way she knew how!

If headpats were Rosie's mental off-switch, then a good, firm hug was the key to rebooting Kale's train of thought. Affection like this wasn't something he was used to, but he could tell from the force of the bear hug he was receiving that his words had reached her. With any luck, she would never doubt his love for her again, but he knew it wasn't going to be that easy. Still, this was more than a good start.

Thanks to Rosie, Kale kickstarted his journey towards being a truly doting partner.

"Thank you, Kale," said Rosie with a budding smile. "You don't know what this means to me..."

"Anything else you need while I'm here?" asked Kale as Rosie's grip on him relaxed.

"...Y'know what? A cortado would be nice."

Influence goes both ways.

#selfshipping #self shipping community #self ship positivity #selfship writing #fictional other #fictional crush #F/O community #I Write Stuff Sometimes #The Farther I Fall I'm Beside You

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margoshvets · 1 year ago

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Kale's robotic body -s

This is a pretty old headcanon that I posted on some Discord servers, but I decided to post it here too because I've been "utilizing" it quite often.

This is my headcanon, and you don't have to agree with me.

Kale has (had) not one but two robotic bodies: one that we see during the boss battle and the other that looks more or less like a normal human body. We can see a glimpse of it in the intro animation:

(I know it can be just an animation error or something, but I'm silly, so I chose to think otherwise) It's a bit of overkill to walk around in a body that has some serious weaponry on it 24/7 (although if you think about it, it can be a pretty Kale thing to do), which is why I think Kale has a lighter one (figuratively and literally) to at least be able to sleep comfortably.

Also, you can think about it like this: the first one cuts on a lot of natural aspects like sensitivity and waste disposal (supporting only life-essential functionality like breathing) to cater to that inner desire to be a cool killer machine, and the second cuts on that in favor of being close to a natural thing (while also being cool); the first one is a weapon, and the second one is an accessory.

This also makes the first one unsuited for a long-period use.

He changes between them on that machine-surgery table (since he has to literally detach and attach his head to a new body, and doing that by himself sounds like a very bad idea). His head is the only thing left of his original human body.

Both were created during the time he was CEO.

You can see that second body on my recent art and some old sketches, but unfortunately, I don't have a proper ref for it 🙈 it's still on my to-do list.

#hfr headcanons

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oddballwriter · 2 years ago

Note

If you do Angst, may I ask for Chai whose been pretty badly wounded and for his S/O to take care of him? If not possible, then may I ask for Chai with a tall S/O?

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Warnings: Hi Fi Rush spoilers for Korsica and her fight. Mentions of medicine, feeling pain, reader claiming to almost faint (twice), and being unconscious

Author’s Snip: I sort of fucked up. There's a slight bit of angst at the beginning but it goes to fluff not too long after. Also Chai's not even that injured, he's just hella sore from the tram crash after Korsica's fight, meanwhile Korsica's ass is literally on the operating table to save her life. Korsica honey I am so sorry I just accidentally did you so dirty. I hope you still like this, anon.

Notes: This is literally not what you wanted, I don't think.

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦

Chai's adventure to get the password from Korsica went horribly south with Kale having gotten out a massive death robot to try and kill both him and Korsica on the tram. Your heart completely dropped and if it weren't for CNMN telling you to sit down somewhere you would have genuinely fainted. You almost did again when Chai and Korsica were retrieved with both rendered unconscious.

CNMN managed to assess them and ruled that Korsica was obviously in more critical condition than Chai was. Apparently, Chai was damn near indestructible considering he only had scrapes, bruises, and cuts on him. CNMN placed Chai on the couch and said that you could tend to him while the rest worked to save Korsica. You felt relived that Chai was for the most part okay, but you wanted to honestly strangle him for how many near heart attacks he's given you today.

To think that coming to Vandelay to be your boyfriend's emotional and moral support for his new arm would lead to this.

Chai managed to writhe himself awake not too long after having come back. You gently shushed his groans so that it won't disturb the group's efforts on the more injured woman. "Hey there, Chai." you whisper, "What a rocky end to that trip, huh?" you light heartedly joke before ditching the jokes and getting more serious. "What's the matter? What hurts?" you ask. "Everything." he mutters. "I feel like I was put in a trash compactor." he comments. You let out a breath to appreciate his antics in making colorful similes. You get up from your spot next to the couch and go towards the cabinets and drawers that Peppermint said you could use for Chai if he was also hurt. You managed to get out medicine and a few ice packs for the pain, making sure the you stayed clear to any equipment that the team would need for Korsica.

"Wow. Red head's pretty bad, huh?" Chai commented, having slightly leaned himself upwards to see what was happening around the room. You nod as you return to him and gently guide his face so that he's looking away from the scene. "She managed to get most of the damage from the crash. They started working on her as soon as you two were brought back." you mention. "They say that she'll be fine. But she needed new parts to save her." you clarify.

"You, however, are made of rubber and only need some things to relieve your bumps and bruises." you remark as you hand him the painkilling medicine. He reluctantly took it even though it was clear on his face that it tasted horrible. "Alright. My own personal nurse. Sweet." Chai replied in a light hearted smug tone. But a shock of pain seemed to humble him at the perfect moment. "And you personal nurse thinks you need to lay out your injuries some more." you proclaimed as you guided him onto the couch and placed ice packs where he claimed were sore the most.

"Do I at least get a candy for toughing through it." Chai joked. You roll your eyes and look over at him. "No. But you can get a kiss to help you feel better." you say as you lower down and plant a kiss on his forehead.

"Better?" you humor.

"Not really." Chai answers bluntly.

#hi fi rush #hi fi rush chai #hi fi rush x reader #hi fi rush chai x reader

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gwuncan2gether · 22 days ago

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made by chatgpt please support human beings people who know how to write

Mafia love triangle chapter 3

Setting: A dingy little coffee shop where Trent plays on open mic nights. It’s quiet, and Gwen is sitting across from him at a small table. Trent’s guitar is leaning against the wall, and he’s staring at her with that “deep, tortured artist” look. Gwen is clearly frustrated, trying to make sense of everything, but Trent... well, he’s not exactly being helpful.

Gwen: (rubbing her temples) "Trent, we need to talk about... the baby.

"Trent: (nodding solemnly, leaning in) "Yeah... the baby." (long pause) "That’s... heavy."

Gwen: (sighs) "I mean, I'm pregnant, Trent. This is serious. We need to figure things out. What are we gonna do?"

Trent: (nodding slowly) "Yeah... yeah. Totally." (another long pause, then suddenly brightens up) "Hey, do you think the baby will like acoustic or electric guitar?"

Gwen: (stares blankly) "What?"

Trent: (completely sincere) "I was thinking, I could write, like, a lullaby for the baby, you know? Something deep... and meaningful. Maybe... like a slow ballad about life and love, but with a twist. I’ve got some really great chords I’ve been working on."

Gwen: (deadpan) "Trent. Focus. We’re talking about raising a kid, not your next album.

"Trent: (nods enthusiastically) "Oh, totally, totally. I’m focused. It’s just—this is inspiring, you know? I could really channel this... into the music. Maybe even call the album ‘The Sound of Parenthood.’" (strums an air guitar dramatically) "It’ll be deep."

Gwen: (frustrated) "Trent! The baby doesn’t need an album, it needs diapers. And a crib. And, like, parents who have a plan?"

Trent: (thinking hard) "Hmm... yeah, I get that. But diapers... diapers are, like, so commercial, you know? Isn’t there, like, a more natural, artistic way to... handle that? Like... cloth, maybe? Made from sustainable hemp?"

Gwen: (staring at him, dumbfounded) "Sustainable hemp? Trent, what—no. Just... no. We’re not raising a baby on... artisanal diapers."

Trent: (seriously) "Okay, okay. You’re right. We’ll do regular diapers. But... what if we only feed the baby organic, farm-to-table baby food?

"Gwen: (pinching the bridge of her nose) "Trent, I don’t care if the baby eats non-GMO kale or whatever. We need to figure out where this kid is gonna live, and how we’re gonna afford to take care of it!

"Trent: (pausing) "I mean, I’ve been saving up some tips from my gigs. I think I’ve got... like, fifty bucks stashed away. Maybe more if I cash in those free coffee vouchers.

"Gwen: (in disbelief) "Fifty bucks?! Trent, that won’t even cover a week’s worth of baby wipes!

"Trent: (shrugging) "Yeah, but... love is more important than money, right? And we’ve got a lot of that."

Gwen: (staring at him, realizing slowly that he has no idea what he’s doing) "Trent... I don’t think love is gonna pay the hospital bills.

"Trent: (frowning slightly) "Hospital bills? Oh, man... that’s... intense. Maybe we could do a home birth? I mean, thats inspirational. I could play some calming acoustic guitar in the background. It’d be like... magical

Gwen: (throws her hands in the air) "I am not having a home birth while you sing a song in the corner, Trent!

"Trent: (blinking, as if this is a shocking revelation) "Oh... right. Yeah. Okay, we’ll, uh... figure something out."

Gwen is now staring at Trent, starting to realize just how out of his depth he is. He, on the other hand, seems perfectly content, as if he’s just solved all their problems with a future lullaby and some hemp diapers.

Trent: (grinning) "So... wanna hear those chords I was talking about?

"Gwen: (groaning) "I... I think I need to lie down.

"Trent: (oblivious) "Cool, cool. Maybe you can lie down while I play them for you? It's, like, super chill.

"Gwen: (under her breath) "I can't believe I ever thought this would work..."

As Gwen gets up to leave, Trent pulls out his guitar, starting to strum lightly, already lost in his own world.

#total drama #gwuncan #total drama duncan #total drama gwen #total drama trent #chatgpt #mafialovetriangle

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dollarbin · 5 months ago

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Shakey Sundays #30:

Zuma, Part 3

Yeah, I'm a total cheapskate.

My buddy Greg and I just had a long men's weekend together that featured no wives, no children, a frig stocked with light alcohol, pickled vegetables and not much else, and free access to another frig of the walk-in variety which had nothing in it except aging, leftover meat.

Greg, as host, politely suggested a shopping trip was in order.

"There will be no shopping, Greg," I boomed. "I did not come to shop."

Four days later I headed home, leaving behind a lot less of the pickled okra and asparagus, none of the White Claw and not a single piece of the aging meat. Old hamburgers and old chicken had featured in every meal.

Yum: Greg and I never went hungry, nothing went to waste and, best of all, zero dollars were spent on hummus, tomatoes or kale.

I can tell you the exact moment I became a dedicated, lifelong, tightfisted miser: check the price tag and you'll see that in November 1993 I hauled Zuma out of a Dollar Bin. That 99 cent investment set my standard going forward for reasonable purchasing. It's a standard I maintain: after all, nothing should cost more than a copy of Zuma. Tacos should be 89 cents a piece, but you're allowed to get a few of them; beers should be 59 cents per can, max.

Well, the world has changed. I wound up recently with different friends in a very dubious Mexican restaurant. I say dubious because there was more than one hostess and they both looked like super models. Beyond them I saw cloth covered tables, elegant dishes artfully arranged and signature cocktails served in hand blown glasses. Instantly my inner-miser started sending out serious distress signals to every inch of being, most especially to my ass.

Why my ass, you ask? Because my wallet (which is 20 years old and is really nice - after all, it was a gift and therefore I did not pay for it myself) was safely secured in a pocket beside my ass, and my wallet, and its contents, were in some serious danger because the tacos were clearly not going to cost 89 cents.

Seriously: how can any purchase ever seem worth it if you bought Zuma for 99 cents? Let's lean into the final two tracks on Side A and experience the record's yin and yangs of greatness.

Lookin' For A Love is unique to the record in that it's a full-on Crazy Horse track which was not produced by Young's long-time cocaine fiend of a producer David Briggs. Here they are again:

Poor Briggs is long dead, but he still scares me. Not only did he look like Young's one-time beer buddy and neighbor, Charles Manson, he also consistently pushed Young to make his music more gnarly and terrifying. If Briggs edited this blog there'd be a lot more suggestive pictures of Linda Ronstadt and Carly Simon posted to attract leering eyeballs; plus "ass" would be the least coarse word in a post.

A lot of what makes Zuma great is Briggs' dangerous influence. Girls? They're stupid. Birds? They're dangerous. Briggs had the guys record most of Zuma in his own Malibu home after daily, day long sessions at the bar and after telling his neighbors they would just have to deal with it. Those neighbors were apparently too frightened of Briggs to put a stop to it.

Instead, Neil himself put a stop to it: once the record was done he went back to his own home to record Lookin' For A Love. The band came with him, but Briggs was not invited.

And you can tell! The song is, well, pretty. Neil sings with (relatively) positivity and hope; Pancho, Ralph and Billy work through the changes with (relatively) sober care.

youtube

Had he been in charge, Briggs would have surely destroyed this version, ordered everyone to the bar for 6-8 hours, then had them do it over and over again until Neil's yearning on the beach turned from sensitive longing to leering threat.

But I love this song. Briggs made Young great a lot of the time. And sometimes Neil did the right thing and ditched him.

But let's flip the only remaining coin in my guarded wallet and listen to perhaps the most terrifyingly good song in Neil's whole career.

Over the years Shakey's put different spins on Barstool Blues: sometimes he says he has stoned during its creation; sometimes he says he was drunk. We'll split the difference here and assume it was a whole lot of both because the one consistent claim Young makes is that he has no memory whatsoever of creating this song. He woke up the next day and it already existed.

On occasion I've seen people blacked out drunk and still moving. Mostly they've been pissing in public and puking, sometimes at the same time. Never have they been making transcendent art.

But his ability to do just that, friends, is a big part of what makes Neil Young so special:

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#neil young #shakey sundays #Youtube

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spooky-fm · 2 years ago

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Happy Holidays to those who celebrate things around this time! Have this short update as a little gift from me :)

Had some fun with the first DC characters meeting our delivery ghost for the first time.

Part 4.

Jason parked his motorcycle near the first fast food place that didn't seem like it served kale and avocado on toast for the price of a week's worth of groceries. He had been following a lead on a trafficking ring for over twelve hours and needed a good break. The trail was cold enough that a slower pace wouldn't hurt the investigation, and he was hungry enough to eat his own weight in greasy fast food.

A small pizza restaurant winked at him with a flickering neon sign. The inside of Antonio's looked like any of hundred's of roadside diners Jason had eaten at. Out of habit he made a note of all people in the dining area. An older man was standing behind a counter, taking an order on a wired landline phone; a teenager wearing a baseball hat with the restaurant name was leaning against the counter on the other side and reading something on a smartphone; a truck driver was eating the last slice of his pizza and watching some soccer game on an ancient TV set on the wall. The threat accessment took him a second, another second to take stock of the possible exits, and he was standing in front of the old man, who had just finished wirintg down an address and shouting the order to the kitchen.

"Welcome to Antonio's, what can I get for you?"

"Whatever has the most meat on it, biggest size you make. Coffee," - Jason grunted.

He paid and took a seat at the table that had a good view of the whole room and the main entry points. Mentally going over the facts of his latest investigation, he absently tracked the people in the restaurant. Old man went to the kitchen. Old man came back with boxes. Old man gave them to the kid. Kid grabbed pizzas and an address slip and left. A woman came inside, late thirties, early fourties. Ordered pizza, sat down. Trucker finished his food and went to order more for the road. Good sign, pizza probably not complete shit.

Finally, his food was ready. Jason bit into a slice and his eyes widened in surprise. That was the best damn pie he's had in a long time! He finished the whole thing before the delivery kid came back. Must have been someone very close to the pizza place itself to take less than fifteen minutes to get there and back, he mused to himself.

As if sensing that he was being observed, the teenager looked at Jason with a pair of startingly bright blue eyes. Something made Jason tense up on istinct when he met the teenager's gaze. He felt the Pit rumble in agitation and quickly looked away, taking a deep breath to calm himself. I need to take a goddamn break before I start jumping at the throats of every kid looking like a future Bruce Wayne adoptee. Although he had to admit that aside from the hair and eyes combo, this one did not particularly resemble any of his siblings.

Throwing the incident out of his head and marking the retaurant location on his map app with a 'favourites' pin, he went back to his bike, resuming the chase for clues. After this case, he was going to sleep for at least 16 hours straight.

"Hey, kid, were you serious about doing super fast deliveries more often?"

"Yeah, sure. Why?"

"You've been looking bored recently, so I jotted down a rought plan. Take a look at this, if you are ok with it."

"This looks cool. I'm in!"

Tim Wayne-Drake was in his favourite coffee shop to get a small pick-me-up cup with seven extra espresso shots that should get him through the afternoon. He was on comms duty that day and was hoping to make some progress in the cases he had been personally investigating. While waiting for his order to be called, he absently scanned the flyers and posters that the coffee shop staff put up on their walls every couple of weeks.

One particular poster grabbed his attention.

~~~

"Antonio's has the best authentic Italian-American pizza! Visit us at ...

Order by phone or on our app ...

10 minute delivery guaranteed or money back! The timer starts when your order leaves the oven!"

