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jadienjaystoriesandart · 2 years ago

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Research Purposes

Summary: Cub has been working with HEP for a while now. Trying to help find what this Spore Infestation actually is. As Head of the department, it’s his job to ensure everything is in order and record his findings. Working mostly with those infected in the hopes of finding a cure and how best to combat it. Yet, the more he finds, the more he wonders if ‘in the name of science’ means the death of those he cares about.

Warnings: Body Horror, Mind Control, Unethical Practices, Mentions of Assault.

Notes: Takes place in @all54321 universe of Father Spore Spy AU. Asked them if I could write this and got the okay :D

“Recording 10,” Cub spoke as the recorder whirled on in the background. “Given that computers were wiped last time I’ve decided to use an old school method again to keeping records. Best solution I have up until now.”

Placing down his clip board Cub hummed, “Studies today will mostly consist of blood samples taken from the Infected. Infected individuals don’t seem to require food as a normal human, but do need at least small amounts of shaded sunlight and water. Indicating my theory might be correct, and all Infected are more plant like than before.”

Scribbling down something Cub looked at the board of post-it notes and pinned up papers. “HEP has been asking for more results as of lately, which has required me to take up more of a personal approach. Lucky enough, most ways to ensure not to be infected is through non-skin to skin contact. Very few Infected beings release a cloud of spores, and at best it’s minimum exposure.”

He huffed looking back at the clip board again. Today he was to work with 3 individuals of different types. “each infected individual seems to embody at least a form of Fungal Types. The most common seem to be Molds, Mushrooms, and Mildews.” a tap of the pen, “however we have started to seem forms of Smuts as well, which are proving to be resistant to frosts and colds.”

“Today I’m working with 3 people to gain what samples I can from the without harm. Two female and one male, all of the Mushroom category. Low level infection rate, only through skin to skin contact. But they have been more than cooperative with me more than others. I do not think I’ll need more than gloves and a lab coat.”

Walking back over tot he recorder Cub looked at it, “I plan to record findings once I get the samples I need. Today is mostly finding out what makes these beings what they are, as though sentient, they are far for human. End of Recording.” he click the tape off again.

Shaking his head, Cub gather up the things he needed and headed out to the containment area outside in ‘greenhouse’ looking things. The lab itself was much more fortified than the last one that was taken over my Father Spore with the help of Grian. That left a icky feeling, Cub has been susceptive of Grian for some time to be infected, having worked around them as often as he did he noticed the subtle signs, but had opted to think it was nothing. A regret and mistake he’ll have to live with he supposed.

Cub looked at the paper again, three beings who had all been infected early and been captured before they could be fully turned. Now fully changed into ‘Sporelings’ they were connected to what was known as the ‘Hivemind’. From his guesses, it was a connection of which all the Infected being shared. Much like actual shrooms, fascinating.

Lily McLaren, she was the youngest at only age 16, and had a thin frame. Hers was a mushroom known as the Blue Ink Cap. Parents wanted nothing to do with her now that she was infected unless it was a cure, and had signed over rights to her to the facility. Cub hated to read that, made his stomach curl in knots.

Amber Davis, she was a college student, age 24, and had been studying to be a mechanic. Bigger set woman, who had hurt the last scientist who tried to cut off a part of her skin (fired), whose shrooms were that of the Moral and Fake Moral. One edible, one very poisonous. She had the most strangest changes to her skin and mouth. Cub was hoping to get skin samples from her.

And finally Mark Clair, his were the most deadly, the Destroying Angel, large white shrooms that were very much not edible. He was also a thin twig boy, big into philosophy and had a retail job before this. Age was 25, and had weird morphs along his hands and eyes.

Cub decided to try with Mark first, given he was the closet one and said to be the calmest of the three. Preferring to talk your ear off over doing anything. Most found him very annoying, and dislike the large death white shrooms on his shoulders and back. Opening the area with his keycard, Cub clicked in his time he went in. Safety precautions, to limit exposure and see how long each person was in and out for. The rooms were basic enough, a bed, desk, and place to use the bathroom. Mayor Mumbo wanted at least to make the infected not feel like prisoners. Books on Philosophy were open on the desk and some notes taken here and there.

Turning to look over, Cub met the dark brown eyes of the infected, the brown glowed in a pool of blackness, bioluminescent almost. Mark smiled brightly, messy, curly brown hair pulled back into a small pony tail. “Hello Cub!” he said cheerfully with a grin. “Wondered when you’d be back, the last guy was not much of a talker at all.” the infected boy said.

Cub gave a pleasant smile, research did find that infect beings liked to be talked to and treated as human beings. “suppose not everyone is looking to ask themselves about the ten second theory.”

Mark cackled laughter at that, rocking where he sat, “that last guy near had a meltdown when I explained it to him.” he grinned widely. Eyes peering at the scientist setting down the bag, “So what we doing today?”

“Just some blood samples again, and hoping to take clipped tables of your shrooms that are falling off.” Cub only ever took the ones on infected beings that were ‘over mature’. Mark and other infected explained when a shroom reached it’s full maturity it became uncomfortable on their skin. And had to be ‘picked’. To allow new ones to grow.

Beaming widely Mark let his feet dangle over the edge of the bed, “Sure thing, a few on my back are rather itchy and trying to pull off, but I can’t reach them.” he said holding out his arm for Cub to stick the needle in. The infected watched Cub work, disinfecting the arms area and carefully taking out the purple blood from him. A week ago Mark’s was a deep red color, and now the infection had fully taken root.

Sliding out the needle, Cub watched the wound heal rather quickly and not even let out a drop of the purple blood. Another thing they found, Infected Ones were able to heal at a rather fast rate, though still could feel pain.

“Come close to finding anything?” Mark asked him, the glowing eyes looking at him as he messed with the frills on the tips of his fingers. Mushrooms had gills normally on the bottom of their caps. Mark has some on his fingers and under his chin. Sometimes, when startled, he let out a cloud of spores from his fingers and neck.

Cub shook his head, “Not much that we don’t already know, you’re siblings have been quiet stubborn about info.” he comments on the off hand.

Mark snickers a bit, “Father Spore and Mother Spore don’t really like snitches.” he said cheerfully, almost in a sing song tone.

Scar and Grian... Grian they found out much later was Mother Spore. At least Cub won the bet of Scar having ‘asked Grian out’. Even if the circumstances was strange and no one thought it funny... Mumbo at least gave him the 20 bucks he owed.

“Snitches get stiches.” Cub muttered, remembering Scar used that phrase alot.

“exactly!” Mark chirped, “At least you get it unlike the others.”

Oh he sure did, Scar would often say that to him when teasing him with something he knew and Cub didn’t. It was a game of sorts between the two of them, on who could find out the others ‘secret’. Which was why when a Infected said that to him in the same tone Scar used, it made Cub wondered for a moment if Scar was... well if Scar was playing a ‘game’ with him.

Far fetched really, Scar was known now as Father Spore. And though findings suggested that willing transformation meant you weren’t mindless. That didn’t mean that the guy that was once Cub’s friend was the ‘Father Spore’ they knew now.

Shaking off the thought, Cub took out the 3 shrooms that were loose on Mark’s back. Being sure to be careful when touching these deadly shrooms with gloves. And so not to tug or yank on any that weren’t ready to be ‘picked’. Mark however hummed happily when they were taken off, possibly happy the ‘itch’ was gone on his back. “Hope you do find what you’re looking for Cub.” the guy told him happily.

The smile felt real and genuine from the creature, as Cub bid his goodbye and left Mark’s room. He was in for 18 minuets, no spores were released and Mark was mostly calm. Putting everything in a bag and sending it to the labs for later.

Next area was Amber’s, aggressive to any who came at her too fast and once force fed one of her shrooms to her attacker. Mans was still in the hospital as the effects of the shrooms growing on people were ten times stronger. Lucky to be alive that idiot was, and he was fired for his actions.

Cub opened the door, and walked in, “Amber? it’s Dr. Cub.” he said announcing he was there in the dim room. Amber was watching a video on a DVD player of How Thing Work, and looked over at him.

“Hello Cub.” she said in a calm tone, though she was eyeing him warily and his bag.