~~~

The brightly colored paper had a QR code for the app and several very appetizing pictures of obviously real pizzas. He hummed in approval -- he had always hated the fake pictures of not-food used for ads that looked nothing like the actual product. The express delivery guarantee is new. Gotham is not very famous for safe and reliable travel routes. They probably have a small radius for this feature. It seemed that he was not too far away from the pizzerias location, if they got their poster up in the coffee shop. Tim made a mental note to test the range and try the pizzas for himself.

His coffee cup was still standing in the line of empty cups waiting for the barista to fill them with drinks, so he occupied himself by downloading the Antonio's app on his phone. He punched in the addresses of the coffee shop, the Wayne mansion, and the Wayne tower. All of them came up as 'deliverable'. Tim raised his eyebrows. Did the restaurant have several kitchen locations? He put that on his mental 'to investigate' list but ranked it relatively low in priority.

His name was called then, and he headed back to the nearby Zeta-Tube sipping on the sacred liquid. As he walked, he scrolled through the pizzeria's menu and selected several options. Alfred was on his mandatory vacation for a week, and Tim did not feel like preparing a meal.

'You have selected express delivery. Please confirm your address and payment method'.

'Your order is in the oven. You can track your progress in the App!'

Just as he exited the Zeta-Tube in the Batcave, another notification came in.

'Your order is ready! Starting the Express Delivery Timer'

Tim curiously tracked the numbers counting down on the screen. There was no way they could arrive at the manor fast enough, even if the pizzeria was close by. He waited near the entrance doors anyway.

With 2:56.14 left, the timer stopped counting, and the doorbell rang. Tim startled, almost dropping the phone in surprise. That was the doorbell, not the intercom by the gates. His suspicions rising higher, he opened the doors, ready to engage with hostiles.

A teenager was standing at the door, wearing jeans and a blue shirt with a NASA logo on it. The baseball cap had Antonio's stitched onto it, marking him as the delivery driver (runner?) for the pizzeria. That, and the pizza boxes he was holding in his hands.

Tim stared.

The teenager smiled the fakest customer service smile Tim had ever seen and ran through a clearly practiced spiel.

"Hello, thank you for ordering pizza with Antonio's! I have a delivery here for Time Drake-Wayne. Your delivery was completed in 7 minutes and 5 seconds. Please confirm the delivery time in the app."

Tim glanced down at the phone screen. The timer was covered by a prompt window with the words 'Your order was delivered! Thank you for eating with Antonio's! Please confirm order delivery' and two buttons 'Confirm' and 'Report a problem' underneath. He clicked 'Confirm' and looked back at the delivery person. The guy was holding the pizza boxes towards him with the same fixed smile on his face. Were his eyes twinkling?

The dead-eyed expression was back, the fake smile never leaving the teenager's face, as he cheerfully thanked Tim for ordering with the pizzeria and turned around towards the driveway.

"Wait!"

The delivery person turned back, the unnerving smile still on his face.

"Is there a problem, sir?" - He asked in a polite tone.

"No, no problem with the order, just a question. But how did you get through the gate? And so fast?" - His radar for suspicious activity was definintely picking up something from this guy.

"Sorry, sir, I am not allowed to disclose trade secrets, but your gate was open, so I just walked up to the doors," - he answered with a bored expression. "I figured you were expecting the delivery and opened the gates for me."

Tim frowned at the answer. The gate was never open, even if they expected people, unless there was a big official party. The alarm bells in his head were ringing louder and louder.

He must have been silent for too long, because the teenager spoke again.

"Unless you want to tip, sir, I will be on my way. There are other orders to deliver."

That was a chance to keep him there a bit longer.

"Wait, yes, of course. I'm sorry, I forgot the tip! Completely slipped my mind."

He was rewarded with a flat stare and slightly raised eyebrows, but the delivery person stayed put, which was a win in Tim's books.

He fished out his wallet from the bag that was still slung over his shoulder and casually asked for the other's name.

He was met with another spark of laughter in the blue eyes that disappeared just as quickly as the first one"

"I'm afraid I am not comfortable disclosing personal information, sir," - He accepted the 20$ bill from Tim. "Have a good day and enjoy your pizza!"

Tim couldn't come up with another stalling tactic so he just muttered a 'thank you' and watched the teenager's retreating back as he exited the gate and disappeared around the corner.

He bumped the priority of the case up on his list.

At least the pizzas were delicious.

Next up: Danny thinks. It turns out to be harder thann he expected.

Credit for the ghostly dividers to @racingairplanes. Thank you!

Taglist 🥰: @i-am-the-asian-persuasion, @spoopyspoony, @someonebored0100, @justwannabecat, @markus209, @starscreamlover, @chaoticmistake, @ectoplasm024, @theboisarehere342, @theamazingfox, @midnightenigma, @kyrianclawraith, @8-29pm, @jesus-camp-the-sequel, @redhoneysugarorange, @may-rbi, @aconitewolfsbane, @thegatorsgoose, @undead-essence

DP x DC fic: Delivery Ghost

This has been consuming my brain for weeks. Based on this post by @gummybearstastelikesadness:

Danny wakes up in the new world and, not feeling responsible for its villains (unlike the ghost attacks where he is the one who turned on the portal) decides to take a break and have a vacation. As a pizza delivery person, he brings orders to the recipients within the specified timeframe, no matter what. Certain citizens of this world are suspicious when the app lets them order to a town 2 hours away from the location ... and the delivery boy is there in under 10 minutes.

If only Danny cared about their feelings.

Part 1.

Waking up sore and confused in the middle of a random field with only vague memories of last night's events wasn't that weird for Danny Fenton. He had been Amity Park's resident hero for several years and had lived through much stranger awakenings. His list started with Vlad Plasmius's spooky basement inside a cloning tube and his parents' lab strapped to the vivisection table, and ended with places like the middle of nowhere in the Ghost Zone after an ecto-storm or a hundered-year-old abandoned maze of secret tunnels under the Masons' house after a particularly exciting date with Sam. Next to those, an ordinary-looking meadow was a welcome change. Despite that, something felt not quite right, but Danny couldn't quite focus on the feeling in his drowsy state.

Careful inspection of his body revealed that he had all of his limbs attached where they should be attached and functioning as normal. Aside from mild discomfort after lying on the cold ground for a significant amount of time he was perfectly healthy, despite splotches of dried ectoplasm and blood indicating recent injuries.

Deciding that he did not care enough to remember what those splotches were from just yet, Danny shrugged and continued his inspection. He looked around the field, trying to find any clues, tracks, or signs of civilization, and, failing to locate any, he transformed into his ghost form.

The transformation was enough of a jolt to wake him up from his morning sleepiness, forcing Danny to remember the fight with an unfamilliar ghost that appeared just as he finished fixing reindeer antlers to the top of the head of his freshly-made one-foot-tall snowman made from the first snow in the season. He had been so concerned with taking the fight away from his new porch guardian that he hadn't taken it seriously enough. Between exchanging blows and trying to find out the name of the intruder into his neighbourhood, he ended up too distracted to notice that they were not alone and got blasted with a dark-purple beam from behind.

As much as he would have liked to know more, the memory tastefully faded to black and refused to provide any further details.

'Never mind the why's and how's then,' - Danny thought, unconcerned. 'Time to consider the where's and the when's.'

Having thought that, he suddenly realised what had been bothering him from the moment he woke up. He was so busy taking stock of his physical state that he forgot to question the gentle warmth of the ground he had slept on and the decidedly non-December greenery around him.

Wide-eyed, Danny quickly flew up, searching for anything that could point him towards Amity or any other nearby town.

The vegetation did not seem too different from what he was used to, so he concluded that he probably wasn't anywhere Southern enough to be this warm in December. That suggested Clockwork shenanigans, which did not fill Danny with too much confidence.

He turned invisible, picked a random direction, and flew at a leisurely speed fully intending to enjoy the idyllic weather.

A couple of hours later, he finally came across a large enough town where he decided he would not be instantly noticed in the morning crowd. He easily found the local library and got permission to use a computer from the librarian that barely glanced at him in the dimly lit lobby. He made his way towards the two ancient computers ready to learn the local date and hopefully figure out how he ended up in this situation.

Danny wasn't truly surprised when the calendar showed a date a couple months in the past according to his personal timeline. He had spent enough time (ha!) with Clockwork to not be put off by a bit of minor time-travel. What surprised him, however, was his inability to find even a single mention of Amity Park on the internet.

Familiar forums, social media account of his friends, Amity news sources, even his personal blog that he posted blurry pictures of blob ghosts to were missing. Maps, both regular and satellite, showed a familiar but slightly different landscape where his home town should have been with a completely different name written over it.

Danny stared at the monitor with unfocused eyes. If he really had travelled in time, he would have been able to find some trace of Amity, or his friends. Searching for their names gave unhelpful results, and trying to look up ghosts and ghost attacks only led him down the rabbit hole of superheroes and something called 'The Justice League' that just gave him a headache. This led to the natural conclusion that instead of a minor instance of short time-travel he got tangled in a major instance of timeline-hopping.

He shuddered a little, remembering Dan. At least it seemed that Danny didn't exist at all in this timeline, in any shape. That turned out to be a slightly disturbing thought and Danny decided to ignore it with the practiced ease of someone who was used to rolling with the punches for the sake of his mental stability.

He wondered briefly when this world and his started to differ, but his limited knowledge of human history was not enough to give him much of a hint. He figured it was at least a couple hundred years in the past, but that was the extent of his detective abilities.

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

It was a relief to finally exit the stuffy library building and let the rays of sunshine fall on his face after several hours of researching the new world he found himself in. Despite failing to get any closer to the mystery of his appearance there, he didn't feel that upset at the change of scenery.

While walking leisurely along the tidy street, Danny contemplated the heroes and villains of this timeline. It seemed that the Justice League was the top dog when it came to the forces of good. He wasn't sure how to approach them without raising suspicion that a person suddenly coming into existence would certainly cause.

Suddenly, he was struck by a thought so alien to him that he stopped in his tracks and stared blankly ahead.

He didn't have to do anything!

There were no ghost attacks in the news, and thus probably no portal to the Ghost Zone. He hadn't opened a doorway between the Infinite Realms and Earth, and there was nobody who needed help that couldn't be given by any of the local heroes.

Danny realised that didn't feel any pressing need to protect this world. That little part of his core that was always anxious about Amity, about Sam and Tucker, and about the rest of the world was now blissfully quiet. Danny smiled at that, shaking his head and continuing his walk towards what seemed to be a small river.

He also began to notice the stares people around were directing at him and tried to get lost in the crowd - with little luck. It almost seemed that having drawn the attention of the locals, he was standing out as an obvious outsider.

He was starting to get annoyed at the constant attention, when he noticed his ragged sleeve and recalled that he was in fact still covered in suspiciously blood-looking greenish blots. He considered the fact that it was actually blood from his already-healed small scratches was irrelevant.

Cursing quietly, Danny quickly turned into a shady-looking alleyway and made his escape from the public eye by going invisible.

He decided to continue on his course towards the riverside in this way, while mulling over the earlier revelation. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that it was a great idea to take a break and get some rest from ghostly affairs. And if he really wanted to go back, he could always find a way to open a portal into the Ghost Zone and find Clockwork. His sort-of mentor, sort-of father figure wouldn't mind helping him with a little nudge towards the right timeline, would he? Besides, the guy probably knew all about Danny's little jaunt across realities. Since there was no sign of him or his cryptic advice, it was entirely reasonable that he approved of the whole thing.

So it was decided: Danny Fenton was going on vacation.

He flipped in the air in excitement and started flying away from the town. Giggling a little at the fact that he still didn't know the name of the first town he visited in this timeline, he froze in place as something occured to him: He had no money, no possessions and didn't know where to go.

Despite not technically needing food or shelter as a ghost, he didn't want to spend his vacation hiding away under his invisibility. And what sort of vacation would it be if he had no money to spend on fun things like videogames and hot dogs?

He figured the solution was simple: He'll just have to find a job.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #jason todd #tim wayne #i know little of the dc canon and care even less about danny phantom's #canon has a very loose connection to my plans #we are just going by what seems funny to me #delivery ghost au part 4 #delivery ghost #spooky stories #barely proofread this time oops

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kalethemonster · 2 months ago

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my american trans siblings, you will be under a fascist government once january rolls around. that fact is fucking terrifying. even for me as an aussie. (though your politics heavily affect us also bc all social media algorithms treat anyone posting in english as american)

take your time to mourn your freedom. you're losing sooo fucking much and it breaks my heart. the next two months you have left should be used for networking with irl trans people and preparing yourself mentally. let yourself morn but for fucks sake stay alive.

every day you exist is an act of resistance against those who wish you never existed in the first place.

so, how can you keep yourself existing?

irl? go back to 80's queer social policy. dont ask, dont tell. but definately use ways of signing to other queer people that you are one. with irl community, do your best to keep eachother afloat and help where you can. if you grow food, share it out. if you have a vacant room, add someone who needs a place to your household (ground rules and house rules important obvi). if you gotta go back in the closet do so, if you're already transitioning medically do your best to stock up on hrt during the next two months. your irl community is the best resource you have, so networking to find them while you an still do so freely in the next two months is critical.

social media is a tad more complicated so i'll break it down by site/company.

twitter: archive any important past posts you have made via screenshots and then just fucking nuke your account, delete all posts you have made individually to make sure and the delete the acc. elongated muskrat is the annoying orange's biggest financial supporter. he will turn over any and all info he government may request about trans and queer users. if you ever needed any more reasons to dump twitter thab the ones you have already had, take this one.

meta: in terms of facebook, if you still need it for family, archive posts abt being trans via screenshots, and delete said posts. if they were posted by supportive familiy members then get them to delete what they have posted of your identity for safety reasons, then only use for family you can only reach through it. for instagram and threads private any accounts you have that has your personal information attached other than ones for personal businesses. if you need public account access for reaching out,, make an account with only your first name listed, fill it with aesthetic shit or meme posts so it isn't easily linked to you as a person.

as far as i know with bluesky, more or less post as usual but stilll protect your personal information. first name and pronouns only. do not include location markers.

redit, hold all personal info verry close to your heat, give nothing away, have like 50 burners, you dont need karma.

youtube, if you only use it for viewing, use as normal. if you upload, do your best to not show ANY recognisable outdoor landmarks, keep personal info tight, and donot get into anything political. if you can take a hiatus that would be even better.

tumblr: post as normal minus locational and government info.

common thread here is do not reveal any personal shit at all and do your best to conceal what is already posted. back to 90s rules for most sites. unfortunately tech-literate bigots finding your info is a possibility and so you want to withhold as much as you can to avoid being located and identified.

general ruled (both irl and online):

you are dealing with fascists. anything out of line they will actively try to snuff out. if anyone st all tries to get you to talk about ANYTHING REMOTE POLITICAL in any form of public space, SHUT THE FUCK UP. completely shut it down with "i dont talk about politics" or "i dont like politics". yes it's the pussy's answer to get out of shit, but being a pussy in the presence of violent fascists keeps you alive. if they try to talk about palastine, shut the fuck up. if they try to talk about trans people, shut the fuck up. if they try to talk about abortion, shut the fuck up. if they try to talk about disability/meantal health. from new years onwards, you will treat any person in the US who tried to talk about any of that shit in public that isn't doing it for the sake of protest as a narc. you will only properly discuss it behind closed doors with trusted family, comunity and allies.

as of new years day, it is the job of all allies in the us to basically be human shields for not only queer communities, but disabled, migrant, and any form of non-white communities too. if you are cis, white, able bodied, and have been an american citizen from birth, and happen to be a decent person, you are the ones who gotta protect those who cant protect themselves or cant leave the country. yes even if you're queer. if you are a white cis queer person, you can hide your sexuality for 4 years. most trans and intersex people cannot hide their gender or traits.

to recap: for the next two months, mourn your freedom, connect with your local queer comunity. do not share any personal info anywhere online unless you have a buisness, and then keep said info to the bare minimum. if people try to talk to you in public, shut the fuck up. allies and white cis lgb must protect those who cant run or hide.

the next four years are gonna be hell. but just know that of it seems no one has your back, this trans man all the way in australia has your back. love from me, my cousin, and my wonderfully supportive mother. stay sane, aqy safe, stay together.

#trans #transgender #america #intersex #trans rights #intersex rights #trans man #trans men #trans masc #trans woman #trans women #trans fem #nonbinary #nonbinary person #nonbinary people #trans neutral #kale at his serious table

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marveicinematics · 4 years ago

Text

kaleidoscope (loki x reader, smut)

Summary : Loki has got the whole night ready : the hotel suite, the rope and the perfect lover.

Pairing : Loki Laufeyson x female reader.

Words : 1,504

TW : Smut. Oral sex (female receiving, male only mentioned), fingering, unprotected sex, bondage, dom/sub kink, safe word use, masturbation (only mentioned).

Note : Based on readers’ requests. A lot of you wanted Loki in this sort of plot, so I really hope you enjoy it.

"What is this place?“

Your eyes widened as you entered the hotel room. Room — that’s what he called it, but you had never seen an hotel room this big, before tonight. It looked like the most luxurious New-York apparement you had ever set a foot in.

“Our room, for the next..—“ He checked his phone, before turning it off and setting it down the table. “Exactly eight hours and forty-two minutes.“

A laughter escaped your lips. Loki surely knew how to make this romantic, but not by counting every minutes.

“Then we better get started, big boy.“

It all started two weeks ago, after you spent the night at the Avengers headquarters. Loki’s room was on the same floor as Black Widow’s and Captain America’s. After what had been a wild night for both you and Loki, your first time having sex with the god you had been dating for two months, Natasha couldn’t help but to tease you during the entire breakfast. It was only by how blushed Steve’s cheeks went when Natasha mentioned how Loki seemed to have lost his voice overnight, that you realized they both knew. Soon enough, Loki decided both of you deserved a night of wildness without dealing with the Avenger’s sarcastic comments.

When he mentioned an hotel room, you had imagined a gloomy motel room. But there you were, inside what seemed to be a palace room coming from a Disney’s animation film. It didn’t stop you from kissing your man with all the passion and desire you had been saving for this moment. Loki had been so busy with the Avengers that you barely saw him all week long. Sure, you took care of yourself, thinking about how good this night was going to be. But you wanted to save some of this frustration for tonight. A spark of desire rushed in Loki’s eyes as he kissed you back, pushing you down on the bed.

“You’re going to need a safe word, love.“

“A— what?“

He smiled at what you believed was stupidity, but was really just innocence. As always, Loki explained everything he wanted you to know on how and why you should use this word, before reaching an agreement with the word "kaleidoscope“. It was only after both of you repeated it a couple of time to make sure you both knew the meaning behind it that he kissed you again. Deeply, fiercely. With just a kiss, you knew how much he had been wanting you — all of you. Quickly, you managed to undress the brown-haired god, throwing his clothes all over the hotel room floor. Loki seemed to enjoy it, because he followed your idea, taking care of your dress and underwear, leaving both of you fully naked on the queen-size bed.

“Are you ready?“ Asked Loki, and with a large grin across your face, you nodded.

He leaned towards the bedside table, catching the rope he had bought just for you. He even sent you a whole text about it, and how it wasn’t going to hurt you, or as least it would only be a pleasurable pain, from the type of rope he bought. Before his explanations, you really believed a rope was just a rope, but he managed to change your opinion on this subject. While Loki was tying up your wrists on the headboard, you looked at his naked body, your eyes worshiping everything he was. But soon enough, the man was done, and slide between your legs.

"Now, you will obey my commands. Do only as I say, or you will be punished."

His voice was deeper, filled with lust, which only turned your on even more. You could feel yourself getting wetter just by listening to his voice. You nodded again, and despite the fact that he was trying to stay as serious as he could be, you saw a soft grin on his face — he was, oh, so in love with you. But before you had time to say anything, Loki’s face was between your legs, and his expert tongue was all over your pussy, hitting the right spots, sucking the right parts and making you moan with pleasure. For once, you were free to be loud. You wouldn’t hold back. His strong hands made sure your knees stayed wide opened, as he kept licking you the way you liked it the most. How was it that he already knew all your soft spots, all the things that were driving you crazy? Eyes rolling back, body arching against him, you pulled the rope to free your hands, but it wouldn’t let go. He must have learned exactly how to tie you up — how fucking arousing. And while you tried to think of a way to touch his body, his tongue was still working magic between your legs. It didn’t take you long before your whole body was shaking against the bed, your first orgasm making you scream your lover’s name. But it didn’t stop the god of mischief, who kept pleasuring you, as one of his finger entered you.

“Fuck, Loki. I’m so— Fuck, so sensitive.“ You muttered, only causing his smile to widen while he was sucking on your clit.

Expert fingers going in and out of you while his face was still between your legs, you could feel your inside clench and your legs shake again, even before you reached your second orgasm against his fingers.

“Faster. Yes! Keep going. I’m going to—“

You tried to warn him, but his strong digits kept hitting the right spot inside of you, and you came again, hard. Third orgasm, and it was loud enough that the people in the room next door knocked on the wall.

“We’re busy.“ Loki replied, shaking his head.

You could see in his eyes that he wasn’t going to stop anytime soon, even if he already made you reach orgasm three times. One thing you realized about Loki was how he enjoyed seeing you lose your mind, while you were so sore ans sensitive. You only had a minute to calm down, before he entered you without warning.

“Fuck, Loki.“

“Do you feel how hard hearing you scream my name made me, baby?“

You nodded again, and he started bucking his hips. The expression of pure bliss on his face aroused you even more, making you arch against him as he was going deeper. You liked it when he got rough because of how he needed you, how he wanted you so badly.

“I’m not sure you can make me come again.“ You said softly, innocent eyes staring at him.

Was it a defiance? Yes. Did you entend it to be? Absolutely. His eyes darkened and he gripped your face.

“You will come again against my cock, or you will be punished. Understood?“

You nodded. Loki went deeper and harder, making sure you would actually reach another orgasm with him. And as you started to feel closer, you heard Loki’s moans becoming louder as he was approaching his peak. “Come, love. Together.“

He thrusted deeper inside you, emptying himself in a groan you were positive the neighbor must have heard. To make sure you were following his orgasm, he reached down between your legs, circling your clit with his fingers. “I said cum for me.“

And you did, again. Body shaking, you closed your eyes so tight while you were screaming your pleasure that when they opened again, everything around you was blurry. Fourth orgasm, you felt like your head was spinning. But it didn’t seem to stop your man, who started to give a few hard thrusts inside you. “Fuck, stop. Loki.“ You moaned again, your body still shaking from the previous orgasm.

But he kept going, his fingers taking care of you at the same time again. And you felt another rush of pleasure brushing through your whole body, but you weren’t quite sure if you were about to cum again or to pass out.

“Ah! F—Fuck, ka— kale—.“

Moans after moans, it took you a few seconds to actually say the word.

“Shit, Loki. Kaleidoscope!“

He stopped as soon as he heard. Quickly, he untied your arms, laying down against you. One of his arm wrapped around your naked and sweating body, he whispered.

“I’m so sorry, love. Did I hurt you? I thought you were enjoying it.“

“I was. It was so fucking good, Loki.“

Doubtful, he frowned, his eyes staring at your tired face while he was trying to understand.

“Never a man fucked me so good, okay? It just started to be a lot of pleasure. Do you know how many times I came?“

As he shook his head, you let out a soft chuckle. Your hand found his long black hair, that you started caressing tenderly.

“Something between four and five times. I’m not sure.“

“So, you owe me a lot of orgasms, right?“

You laughed again at his observation, looking at his beautiful face.

“Let me get some rest, and my mouth will take care of this matter.“

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyjarson #loki imagine #loki smut #loki laufeyson smut #loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson imagine #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston smut #tom hiddelston imagine #avengers #avengers imagine #marvel #marvel imagine #fanfiction #fanfic

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recurring-polynya · 3 years ago

Note

For the Renji birthday prompt: A fic where Renji discovers that he can't go tits out anymore now that he's married (maybe with some jealous Rukia thrown in perhaps)?

I maintain that the new tits-in regime is self-imposed; I present to you my thesis. (I did not attempt to take on The Vest; I assume it came later, and I eagerly await more Vest Lore from Kubo himself)

Warning that I sincerely hope deters absolutely no one: This fic is about boobs. It contains many, many synonyms for boobs. Some of them are rude.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

---

“I’m telling you, you’re jumping to conclusions. Sometimes he puts them away when he fights. He told me this.”

“I haven’t seen them in weeks.”

“It’s been winter.”

“That has never stopped him before. And it’s April now. Open season. And yet…?”

“I think we should just ask him.”

“You can’t just ask a guy, ‘hey, where did your tits go?’”

“I could, but I refuse. Abarai’s aesthetic is his own business.”

“Since when?”

“Okay, he’s here, someone’s gotta do it.”

“Not it!”

“Also not it!”

“Matsumoto, you have to do it. You’re the one who talked him into letting them hang out in the first place.”

“I agree with Yumichika. Renji knows what he’s doing, and if he has decided that the puppies are off-limits, that’s on him.”

“Hey, guys!” Abarai Renji’s cheerful voice rang out over the din of the bar. “Sorry I’m late!”

“Just means you have to catch up quick!” Rangiku declared, pouring him some sake.

“No missus tonight?” Shuuhei asked.

Renji’s entire face went pink and he got the same moony look in his eyes he always got whenever someone mentioned his wife or his marital state generally. “She sends her regards and says I’m supposed to drink extra for her. She goes over to the Manor on Wednesday evenings now to hang out with her brother.”

“Have you actually managed to call him by his given name yet?” Iba asked. “Now that you’re related?”

“His given name is ‘Captain’ and I call him that all the time,” Renji replied snottily.

“So. Renji,” Izuru said, leaning forward on his elbow. “Are you doing something different? With your look? I feel like there’s something different about you.”

Renji’s face lit up. “You noticed!” He swung his head around, his long braid swinging over his shoulder. “I’ve started braiding it!”

“Oh, no, it’s permanent?” Yumichika moaned.

“That’s not new,” Iba scoffed. “You slept with it like that the whole time we were roommates. I just figured that you didn’t have time to fix your hair in the morning anymore because you were too busy taking care--oof!”

“It looks very nice, Renji!” Momo said sweetly, extracting her elbow from Iba’s rib cage.

“It’s different,” Renji glowered at Iba. “I braid it loosely at night to prevent breakage and lock in moisture. This is an action braid.” He wheeled on Yumichika. “And I’m only French braiding it for now, because it’s shorter in front than in the back, you know, because of the accident. Once I’ve grown it out to all one length again, I’ll just do a regular braid.”

“You could just cut it to the length of the shortest part and go back to the pineapple hair,” Ikkaku suggested. “I always liked the pineapple hair.”

Renji turned pink again. “Ah, well. Rukia likes it long.”

“Yeah, I don’t think the braid is… what I was thinking of,” Izuru soldiered on.

Renji sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “I got a new tattoo? A pair, actually.”

“Oh! Did you?”

“On your chest?” Shuuhei asked hopefully. A healing tattoo would be a good excuse to cover up.

“Nah, on my thighs.”

Izuru sighed. “Since when do I look at your thighs, Abarai?”

“I have good thighs, Izuru.”

“He probably just looks different because he’s so happy now,” Rangiku suggested. “By which I mean getting your back blown out every night.”

“That could be it!” Renji agreed cheerfully. “Oh, I was wearing a scarf for a while there, when we had that cold snap! Is it the scarf? Or maybe the lack of scarf? It’s a nice scarf, Captain gave it to me for a wedding present. He says a man of quality should own a scarf.”

“I give up,” Izuru sighed.

“Hey, jocks, what’s going on?” a new voice interrupted.

“Akon!” half the table chorused and Renji scooted over so Akon could slide in next to him.

“Glad you could make it!”

“Yeah, sorry, I had an experiment I wanted to get finished up.”

“We were just talking about how there’s something different about Renji,” Shuuhei pressed.

Akon surveyed Renji for a moment. “Well, he’s got his tits tucked in for once. Aren’t you hot? You told me once you did that for ventilation.”

“That was very much a lie,” Renji clarified. “And I’m a married man now, my cans are closed for business. Speaking of which, Rangiku, fill ‘er up again, please, I’ve gotta keep up my wife’s reputation.”

---

Momo couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Out of their entire friend group, she was pretty sure she was the least interested in Renji’s… bosoms. There was a time… long, long ago when she had thought he was pretty hot stuff. She still counted him among her closest friends and favorite people, but had long ago come to the conclusion that big and beefy just wasn’t her type.

“Why, Lieutenant Hinamori! What brings you to my office?” Acting Captain Kuchiki Rukia leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. She must have been practicing, because the last time Momo had seen her do that, she had nearly fallen backwards out of the chair.

Momo sighed. “I have to tell you, this isn’t business.” Not exactly. It sort of was, in the sense that Shuuhei and Matsumoto (who apparently did care very much about Renji’s chest situation, so long as she wasn’t the one who had to confront him about it) had come over and dramatically draped themselves all over the Squad 5 couch and complained about the dreary state of affairs to Captain Hirako until he ordered Momo to go do some investigating.

“Good, because I have been filling out Nanao’s new skills-inventory-for-seated-officer forms all morning and I’m about to lose it,” Rukia said with an overly cheerful grin.

“We could go out to the yard and fight?” Momo offered hopefully. Maybe she could tell Captain Hirako that she got distracted and forgot to ask about Renji.

Rukia’s face fell a little. “Er, I’d love to, but I really shouldn’t today. Sentarou just made me this pot of tea, though. Do you want some? It’s lemon ginger, it’s really good.”

“Sure,” Momo agreed.

“So what’s up?” Rukia asked again, once Momo was perched in the guest chair, a fragrant cup of tea cradled in her hands.

Well, might as well just rip the bandage off. “I need you to know that I was put up to this by… you know. The idiots. The cowards we go drinking with.”

“Understood,” Rukia agreed.

“There is… some concern… about your husband.”

Rukia’s eyebrows shot up. “My sweet pumpkin pants?”

“I’m leaving,” Momo announced.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Rukia waved her hands, laughing. “I’ll be serious. What has that lunkhead done now?”

“This is so dumb,” Momo muttered. She cleared her throat. “He’s stopped going around with his bazongas hanging out all the time, and everyone’s losing their minds over it.”

Rukia stared at her. “Excuse me, his what?”

Momo made a vague gesture at her own chest. “You know. His… boobies.”

“That’s what I thought you meant,” Rukia nodded, her brow creased in thought. “Bazongas. I like that.”

“Not that I care!” Momo excused. “I mean, I agree, he should be allowed to dress how he likes, but you two seem to have a very equitable relationship and I said that I was sure he wasn’t doing anything that he hadn’t agreed to--”

“Hold on,” Rukia interrupted. “You think I had something to do with this?”

“You didn’t?” Momo asked. “He said he was keeping them tucked in because he was married now. We assumed it was at your request.”

“I didn’t even know!” Rukia replied. “I mean, I came home yesterday, and he was just--” she made a hand gesture like she was pulling her kosode open, “--completely out--”

“I don’t need to hear this,” Momo begged.

“Well, I tell you I had nothing to do with it,” Rukia assured her. “No one is more supportive of Renji acting slutty in public than me. Everyone knows I have that locked down, and honestly, it just makes me seem more powerful.”

Momo squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m going to punch Shuuhei so hard.”

Rukia rubbed her index finger over her chin. “It’s possible this came down from Brother…”

Momo whimpered, although, honestly, having a conversation with the other Captain Kuchiki about Abarai’s pectorals couldn’t possibly be more awkward than this.

“...or it might be… something else.” Rukia frowned. “I’ll talk to him, okay?”

“You will?” Momo asked hopefully.

“Yeah, I’ll take care of it. I can’t promise to bring the jugs back, but I’ll make sure it’s just Renji being a doofus and not Renji hiding his anxieties under aesthetic choices or Renji being oppressed by his brother-in-law.”

“Thank you, Rukia,” Momo said. Rukia could be bossy at times, but it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “Sometimes, Renji has to be bullied into taking care of himself.”

“You’re telling me!” Rukia exclaimed. “Thank you for caring about him,” she added warmly.

“For the record, I care about him,” Momo replied. “Everyone else just misses the view.”

“Noted,” Rukia replied.

---

Renji had his nose stuffed in his cookbook, which lately, wasn’t a good sign. Renji only owned one cookbook, an encyclopedic tome that he only cracked open when he was trying something new or otherwise wasn’t sure what he was doing.

“I hope you aren’t making that kale curry again,” Rukia noted dryly.

Renji jumped three feet in the air. “Aaah, shoot! Rukia! I didn’t hear you come in! I’m so sorry!”

Rukia hopped up on her kitchen stool and leaned across the counter to give him a kiss. “We’ve been married for four months now. You don’t have to greet me at the door every single day, you know.”

“Sixteen weeks, three days,” Renji replied. “And I can still be sorry about it.”

“Just tell me we’re having something normal for dinner, and I’ll forgive you,” Rukia replied.

Renji jerked a thumb toward the stove behind him. “I made oden,” he explained. “It’s simmering, probably’ll be another ten minutes.”

“Ohhhhhh, I love your oden!” Rukia stretched her arms across the counter and did grabby hands at his hands until he laced his fingers through hers. “Did you make enough for me to take some for lunch tomorrow?”

“Depends on how much you eat tonight,” he replied. “Your appetite’s been really hit or miss lately.”

“Yeah, well...” Rukia agreed. “So what’s with the cookbook, then?”

“Oh,” Renji said vaguely. “I’m thinking about learning to bake cookies?”

“I’m in favor of that,” Rukia agreed, although her mind immediately went back to the conversation she’d had with Momo that afternoon.

“I’m not sure this book is helping,” Renji admitted. “If I was any good at baking, it would be one thing, but it’s too different. I’ve always been better at learning stuff from other people. Do you think it would be weird if I asked Iba’s mom to teach me? She used to make these little sesame biscuits for Iba. I would always steal them from him. They were so good and he didn’t properly appreciate them anyway.”