Setting it down Cub smiled, “Just here for some skin samples and saliva, nothing painful I promise.” he reassured her getting the things out carefully for her to see.

He did watch her shoulders relax and she took a moment before nodding. “Alright, but... don’t tug on anything.” Amber near growled, her red hair almost seemed to glow with her anger. Dark green eyes glowing also as she watcher him come over to her at a steady pace, making sure she could see everything he had.

Cub smiled at her, “The skin sample might hurt a bit, but I promise you’ll be fine.” he reassured her, exposure to her was to be limited. When angry she could let out a spore cloud to confuse people. Her skin was like that of the fake moral, having reddish patches and winkles and divots in her skin. her tongue was also a deep purple color with gills inside her mouth to expel spores through saliva.

“Open up.” Cub said holding up the cotton swab, she did so letting him taking some from under her tongue and cheeks. Making a face after as she moved her tongue around not liking the dry feeling.

He got the tool ready needed, “ready?” he asked her as she nodded gripping the chair as he took a sample needed. Normally after stiches were needed, but she healed also at a fast rate as the hole closed.

Amber made a face, “I hate that.” she muttered, “I hate the pain of this.” she rubs the area where he took the top later of skin off.

“I’m sorry Amber,” Cub told her softly, with a sympathetic tone. He knew these tests and people coming for more could get tedious. Some weren’t as kind as him about it.

Shaking her head, Amber sighed, “You’re kinder to me than others Cub, Father Spore says you’re one of the rare few to be nice to us.” she admits thumbing her arm lightly with a frown.

That caught Cub’s attention, “He does?” he asked her confused, Amber only nodded saying nothing more. No use in trying, once they clamed up they wouldn’t talk for anything. Apparently Father Spore wouldn’t let them talk.

Sighing, Cub smiled again, “Well that’s all, I’ll leave you to it Amber.” he said, finding Infected beings liked to be called by their names still.

This did etch a smile from her as she watched him go before going back to her movie. Amber wasn’t a bad person, she, like others, was just scared. For good reason, Cub had been finding out and reprimanding those who had been doing more... unethical practices. These beings were still capable of feeling pain adn emotions, and treating them like mindless beasts was a sure way to end up near dead. Which a few had been.

Sometimes, Father Spore would take control of their bodies directly. Something that only recently found out. When Lily, his newest charge, had lashed out at a man who tried to see if she could still experience uh... certain desires. Her eyes had turned a green color, and Father Spore had used her body to rip the man apart.

He didn’t survive long, not that Cub cared for the scumbag. Lily since then had been jumpy and didn’t trust any male workers besides him. Only female staff could really get her to open up. She was the one who Father Spore talked with the most when people were in the room. Lily said he comforted her when they were there. He was fatherly to her, or so she says, and is much nicer than her actual dad.

Cub clocked into the room and walked in to see Lily on the bed, she had already been told he’d be coming. She was playing a game it seemed on a DS that was from her house. Lily looked over at the door and tensed for a moment, before slowly relaxing. “Hi...” she said shyly, eyes looking far away for a moment before she untensed again. “Cub right?” she asked in a timid tone.

“Yeah,’ Cub said casually with a kind smile, “Just a check up today, you told the last female worker that some of your shrooms were ready to be picked?” he asked her.

A nod as Lily looked upset, “She didn’t trust me enough to do it herself... and well... said she’d get you to do so but...” she messed with her long black hair running her clawed fingers through it.

Cub nodded, “I know, I promise, I won’t touch you anywhere that isn’t your shrooms.” he promised her, which did seem to help reassure her.

Lily’s blue eyes looked at him and she nodded slowly allowing him closer. “Father says you’re a kind man, and knows you won’t hurt me but... it’s still scary.” she admits looking at her hands. “Understandable that it is, what you went through isn’t okay.” Cub said firmly, and he stood by that. Happy the bastard that made her like this was dead.

A small smile was seen, “He said you’d say that, Father talks about you open to me.” Lily said allowing him to get off the larger blue shrooms that were already starting to wilt. Those had to be very uncomfortable on her skin, from what was explained it’s like something biting you over and over and you can’t scratch it. Lily had gotten the ones on front but had a hard time with the ones on her back side.

“Does he?’ Cub asked curiously as he was careful and slow making sure not to startle or scare her.

“Uh-huh.” Lily said messing with her nails, “He likes to tell me stories about you two and the things you did. His favorite is when you tried to cook for them both.”

Cub snorted laughter at that, he remembered that one, nearly burnt down Scar’s kitchen, and Jellie ate the good bacon. Jellie had been staying with him since Scar vanished, and missed him dearly. Sitting by the window and seemed ot be waiting for him.

Laughing lightly Cub shook his head, “It wasn’t that bad,” he commented to her, “Just some smoke was all.” he said finished up the last of the dead shrooms.

“Not that bad?” Cub froze at the voice overlaying Lily’s own. “Cubby it was bad, you burnt and ruined my good pan.” Scar said with a look at him, the blue eyes on the girl now a deep green. The smile on her face was Scar’s own, was Father Spore.

Shifting a bit, Cub schooled his shock, “Father Spore.” he said shortly. Remaining calm, Lily often could be controlled by Father Spore since that time. He didn’t do it though to talk with people before, mostly to protect her from other people.

“Oh come on now Cub, it’s just an old friend.” Father Spore said with a bright smile, the green eyes gleaming. “No need to be formal with me friend, just wanted to talk to you.”

Making a face Cub walked away, “I’m not here to listen to you try and convince me to join you.” his tone was clipped and to the point.

A huffing whine followed that statement, “Cub, why do you keep insisting to not join?” Father Spore asked him, “My Sporeling adore you, you’re like a favorite uncle to them. They love to chat about you, and want you to join so you can be their uncle.”

A cold chill at the words, the idea of turning could be scary of a thought. But Cub held back the urge to shiver, “I’m just not interested in becoming a shroom.” he told Father Spore.

“Well, not everyone becomes a shroom, you know that.” his voice teased lightly, “it’s not so bad, makes me wonder what mutation you’ll show!” excitement that was so much like Scar made Cub’s heart hurt. Father Spore continued, “Grian misses you, he misses Mumbo as well, all his friends. Just wants you guys to know how much he cares.”

A glare at that, “Cares? Scar you killed people in the lab that didn’t want to be turned. They are now mindless as it wasn’t willing and...” he was afraid he’d end up like that. Theory it was, there was still a chance he could lose himself. Dread pooling in his stomach.

The green eyes soften, “Oh Cubby, you’d be so much more than that to me, to Grian. You’re our friend, who cared about me after I lost, who made sure I wasn’t alone for long to my thoughts. Who also took in Jellie, which I thank you for that, I haven’t had time to pick her up as you live so close in town.” the voice was light again, talking about his cat always made Scar smile.

“How is Jellie doing?” Father Spore asks happily, green eyes gleaming again, trying to get off sad topics.

Shifting again, Cub sighed, “She misses you, sits by the window watching for you.” he tells the other, as the spore creature hums sadly to that.

“I’ll be sure to give her extra love when she’s returned.” Father Spore said firmly, “Jellie deserves nothing less.” the tone was firm on that as a fact. Which did made Cub want to smile at how painfully familiar it was.

Looking away Cub shook his head, he couldn’t let himself feel that though. Scar wasn’t Scar, he was Father Spore. That man who turned people against their will, who has blood on his hands from those he’s killed. The one who was seeking to turn this island into a mushroom and spore infected ‘home’.

Sighing sadly himself, Father Spore watched him go. “Cubby, please just consider my offer. Joining the Mycelium is a good thing. I’d never lead you astray Cub, we are partners after all was fellow Vex.” he teased lightly.

Cub gripped the keycard in his hand, Vex was what he and Scar called each other when they were kids together. Pranksters who liked to mess with people. Cub felt tears, he missed his friend, “If you really want me, why not tell me anything to convince me? I’m a man science Father Spore, tell me the facts.” he said looking back at Lily’s green eyes.

The smile grew as Father Spore snickered, “Snitches get Stiches, Cubby~!” he said in a sing song voice, one that Scar would use when the game was on.

Scowling, Cub left the room to Father Spore and Lily’s humming.