“It would absolutely be weird, and I think you should do it anyway,” Rukia proclaimed. She paused. “But maybe you could wait a few more weeks until we tell everyone we’re pregnant so all your friends will stop asking me what’s wrong with you.”

Renji’s eyes widened. “Did your brother say something last night? Because he told me he liked the braid!”

Rukia snorted. “No. He’s worse than you are anyway, he’s been reading books. Please make him stop, if you can. Actually, I’ve been getting complaints about,” she circled a finger in the vicinity of Renji’s chest.

Renji glanced down, and realized that his kosode was still neatly folded up to his collarbone. “Oops, sorry! I told you I didn’t hear you come home.” He immediately began untucking it.

Rukia leaned her chin on her palm, watching his progress. “I realize that making emotionally constipated people face their feelings is usually your department, but it seems you’ve got something heavy rattling around in there. Wanna talk about it?”

Renji’s eyes slid to one side. “Talk about what?”

Rukia cocked an eyebrow and waited.

Renji heaved a sigh. “Do you remember that time, back in Inuzuri, the first time I used my reiatsu in public? When I blocked a lead pipe with my arm?”

Rukia almost choked. “What do you mean, do I remember it? Of course I remember it.”

“Well, not so much that, but do you remember afterward, when you said I was too big and mean to be a sneakthief anymore? That it was better to confront the world and show it what we were made of?”

“I do remember that. I did not call you mean.”

“You probably didn’t. It’s probably just something I thought about myself.” He looked pensive for a moment. “In any case, it was something I really took to heart, especially after we split up. At first, I just wanted to make myself as big and loud and scary as possible. I liked the way people shied away from me. Later on, after I started hanging out with Yumichika, I realized that walking around sexy could be intimidating in a different sort of way, and I liked that, too.”

Rukia had a comment for that, but she decided to just listen, instead.

Renji smoothed the page of his book with his fingers. “I don’t want to look scary anymore.”

“You don’t look scary,” Rukia reassured him. “You haven’t looked scary in a long time.”

“I want to do better than that, though,” Renji frowned. “Has your brother ever talked to you about his dad?”

Rukia blinked, surprised, mostly that Byakuya had talked about Soujun with Renji. “A few times.”

“I, uh, asked him what his dad was like. Since I never had one myself. I expected him to either blow me off or start bellyaching, like he does about his granddad, but he didn’t. He said his pop was very gentle and kind. He said he was a good dad.”

“Byakuya loved his father a lot.”

“Yeah, that was pretty clear.”

“I hope he finished by saying what a good father you will make, but it’s my brother, so I’m sure he didn’t.”

“He said something about how he was sure I would proceed in my own way.”

Rukia sighed again. “Renji, you’ll be a great dad. It’s super obvious. I’ve only told half a dozen people that I’m pregnant and all of them who aren’t Byakuya have immediately reacted with ‘Renji is going to be such a good dad.’ You don’t need to change anything about yourself.”

Renji sucked his teeth for a moment. “Well, all my good dad instincts are telling me our kid is gonna wanna fight the world bad enough as it is, that the last thing they need is a dad who wants to fight the world, too. I’ve fought the world long enough. I’m probably never gonna be gentle, but I can try my best to be kind, and I can dress like a normal person in public for a change and… maybe I can make a cookie? It’s worth a try, I think.”

Rukia flashed him a sad, but fond smile. “You’re such a dork. A sweet, thoughtful dork, though, and I will support your experiment, even though you know I love your bazongas more than anyone.”

“‘Bazongas’? Oh no, did those assholes make Momo come and talk to you?”

Rukia shrugged and tried to look innocent.

“Anyway, you’re my wife, I will take them out for you whenever you want.”

“Yay!”

Renji furrowed his brow into its “determined” configuration. “Do not get me wrong. I am actually upping my chest day routine. I am going to keep them immaculate, and when my shirt gets ripped off in a fight, people are going to lose their minds over how lush my boys are.”

“I love you so much,” Rukia replied.

#renji's birthday 2k21 #my writing #this was a lot of fun i got to use all my favorite horrible synonyms for da tiddies #ok maybe not allll my faves

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feralhippie · 8 months ago

Note

"If you ever change your mind, just let me know." Kale said, leaving the offer on the table even though he knew the slasher would likely never take him up on it. Matt's question had taken him by surprise, and he wondered where it was coming from, a serious expression on his face as he answered.

"What do you mean?" His mind immediately jumped to the way he ate people, though surely that wasn't the type of thing being referred to. He wondered if Matt was alluding to something he had done or would do, but as far as he knew revenants didn't need to kill to eat.

Matt waved him off. " I appreciate the offer, but no thanks." He looked down, wondering how to broach the topic. Eventually he decided asking a rhetorical question might be useful.

"What would you do if it turned out something you needed required other people to die?" He knew the werewolf would already have a likely answer, but maybe there might be a worthwhile discussion to be had anyway.

#wrongarmofthelaw

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angryinternetduck · 4 years ago

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When All Feels Lost Chapter One: All Business A scheme, some terrible plays, an outburst in an elevator. Rom coms, late night talks, dreadful kale and carrot juice. Harry Styles is one arrogant son of a bitch. [producer!harry x actress!reader; enemies to lovers] Warnings: explicit language and alcohol consumption about 11,000 words series masterlist | general masterlist | ask

~*~ The interior of the staircase doesn’t match the exterior of the apartment building at all.

On the outside, the building is run down. The paint of the windowsills is chipped, dead flowers lay wilted in graying flower boxes. It’s not quite derelict enough to catch the eyes of passerby, though; in fact, it’s so unnoticeable that you almost walk right past it.

When you walk in, the door creaks loudly. A small bell tries and fails to mask the sound, ringing out a pleasant chime just barely noticeable over the whine of the door. The man behind the desk looks bored, but a slight bit of interest crosses his face when you ask for the producer you’re looking for: Harry Styles.

The man at the desk points you up the stairs, tells you where to go.

Apparently, Mr. Harry Styles has a level all to himself. The staircase up to his apartment is lined with awards, certificates, and framed newspaper clippings. Where there are shelves, more awards in the form of small trophies cover every surface.

Despite yourself, you’re a little in awe. You knew how famous he was, how good he was at his job, but you never really saw all his glory laid out before you like this. It’s really quite impressive.

When you arrive at the door, you take a second to pause before knocking. You take a breath, read the gold plaque on the door: Harry E. Styles. Executive Producer. You let the breath out, and then knock.

“Come in.”

You walk inside. It’s a big office. There’s a leather sofa on one wall, a desk in the back covered in papers. A coffee table sits in front of the couch, covered in even more papers. Stacked on top of and spilling out of filing cabinets are thin yellow books, bold black print on their covers.

And Harry Styles himself is sitting on the couch. He’s terribly handsome, you notice first, all tan skin and tattoos peeking out of sleeves and green eyes when he looks up at you. He smiles, and you see dimples.

He’s also a mess. His crisp white shirt is undone one too many buttons, his bow tie unknotted around his neck. The coat of his black suit is over the back of the large chair behind the desk.

It hits you, then, that this man isn’t a big time producer. He was a big time producer. You close your eyes for a split second, thinking back to the dates on the newspapers, all from years ago, back to the less-than luxurious building he’s residing in.

He produced countless hits on countless stages, but none in the last few years. Which is odd, seeing how he looks young - he can’t be more than twenty five, twenty six, but it somehow seems like eons ago when you last saw his name in the papers.

Well, it seems like eons since you’ve seen his name glorified in the papers and online. He’s been featured quite a few times with horrific reviews, critics ripping his pieces to shreds and complaining about the once-master reduced to nothing.

Really, that’s the only reason you’re here, the only reason you think you have a shot with him: he’s probably just as desperate as you are. He hasn’t produced a hit in ages. You haven’t starred in a hit in ages.

You’ve been to every other place imaginable, starting at the top and spiraling down, but you haven’t been able to find a job anywhere. You’re the picture of a starving artist. You’re an actress - a damn good one, too - but haven’t seen the stage in months.

“Are you lost?” Harry Styles asks after a moment, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You blink. “No.”

“Alright, then,” he sighs, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. A sliver of muscled stomach peeks out at you as his shirt lifts, and you frown, your gaze darting back to meet his eyes, which are staring at you almost challengingly.

“I need a job,” you say.

“There’s a McDonald’s down the street,” he replies flatly. “It’s hiring.”

“I’m an actress.”

He quirks an eyebrow and then turns around, walking over to his desk. “Then the reason you don’t have a job is because you’re stupid.” You frown more, following him further into the room. He collapses into the chair, which squeaks and bounces under him.

“I’m not stupid,” you tell him, a sliver of irritation flashing through you. “You were the best producer Broadway’s ever seen. I need a job.” He laughs wryly, shaking his head. “‘Were’ being the key word there.”

“You must have something.”

“Yeah, I have something,” he says. “I have a lot of somethings. But a play isn’t one of those somethings.” He stands up again, heaves a sigh. “Neither is patience. So I’m asking you to leave, please, and find some other poor bloke to torture.”

“I’m not torturing you,” you say, stepping forwards rather than back. “I’m asking you for a spot in one of your plays.” His face hardens, and he juts out a finger at you. “Listen to me,” he says lowly. “I’m not producing a play. I’m too fucking broke for that, and it’s not like there are people lined up outside to support me.”

You scoff. “So what the hell are you doing in here?”

He blinks, his hand lowering as his expression melts and his face softens. “Withering away,” he mutters under his breath. “Just leave,” he sighs. “There’s nothing for you here. You look like a good actress… or whatever. You’ll find something else.”

“No,” you snap. “No, I won’t. This is my only option. I’ll do anything.”

He sits down at his desk. “Moose Murders,” he says.

He’s joking. You know he is. Moose Murders is widely considered the worst play ever created. But you sit down across from him anyway, because this is a test, and goddammit you’re going to pass this test and get a job if it’s the last thing you do. “Sold,” you say. “Moose Murders. I’ll do it.”

For a moment, he studies you. You’re a bit intimidated, but you hold his gaze.

Finally, he leans forward. He folds his hands in front of him, on the desk on top of loose pieces of paper. “Would you like to know my secret?” he asks, and you pause. You wonder if it’s another test, but if it is, you have no idea what the right answer is.

A hesitant, “Okay,” is what you decide on.

He clears his throat. “I’m going to try and perform a heist.”

“You what?”

He smiles, almost sweetly, and says, “I’m planning a scheme to cheat rich investors out of thousands of dollars.” Your jaw drops, just slightly, and you have absolutely no idea what to say to that. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Harry Styles mutters. He stands up, shoves his hands into his pockets, and starts pacing. You turn around and watch as he walks. “I peaked early,” he begins. A faraway look is in his eyes, and you’re a bit scared of what you just got yourself into.

“I was nineteen when I produced my first hit.” He pauses at the record player tucked in a corner, inspecting it. “I’m a genius, I’ll have you know. I’m the perfect producer. I churned them out, one hit after another. I was the best there ever was. And then…” He sighs heavily. “It took one mediocre play to topple me.” He looks at you, and you see anger in his eyes. “It wasn’t even that bad. It was okay. It just wasn’t a hit. And I had… I had no idea how to handle it.”

He turns back around, starts walking around the room, gaze drifting over the documents and posters lining the walls. “I was a flop after that, as you know. Still am. My reputation went down the drain, my investors lost their interest… And now every show’s a flop.” He laughs wryly, looking at you again, shaking his head. “You know that, too. They’re all flops. Failures. But I… I figured something out after my last fuck up.”

Your eyes trail him back to his desk, and he meets your gaze as he sits down.

“You can make more money with a flop,” he says, “than with a hit.”

At that, you frown. “No, you can’t.”

“You can,” Harry insists. “You sell shares before a play, right?” It’s rhetorical, but you nod anyway. “Right,” he says. “You get money, in exchange for a payment once your play is a hit. But if your play isn’t a hit, if it’s only on stage for one night, you can avoid payouts and then just…” He shrugs. “You can just run away with all the money.”

You blink at him.

“We can run away with all the money,” he amends. “If you… want to work with me.”

“You’re kidding,” you say flatly.

“No,” he insists. “I’m not kidding - I swear. It will work. Nobody will check the books of a play thought to have lost money! If I - we - wait for a while overseas until it’s all forgotten about, we can come back, go our separate ways, rich as can be, and…” He tosses his hands up. “And live happily ever after.”

For a second, all you can do is stare at him.

He shifts forward, focusing his gaze on you. “Listen,” he says. “I need somebody like you to convince my investors that something’s different. They’ll never believe something’s changed unless I can show them that I’m serious this time, and you’re the way to do that. An experienced actor, a beautiful actress to star in my next hit - it’s perfect.”

You bite your lip, stay quiet.

“And you…” He scoffs, throws his hands up at you. “You need this. What else are you going to do? Where else can you go? Nowhere. There’s nothing. Theater’s a dying business, darling. You said it yourself: this is your only option.”

You swallow thickly, feeling yourself start to consider his offer. It really might work, you realize, and that kind of scares you, because you really shouldn’t do this. “Well - well it’s not right to steal like that.”

“Oh, please,” Harry mutters. “First of all, we’re stealing from rich old bastards who have nothing else to do with their money but invest in plays. Secondly, we’re barely stealing anything! We’re not taking thousands from one single person, it’s - oh, it’s just a little bit from each person. Each person who has millions, probably.”

You cross your arms. “We could go to jail.”

He rolls his eyes at that and replies, “We absolutely will not. We won’t get caught. Who the hell will check the books?” He leans forward. “Nobody. Besides,” he goes on, spinning his chair around, “compared to my bleak bloody existence at the moment, I don’t think I’d mind jail all that much.” He sighs, staring out the window at the gray building front it looks out on. “At least I’d’ve gone out with a bang.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

He turns back around. “Well?” he asks. “Any more arguments?”

“I need money now,” you say. “My rent’s about to let up. It’s the end of the month, and I… I can’t cover it. I need a job, or - or something now.” Harry looks at you. “Move in with me,” he suggests.

You scoff a laugh, shaking your head. “Absolutely not!”

“Why not?”

“Because - because I can’t!”

“Fine,” Harry says, waving a hand in the air. “Consider it. Whatever. Just get back to me by… oh, by the end of the month.” He levels your gaze. “Before rent’s due.” Then he slides a card over to you and taps it twice. “There you are. Use it well.”

He opens a yellow booklet and spins around in his chair.

You can’t do this. It’s insane. It’s absolutely ridiculous. You could go to jail. And moving in with a complete stranger? Especially one malicious enough to scheme people out of - what did he say? Thousands of dollars?

You look at the business card.

Shit, you think. You need this.

“Fine,” you say. “When can I move in?”

***

The days are starting to blur together.

So are the words.

It’s been about a week since you moved in with Harry Styles, and your days have been nothing but reading lately. You’ve paged through what feels like hundreds of those thin yellow books you’d seen that first day, spilling out of cabinets and opened on tables. You’re looking for the perfect play, which really means the most awful play. It needs to be so indescribably bad that it closes within the first week of opening so that everything goes according to plan.

You never thought there could be so many plays. Most of them are pretty awful. There’s a pile on the coffee table in the main room of potential prospects, but nothing good enough - or bad enough, rather - to run with.

You’re sitting on the bed in your room, plays scattered around you. There’s an empty cup of coffee on the table next to the bed, and you look at it forlornly, willing it to fill up. It’s almost midnight, and you’d go to sleep if you had any sense.

But you don’t have any sense. So with a sigh, you roll off the bed and pad out of your room in your fuzzy socks. As you head to the kitchen, the front door opens up behind you. You glance around.

Harry meets your gaze.

You turn around and pour more coffee into your mug.

The first time he disappeared, you had been asleep and had only realized he’d left when you woke up to him opening the door. He looked a little less than disheveled and absolutely exhausted, and you could only presume he’d been out getting laid.

Well, you thought. Good for him.

Then it started happening more often. It was almost every night, which was fine, you supposed, but only if you didn’t have a play to find. He worked with you during the day and left at night, or left mid-afternoon and came back around midnight, like today.

He shuffles around behind you, and it’s a combination of laziness and stubbornness that keeps you from turning around and watching him or asking him where he’s been. When your mug’s full, you turn around and walk back into your room.

Hours later, on another coffee trip, he’s asleep on the couch with a script on his chest.

***

The first few times he offered you snacks, you refused. You wanted to spend as little time with him as possible, which was a bit difficult seeing as you lived with him. You couldn’t control bumping into him on your way to the bathroom in the morning, or eating breakfast at the table while he watched TV on the couch, but you could control where you read the pages and pages of scripts.

Sometimes he plays records out in the office. He must have quite the collection. You’ve heard a few things you recognize through the door of your bedroom - lots of Fleetwood Mac, some Joni Mitchell, the Eagles - and a lot that you’ve never heard before. It’s all good, and it’s a pleasant background noise to your tedious reading.

He never stopped offering snacks, though, and today, apparently, the last of your restraint has melted away. When he knocks on your door and says, “Popcorn if you want it,” you can’t refuse the delicious smell of buttery popcorn wafting under your door.

If he’s surprised when you come out of your room a few minutes later, he hides it well. He glances up at you, but then his eyes go right back to the script in front of him. The popcorn’s worth it, and when the bowl’s empty, Harry wordlessly goes and microwaves another bag without taking his eyes off the script he’s reading.

When he comes back from the kitchen, he slides down from the couch and sits on the floor, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. From your spot on the opposite side of the sofa, you watch as he spills crumbs all over the script.

You wonder why he’s pulling this scheme, suddenly, wonder why he’s going through all this trouble when he’s really probably fine from what he’s made in his early productions. Scowling, you come to the conclusion that he’s just greedy, and take one more piece of popcorn before standing up and walking back to your room.

***

“Have you seen my, erm - my collection?” Harry asks.

You’re eating lunch at the kitchen table, some spaghetti dish that Harry had made the night before. He’s quite the chef, you’ve learned. “Nope,” you say. There’s sauce on the booklet you’re reading, and you frown as you try and thumb it off.

“You should.”

The sauce smears. You frown more.

“Do you like music?” Harry asks.

You stand up. Walk to the sink. “Of course I do,” you say, a bit sharply. “I’m an actress.”

Behind you, you hear him shuffling through his records. “I love music,” he says softly. “I wish I could… I dunno. Sing or something.” You bite your lip as you run water over your plate. There’s a beat of silence. It’s just the sound of water, the clinking of the dishes in the sink.

When you turn around, Harry’s staring at the empty record player thoughtfully. He looks up after another second and smiles, just slightly. “Any preferences?” he asks, running his hands over the vinyls.

You shrug. “I don’t care.”

Harry looks at you, then shrugs and starts looking through the collection. Finally, he chooses one. “I listened to this,” he begins, sliding a disk out of its sleeve and gently placing it onto the platter, “on the plane the first time I came to the States.” The gentle sounds of Frank Sinatra’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” float from the turntable.

He begins mouthing the words, dancing slightly, smiling at you.

“We should find that play,” you say, and you walk back to your room.

***

A few days later, you gasp awake when you feel Harry’s hand on your cheek.

“Christ, what are you reading?” he asks. “That’s the third time I’ve woken you up.”

“You had to slap me to wake me up?” you scoff indignantly, sitting up on the couch.

Harry frowns as he takes the script out of your hands. “I did not slap you.”

It’s two pm. You’ve been chugging coffee all day - he’s right, you shouldn’t have fallen asleep at all, much less three times since you started that script. It really is very boring… Your eyes widen as you think back to the play, and you begin, “I think -”

“This is it,” Harry breathes.

“It’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever read!” you exclaim, sitting up.

“I can see that. This is it. It’s dumb as hell, and - and you’ve fallen asleep.”

“Three times!”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Harry says happily. “The ending doesn’t - it doesn’t…”

“It’s awful,” you agree with a grin.

“Margaret Fitcher,” Harry says, reading off the back of the script. “It’s - there’s an -” He grins, looking at you as he snaps the booklet shut. “She’s close,” he says excitedly. “Get your shit. We’re going.”

The car ride is quiet. You fidget. So does he. His leg moves a mile a minute, his finger fiddling with his lip. He’s going just a tad over the speed limit. When he pulls into a parking lot, you don’t even look at the building.

There’s a directory, and you find the name you’re looking for: Margaret Fitcher. 9C.

The elevator is shaky. It has an iron gate, blinking numbers. When the ninth floor button lights up and the elevator rattles to a stop, the gates clatter open and you follow him out into the hallway.

Harry knocks on the right door. “Ms. -”

“It’s open, sweetie! It’s open!”

You look at Harry. He shrugs. He looks excited.

He pushes the door open, and immediately, the smell of rotten fruit assaults your senses. You grimace, and you see Harry blink, nose wrinkling. “Come in, dearie,” a voice calls. You walk further inside. A cat comes and slides along your leg. You shift away, bumping into Harry, and he steadies you before he turns the corner and you see an old lady - Ms. Fitcher.

Her face is illuminated by the TV, on which an infomercial is playing. There are cats curled around her. You count. Six. Plus the one who’s decided to sit on your feet. Seven. You spot the source of the odor: a small bowl set in front of an easel, which carries a small, partially painted canvas. It’s supposed to be the bowl of fruit, you see. It’s not half bad.

“Sit down, sit down,” she says. Her voice is weak. She’s wearing glasses, on a chain, that are sliding down her nose. “Hello, Ms. Fitcher,” Harry says, speaking up above the TV. “We’re here to talk to you about your -”

“Eh?” she interrupts, squinting at him “You’ll have to speak up, dearie.”

Harry tries again, louder, “We’re here to talk to you about your -”

“What are you selling?”

This time, Harry shouts. “We’re here to talk to you about your play!”

“My play!” Ms. Fitcher laughs. She picks up a ball of yarn that had been sitting next to her. One of the cats fusses. “My play, my dear play…” She begins unwinding the yarn. “Who are you, again?”

Yelling, you introduce yourself, and then Harry does.

“Nice to meet you!” Ms. Fitcher croons. “Never see young ones around here anymore… What a shame…” She shakes her head, beginning to wrap the yarn around her frail hand again. “What a damn shame…”

You and Harry exchange a glance.

“Your play is wonderful, Mrs. Fitcher!” you shout.

She looks up. She seems almost coy. “Why, thank you.”

Harry clears his throat, begins to scream, “We wanted to -”

He’s cut off by somebody banging on the wall from the other side. “Oops,” you mutter, realizing neighbors can probably hear all the commotion through the thin walls. “Can we shut off the TV?” you shout, a bit afraid somebody’s gonna come over and rap on the door.

“Oh, the TV?” Ms. Fitcher says. “Whatever you want, dearie.” She hands you the remote, and you shut it off. The silence is glorious. “We want to buy your play,” Harry says, and Ms. Fitcher’s eyes grow wide. “To… to put it on the stage?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Yes,” you tell her. “We want the world to see your story, Ms. Fitcher.”

She pauses, inspecting the two of you. You feel slightly uncomfortable. “You’re not wearing wedding bands,” she says, looking suspicious, and a surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Oh! Oh, no, you - you mean - you think we’re -” You laugh, shake your head. “No, no, just - just business partners.”

“Business partners, roommates, that’s all,” Harry adds.

Her gaze narrows. “Roommates?” she echoes.

“Yup!” you chirp, hoping that’s not a problem.

She hums lowly in a way that makes you think it is a problem, but then asks, “Who will be playing the role of dear Rosalind?” You falter, then remember that’s the main character’s name. “Anybody you want, Ms. Fitcher,” you say.

“I can see auditions?”

“You can come to every rehearsal,” Harry reassures her. “It’ll be just as you like it.”

She stares at you over her spectacles. And then she says, “No.”

You blink. “What?”

“I don’t want you children ruining my masterpiece,” she sneers.

“We are not children,” Harry says irritatedly.

“Hmph.”

“You sent this play to me,” Harry says.

“That was ages ago,” Ms. Fitcher says wistfully. “When I was but a girl.”

Harry scoffs. “It was last year!”

She glares at him. “Get out.”

“No, no,” you try, “no, please, Ms. Fitcher, you’ll have total control, it’ll be you, all you and your -”

“Get out, you’re bothering my cats,” she snaps. “Get out!”

“Please, Ms. Fitcher,” you beg, “please. We’ll -”

She stands up, and now the cats really are bothered. “I’ll call the police!” she shrieks, and both you and Harry jump up, hurrying to the door, which she slams behind you. You look at it, at the sign with the apartment number engraved on it, at the fraying fuzz of the green carpet inside that had stuck to your shoes and was now on the floor of the hallway.

“I’m covered in cat hair,” Harry whispers.

You turn around first. He follows you to the elevator, which clanks as it stops and as its doors slide open. You step inside, lean against one wall. Harry leans against the other. You look down, not sure what to say. The adrenaline’s fading. You really thought that was the one.

And then -

The elevator bangs to a stop.

“What the fuck?” Harry whispers, looking up as you do.

Each floor’s light blinks, then shuts off, in rapid succession.

“Are we gonna die?” you ask.

“I - I don’t know.” He pokes a finger through the iron gates. “We’re in between floors.”

You blink, feel your brows furrow as you shake your head to clear your mind of the cloud of disappointment. “The - the building,” you say, pulling out your phone. “We can call the building.”

“What’s it called?” Harry asks.

You look up. “I have no idea.”

You stare at each other for a second, and then Harry’s face lights up. “I have it,” he says, fumbling in his bag for the paperwork. When he finally finds it, he flips it around so you can see the address. You type the name of the apartment complex into Google and call the first number that appears.

“Hi,” you say, trying to keep calm. “Hi, we’re, um - we’re stuck in one of your elevators?”

There’s a pause.

“Hello?” you say, impatient.

“Um… I don’t really know…”

“Who are -” You sigh, taking a step in the elevator, trying to pace, but you don’t have room. “Who am I speaking to?” A bit of static, and then, “I’m Mike,” the guy says dumbly. “I’m just the desk guy…”

“Do you have the elevator controls?” you ask, not really knowing what you’re asking but unsure of what else to say. “I mean - can you restart the elevators or, like - I don’t know, can you get them moving again? Do you see the - I don’t know, the controls?”

“Yeah, they’re… the box is right here,” Mike says.

“Great!” you exclaim. “Can you please start the elevators again?”

“Oh… I don’t know how to work them…”

You let out your breath, gritting your teeth. “Fantastic,” you mutter. “Um, well, can you call somebody who does?” Mike shuffles a bit. “Um… Yeah, I think so…” You laugh wryly. “Great, Mike, that would be great. Please do that.”

“Okay, I, um… Okay…”

“Keep me updated, okay?” you say tensely. “I’m counting on you, Mike.”

“Okay… bye…”

He hangs up.

“We’re gonna be trapped in here forever,” you moan, banging your head against the wall.

“What?” Harry asks. “What was that?

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “He said he’d call somebody.”

“You didn’t get a time estimate?”

“Jesus, Harry, no, I didn’t get a fucking time estimate.”

Harry frowns at you. “Maybe you should’ve.”

You glare at him.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you start your two-step pacing again. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter. Harry blows his breath out, sliding down one of the walls to sit on the floor. “Ridiculous indeed,” he says.

“I can’t believe this is happening.” You feel yourself getting riled up. “I can’t - fuck. I can’t fucking believe this is happening.” Harry stares at you from the floor. “I’m in an elevator… after getting shot down by a crazy old lady… with - with -” You glance at Harry. “With a fucking con artist.”

Harry frowns at that. “I’m not a -”

“Dammit, I should be on Broadway,” you interrupt. “I should be on Broadway. I did everything right, Styles.” Your breaths are coming faster. You lean back against the metal. “I - I went to fucking Julliard, Styles. I’m a pro. I trained, and I did all the little shows, and I - fuck.”

“It’s just a little pitstop,” Harry offers. “Before Broadway.”

“No!” you sob, and you clap your hand over your mouth. “No.” You step forward, turn around, two steps, you’re pacing around him in the teeny-tiny little box. “God, I’m a failure. I’m a - a failure. That’s why I’m here.” You glare at him through tear-clouded eyes. “With you. Jesus, how fucking evil do you have to be to steal money to get rich? You don’t even need it. You’re probably just fucking fine, probably have some rich daddy back in fucking - fucking England - and you just…”

Your voice is cracking, getting weaker, and you wipe away the tears on your face angrily. “I can’t believe this.” You sniffle, shaking your head. “God, Styles, everybody likes to talk about the new opportunities. Everybody likes to say, ‘Oh, when one door closes” - you jerk on the iron gates - “another opens!’ But dammit, Styles, it’s not open!” You shake your head, stumbling back onto the back wall of the elevator.

“Those goddamn doors must be locked,” you say softly, staring at the shut elevator doors in front of you. “They’re locked,” you repeat. “They’re locked. They slam shut - in my fucking face - and every other door is locked. They’re all locked…” You slide down the wall. “They’re all locked with a key I just - I don’t have.”

Your breath stutters. You look at Harry. “I just don’t have it, Harry,” you whisper.

He opens his mouth to reply, and then your phone rings.

“Hello?” you say. Your voice cracks.

“Hi, are you the lady stuck in the elevator?” It’s a different voice than before. Not Mike.

“Yes! Yes, yeah, I’m here with -” You clear your throat. “What’s happening?”

“We’re resetting the system,” the guy says. “Hopefully that’ll pull everything together. Can you stay on the line for me and tell me if it starts moving again?” You nod excitedly, stepping forward and scanning the buttons. “Yes, I can - what, um - what am I looking -”

A button lights up. There’s a loud clank, and the elevator starts moving.

“It’s moving!” you say happily.

“Great, great. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day.”

There’s a dial tone.

“Right, then,” Harry says as the doors open and you slide your phone into your purse.

You start walking to the car, and Harry follows you. You slow down a little so you’re walking side by side and look at him apologetically. “Um… I’m sorry,” you say quietly, wiping the last of the tears from your eyes. “I’m just… frustrated, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry says.

The car ride back to the apartment is silent.

***

You’re back to reading in your room after seeing Ms. Fitcher.

What’s sort of annoying is that you’re not even partially ignoring him because you’re mad at him - you’re almost just embarrassed about your explosion. You don’t want to face him, don’t want to talk about it. You don’t even want to think about it.

He seems to understand. He cooks a lot. You told him your favorite food a few days ago, before Ms. Fitcher, and he’s made it quite a few times. That makes you even more embarrassed. You blew up at him, insulted him… and now he’s cooking for you.

Ridiculous.

He still disappears a lot. It’s for longer, now; sometimes he’ll leave at noon and not be back until around midnight. You only know because he keeps his bedroom door open and the apartment always has a different air about it when he’s not there.

He doesn’t usually tell you, but… today he is, apparently.

There’s a knock on your door, and you tell him to come in.

“Hi,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hi,” you say.

He looks down at his hands, and you follow his gaze. He’s holding a small black box, fidgeting with it. “I have to… go,” he says, quietly. “But I, erm…” He looks up, steps forward almost hesitantly.

You get up to meet him, and he holds the little black box out to you.

“I thought of you,” he murmurs. His ears are tinged red, and he won’t meet your gaze.

You take the box. It’s light. When you go to open it, his cheeks flush red to match his ears, and he presses his hand on top of yours. You blink, surprised, looking up. “Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling away. “I just… I, er -” He smiles, laughs a bit sheepishly. “Do you wanna open it when I leave?”

You smile slightly, a bit amused despite your confusion. “Sure,” you say.

Harry nods. “Okay,” he says. He clears his throat, not moving, and despite yourself, you’re not mad, because it’s nice to be in his presence, to hear his voice, because you haven’t heard his voice in a while, haven’t been near enough to -

“Okay,” Harry repeats.

He leaves, and you look at the door of your room for a second, hearing the door of the apartment shut before looking down at the little black box in your hands again. It’s a jewelry box. When you open it, a little slip of paper flutters out.

It has jagged edges like it was ripped from a larger piece of paper. You recognize the handwriting from the notes Harry writes in the scripts he reads, from the thoughts he writes in the margins of the books he’s lent you.

For when every door seems locked.

Inside the box is a necklace.

The chain is delicate. Simple.

Attached is a silver pendant, in the shape of a key.

***

The next day, after you said thank you to him, and after he smiled and said you’re welcome, you stayed in the main office with him to read. It’s quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You could stay in this quiet all day.

The day after that, he’s gone for most of the day.

When he comes back, your plan to silently scold him for leaving again by ignoring him for a while crumbles because he’s watching The Notebook while he works. It’s late. You were just getting coffee, planning to hide away in your room after acquiring your dose of caffeine.

Then he gives you a soft smile and nods towards the empty side of the couch.

Come on, he says silently. You know you want to.

So you do. You can’t help it. It’s The Notebook, of course, and you can kind of just tell it’s his favorite from his small smiles at certain parts, his whispered echoes of every other line. Also, he tells you, says, “This is the best movie ever created,” as he grins over at you from the opposite end of the couch where he’s wrapped in a soft blue blanket.

It continues the next day, when he flicks on a movie during dinner and doesn’t turn it off after all the food’s away and you’re just reading on the couch. It’s just something random, but you have to bite your lip to hide your amusement at Harry’s snarky comments under his breath.

A few days later, you shouldn’t feel as satisfied as you do when he comes in to find you already on the couch, your favorite movie onscreen. He smiles at you, takes some of the chips on the coffee table, and starts reading.

Progress goes a bit more slowly once the movie watching begins. You need it, though; it’s a welcome distraction and you’d definitely go crazy without it. Letters dance after a few hours of nothing but reading in silence.

The Potential Prospects Pile on the coffee table grows, but it’s kind of just for show. You both know you’ll know it once you see it. Your interest piques whenever you see him add a booklet to a pile, though, and you flip through each one that’s added like he does.

It’s a few weeks after that first time watching The Notebook, and to your slight reluctance, you’re watching it again. You’re sitting on the floor, coffee sitting next to you, a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table on top of the prospects. Harry’s on the couch, all six feet of him sprawled and taking up the entire thing.