Leaning up against the wall, Cub looked up at the sunny sky and felt some tears fall down. He missed his friend dearly, he missed Scar’s laugh, the others teasing remarks, he missed their plots to mess with people, and Scar’s clear crush on Grian as he talked about the man all night. He missed his friends so much.

Cub was determined to find a cure, to find any shred of evidence he could on if this was a threat or not. Part of him wanted to take Scar’s word for it. To believe what he offered, that his friend and partner wouldn’t lie to him. But, Scar also was known to have a silver tongue, known to only give half truths. Father Spore was a creature of the mycelium, and thus had Scar’s tendencies to half truth things.

It hurt to think that Scar would lie to him, infected by fungus like thing. Cub scowled again and brushed away the tears as he sat on the ground to compose himself.

His resistance was thinning, he knew that much, the ache for his friends grew, and the more cruelty he watched here, the more he wondered if Scar was nicer. Lily believed so, as did Amber and Mark. All promised him that Father Spore was a kind father to his Sporelings, that Mother Spore was protective of them.

Cub took a breath in and out slowly, Snitches get Stiches. If Scar wanted him to find out, Cub would find out. And pry out the mans secrets to find the truth one way or another.

#tw mind control #tw body horror #tw mentions of assault #father spore au #goodtimeswithscar #gtws #cubfan135 #convex #platonic love #they are partners nothing more #tw unethical practices

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loptrcoptr · 2 years ago

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Today was our first day back at work after the holidays and I got word that there were 7 boxes of an old scholar’s files in the library that everyone had previously forgotten about and the facilities team told the librarian to ask me what to do with them

so! I was like “great, I’ll look through them” because a) that is my job, to keep as much old crap onhand as possible and b) this guy was one of the OGs at my work and I know for a fact he took fantastic notes/minutes/kept good records (unlike… a lot of other OGs did lol

So!! I go into the library to start digging through the boxes- dragged in some folders, new boxes, etc. to start organizing- and what do I find when I open these puppies up? Water damage! Recent water damage! Why? Because the library has consistent issues with leaks, which is why the librarian wants all our archival materials that are in there to be removed which is why I, the archivist, was asked to figure out if these boxes were of any use.

SO!!! “loptrcoptr”, you might ask, “if people know about the leaks, why he doesn’t anyone do anything about it?” The answer to which is I don’t fucking know and Im mad about it. They patch the roof up, I guess. Never works very well though, leaks keep happening in various different places. Luckily, only one of the boxes really got wet, and a second one got damp, and nothing appears to have been destroyed or damaged beyond legibility. Also luckily, I was able to go to facilities, get a fan, and set up an anti-mold-nope airstrip station in an office that’s going to be empty for the week. Not luckily, I told facilities why they needed the fan and the head of the group guilt tripped me?? “Why didn’t you mention this before? You guys have to tell us these things as soon as they happen” we’ll I don’t fucking know when it happened, do I, because we were all gone for a week and a half! And also! I didn’t even know those boxes were there until this morning and ALSO I AM NOT THE LIBRARIAN IT IS NOT NY JOB TO CHECK THE LIBRARY FOR ANYTHING EVER ACTUALLY

Anyway l spent the afternoon quarantining damp files and pulling out damp books because the librarian had already left and like. I understand how truly suited I am for where I work because the joint is an absolute yarnball of inscrutable chaos. It’s like an office sitcom mated with a science department and birthed this place, and I love it, but sometimes the chaos just gets to be too much even for me. Like, I’ve given up trying to get all my coworkers to understand the value of archiving everything, too much shit had been thrown away without my consultation prior to this so honestly I was surprised anyone even thought to mention these boxes to me. But also like… this is an academic institution why don’t you people give a fuck about the books in your library getting ruined?? Giles that only I care about are one thing but books? That y’all use?? Some of which are out of print?? Hello????

So guess who has two thumbs and is tired and is asking her boss for her own personal storage locker tomorrow morning 8)

#I just *indescribable twitchy flailing*#work life #storage unit was gonna be a way down the line thing but I can’t deal with this anymore it’s absurd #I’m getting these soggy files dried out and I’m getting them into the library excel sheet and then I’m taking all this crap out of here

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saltyvsparrow · 1 year ago

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I have a very similar story to trickster.

When I was 20, I almost simultaneously lost both my job and my rental house. At the same time, my sister was about to start nursing school. This required her to go to school full time and essentially work full time doing clinicals to get real world experience. The school wouldn't give her her clinical schedule until classes started. She had two children, an 8 year old and a 2 year old, and her husband did farm work, which was 6 days a week except for winter, when he was unemployed. She had no idea how she was going to manage child care and offered me free room and board so long as I arranged my school/work schedule so I could provide child care for my nieces.

I registered for classes at the local community college and began job hunting. To this day I consider Ontario, Oregon, the butthole of Oregon and Idaho. At the time I moved there, there was no public transit. The biggest employers in the area were the hospital, WalMart, and Ore-Ida. I had worked as retail management, and done administrative office work, but wasn't getting any responses to my job applications. If I wanted to have money to move once my sister finished nursing school, I needed a job.

I was desperate when I filled out the application to be a security guard at the Ore-Ida potato factory, and never thought I would get an interview, much less be hired. I was barely 20, had restrictions on my availability, and am a 5'3" female. But I was and worked there the entire time I lived in Ontario, almost 2 years. I spent most of my time in the guard shack at the entrance to the plant's parking lot. Once or twice a shift I would "do rounds" which consisted of driving the security truck and walking a predefined route around the plant. We had a stick like device that we had to run over device strips at various locations through the route, that recorded the date and time we were at each spot to prove we were completing the circuit as required.

The primary responsibilities of the job, besides completing the observational circuit, were the following: - One wall in the guard shack had photos of problem people that were not allowed on site. Sometimes they were not allowed on site at all, sometimes they were not allowed on site during specific shifts. These were almost 100% due to domestic violence issues. If the person wasn't allowed on site during 2 out of the 3 shifts, it was because the person they had the domestic violence situation with also worked at the plant, but was assigned a different shift. Security was not supposed to take any action to actually prevent the person from accessing the property, other than politely asking the person to leave when they first came towards the entrance, and not to let them through the gate if driving. If the person proceeded anyway, or would not leave, we were supposed to call the police. - If there was a medical emergency, we were required to either drive the injured person to the hospital if an ambulance couldn't be waited for and there wasn't a safety auditor on site, or drive the safety auditor and the injured person to the hospital. If an ambulance was called and arrived, we need to lead them to the location in the factory of the person having the medical emergency. - The factory has an onsite waste water treatment plant, and there are enough hazardous materials for serious risks and potential for dangerous environmental situations to occur. Enough so that any incident at the plant that required response from the fire department was a priority over any other location in the city. The fire department would get redirected to the plant even if they were responding to something else first. If a hazmat situation occurred, security had the list of all the employees that were hazmat certified, kept some hazmat suits (I assumed the safety auditors had some as well), and would lead the fire department and other government officials to the area where the hazmat emergency was occurring. - When completing the circuit I mentioned before, we had a couple of responsibilities. We needed to keep an eye out for spools of wire or other salvageable materials being thrown over the fence so they could be recovered and report the employee if we saw them in the act. We also were warned to watch out in certain locations, because we might run into employees having sex in certain stairwells. Because that had happened to other security guards before.

When I left Ontario and gave notice, my boss offered me a junior supervisor position to get me to stay. He hadn't had anyone in that position for years, because he felt it wasn't needed. But it would have given me a raise. I said no. I didn't want to stay in Ontario, and while that was more than reason enough, a few months earlier my boss had kissed me. I did not want him to kiss me, I did nothing to prompt it, and he was married with children. I couldn't get out of that town fast enough.

Ever since I got a job as a security guard I can’t take heist movies seriously anymore.

#security guard #stories #ore-ida #potato factory

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culttvblog · 7 days ago

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Ann Way Season: Introduction and Mind Your Language - Don't Forget the Driver

I so enjoyed doing a 'season' of posts focusing on the work of actor Denis Shaw that I've decided to do another similar series of posts focusing on another actor, this time Ann Way (1915 - 1993). Surely everyone recognises her by her characteristic appearance and usually being cast in the role of dotty old lady. Unfortunately biographical details are vanishingly few online for her; to the extent that I haven't even been able to find an obituary for her. However she acted more or less consistently until the very last year of her life. I am delighted to see from IMDb that her first role was as a sixth former in The Belles of St Trinians, 1954!

When I did the posts on Denis Shaw I found that doing that exposed me to shows that I wouldn't otherwise have thought to watch, which was interesting. Ann Way's opus isn't different and already I have episodes of a couple of shows that I haven't seen saved up ready to blog about.

I also have the same regret that I had with Shaw's work which is that Way's early work coincided with the heyday of wiping TV shows in Britain so much of it is unavailable. For example she had a role in several episodes of Emergency Ward 10 which may or may not exist but are not online. She also had a role in one episode of a show which I have only recently discovered existed, Harpers West One, which was a show set in a department store in London, and which is definitely completely wiped. It was also broadcast in 1962 so it's not likely that someone has an episode on a video in their attic. Another show she acted in that i would dearly love to see which is missing believed wiped is King of the River, 1966-7, about a family barge business.

There is a further problem that some of her work is commercially available but is so expensive that I'm not in a position to buy it for one episode. For example Way acted in an episode of Dr Finlay's Casebook where Dr Cameron comes across a solitary piper who believes himself to be amongst a full battalion, which I would give my back teeth to see. However I won't part with the money to buy two fulls series of the show which would be necessary to see one episode!

The final problem with Way's work is that some of it is in shows which I wouldn't consider cult. I have rather avoided giving a definition for cult however I work on the assumption in my head that it is what I like. A characteristic of cults is they have a charismatic leader and I am the leader of the cult so this makes perfect sense. Even though Crossroads is a legendary TV series I just don't think it's weird enough to appear here. Similarly Last of the Summer Wine is a series which I just wouldn't call cult.

Mind Your Language: Don't Forget the Driver

The hugely popular series Mind Your Language is in my opinion a show which definitely wouldn't count as cult. Although other people seem to love it so probably would consider it cult. It broadcast across three series in 1977 to 9, with a further series in 1985 or 6. It is essentially a sitcom set in an English learning class in a college of further education, taught by the much-loved actor Barry Evans, who I've actually been considering as a possible for a series of his own.

Don't Forget the Driver is about the class having an outing on a Sunday to a stately home. Or in fact it is more about the organisational vicissitudes ot actually getting there, because by the time they get there the house has actually closed for the day. Way's role is confined to a short appearance as the history teacher in the college, whose job it has been to organise the coaches but for one reason or another, only one has been arranged. She comes across as her normal wonderfully dotty persona.

I wasn't entertained by this episode and in fact didn't laugh once. Out of a less than half hour run the first eight or nine minutes are confined to the students showing how bad they are at English, and there's another bit of that later on when they run out of petrol. It just isn't funny, to my mind. So you may wonder why the show is still appearing here and the answer is in the photograph which illustrates this post. Ann Way is in the centre of the picture. But the two men on the right have brough back a memory of those HUGE tins of beer which you used to be able to get but which I haven't seen for decades. They might not be very good at English but have plugged straight into the great British tradition of getting blind drunk on coach trips.

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#ann way #70s tv #mind your language

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2nerd4this · 2 years ago

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Moments in my College Theatre Career that are starkly different than any other theatre I've ever worked in

When faculty members had to get a no-contact order against a student who kept threatening them because they never got into shows

The three microwaves and two fridges in the green room, which are old as fuck, mostly broken, and usually filled with the most outrageous things

That time that I was working in the prop loft and suddenly three actors came running upstairs to try and find something, anything, to catch the bird that had gotten into the auditorium

The prop swords and guns that we have to hide when we walk from the prop shop, outside, to the auditorium so that campus security doesn't freak out

When I got the Improv Professor fired for sexual harassment

That one time (a week ago) when I was Stage Managing for a show, but the (faculty) designer was so incompetent that I couldn't do my job, and when the Directors asked me to do something that required the designer to actually be competent, I tried to explain to them what the issue was without throwing their colleague under the bus, and then the designer herself walked up, and I had the first full blown panic attack of my life

And then I went to the girl's bathroom to have that panic attack, but the ASM was already having a panic attack in the same stall that I used for breakdowns

When we did a morning matinee for a school group, and our department lead got an annoyed phone call from the teacher asking if our show had any 'homosexual themes' because a parent was furious and wanted to know if she was going to let her son attend or not

The time our Technical Director left mid-semester (because he got a better job and wanted to get out of the hellhole that is our department, kudos to him) so two students took over his job but didn't get paid and I respect and pity them beyond belief

When the department wanted to do a show, but after auditions, the director had to change it last minute because the show was all about racism against African Americans but the only people who auditioned were white (and one Latinx person)

The consistent breakdowns during breaks that actors have because other actors are directly talking shit about them on stage during rehearsal but the directors don't do anything about it

The time I got a strongly worded email from an actor about how I was doing my job as a Stage Manager wrong, even though she has no fucking clue what my job is

Also the time that a faculty member tried to tell me that I was doing my job wrong, and when I asked her to show me what I was actually expected to do, she just straight up ghosted me

The fact that we have one full-time faculty member (who is the aforementioned faculty member, designer, etc etc), two part-time acting professors (who often cancel class and rehearsal because they have auditions or rehearsal for their own shows), one part-time music professor (who spends most of his time in the music department), and one part-time dance professor (who spends most of her time in the dance department)

The time that the Professor I keep complaining about pulled me aside and apologized to me genuinely, because she knows that she's the main reason that I hate this department and why I dropped my theatre major, but she's actually a nice woman who tries her best so I tried to lie to her and tell her that it wasn't her fault

#theatre #college #complaining about college #im so ready to graduate #can't wait to go back to my community and youth theatres where at least people respect my opinion and input

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empires-au-ideas · 2 years ago

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Two episodes away from finishing tma so </3 I'm coping and emotionally prepared (<- lying)

Writing nature wives annoying coworkers to lovers is very amusing, I will say.

Edit: finished tma. What the fuck.

The Riffs Archives! Take this!

...

Peace and Quiet

Tw for death by car accident

...

[Click]

Pix:

I'm not sure what all the fuss is about, Katherine.

Katherine:

Well I don't get why you can't just wait till Shelby gets back to record the statement, it's HER job, after all.

Actually... where did you say Shelby went?

Pix:

The Archivist had a meeting to attend. Now-

Katherine:

Thank you so much for that... CRYSTAL CLEAR explanation. Truly.

Pix:

Just-

[Low rumbling rises, then fades]

hrmmm.

It's one statement, Katherine. I'd prefer it be recorded and filed before the Archivist got back.

You're an archival assistant now, Katherine. Do try and keep up.

And stop wasting the tape on the recorders. They're for statements only.

[Door opens and closes]

Katherine:

Well, I was doing JUST FINE in the research department. And I didn't even turn this stupid thing on in the first place!

Fine...

[Paper shuffling]

Katherine:

Statement of- oh Jeez.

Okay, that makes a little more sense.

Statement of Shelby Shubble, regarding a childhood trip to her family home. Statement given June 25th, 2015. Jeez, almost seven years ago-

Oh, right. Uhm-

Statement begins.

Katherine (statement):

I've lived with my grandmother my whole life. She doesn't really talk about it, but through my own digging and what probably counts as snooping, I found out both of them died in a car crash, just after I was born.

Now, my grandma did the best she could. She was like, the grandma archetype. Cookies, knitting, "my grand child can do no wrong", all that good stuff.

But she did have her limits. I had not been an easy child to raise, nor an easy student to teach. I was hyper, I needed to be told things multiple times, but I also HATED being told to do things.

But it all got too much for my grandma... I think in sixth grade. I was called into the principal's office I think for throwing my samples for a science lab across the room because I wasn't understanding it. I stand by it to this day, it was the teacher's fault for yelling at me instead of telling me how to actually do the lab.

The silence was suffocating in the car ride home. I always liked having noise in the background of whatever I was doing incase I didn't feel like doing it anymore, that way I could just say the noise was distracting me. It also made me feel less alone. Hearing people talking was grounding, or birds chirping, or even the buzzing electricity in my house just reminding me there were other people, other living things on earth.