It’s late, almost two am. You want to fall asleep - are falling asleep - but Harry only just arrived and you feel like you should stay up with him. He’d been out the entire day, doing God knows what.

“Sometimes I hate Allie,” Harry murmurs suddenly.

“Really,” you say, only half listening.

“She makes it so… unbalanced.” His voice is so low. He sounds exhausted. You look up, and you see that the play he’s reading isn’t even open - it’s closed in his hand, fingers marking his spot, hanging over the side of the couch. He’s on his side, head on his hand, eyes fluttering shut.

“What d’you mean?” you ask before you can think.

“He writes to her for a year,” he whispers. “A whole year. And she... She doesn’t.”

You shrug. “She didn’t know he was writing.”

“She should’ve written to him anyway. She said she loved him. She should’ve written, and told him again, or… or…” He fades off. “What, she should’ve run away back to him?” you ask, and Harry whispers, “Yeah.”

When you turn around again, he’s asleep. You bite your lip, and then look back at the TV.

On screen, Noah catches a glimpse Allie across the street, then sees her kiss someone else.

You open another script and take a sip of coffee.

***

Sleepless in Seattle is playing on the TV. Harry loves his romcoms.

It’s late again.

The days seem to pass so quickly, and the nights seem to drag on forever and ever. Maybe that’s because your sleep schedule is royally fucked up, but you’re mostly blaming that on Harry being out all day.

You’re sipping hazelnut coffee. It’s delicious. It’s not hot anymore, but it’s not quite cold enough to be given up on. The remainders of your midnight snack - tacos - lay on the coffee table, and there’s a smear of guacamole on one of the Potentials.

The movie’s wrapping up. The elevator doors are closing. The credits begin to roll.

Sighing, you stretch for a second before turning around and resting your chin on the coffee table so you can look at Harry. The key necklace swings forward. It hangs in the space between your chest and the table, and you can feel its weight on the back of your neck. It’s comforting.

Harry’s on the couch. He’s on his back, holding his arms straight up with his elbows locked so he can read his script. His brows are furrowed, and his lip is between his teeth. He looks uncomfortable.

“I don’t know anything about you,” you whisper.

Harry meets your gaze, dropping his arms. “You know my favorite movie.”

“But not your favorite book.” You wonder what the hell you’re doing.

Harry smiles slightly. “Or, apparently, how indecisive I am. I can’t decide.”

“Are you just trying to avoid other ‘what’s your favorite’ questions?” This is the longest exchange you’ve had in weeks. “No,” Harry says, “really. I can’t decide. I’d answer all the ‘what’s your favorite’ questions you have if I could.”

“Why?”

Harry sits up, looks at the script in his lap, and shrugs. “Seems like you hate me.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“No,” he says softly, looking at you.

His eyes are really green, you notice. Maybe it’s just the light. Or lack thereof. They sparkle in the darkness, and you kind of want to see him smile, want to make him smile, want to be the cause of those dimples so that you can see his green, green eyes light up for real.

You close your eyes and lean backwards. Now your back is on the ground, your arm over your eyes. “I think you should pay for a chiropractor for me,” you murmur. “My back’s killing me from sleeping out here all the time.”

“There’s a bed just in there,” Harry says.

“Too far away.”

“Then that back pain’s on you.”

“You’re why I’m out here in the first place.”

“No, you’re out here for the food.”

You feel yourself smile. “And the movies.”

“There you have it.”

“Still think you should pay,” you whisper.

“I pay for yours, you pay for mine.”

You close your eyes tight, bite your lip hard, because now you’re smiling even more.

“You have yourself a deal,” you say.

***

A few days, later, and you’re trying to hold your tongue again.

It’s been quiet for too long, and you’re getting uncomfortable. You’re not sure if that’s because you’re beginning to associate silence with the tremendously boring reading, or if it’s because you just don’t like silence.

Another possibility hovers in the back of your mind, one that implies that you really aren’t uncomfortable, you just want to talk with him, with Harry, the enigma sitting two feet away from you, but you don’t want to think about that, so you say something.

“You sound British,” is what comes out, even though he hasn’t spoken in hours.

It’s a few days later. Four in the morning. The TV’s quiet, no movie playing. There’s a bowl of M&Ms on the table - this guy has every snack imaginable in his little kitchen - but that’s the only distraction. You’re both on the floor this time, the coffee table pushed off to the side. He’s cross-legged, sipping tea, you’re on your stomach, eating more M&ms than probably healthy.

“Is that a compliment?” Harry asks, looking up from his script.

You eat another M&M. “Can be.”

“That’s ominous. I am. Born and raised.”

“Why’d you come here?”

“Broadway.”

You smile, turning onto your back to look at the ceiling. “How romantic.”

Harry frowns, asks, “Why?”

“Dunno,” you reply with a shrug. “There’s something sweet about that - a little boy, being absolutely entranced by plays he sees onstage… he’s enchanted, wants to be a part of it but isn’t nearly handsome enough to be an actor, so -”

“Hey!”

You look over at him. Grin. “What?”

“You don’t think I’m handsome?”

“I’ll only make that big head of yours bigger if I answer honestly.”

He smiles. Takes a sip of tea. “Nice to know.”

“Why not an actor, anyway?” you ask, looking back at the ceiling. You follow the fan with your eyes as Harry says, “Believe it or not, I prefer to be backstage.” He sighs, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him follow your gaze to the fan.

“I wanna see people’s reactions,” Harry says softly. “I like to see their faces light up at something funny… Or their tears at something sad…” He looks back down and takes an M&M out of the bowl. “The best is when somebody’s trying to hide it.” You see him smile at you, and you look at him. “When they think they’re so cool, so stoic and - and immune to the wonders of the stage…” He smiles more, fiddling with the M&M. “And then you see them break, see their reluctant laughter or their hands rush to hide their watering eyes…”

You steal the M&M he’d been playing with. “Wouldn’t you rather be the one making them feel those emotions?” He gets another M&M. “Nah. Too much work.” He eats it, finally, you watch him chew and swallow and then you look at the ceiling again.

“It’s not,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“Maybe you’re just not doing it right.”

You open an eye to glare at him, and he smirks.

“I am,” you say. “You’ll have to see me some time.”

“Maybe after this mess I’ll produce a real play,” Harry murmurs. “You can star.”

You close your eyes again. “Not in one of your plays,” you hum. “Don’t want my first play back to be a flop.” You feel something against your arm, and you realize Harry had thrown an M&M at you.

You scoff. “I’m just being honest!”

“Sometimes a little white lie can be appreciated.”

“That’s not good for your ego.”

“What ego?”

“The one making you think you’re funny.”

“Oh, sod off,” Harry laughs.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you whisper, “What if we never find a play?”

Harry clears his throat. “We will,” he says. He stands up, dusts off his hands, and grabs a book. You watch as he sits down in a chair and puts his legs up onto the table. “Keep looking,” he tells you quietly.

So you do.

***

A few days later, a little after lunchtime, and it’s your turn to pick the movie. It’s one of your favorites, a comfort movie at this point. You mouth along the lines with the actors, grinning madly at the television screen because it’s so perfect and you love it so much.

Harry’s not really paying attention. He’s been quiet. Normally, he’s cracking jokes, murmuring sass at the stupid scenes and sighing heavily at the dramatic ones. If it were any other movie, you’d be curious, or anxious, but not this one.

You’re not even holding a script.

Harry is, though, and you look over at him curiously as the credits start to roll.

“You okay?” you ask.

He doesn’t reply.

“Hey,” you say, nudging him with your foot, “are you good?”

“I think… I think this is it,” he says quietly.

Yawning, you stretch towards the ceiling. You wonder what time it is. “What’s it?”

“This is it,” Harry says, sitting up but not taking his eyes off of the script. You frown, straightening. “It’s bad?” you ask, and Harry finally looks up. He’s practically glowing, he’s so excited, and a spark of excitement rushes through you.

“It’s so bad.”

“Lemme see,” you say, standing up, but Harry’s pacing.

“Retired FBI agent Leopold Gray is suddenly being hunted down by a small town dentist named Ernest D’Angelo who thinks Gray has killed his wife. As D’Angelo chases the elderly Gray around the globe, the two slowly start to lose patience; by the end, D’Angelo has given up, and Gray is retired - again - in Bismarck, North Dakota.”

He pauses, and you frown, waiting for him to continue.

Instead, he looks up, grinning. “That’s it!” he exclaims.

You blink. “You’re kidding.” He hands the script to you, and you read over the summary, scoffing in pleased disbelief as you get to the end and see that it’s just as unsatisfactory as Harry read it to be.

“God, it’s a - it’s an action and a musical!” you laugh.

“Come on,” Harry tells you, grabbing his coat. “Look at the address on the back, tell me where we’re going.” Following him out the door, you read off the street name and number. Harry plays music in the car, but you don’t hear it.

A sliver of doubt runs through you as you get closer and closer to the address, scared to be shot down again. You shove it aside, shifting from one foot to the other as you wait on the front porch.

This guy lives in a house. His name is Richard. The house is a small stand alone, with a little yard out front. It’s gated. The paint on the door and under the windows is chipping, and the flowers in the yard are drooping and wilted.

Harry knocks on the inner door. The screen door slams shut when he pulls away.

You wait a beat, another, you’re getting nervous, and then -

BANG.

You jump a foot in the air as the screen door slams again, this time against the rail behind it, and then fear courses through you, because the guy is holding a large cast iron pan, and you’re genuinely afraid for your life.

“Who are you,” the man - Richard? - hisses, glasses sliding down a crooked nose.

Harry coughs, backing up half a step. “I - I’m Harry Styles, this is -”

You tell him your name. His eyes are beady, and there’s a single strand of graying hair on his forehead, and his fingers are trembling, and Harry says, “Please, sir, we just want to talk to you about your - your, erm - your absolutely fantastic play -”

He freezes.

“Could you put away the, um - the pan?” you ask, and it slides out of his hand.

It thuds against the floor.

“My play, huh?” he says gruffly, wiping a hand under his nose.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s - it’s absolutely ingenious.”

He stares at you for a second, and then backs up. “Come in.”

Harry looks at you, and you shrug helplessly, opening up the screen door. Richard’s already halfway through the hallway, which is dim, and if you squint, you can see cobwebs in the ceiling. You follow Richard until he stops in a living room and sits in a creaky sitting chair.

Richard glares at you. “What about my play.”

“We want to put it on the stage,” Harry says.

“Why.”

You clear your throat. “Because it deserves to be seen.”

“I think so, too,” Richard says. His glasses are slipping down his nose.

Slowly, Harry pulls the documents out of his bag. “If you sign here,” he says, patiently, like he’s talking to a five-year-old, or perhaps a wild animal, or maybe a criminal about to kill somebody, “thousands of people will see your play.”

“Thousands,” Richard echos, his eyes widening.

“Thousands,” you confirm, lying. Harry gently slides the papers, along with a pen, towards Richard on the glass table between the easy chair where Richard’s sitting and the sofa where you and Harry are.

“You’ll be praised in every newspaper,” Harry says, also lying.

Richard picks up the pen. He looks down at the papers. The place where he’s to sign is highlighted in yellow. He’s looking down, and his glasses are at the very tip of his nose. You wonder what would happen if they slid off his face completely, or if he’d notice.

After an awkward moment as Richard just stares at the papers, he begins to sign.

“My mother will love me again,” he whispers.

You look at Harry.

Harry looks at you.

“Make me proud,” Richard says hoarsely, and you and Harry both look to Richard, who’s holding the papers out. You see a single tear roll down Richard’s cheek. “Thank you so much!” Harry exclaims, and then he grabs your hand and practically sprints out of the house and into the car.

“Floor it, floor it,” you rush, and Harry speeds away.

As soon as he turns a corner so Richard’s house is out of eyesight, he pulls the car over, parking for a second. “Okay,” he breathes, palms flat against the top of the steering wheel, “what the fuck was that?”

“I have no idea,” you reply, laughter bubbling out of you.

“Oh, my God,” Harry says incredulously, laughing too, and for a second, all you can do is laugh, because that was so surreal and you’re not quite sure how else to react. “I hope we never have to deal with that again,” you say as your laughter dies down.

“Christ, he’s fucking insane.”

“Harry, our cause of death could have been a frying pan.”

“No wonder his mum doesn’t love him!”

“Shit, this play better bomb,” you giggle, and Harry pulls onto the road again.

“We gotta do something,” he says. “To celebrate.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

Harry glances at you, and smiles. “I know just the place.”

***

You haven’t been out in forever.

Harry’s music is great - calming, quiet, mellow. The entire atmosphere of the apartment is like that. Everything’s quiet, with a layer of comfort over it. That’s not bad, of course, but it does mean that the club Harry’s just taken you to is a little more than a shock to your system.

This music pounds in your ears, thrumming in your chest and in your stomach, pulsing in your hand where it meets Harry’s. He’s leading you through the crowd, and when he turns around to grin at you, he’s glowing.

He says something, you can see his lips move, but you can’t hear him.

“What?” you shout, and he stops for a second, but you don’t, and you’re suddenly bumping into him, pushed flush against him by the moving crowd around you. Smoothly, his hand slides down to your waist, holding you tight, grounding you.

You can feel his breath on your skin, his fingers digging gently into your hips. He’s everywhere, flooding your senses. The fabric of his suit jacket is warm under your fingers, his cheek so near you’d be kissing him if you were any closer.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he says, right next to your ear.

You feel yourself shiver, and you nod because you don’t trust your voice.

Suddenly he’s moving again, and then you’re through the crowd and landing at the bar, and you’re breathless, and he’s flush-faced and happy and you feel yourself smiling because he’s smiling, and then he’s ordering something and you’re not sure what it is.

On three, you see him say when the shot glasses appear in front of you.

And on three, whatever it is slides down your throat, burning a trail to your stomach and lighting you up from the inside. The music is deafening. You love it. Harry’s beaming, and he clinks his next glass against yours before downing it as you do.

You’ve never felt more alive.

Harry leans forward, and you lean into him, and you’re smiling blissfully, you’d kiss him if he let you, and he says, right into your ear, “You alright?” You laugh and nod and tell him, “Never been better.”

Time begins to blur, and your head’s fuzzy as hell not just from the alcohol but from Harry’s intoxicating presence and the thud of the bass in the music. You find yourself in the bathroom, a while later, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

You look different. Good different. You giggle and lean forward, inspecting yourself, and then sigh and stumble backwards against a wall. It’s much quieter in here, and you can breathe for a second, and can kind of hear your thoughts through the muddle of your mind.

After a while, you wonder where Harry is, and walk out of the restroom to search for him. “Harry,” you sing out, your voice drowned by the music and people. “Harry, Harry, Harry,” you call, just for the fun of it.

“Harry, Harry, Har -”

You freeze.

You recognize his hair, and the jacket he was wearing, and the rings on his hand, which is holding someone else’s hand above their head, against a wall. He’s close to them, lips against their neck. It’s a girl. She’s grinning euphorically, eyes closed. You can see her laughing, chin tilting upwards as Harry whispers something into her ear.

“Oh,” you say, out loud, even though you can’t hear yourself.

You can’t move. Your brain’s stuck.

When he moves, his arm slides around her waist, and he’s leading her out of the building. He looks over his shoulder before they reach the door, and sees you. He falters, and a spark of hope flashes through you before he just grins and winks and keeps walking and your heart falls back down into your stomach.

You see his fingers linger against the door as he guides it shut from the outside.

Oh, you think, silently, blinking back something that feels suspiciously like tears even though… why? You rub at your eyes, frowning at yourself, walking away, because why on earth would your - friend? roommate? coworker? - why would Harry getting laid suddenly make you cry? That’s ridiculous.

You collapse at the bar.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Somebody’s smirking at you. They’re pretty good looking. You sniffle, then smile back.

There’s nothing more ridiculous than crying over Harry getting laid.

They start to come over, and hurriedly, you blink away the tears in your eyes.

He wouldn’t cry if you were getting some.

They’re smiling at you. You bite your lip, letting your eyes trail over their body.

Not if - he won’t cry when you get some.

You say yes when they ask to buy you a drink.

Yeah, no, he won’t cry when you get some. Tonight.

You lean into their kiss, open-eyed. They’ve got some pretty green eyes.

It’s not like you can go back to the apartment, anyway.

***

“Charles Cartwright,” Harry reads off the list in front of him.

“Double ‘c,’” you say.

“Hope his middle name is Carter.”

“Or Chris.”

“Cole?”

“Cooper…”

You watch as Harry sighs, setting the stack of papers down onto his desk again. He doesn’t sit there a lot, behind the huge mahogany desk at the back of the room with the giant leather spinny chair.

“We’re never gonna get anything done,” Harry says, looking down at the list.

You shrug. “We have tomorrow.”

“Said that yesterday.”

“All these people sound like bastards, anyway,” you mutter, spinning the paper around on the desk so you can look at the names. “Yeah, that’s why they’re wasting money investing on my plays,” Harry mutters back.

The list is very long, a whole stack of crisp white printer paper with a cover page and a shiny black binder clip holding it together. Enumerated neatly on the left side are what seems like thousands of names, all previous investors of Harry’s various plays. Phone numbers and addresses sit under the names, along with emails and other pertinent information.

“We’ll go for Mary Sanders first,” Harry says decisively after a second, clearing his throat. “She loves me.” You look up at him, an eyebrow raised, and he rolls his eyes. “I look exactly like her son,” he says, “who hates her. So she’ll do anything for me.”

“Fun,” you say.

“Very. Tanner Smith, however…” He points his name out at the bottom of the third page. “He’s just fucked up. Batshit crazy. He hates me, but liked my old, erm - the company manager, so he chipped in for something I did with - with her.”

“Great.”

“Excited to meet Mr. Smith?” Harry asks with a wry smile, sliding a manila folder over to you. “Can’t wait,” you say, flipping the folder open. There’s a picture of a scowling man in wireframe glasses. “Wow,” you add, shuffling through the ten or so pages in the folder. “This is… a lot.”

Harry shrugs. “Most of it’s just financial details, but there’s a” - he reaches forward, slides a single page out to the front - “page on personal stuff. Don’t mention his wife, but we’ll definitely mention hockey.”

“Hockey?”

“He sponsors his grandson’s minor league team,” Harry tells you, rolling his eyes. “It’s all these entitled little rich boys who flip him off behind his back. He thinks he’s doing God’s work.” You snicker, scanning the document.

“They have games every Saturday,” Harry says, and you look at your phone. It’s Wednesday. Harry goes on, “I usually ambush him there,” and then frowns. “It usually doesn’t work.” His frown turns into a smile as he looks at you. “But maybe this time it will.”

“Making me feel a little used here, Styles.”

“Well, you’re using me for money, too, so don’t get all high and mighty on me.”

You sigh. “Are you really gonna take me to a hockey game?”

“Consider it our first date,” Harry says, smirking.

“Better buy me flowers, then.”

Harry smiles. “A whole bouquet. That’s Saturday, though. We’ll go for Miss Mary today.”

“Have a file on her?”

In response, he slides another manila folder from a filing cabinet behind him. This one’s a lot thicker, double the size of the last. “I’m a little creeped out,” you say, hesitantly opening the folder and peeking inside.

“Don’t be,” Harry replies. “She’s, erm - quite the chatterbox. This was all given consensually, I promise…” There’s a picture of Miss Mary herself on top of the papers, and then a picture of a young man next to her.

The young man is very good looking. Dashing. Green eyes, dark hair, a charming smile.

You look up at Harry and then back down at the picture.

“Nicholas,” Harry says. “Her son.” He poses for you. “See the resemblance?”

“If I squint,” you say with a shrug.

“He’s a lawyer.”

“Good for him.”

“Married,” Harry sighs. “A kid on the way. He lives in San Francisco. Drinks kale juice.”

“Damn.”

“I know,” Harry says, almost wistfully. “Imagine that.”

You scoff a laugh, brows raised. “No, Styles, I’m surprised that you know all of that, not that it’s - unimaginable.” Harry frowns at you. “Like I said! Mary’s a chatterbox. Not my fault she calls me to give me an update on her perfect son every week.”

“Je-sus. Every week.”

“More or less,” Harry says. He stands up and stretches. “Study up, we’ll leave in ten.”

***

He’s a natural.

You can tell from the moment he walks into the little flower-covered house that he’s got her wrapped around his little finger. “Oh, Harry, darling,” Mary coos, patting his cheek and linking her arm with his. She doesn’t even notice you, just leads Harry into the house. “I have biscuits in the kitchen, dearie, come on, come on.”

Attempting to disentangle himself from her, Harry starts, “Mrs. Sanders -”

“Mary, dear, you know that,” Mary interrupts cheerfully, pausing for just a second in the hallway. You hover in the doorway, but Mary goes on, “Oh, and I have that dreadful kale and carrot juice you love, too!”

You make a face at Harry, and he rolls his eyes.

“That’s Nicholas, Mrs. Sanders,” Harry mutters.

“Oh, of course,” Mary says absently, and she rubs his arms before starting into the house again. Harry sighs, and you watch his jaw clench in frustration as he gently places a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “Mary, I have a guest.”

“A guest!” Mary sputters, turning to look at you, still standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” you say.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Mary gasps to Harry, smacking him on the chest with the back of her hand. Harry winces. “He’s terribly impolite, isn’t he, sweetie,” Marry says disapprovingly. “What’s your name, then?”

You introduce yourself, Mary hugs you, and Harry shrugs at you over her shoulder.

“Come in, come in!” Mary exclaims when she finally pulls away. “I have biscuits and tea in the kitchen, you won’t have any of Harry dear’s terrible juice.” Behind her back, Harry throws his hands up exasperatedly.

“Okay, Mrs. Sanders,” you say, biting back a smile at Harry’s dramatics.

“It’s Mary, dear, please,” she tells you, leading you into the kitchen.

Harry closes the door behind her, then follows behind you.

“Sure, then, Mary,” you say with a smile, and she pinches your cheek. When you arrive in the kitchen, there is in fact a plate of cookies on the table and one teacup. Another cup, this one tall and clear, is set across the teacup, filled with a thick, scary looking green substance.

“Sit, sit,” Mary orders, pulling another teacup from a cabinet.

You do. Harry sits next to you, inspecting the juice with a disgusted look on his face.

“I do hope chamomile is alright,” Mary says, pouring some into the teacup that sits in front of you. “More than alright,” you say, closing your eyes as you breathe in the comforting steam happily. When you open your eyes, Harry is glaring at you over his kale juice.

You smile at him sweetly, then turn to Mary. “So, Mary,” you begin, “I’ve heard you’ve helped Harry here with his plays in the past.” Mary nods, hands wrapped around her own cup of tea. “Yes, I have. Quite the talented one, he is. He’ll be a force to be reckoned with once he finally decides what he wants to do with his life!”

“It’s this,” Harry says in a halfhearted way that makes you think they’ve gone through this many times before. “I’m a producer. That’s what I want to do with my life.” Mary chuckles, patting his cheek again. “Okay, dearie.”

You clear your throat. “Well, about this play…”

“Oh, yes, yes, what’s this one about?”

“It’s about an FBI agent,” Harry says. “It’s very adventurous.”

“Adventurous!” Mary echoes gleefully.

Harry smiles. “Yes. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

Your eyes widen as Mary rifles around in her purse and then comes out with a checkbook. “I certainly will!” she says happily. Her handwriting is elegant, flowing from her black fountain pen and onto the check with graceful ease.

“I have an appointment at two, darlings, so you’ll have to excuse me,” Mary tells you, handing Harry the check. “But I do adore seeing you, love, so come back soon!” Harry slides the check into his pocket, and you stand up as he does, following him to kiss Mary on the cheek.

“Bye, now, Mary,” he says. “See you soon.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mary,” you say, and Mary smiles at you. “And you too, dearie. You better come back soon, too, promise me.” You nod, and she looks at Harry. “And pick up the phone, Harry.”

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but she goes on, “You’ve been dodging my calls, love, don’t bother denying it.” She glances at you and winks. “Maybe it’s because of this one. Try and take a break from each other every now and then, you hear me? Young love is important but so am I.”

Harry looks about as red as a tomato. “We’ll see you later, Mary,” he says hurriedly, and he grabs your hand to lead you out, which probably doesn’t help with Mary’s assumption. “Bye, Mary!” you call.

“Sorry about that,” Harry mutters once you’re outside, letting go of your hand.

“Seem a bit flustered,” you laugh.

Harry rolls his eyes as he opens the car and gets in. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t deny it, though.

“‘s not worth it,” Harry sighs as he starts the engine.

You reach over and pat his cheek like Mary, grinning. “Whatever you say, Styles.”

~*~

aaaaand that's chapter one! hope you liked it!!! if you did, a reblog and some feedback would be much appreciated <333

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#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x you #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfiction #🧇

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1dclicheficfest · 4 years ago

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The time has come, my dears! We’ve compiled, organized and sorted your submissions and we’re ready to share them! We’ve had so much fun reading your clichés and we hope it’ll give you a good laugh.

Important disclaimer because it has to be said: we do not endorse any of the clichés submitted and these are not meant to spark Discourse™ . This is all in good fun, to spark your imagination and perhaps inspire some prompts!

Before we get to the fun part, don’t forget that prompt submissions open on February 1st and will run until March 28th. The full schedule can be found here.

And now, without further ado, here are your brilliant clichés.

HARRY

Green eyes

Huge eyes

Dimples

Always smirking

“The flirt”

Jobs: Works in a flower shop/Used to be a baker/Frat boy/LA socialite/Mermaid

“Quirky”

Clumsy/balance issues

Health nut/Workout junkie/Eats a lot of avocado and kale/loves yoga/gross green health smoothies

Very slow speech

Paints his nails

Beautiful long luscious curly hair

Long legs/large hands

Tall/large/big

Nudity/loves walking around starkers

Obsessed with being pregnant/babies

Kind to everyone

Bites his lip a lot

Tells terrible jokes/loves puns

Naive and oblivious

Clothing: Pearl necklace, Chelsea boots/gold boots/boots in general/Gucci everything/Flared, high-waisted trousers/’red and black sheer floral shirt with black skinny jeans’

Always unbuttons his shirt to show off tattoos

Baby seal laugh

Bad at driving

Hipster/takes artsy photos

Acting out for attention/Petty jealousy for no reason or because of a misunderstanding or when anyone comes near Louis

Bad dancer that gives it his all/makes awkward shapes with his limbs when trying to dance

Cat mom/Wine aunt

Resting bitch face

Rides a motorcycle

LIAM

Little clueless

Insecure

Louis is constantly messing with him

Roommates with Louis

Puppy/a lost puppy/puppy in human form/puppy eyes/puppy who doesn’t know how hot and strong he is/loves puppies

Manly muscle man/buff af/loves working out/sweet himbo beefcake

Bullied in the past

Giant heart/incredibly kind/soft/super loyal

Worry-wart/mother hen of the band/gets nervous when things don’t go to plan

Voice of reason/the responsible one/Daddy Direction/level-headed/most serious of the five/keeps the others grounded

Doesn’t know how to let loose and have fun

Lacking in experience/innocent about sex things

Oblivious to his feelings/other people’s feelings for him

Jobs: Firefighter/boxer/athlete

Super soft for Zayn

Protective

“Wants to cry as soon as Louis opens his mouth and doesn’t know if it’s because he’s scared, because it’s too funny, or because he just can’t handle any of it.”

Fear of spoons

Timid/

“being very shy/awkward in the beginning and then getting more confident because of Louis”

Snake habitat turn around!

Can’t spell

His turtle losing a foot

“Smelly pasta house”

Loves batman

Being alpha in ABOs

Unruly curly hair then trimmed to a crisp buzz

LOUIS

Blue eyes: ocean blue/blue as the sky on a sunny winter day/twinkle eyes

Arse and/or tummy as a defining feature

Sassy/sass master/feisty/snarky/cheeky/witty/playful/funny/sarcastic/joker

Flamboyant

Heart of gold/”Louis IS the sun”

“Does not suffer fools gladly (that’s your job you fooking loosah)”/hot-headed to pick fights only in defense of those he loves

Protective/Mama bear/loyal/Daddy of the group

Small/Dainty stature emphasized

Runs fingers through his fringe/hair always styled

Jobs: Footie player, teacher, drama teacher, actor, plays in a band

Loves music and writes songs

Plays footie (even if it’s not his job)

LOUD

Can’t cook/chicken wrapped in parma/”Can’t cook to save his life and if he does the kitchen ends up in flames”

Soft with Harry

School: Studying drama, being the bad boy, pop!punk Louis

Bratty/petty/snappy

Smoking

Zayn’s partner in crime

Rooms with Liam

Calls everyone ‘love’/uses too many terms of endearment

Yorkshire accent emphasized/always talks about Doncaster

Clothing: Vans or Adidas shoes/Toms/trackies/braces/red jeans/dressing in comfortable clothes only/no socks/scarf

Very good with kids/loves kids/family-oriented/looking after siblings/having a huge family

Eats junk food only

“The gay who cannot drive”

NIALL

Drinks a lot/Drinks everyone under the table because he’s Irish/Guinness lover/fun drunk/Will sing Gaelic folk songs when drunk/big social drinker-always making friends via alcohol/will kiss anyone when drunk

Food: Eats all the food/doesn’t season his food/loves Nando’s/”100% will take the last slice of pizza and not feel bad about it”/can and will eat you out of house and home/actually eats and cooks healthy but everyone thinks the opposite

Irish/Irish and proud/Wey Hey lads!/leprechaun Niall

Carefree/nothing bothers him

Romantic: falls fast and hard

Captain Niall!/Captain of the ship(s)

Music: guitar always present/Goes into the zone when he has an instrument in his hands - nothing will distract or get through to him/The Eagles fanboy/Damien Rice fanboy

Funny/always laughing/joking around/head back cackle of a laugh

Single/hooks up with a ton of people but no serious relationships/sleeps around/Serial Ladies man/Friends with benefits with multiple people at once/

Turns up the charm 100% and never half-asses it/”Scrunches his hair in thought and knows he looks cute doing so (like girls that purposefully bite their lip)”

Friends with literally everyone/has a thousand surface-level friends that think they’re close to him but keeps all at arm’s length/the greatest friend but also pickiest about who he becomes friends with

Clothing: Constantly shirtless/shorts over trousers/flip-flops as house shoes/gold chain/coin necklace/hoop earring/”golf dad that tucks in his shirts and unironically wears polos”

Obsessed with golf and football/practices his putt in the hallway with an empty loo roll

A bro

Secretly insightful/Tactless but gives essential advice as a result

Secretive/keeps his shit quiet/Definitely the guy with the most secrets

The blond one

Hairy chest

Worst poker face

Finger guns/peace signs

Blushes when he’s excited

Adores Shawn and Lewis

Cares a lot about what others think

Says no judgment but really judges a lot/judges you based on music taste

Rings in at 0 on the gaydar but could surprise you/the only het one

Tries to avoid conflict by remaining ‘on the fence’ and not picking a side

Always the roommate

Face mask selfies

Emotions rotate between sad, sexy, and fun - combination vary

Never a villain

Close with Harry

“Violent masturbating in the next room”

Constant pet names for everyone/”Even has pet names for his devices (like his vacuum robot”

ZAYN

Super smart/nerd/wise/The Ravenclaw

Smokes a lot

Secretly very soft/gentle/biggest heart/”His confidence and aloofness hide a sensitive heart of gold”/Bad boy secretly soft

Heart-eyes at Liam/Soft with Liam/”Lee-yum”

Mysterious eyes

Best friends with Louis

Jobs: Artist, tattoo artist, English teacher who loves art, works in comic book store,

Shy/withdrawn/mysterious/brooding best friend/quiet/”Seems intimidating until you realize he’s just shy”/bad boy outside, soft boy inside/”not as cool as he seems but way sweeter”

The artistic one/tortured artist/art student/skater/also does graffiti/spray-paint

Marvel fan/comic book fan/superhero fan

Clothing: Wears his clothes like armor/leather jacket/”He’s the only one with good taste and he knows it”

Most ‘devil may care’ about his sexuality

Family-oriented/family man

Involved with his religion

Model figure/carved by gods/vain but not obnoxious about it

Catchprase is ‘sick’

Needs time alone to recharge

Changes his hair a lot/that one strand of hair that falls over his eyes

Thinks Malibu is called Malabami

“Eats candy underwear off of Harry’s crotch”

#1dclicheficfest #cliche results #resources #masterpost #character cliches

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janicho88 · 4 years ago

Text

Falling For You -Part 2

October

Pairing- Eventual Dean x Female!Reader, Dean x Lisa(past), Female!Reader x OMC Justin(past)

Word Count-4008

Warning- Mentions of cheating, little angst, some swearing, fluff. This is going to be a bit of a slow burn. Haunted woods. Talk of trying to fake a pregnancy, manipulation, trying to steal from significant other/ falsify documents, Lisa is awful, Justin isn’t much better, talk of being pressured into doing things you don’t want to. I think that is it

A/N- I had an idea for a one shot, and giving a backstory to Dean and the Reader meeting took on a life of its own. This story is AU, and un beta’d.

Summary- After being burned before you had sworn off finding love for now. Coming home from work one night there is a strange man pounding on your door. Neither of you knew what this meeting would lead to.

Series Masterlist

The next week kept you busy at work and not giving you much free time in the evening. Coming or going you always kept an eye out for your new friend though, not seeing him again till the weekend. Heading back to your apartment after your Saturday morning workout you ran into Dean coming out of his brother’s apartment.

“Hi stranger, how is everything coming together for you?”

“Hey Y/N, it’s coming. I found a job, starting a week from Monday. Still looking for a place though, guess I’ll be crashing with Sam a little longer and putting my stuff in storage up here till I find something. Work slow down for you yet?”