This all went down right before spring break, so I wad dreading the lecture I was about to be given. I knew it'd just end with me grounded. She lectured me about controlling myself, having more respect for those STUPID teachers-

But surprisingly? I was not grounded. Well. Sort of?

See, for some reason my grandma had kept my parents' house all those years. So instead of spending spring break in the dreary old suburbs where I had no friends and nothing to do, I was too be sent away to a place where I can find possibly more answers about my parents (at the time I hadn't figured out what happened to them yet, so this would be a big break through).

And I loved my grandma, I loved her so so so much, but I nearly cried out in joy when I heard she wouldn't be staying in the house with me.

That's just what being twelve does to you I guess.

I tried to keep he relief- the excitement off my face. It was the Thursday before my week off and I was to arrive on Sunday, so I spent two days packing and the Saturday making a checklist of what I wanted to find out at the house.

Sunday consisted of a three hour drive, listening to the car radio and singing songs, stopping for ice cream at one point, my grandma always did a terrible job at making sure I knew I was in trouble.

And I tried to do my homework in the car, I really did! But the sound of traffic and all the sights on the way distracted me. Hardly my fault. That's probably what I told myself, which is funny, because that's what I tell myself now.

The house was in the middle of the woods by a lake, so grandma warned me that it got pretty misty. She said there was a bike in the shed I could use to go to the town nearby incase of emergencies, but only for emergencies. I was going to be picked up on Friday.

It was a... really strange thing to entrust a kid- a twelve year old with.

I hugged my grandma goodbye and dumped all my school stuff I was SUPPOSED to be doing in the corner of the room. I immediately took to exploring, because as much as I loathed school, I loved learning new things and was just over all way to curious of a child.

It was a tall house, two stories, the shed, and an attic. The spider on the handle to the attic door deterred me from there the first day though, so i was stuck exploring probably the more boring stuff. A few framed photos of my parents, though they weren't smiling in any of them, an office with a bunch of finance papers, nothing too special.

It wasn't until the sun set and I tried to go to bed that I realized how quiet it was.

I was in the woods on the outskirts of town. But I heard no crickets, birds, even the shaking of the leaves was muted. I wasn't even that far from the road, so it was freaky to not even hear CARS. As much as I used the excuse of noise distracting me, the silence was way more tantalizing.

I immediately went downstairs and tried to do my homework, I just needed a distraction from the lack of noise. A whole weeks worth of homework done in one night.

And I couldn't even tell. I start homework at eleven, after trying to sleep through the silence for two hours, and I check the clock again and it's seven. I looked outside in a panic, but also relieved I had got some work done, and that the silence didn't drive me insane.

But the windows were still dark, like the sun never rose at all. I thought maybe the world ended, and I didn't notice because I was too lazer focused on homework. That I should have investigated WHY there was no noise last night. No noise because every living thing on earth died and I didn't even notice.

I opened the blinds, only to see absolutely nothing. A pure, neutral grey covered the world, the window burned my hand it was so cold.

So that was the fog.

I could distract myself though the spider was gone from the attic, so I was able to go up there. I'm not even particularly scared of spiders, never have been, so I don't know why it stopped me in the first place.

The attic was dusty and dull, full of boxes and brown cases. The whole thing was overlayed in that same grey. The way it was clear the attic hasn't been touched by humans in years, the quiet, it made me feel like I was truly alone. Just me.

I rummaged around in there for a bit, it was taking my mind off things, distracting me from the pit of despair in my stomach I hadn't realized was growing. It had always been there, with me having no friends, my teachers not helping me in favor of praising their "star students", never quite understanding the secret codes hidden in facial expressions or tones, but with no one around me the pit was threatening to grow, then burst.

I found some... odd letters. One of them mentions you guys, so I've attached it to the statement. It was from my dad I think, he was NOT HAPPY with someone named Conal, I'll tell you that much.

But after opening a few cases I found it. The solution to my problems. A record player. All the records they had were old, even for my parents probably, but I felt myself loosen up, knowing I could hear another human voice and have it fill the silence.

And for the next day I was relaxed. I double checked- triple checked my homework, it was rather boring now that I was done with the only thing I was supposed to be doing all week.

I doodled on old papers in the office, I tried baking, I caught up on some desperately needed sleep, it was... rather nice. If my spring break was spent making cookies, drawing and writing stories, and finding out secrets, I was content.

I was running over the decorative books and judging how boring the contents actually were for the millionth time when night came, the fog hadn't cleared up all day so I couldn't really tell, but it was eight. The record player made a noise and there was no more music. No more voices.

In an instant I am overcome with dread. What kind of twelve year old wastes their spring break dying of boredom in some musty old house? I was drained from trying to come up with new ideas for stories all day. I made cookies and cake but hadn't eaten them. My homework was so checked over my teacher might even give me a "nice job" stamp.

They did, they handed my papers back to me the following Wednesday, with numbers almost in the nineties for the first time ever. I had to meet with about half of them after school as they interrogated me on why I didn't do that kind of work on all my assignments.

Laying there on the couch with covers that itched just enough to notice, but not worth my effort to remove them, I was unmoving. I was twelve... why did it feel like my whole life was passing me by?

Why was it so much easier for everyone else? And if it was so easy, so natural, why didn't they explain it to me? Why did they leave me so far behind, when did I GET behind?

I must have laid there for hours before the tears stung my eyes. There. A feeling. It got me out of the depth and reminded me where I was, how I was feeling, and what was causing it.

The quiet.

I shot up and ran through the fog, I hadn't even been outside since grandma dropped me off, so I hadn't explored the shed or any of the surrounding area, not that I could with the fog. But I didn't care. I felt my way to the bike. It was probably later than eleven at this point, I couldn't see with the fog, I barely knew my way back to town...

But I didn't care. I just craved to be by another person.

The whole way was grey, but it did feel like the fog was lifting up. Luckily there were no cars or people on the road, they probably would have hit me. It was dark, and the bike was probably made before reflective tape was even a thing.

The town was quiet, which made sense, as it was the dead of night. But there were no lights on. And still no sounds. No rustling leaves. No cars. Or any noises from the houses.

But it looked like everyone had vanished seconds prior. There was food at the outdoor tables. Car doors open in parking lots, a trunk open like someone was about to put groceries in. But no people. It felt like I had just barely miss them, if I had gone a little quicker I wouldn't have been left behind.

And I was tired. I couldn't sleep for obvious reasons. So I sat at a park bench, the playground swings still swaying a bit, like someone had only just gotten off of them. And I waited.

And waited.

And waited

There was no sun, but I had been counting. I had sat at the bench for probably six hours. No people whatsoever.

After the realization his me, that I've been sat in complete silence for six hours, the fog comes into my vision again. I don't waste time stumbling back to where I had locked my bike and started riding to the house, even though I couldn't see a thing.

I get my way to a side door eventually and get inside, where the fog just barely goes away. Just enough to read the sticky note on the coffee table.

"Be back soon!"

Another on the fridge.

"Went off to school!"

Another in the office, on the paper I had been doodling on.

"Remember to water the plants!"

None of which had been there before. The creepiest thing about it was the pen in the office, still warm from the hands of another person. It... it truly did trouble me how much I yearned for the pen. It troubles me now still.

I gathered up all the notes, even the one on the paper with my drawing,cand threw them in the shredder.

I left to the town at around eleven, and waited for six hours at the park bench. An hour there and back, so that means from six to two thirty I was crying. It was noise at least. But even my sobs were muffled, like I was underwater.

I'm snapped out of it by a car door closing. I run to the window, filled with blinding sunshine as the fog had completely disappeared without me noticing. It was my grandma's car.

Which... no. I hadn't been crying for that long. It was only supposed to be Tuesday as well, when she was supposed to pick me up on Friday. I don't know if I realized it at the time though, I think I was just so relieved she was getting me out.

Her smile was so warn as she asked how my stay was. I don't remember saying a thing, but she keeps smiling, so I don't think I ever told her what happened. I remember her remarking that I had grey hairs now, she joked it was from all the homework.

The car ride home was the best thing I have ever experienced. The tired going over every piece of gravel and shaking the whole car. The radio. Grandma's humming. Hearing the other cars go by.

I still can't do silence. I'm always moving now, always watching other people to make sure they don't vanish either. The grey in my hair won't leave, but I think that's fine.