“Congrats on the new job! No, not yet. A family emergency came up, and our new person can’t start till next week. At least there is a light at the end though. I hate to run on you, but I’m supposed to be meeting Meg, and I really need a shower. Talk to you later?”

“Sure, see ya around.”

With the wedding dress found it was time to find Bridesmaid dresses. Hopefully this went a little better. Her wedding colors were red, black and silver, you would be happier with a black dress, but Meg was thinking red. The color of fire, this wedding was going to be hot she said.

Thankfully you and the 2 bridesmaids Ruby and Sarah were on the same page about finding one and getting done. None of you wanted to try on tons of dresses. Meg actually approving of the third one you found. They were free to leave after that, you got to go help her set up a gift registry. Your fingers were crossed these next six months until the April wedding went fairly quick. Done for the day, she suggested meeting up with Cas and his best man so you could finally meet him.

The guys were meeting you at a local pizza shop so you could grab dinner and talk. Walking in with Meg you quickly saw Cas, and getting closer to the table, recognized the spiky sandy brown haired man across from him. Sliding in next to Dean you mentioned how he never said anything about being the best man, when you said you were the maid of honor.

“Sorry, I think my head was still on other topics then.” He answered you with a small smile

“Wait, you two already know each other?” Cas questioned looking between you both.

“Yeah, I live across the hall from his brother, remember Cas?”

“I do now.”

“No one ever told me that you and Sam knew each other from Kansas though.”

“I guess we didn’t think about it.”

It was an enjoyable evening out with your friends. You found out more about Dean’s new job, he found a small auto shop hiring a head mechanic. The owner, Bobby, had done most of the work himself but was looking to cut back and possibly retire in a few years. If Dean was still around then and interested he might sell the shop to him. There was a part time mechanic working there also, Benny. Dean seemed to think they would get along well.

Dean gave you a ride back so Meg could take Cas with her since they lived in the opposite direction as you two. “I don’t think I told you last week, but I really like your car.”

“Thanks, Baby is my one true girl.”

“Baby?”

Patting the top of the dash Dean glanced over and smiled at you, “That’s her name.”

You just smiled back, “It’s very nice Dean, I hope the two of you will be very happy together.

Closer to home Dean told you he was renting a car and leaving for Kansas tomorrow. He would turn the car in there and drive a Uhaul back with Sam the following weekend. Apparently his brother wasn’t the best driver and he didn’t trust him to drive that far with his car or the uhaul filled with his belongings. Sam was flying home later in the week to meet up with him. Giving him a quick hug outside your apartment door you wished him safe travels and good luck, telling him you would see him when he got back.

Quickly entering your apartment and shutting the door, you were trying to figure out why you hugged him, and why you suddenly were overthinking it. You were friends, friends hugged right? No reason to give it a second thought.

Friday night there was a knock on your door, but you weren’t expecting anyone. Opening it you were surprised to find Jess on the other side with a pizza box and a bottle of wine.

“Hey, I thought I’d see if you were up for some company. Sam and Dean started the drive back this afternoon, so it’s just me over there.”

“Sure! Come on in.” The two of you spent the evening watching bad romance moves and talking about the brothers. Jess had known Sam since they were in undergrad at Stanford, and had a few stories to tell you about both of them. It was nice to learn a little more about Dean.

When Jess had more wine in her she opened up about Dean’s breakup. “I met the cheating bitch a few times and never cared for her. She thought she was better than everyone, always pushing Dean to buy her things, jewelry and fancy clothes. Apparently she started asking Dean some questions that he thought were weird but told himself she must have been taking an interest in things he liked for once.”

She paused to take a drink of wine. “When Dean was packing up after he kicked her out he discovered some stuff in his safe had been moved around, insurance papers, information on stocks he owns, and even his will was in a new place. I guess he didn’t think much of it; he was too caught up in the cheating mess, till a lawyer's office called the house like a week later and left a message saying they needed to come in and sign the last paper. Lisa had either made a copy of his signature or forged it and was trying to put things in her name and change his will for her to inherit even if they weren’t married. He called Sam because he needed legal help to straighten the mess up and make sure she got nothing.

Sam went down one weekend and helped him clean it up. They were looking up something on Dean’s laptop and one of them typed in a wrong word or start of one and some crazy past searches came up. They looked for more and found searches relating to Dean and what he owns, what his business was worth. There was even a search on how to fake a pregnancy test. Sam thinks she was going to try and trick Dean into marrying her if she couldn’t change the papers on her own. She was stupid enough to use Dean’s computer. His parents don’t know, he doesn’t want them too.”

“The first night I met Dean I called him by his last name and he asked something about how I knew and if I looked him up. I get why now.”

“Dean’s a lot more guarded now.” She gave you a lot of information to take in, no wonder he wasn’t looking to date again.

The next afternoon a commotion in the hall drew your attention. Opening the door you found Sam and Dean struggling with some boxes they were both carrying across the hall. You asked if they needed help, but neither heard you over Sam complaining about Dean not knowing how to pack a box. Dean was in turn instructing Sam to be careful with the valuables. Seeing you just before he turned inside Dean gave you a wink and said he would talk to you later.

A few hours later a knock at the door had you hoping for a green eyed man on the other side. Opening it you had gotten your wish. “Hey, I was heading out to grab some dinner. Give Sam and Jess some time together, thought I’d see if you wanted to join me?”

“I actually have lasagna in the oven, it should be done in 20. Would you like to join me here?”

Dean’s eyes lit up at the thought of a homemade meal and he readily accepted. Entering your apartment he removed his coat and asked if he could help with anything. Handing him the drink he asked for, you told him everything was all set. Salad was made and the pasta and bread were in the oven. You washed some dishes while waiting and Dean grabbed a towel to help dry. The two of you working together easily and talking about Dean’s trip back to Kansas. When dinner was ready you dished it up setting Dean’s infront of him. You noticed he wasn’t a big fan of the salad though.

“This is great, my mom isn’t much of a cook so it’s simple meals or take out at their house. Sam and Jess cook, but it’s not real food. He gets these plant or veggie burgers, kale and some green shakes. I need real meat and carbs.”

“Well, you are welcome to stop over here when it gets to be too much. I’m sure I could find something that would save you.”

“Thanks sweetheart, I may take you up on that.”

When you were both finished and everything was cleaned you invited Dean to stay and watch a movie. It was to give Sam and Jess more time alone you told yourself. Dean was just a friend, you were hanging out with.

A short time later your oven timer went off again and you disappeared to pull out the desert you had made. Grabbing some ice cream from the freezer and cutting into the hot treat you once again plated it up and took some to Dean warning him it was still hot. You didn’t think Dean’s eyes could go any bigger than they did when you handed him the fresh baked apple pie. Taking a giant bite his eyes almost rolled back in his head.

“This is incredible, one of the best I’ve ever had. Trust me I’ve had a lot of pie.”

“I’m sure it’s not really that special, but thanks anyways.”

“No, I’m serious. Love me some apple.”

“Fall is a good time for apples here. I would love to go to the orchard some time and pick my own, or even just hang out there one day. I’ve gone a few times as a kid, but I haven’t been in years.”

“You just want to go hang out with apple trees?”

“Not exactly, there is a lot to do this time of year. Apple picking, pumpkin patches, corn maze, hayrides and a store where they sell baked goods, fresh produce and other things. I just think it would be fun sometime. Maybe next year, I’ll find someone to go with me.”

“Tell you what, you pick a weekend next year and I’ll go with you. Speaking of weekends, do you have anything going on next Saturday?”

“Um, a baby shower for a friend in the early afternoon. Then catching up on some work around here, why?”

“One of Jess’ friends is having a big Halloween party, she invited me in hopes of getting Sam to lighten up about it. He’s not a fan of Halloween. Anyway she said I could bring a friend if you want to go. It’s a costume party in some old barn.”

You thought about it for a minute. Was he asking you out, neither of you were supposed to be looking to date right now. He did say bring a friend though. “I think I can manage that, I’ll have to see if I have a costume.”

“Great! I think she said it starts at 8, there’s supposed to be some haunted woods too. Not a corn maze, but it can still be fun. I’ll let you know what time she wants to leave, you don’t care if we ride together right?”

“Nope, not at all.” At least if you were with his brother and Jess it wasn’t a date. Why were you so worried anyway? Dean left a short time later and you cleaned up and got ready for bed.

The new girl you were training, Anna was finally starting to catch on in her second week. This meant you were able to get more of your work done, and not have to stay too late. You needed to find a costume and a baby gift sometime before Saturday. Running into Jess in the hall one night, you asked if you needed to bring anything Saturday. There wasn’t anything, and she was just happy that you were joining them.

Since you had just over a week until Halloween many of the costumes were already picked over, you weren’t looking to meet up with anyone so you were also trying to avoid anything too revealing. Plus it was outside in the evening, and temps were falling so you didn’t want to freeze either. Finally finding something you deemed would work at the third store you tried.

Saturday came faster than you had hoped. The shower went well, Kelly was so excited to meet her little boy in a few short months. You couldn’t wait to spoil him! Doing a quick grocery store run, you headed home to try and clean a little before you had to get ready. When 7:30 rolled around you were ready for the knock on your door.

Opening the door you bit back a laugh at the sight before you, “Howdy Sheriff.”

Dean shook his head sending you a fake smile, “This was one of the few adult costumes left.”

“That’s what you get for waiting till yesterday to get your outfit Dean,” Sam rolled his eyes, also trying not to laugh at his brother’s attire. He and Jess were dressed as Sandy and Danny from Greece.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I had this awesome Batman costume, but it’s in one of the boxes in storage and couldn't find it. Oh well, cowboys are awesome too.”

“Yeah, but Dean you're a toy cowboy,” Sam wasn’t able to hide the smile that time.

He sent Sam a glare before turning back to you, “I’m still a cowboy and a sheriff, I can still protect the princess here. All ready?”

“Yep, I’m good to go.”

You rode in the back with Jess, Dean pouting up front because Sam decided to take his own car instead of riding in Dean’s. Jess was telling you Sam didn’t want to dress up at all, but she was able to talk him into Danny since it was his own clothes except for the leather jacket and just some hair dye and gel.

Arriving at Jess’ friends you and Dean followed behind as they led the way to the barn. They had definitely put a lot of work into the decorations. There were pumpkins and jack-o’-lanterns everywhere. Some real, some plastic and other scary Halloween creatures along with orange lights strung all around.

There was a dance floor with the DJ already playing and round tables and chairs set up around the floor and a buffet in the back.

You had never been to a Halloween party this big before. Jess introduced you and Dean to some of her friends who Sam already knew. Dean grabbed the two of you drinks and you sat down at a table taking everything in. This was a little more than you were expecting.

Sam found you a short time later, Jess was ready to go through the haunted woods they had set up and wanted to know if you two wanted to join.

“I’m game. How about you, Y/N? Sheriff Dean will protect you.”

“Who can turn that down?” Scary things weren’t your favorite, but you had a feeling if you said no Dean wouldn’t have gone either and you didn’t want him to miss out. Justin had hated how some things would scare you, and you wouldn’t want to do something. According to him you would ruin his fun, you weren’t going to do that to Dean. If you were with the three of them it shouldn’t be too bad.

Wrong, wrong, oh so wrong! You were going to have nightmares for a month after that. Most of the actors scaring you had come from the front or side, so you had ended up in the back hiding behind Dean to avoid everyone. Jess had turned around to say something to you when you noticed her eyes getting bigger. Quickly turning around you were certain they could have heard your scream in Ohio. There was a creepy looking person behind you wearing a mask with a white face, green teeth and red eyes holding a giant knife above your head. You never heard him come up or had any idea he was following you.

Hearing you scream Dean turned and pulled you close to his chest and then turned the two of you back around so you were no longer facing that character. He kept you close until you were out of the woods. When you went back to the barn he took you over to your seat before grabbing you some water. Kneeling down in front of you, his green eyes carefully looking you over.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m great.”

“You want to try that again? Especially since you are still shaking?

“I’m really sorry. I’m not the biggest fan of scary things. That really caught me off guard.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t want to ruin it for anyone else. I’ll be fine, really.”

“Sweetheart, we need to work on your communication skills. First that bar, now this. If something is going to affect you like this, you gotta say something.”

“I’m okay, really. Sorry to ruin it.”

“You didn’t ruin anything. Sit here a minute I’ll be back.” Dean walked off coming back a few minutes later with some food for both of you.

Sitting next to Dean you stared at the plate he put in front of you before talking.

“Justin took me to Cedar Point one day with some friends of his, all other couples. I’m terrified of heights and dropping too, he knew this beforehand. I’m more of a spin me girl, as long as it’s not too far off the ground. They were all excited about going on the biggest coaster there, I told them I would watch everyone’s stuff while they went. This one takes your picture on the way down, one of the girls said if I wasn’t there some stranger would be in the picture with all of them. Justin took me aside and said when I don’t participate in these things it makes him look bad and ruins his good time. I should be a better girlfriend and do what he wants.”

“I would really like to introduce your ex to my fist. If something is bothering you, I really want you to speak up, no matter what, okay.”

“Okay, thanks Dean.”

When Sam and Jess caught back up to you, she pulled you out to the dance floor with her since her fiancé wasn’t interested. The guys watched as the two of you enjoyed yourselves.

Arriving back at your apartment that night, Dean followed you in to make sure you were going to be alright. You assured him you would be fine. What you didn’t tell him was you were going to be sleeping with the lights on tonight. He did a quick check of your apartment before going back across the hall.

Halloween was the following Friday, Meg invited you over to her and Cas’ place to hang out while they handed out candy to the trick or treaters. Cas had also invited Dean, Sam and Jess. He must have told Dean you were coming because Dean offered to drive you over with them.

The phone in your pocket started going off snapping you out of your daydreams, “Hello.”

“Hey Y/N, are you still home?”

“Yeah, why what’s up Dean?”

“I’ve been knocking on your door for a few minutes now, everything okay?”

“Yeah,” looking down you saw the time on your watch. “I’m sorry I lost track of time. I was sitting on the patio and didn’t hear you.” Rushing inside you locked the door behind you before quickly letting Dean in.

“Sorry, let me grab these and I’m good to go.” Grabbing your Halloween sweatshirt and the two containers sitting on your counter you were headed back to the door.

“What’s in there?”

“Oh I got bored last night and made some Halloween sugar cookies and pumpkin cake bars with apple cider glaze for today.”

Dean just looked at you as you rode the elevator down to meet Sam and Jess, “What is that look for?”

“Well, are you going to give me one?” You were a little lost and just stared back. “Oh sorry, forgot the magic words, trick or treat. May I have my treat now?” He asked, pointing to the containers.

“Oh sorry, sure, the bars are a little crumbly, but you can have a cookie now.

He took a big bite of the orange pumpkin shaped cookie. “It’s not your apple pie, but it’s very good, sweetheart.”

The guys disappeared into the basement when you arrived, apparently there was some horror movie marathon on, you were just fine avoiding that. You three ladies hung out in the living room so you would hear kids coming to the door, and watched the Halloweentown movies on TV. Meg and Jess compared wedding notes and talked about their different frustrations. Jess and Sam were getting married in July.

You were happy for your friends, but if you were being honest, also a little jealous. They had found great guys, been with them for years, now they were getting ready to walk down the aisle to them. You had thought by the time you were 27 you would be settling down too. Instead you were swearing off dating right now. Your Mr Right seems to have taken some wrong turns somewhere and wouldn’t ask for directions. Apparently you zoned out from the conversation because both girls were looking at you. “Sorry, what’s up?”

“I was saying I’m not sure I would be cut out for the matron of honor duties when you get married. We all know I don’t have the patience. You could have Jess, and we know Sam would be the best man, it would work out great.”

Yep, you definitely missed something. “Wait, when and who am I marrying, and why is Sam already the best man?”

“Really Y/N?” Meg giving you her best bitch face, “when you and Dean get married.”

“You guys make such a great couple! I’m so glad he found you! Lisa was just awful to him from the start, and to cheat on him like that.”

Lisa must be the reason he left Kansas, no one mentioned her name before. “Guys we’re just friends, we aren’t a couple or even dating. Neither one of us want to get back out there right now.”

“Y/N, you can’t let Justin ruin your chance at happiness, it’s been over four months now. At some point you need to get back out there. Deano is one of the good ones, you are going to regret it if you let him go.”

“Meg, Dean doesn’t want to date anyone either. We really are just friends, just hanging out.”

When you walked away to hand out candy, Meg turned to Jess, “any idea how long those two are going to stay in denial about how they feel?” Jess just shook her head as they both stared after you.

Part 3

Thank you for reading!

Tags- @talesmaniac89 @katehuntington @winchest09 @flamencodiva @whatareyousearchingfordean @waywardbeanie @deanwanddamons @smol-and-grumpy @emoryhemsworth @anathewierdo @malfoysqueen14 @superfanficnatural @jensengirl83 @atc74 @sandlee44 @akshi8278 @fantasydevil2002

Falling For You tags- @halesandy @abuavnee @hearteyes-j2 @vicmc624 @440mxs-wife @wonder-cole

#dean x female reader #dean winchester #supernatural #FallingForYou #dean x reader

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