I always thought it was sound that I didn't want. I don't want the QUIET. Hardly my fault. How am I supposed to stay calm if I can't sense when someone's by my side?

Statement ends.

Katherine:

Oh... Jeez.

So. Shelby supernaturally acquired detachment issues. Nice.

Uhm... not sure how to do follow up for this one? It sounded like Pix doesn't was Shelby to know I've read the statement...

Why did Pix want ME to read the statement?

But it's cool. It's cool, if there's one thing I trust Shelby to do, it's to take this stuffy old place way to seriously. I doubt she'd try and prank the institute like one of those false statement givers.

Oh, and I should probably read the letters attached as well.

Katherine (statement):

Dear Gemini Tay, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute,

I know you are well aware of what we have planned by now, it's probably hard for you folk to miss a whole area of land you can't see.

But my wife and I thought it'd be wise to advise your institute to stay out of our business. You know how much our family hates the spotlight.

Everyone knows what you did to the Buried, to your own brother to stop it. It's an easy way to make enemies.

From

Mr. Shubble

End of letter.

Katherine:

So... yeah. It sounds like Shelby's parents were supervillains, so that's fun. And he talked about Fwhip... Fwhip only moved away? I didn't think Gem did anything to him.

And whatever was going on at the house, I hope the grandma had no idea, for Shelby's sake.

Ugh. I swear, if this whole thing was a ploy to get me to cooperate with Shelby more-

Whatever.

[Click]

Pix:

Katherine.

Katherine:

Ugh. What now, Pix? I'm almost off the clock, and I felt sick after reading that statement.

I don't like feeling sick.

So I swear if you have ONE MORE THING for me to do-

Pix:

Well I'm sorry to make you do work during work hours, Katherine.

Shelby will be back tomorrow, and she... won't exactly be in the best of conditions. You can have the day off tomorrow-

Katherine:

Yes!

Pix:

As long as it is spent looking after Shelby.

Katherine:

What?!

Pix, come ON. You know how much me and Shelby don't get along. If she's not in "the best of conditions", SURLY she'll want someone she ACTUALLY LIKES around.

Pix:

Well for how she's feeling, what she's experienced, I do not trust Sausage to take care of her in his state. Nor do I trust Fwhip, in general.

And I know it's not the same, but you've been sick before. So I thought you'd be best equipped for the job.

Katherine:

How the HELL do you know-

Pix:

Because I look over the statements, Katherine. Is it so hard to believe I'm just a normal man working at his job?

Katherine:

Maybe, if that job wasn't HERE. And if you weren't so cryptic a the time.

...

So, do you know how to fix it?

Pix:

I've been sorting through artifact storage to see if we have anything, but I'm not done yet. Rest assured, I'm not yet so "cryptic" that I won't tell you if I've found a cure.

Katherine:

Great. Cuz nothing bad EVER comes out of artifact storage.

Pix:

I've helped many people, Katherine. I'm not trying to hurt you, not while you're already hurting.

Be at the institute on time tomorrow, Shelby will probably be late, but you'll have to clean up the room you've been staying in to keep her there.

Katherine:

And now she's taking my room...

Pix:

And what did I say about the tape recorders?!

Katherine:

Oh, screw off!

[Click]

#the riffs archives au #empires smp au #empires smp s2 #tma x esmp #esmp x tma #shubble #katherine elizabeth gaming

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ack3rlady · 3 years ago

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Good evening

So here is one of the plots I always imagine you being erwin's little sister and levi is his best friend so he loves you and levi being levi would show through actions like buying the best gifts because he listens and cares also picking you up from places and agrees with erwin that you aren't allowed to have a boyfriend

Is that kinda out of character 🤔

Dinaaaaaaa! Sorry it took me forever to write this! It started off as something and turned into something else and then i had to sit and clean it up. Hope you like it bby!!

Pocket Watch

Summary: You and Levi go from despising each other to being two fools in unrequited love. Hange comes up with a disastrous plan to bring you both together that backfires. Big brother Erwin comes to the rescue :)

Notes: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff with a dash of angst, Hange being Hange.

WC: ~3k

Master List

You and Levi had a turbulent start. From the moment you laid eyes on him, you absolutely loathed the man so much that even his presence made you see red. He was rude, disrespectful and above all, tried to murder your brother. From the looks of it, he disliked you too, given you were Erwin’s sister, and also because you charged towards him with your blade right after, only to be restrained by Erwin himself.

Unfortunately, with the loss of Flagon and his squad, Shadis transferred Levi over to yours after that fateful expedition. And for the first time in your life, you hated your job. The thought of waking up in the morning and seeing his grouchy face, listening to his flat, uninterested voice irked you. You lost the will to get out of bed. Hange had to physically drag your body to the training grounds every day.

To say that you and Levi didn’t get along, would be an understatement. It would take mere seconds of being around each other for a new argument to break out. And because you were his new Squad Leader, you were forced to be around him almost all the time. The day mainly consisted of excessive eye-rolling, taunts, sarcastic retorts which would soon turn into a quarrel and then a massive brawl until Miche or Hange stepped in to pry you off each other's throats.

The new nicknames you coined for each other had traveled throughout the regiment. He referred to you as Shithead, and you called him Shitface.

For him, your interactions had turned into a strange form of entertainment. In no time, he had figured out which button of yours to push to get the reaction he wished to see. Meal time, which used to be the only two hours you could spend without him, was also brutally snatched away from you when Erwin insisted that Levi should sit at your table from now on.

“I have to look at Shitface’s shitty face all day. Did you absolutely have to invite him over to eat with us?”, you asked Erwin with your eyes boring holes into Levi, face contorted as if you just bit into a lemon.

The new commander suppressed a smirk; Hange and Miche were not polite enough to do the same.

“As if I want to be around your shitty head for any longer than I need to.”, he quipped nonchalantly, taking a sip of steaming tea out of his cup.

The back-and-forth, constant bickering and impromptu sparring continued until both you and Levi were promoted to captain’s position, a few months after Erwin became commander. Now that you both had your own squads to manage, you didn’t see him as much anymore.

You refused to admit it to yourself, but you missed him; missed being around him even if it only led to another one of your infamous fights. Your eyes would search for that familiar midnight head everywhere you went; relentlessly darting from one face to another until they landed on a silver pair looking right back at them.

Levi was in a similar dilemma. His life seemed a bit too calm, too quiet. No one glowered at him when he began training in the morning. No one screamed bloody murder in his ears every few hours. He actually missed the sound of your voice, even though he considered it the shrillest cacophony until a few days ago.

He found himself looking for reasons to be near you, scheduling his squad’s training sessions around yours. Awkward glances would be exchanged every few minutes, with both of you clearly realizing the difference in the way you looked at each other ever since your new roles drew you apart. They weren't glares of annoyance anymore. There was an unknown warmth present in your gazes. What was this foreign feeling?

“Miss me, Shitface?”, you asked upon bumping into him for the fifth time since morning.

“You wish, Shithead.”, he responded, lips upturned into a smirk.

Lately, there was a new found playfulness in your interactions. The words you exchanged pretty much remained the same, sans the sharp edge they had before.

It was late in the evening. It was also the first anniversary of that catastrophic expedition which stole Isabel, Furlan, and your childhood friend Victoria from this world. You snuck a bottle of whiskey from Erwin’s cherished collection of spirits and fled to the roof, a place you generally retreated to when feeling low.

You were greeted by a lone figure who was already sitting in your spot. But today, Levi’s presence didn’t bother you. On the contrary, you felt relieved to see him. When did the sight of him go from being bothersome to soothing? You took a seat by his side, popped open the bottle, drank to all the loved ones you had lost, and shared stories about them.

Well, you did. He only listened.

“If only I got there in time. I could’ve saved her.”, you sighed, thinking about Victoria.

Levi felt a pang in his heart, because that was exactly how he felt about Isabel and Furlan. If only he had never left. If only he made it back before it was too late.

If only.

You were not much different from him. He regretted treating you harshly without ever understanding your story. He felt terrible about how he never bothered to find out you too were silently suffering from the same pain as him, that there was a tragic reason why you even had a vacant spot on your squad for him to fill.

He watched your face glow under the moon light, your lips spread into a gorgeous yet melancholy smile as you fondly remembered the departed. His breath hitched when he felt a delicate weight on his shoulder, body tensing because this was the first time someone was this close to him.

He slowly looked down at your head leaning on his shoulder, teary eyes looking up at the moon. This moment, this image would forever be etched into his memory. Because the reason why he perpetually craved your presence around him suddenly became clear. Because this was the exact moment, he realized that he was in love.

After you were finished talking to your heart’s content, Levi walked you to your room and stayed long enough to make sure that you fell asleep. That night, he fought hard against this new feeling bubbling up in his heart as he watched your angelic face while you slept – A need to be with you, an urge to tell you how he felt, a longing to feel your skin underneath his fingers, to make you the first and the last face he would see every day.

He valiantly fought against the flutter in his heart, conquered it, and locked it away in the remotest corner of his mind.

You could see the faint light of the rising sun from behind your closed eyelids. You needed to be on the move in a few minutes and start preparing for the day. But instead, you chose to stay in bed, and replay the events from last night that brought a smile to your face – the way Levi’s pale skin shone in the silver luminescence of the moon, the way his softened eyes stayed pinned on yours when you spoke, how the strands of his hair swayed with the cool breeze, how you suppressed the urge to run your fingers through them, how you wanted time to stop just so that you could steal a few more moments with him.

You begrudgingly opened your eyes and removed yourself from the sweet flashback, only to find a delicate pocket watch on your nightstand with a note neatly tucked underneath it. It read -

Time took away my old friends, but also gave me a new one.

- L

Six months had passed since that day. Six months since you were both confronted by your feelings, and also six months since they remained unrequited. He had accepted that this was how it was meant to be, because, one – The world was a shitty place that could rip you away from him at any moment, two – his relationship with Erwin was far too important to jeopardize. Levi decided it was best to remain silent.

You, on the other hand, wanted to live every day like it was your last; and try to experience as many things in life as you could before death knocked at the door. But you knew of Levi’s outlook on relationships, and decided to respect his beliefs, without forcing your ideas on him.

So, you would both hold on to the little things, like having tea and meals in each other company, training together, watching the moon from that same spot on the roof and mainly, searching for each other among the multitude of soldiers, just to exchange silent smiles of assurance before each expedition as if it would be the last time you would be seeing one another.

This didn’t go unnoticed since another pair of eyes, four eyes were hanging on to every single one of these acts.

Hange was an intelligent person, not letting one thing escape their sight. When they were not immersed in analyzing titans, they were studying humans, and their vision was made even stronger by the thick pair of glasses adorning their face.

That is why they did not miss the subtle glances or a single smile exchanged between you and Levi, or even how the man who hated people with a burning passion would willingly enter crowded markets just to find you the perfect present.

It first struck them when he bought a stunning painting of the sun setting beyond the mountains. But instead of finding it hung on the wall of his office, they found it sitting on your desk the next morning. Then it was an intricate tea set that he purchased, which was now located on your table. And finally, the multiple books he painstakingly selected from a quaint shop in the bylanes of Trost that were all lined up on the bookshelf in your quarters.

And they were not the only one noticing these patterns.

The silent but dazzling sparks flying between his sister and his right-hand-man caught Erwin’s eye too. His prominent brow would rise in curiosity when Levi would expressly insist on positioning you in the safer zone of the formation during expeditions. He saw how the captain would turn to you for your opinion on important matters, and you’d respond with a quiet nod. He also observed how Levi was not rude to you anymore, a complete paradox of his behavior from just six months ago, when you used to be the bane of his existence.

His suspicions were confirmed when he casually asked Hange about it. They squealed in excitement when Erwin’s account matched theirs. Miche agreed too, adding his own two cents to the story.

Erwin’s mind was racing, the usual calm in his blue eyes looking stormy. His brotherly instincts were tingling. He had never approved of any man you introduced him to in the past, always finding some or the other reason why they were not good enough for you.

But, upon giving it further thought, he couldn’t fault Levi. He knew that if there was anyone who could protect you better than Erwin himself, it was him.

The only area of concern was his quirky behavior. But he personally witnessed how you could hold your own before the man on numerous occasions. He had noticed how you had begun to smile more often when he was around, and how you remained calm and made better decisions in the face of danger outside the walls ever since you became close with Levi.

Your happiness and safety were all that mattered to your brother.

So, he gave Hange his blessings to carry out their ‘diabolical plan’ to bring you and him together. Together, they recruited Miche as the perfect decoy. According to Hange, the plan was simple. Miche would sweet-talk with you, in turn making Levi jealous. The jealousy would eventually make him flee the comfort of his shell and confess his feelings to you. Simple, right? Unfortunately, it wasn't.

“Hey gorgeous! You look wonderful today.”, Miche appeared out of thin air while you and Levi were sipping on tea and reading the newspaper on a bench under a tree in silence.

Levi’s eyes slightly widened upon seeing the tall man’s hand snake around your shoulder.

“Thanks, Miche.”, you replied politely, albeit a little confused, but not swatting him away.

Miche had been your friend ever since you were a fresh-faced cadet. And he was known for getting close to people to get a good sniff. So, his proximity wasn't a surprise, although the sudden compliments were. But you didn’t dwell over them, assuming that the beautiful morning had him in a pleasant mood.

Levi knew that you were strong enough to tackle Miche to the ground if his touch was unwelcome. The fact that you didn’t refute his advance, meant that you didn’t mind.

Maybe he wasn’t as special to you as he thought. Maybe the unspoken bond between you and him was all in his head. His thoughts immediately began to spiral, and he abruptly stood up and left without a word, leaving a baffled you, and a triumphantly grinning Miche behind.

What Hange, Erwin and Miche thought was the successful execution of their plan, was playing out to be the exact opposite, much to their ignorance.

This happened a few more times over the next week – during training, lunch, meetings – wherever you went, Miche followed. Levi felt his heart skip a beat every time he saw you smile in the other man’s presence. His jaw clenched whenever Miche cooed in your ears, his face just inches away from yours.

Levi was obviously jealous. But instead of stepping in and owning up to his feelings, he began to distance himself from you, only seeing you during work meetings and barely acknowledging your presence even then. He would turn in his tracks every time you were about to cross paths. The serene tea breaks in his company came to an abrupt halt when you would find his office locked and empty when you visited at your designated time.

You were beginning to feel hurt by this newly cold Levi, the equivalent of how he used to be before that night on the roof. Maybe him reciprocating your feelings was all in your head. You felt lonely after suddenly having lost your best friend and support system without even knowing why.

Erwin began to notice changes in your demeanor once more. The beaming and chirpy little sister that he was used to, was showing signs of suffering. But you would never admit to it when he asked; saying that you didn’t want to add to his already full plate.

He found you one night, sitting by the window of your dark quarters in tears. He slapped his palm over his forehead upon finding out that the sole reason behind your heartache was the debacle of a plan that the three had come up with. He came clean and encouraged you to go talk to Levi, revealing that the whole plan was only intended to bring you both closer.

You ran through the hallways, first to his quarters, just to find the doors locked again. Then you headed to the mess hall, hoping to catch him sipping on his late-night tea. But the vast room was deserted except for the scouts scrubbing it clean. So, you nervously headed to the place you were sure to see him. And that’s exactly where you found him.

There he was, perched at the exact spot on the rooftop, the same place where you had spent numerous nights together over the last whole year.

Levi perked up upon hearing your approaching footsteps. He didn’t even need to turn around to know it was you.

“You don’t talk to me anymore.”, you said, taking a seat at your old spot beside him.

“Well, you found someone else to talk to.”

“So, you just decided to leave?”

“I figured you had Miche and didn’t need me anymore.”

You turned to him in disbelief. The unchanged expression on his face was a sign that he did indeed believe what he just said.

“Do you just think you're that easily replaceable in my life? That someone can just walk in and take your position?”, you asked

“You did just let him do it, didn’t you?”

“Ugh!”, you harshly pushed his shoulders with both your hands. “I did not! Stop saying that you Shitface!”

“Tch! What's your problem, Shithead?”, he scolded, tightly clenching the collar of your jacket in his fist.

“My problem is that I’m in love with you and you’re too stupid to see it.”

His eyes and lips shaped into three round Os. “Huh?”, he huffed breathlessly.

“I love you. Since that evening that we spent right here one year ago, and I’ve been in love with you ever since . Miche was acting on some stupid directions that Hange gave him. There’s nothing between him and I, Levi. It’s you. It’s always been you.”, you said, quoting Erwin’s words and revealing Hange’s plan to him.

With that same fist around your jacket, Levi pulled you close; crashing your body into his, gently pressing his lips upon yours. Your heart began to pound upon his touch that you had been yearning for since over a year. His lips were warm, and soft, and he gingerly nibbled on yours, making you smile into the kiss. You felt his cool fingers raking through your hair accompanied by gentle hums of bliss. He finally broke away, allowing you both to catch your breath, resting his forehead on yours.

“I love you, Shithead.”, he whispered. “But, I’m going to kill those two giants and four eyes tomorrow.”

#levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #attack on titan #levi ackerman headcanons #aot hcs #levi ackerman #levi headcanons #captain levi #anime #levi aot #levi ackerman x you #Mia.answers

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sanstropfremir · 2 years ago

Note

Why are the theatre/film schools like that? 💀💀💀

In mine most profs were complete idiots. One of them, a well know actor and the president of the Academy at that time, did absolutely nothing in class. He bailed most of the time due to “shootings” and the few days he came we practically did nothing, just some chats with him about his job. To grade us he asked us to write in a paper what we thought we deserved. I kid you not.

Another one, who was a tv producer, was most likely very mentally ill and undiagnosed cause he would have the most random shitty ideas that we had to comply with and a lot of mood-swings. The day of the final exam he came 40 mins late because he was smoking week in front of the back door and then proceeded to give us the weirdest exam ever that kept us a minimum of 3 hours there. We had to make a plan of how to shoot an event and he kept adding snipers, famous people and animals to the mix.

There was one that I deeply hated cause we had 3 classes with him that were practically the same. He was more on the sociology side but did not know at all how to be a professor. His classes consisted of spiting facts and giving 10+ random bibliography per day. I learned nothing and I still have murderous waves every time someone mentions his name.

There was a couple who were married and had the sane vibe of old and way to classical. They were harmless until the end, when we learned that they blocked A LOT OF THINGS to make the space and curriculum better. Like, requesting funding to take a paid intern for their research lab of 3d shit, choosing the one (a friend of mine), signing the contract and then NEVER DO ANYTHING NOR SPEAK WITH THE CHOSEN PERSON. She had to go crying to the dean for a response and even then they were not held accountable. The school employed her as a paid intern in another department to make up for it but the rest never got resolved.

Other profs were alright, just very weird characters. The screenwriter prof was a very funny man but deeply depressed and had us all worried at first hour on Mondays (his Very Bad Day).

And on top of that was The Building™️. You see, ours was made by a very famous architect and it won several awards. Every couple of weeks we had someone taking photos of it. However, it’s the most impractical building ever because it was built as at a museum and not a school. The chairs are absolutely demential. So uncomfortable and very easily breakable BUT they cannot be replaced until 20-30 years from now because they signed a contract with the architect that said so. There is one (or two if your lucky) power plug per class but millions on the corridors. The bathrooms stalls are so narrow that if you want to enter with a bag/backpack you cannot close the door. In fact, some of those doors barely close without anyone inside. The editing rooms have gigantic windows where you cannot block the light so you can’t see shit on the computers. Well, windows are a thing in general. Classrooms have them but only one of them can be open partially with a button and let me tell you it does not help to ventilate properly 🙊. And the doors, boi, most of them had the handle broken so someone was always at risk of getting trapped there. You taught that they would fix this but it’s been more than 6 years since I finished and it’s still the same. There’s a twitter account that posts the shenanigans that are going on and most shit is the same.

So yeah, wild shit is always happening I guess 🤷🏻‍♀️

✨🎥 anon

literally all film/theatre schools are same shit different channel slkdfjsldkjflskdjflskdjflsdjflsdkjf oh i feel you for all of this. most of our profs did actually know what they were talking about thank god, but a lot of them were old bastions and hadn't worked professionally in AGES so they were sooooo out of date to how the scene actually operated in the modern era. we had a couple of real characters and one of which was the director for my thesis show, who was five foot zero inches and thin as a twig, wore leather pants frequently and called everyone 'lovey'. and like i previously said, was somewhere between 65 and 85 and nobody could tell bc she occasionally went to switzerland to have some crazy type of botox done to her face. we did have potentially maybe two sexual abusers?? i never got confirmation on any of it bc it was kept sooo tightly under wraps but in one case i'm not sure if there was any evidence brought forward (he was just a regular abuser though, that guy fucking SUCKED), and the other guy i only found out about from a former student bc the whole thing got swept under the rug bc his wife ALSO worked in the department. also the whole staff was like. so racist. the year after i left one of the shows that went up to committee for season suggestion was a show written in the 70s that had a bunch of racial slurs in it (and no people of colour in the script) and almost the entire student body put a petition up to remove it from selection but the director wouldn't stand down so they did it anyways 💀💀💀 i was fucking glad i was out of that hellhole by that time.

and oh my god the building architecture.....never before have i been so glad that there's no famous architects from anywhere near my hometown bc fuckin YIKES. we had a designated separate building from the rest of campus that was built in the 80s specifically for the theatre department, so we rarely left bc all the rehearsal rooms + class rooms were all in there with the theatres. and almost no non-theatre students came in bc there was only one 'theatre' class that a non-registered theatre major could take, and that was a public speaking class, so every time that class happened once a week we'd all give eyeballs to the lost looking business and sciences majors coming in. also there were signs on like every door that said 'no non theatre personnel beyond this point' (bc the building also had the box office and held audiences for when the shows were running) so anyone who was lost always looked extra lost. plus the whole thing was a huge maze bc there were upper level catwalks and corridors that connected the grid + fly systems between the two theatres, so the techies sometimes would go up to the upper levels and not come down for the entire day.

oh and there was a tradition where if you had sex in the building you would mark the spot with a black 'x'. in my first year we did a show with a big coffin as one of the setpieces and on one of the last nights of the run two of the actors fucked in it

#i literally do not know why they did bc it was not a nice plush coffin. it was literally a plain wood box #and there were a TON of wood shavings inside it so i know someone got splinters in their ass #someone also had sex in the upper level of the costume loft and i have no idea y bc 1) dusty 2) mothballs 3) the floor was a fucking GRATE #OH and two actors fucked on the upper level of the fly tower WHILE a bunch of ppl were still in the theatre. that was funny #i dont actually think this happens anymore it fell a bit out of vogue in my fourth year bc as a year we were so fucking boring #and when i say boring i mean we all were very dedicated to working and were not big partiers #but the year under us was a MESS. but im not sure if they ever got told about the tradition or not #its so nice to know that performing arts schools are always the same no matter what country theyre in lskdjflks #im literally in shock at the one about the three hour exam like what the fuck...?????????? huh?? what????????#thank fucking god we only had tests in our theatre history classes holy shit #moral of the story: DO NOT GO TO THEATRE SCHOOL #text #answers #non kpop questions #✨🎥 anon

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wevegottogetaway · 4 years ago

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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qqueenofhades · 4 years ago

Note

So like. What if there were a fic of Ivan and Fedyor falling in love? Just saying. Someone could write that...(and could that someone be you?!)

Fedyor Kaminsky is brought to the Little Palace when he is nine years old. Before that, he has lived his whole life in the place he was born: a small village about twenty miles southeast of Kribirsk. It is just close enough for him to be constantly aware of the Shadow Fold, looming like a thunderstorm on a hot summer day, and to know, also, the honor that it is when the examiners arrive, he receives a sharp prick in the arm, some sort of strange result takes place, and he is formally declared to be Grisha. His parents know it too, and are eager to tell him of it. They are not well off, and Fedyor is the sixth of seven children. The payment for their patriotic service will be welcome, and while his mother hugs him tightly and tells him to make the Saints proud, he feels, somehow, that they are not that grieved to see the back of him. He is the only child from his village that has been picked, and they all assemble to see him off. Just think. One of their own, in the Second Army.

Fedyor cries himself to sleep his first night in the dormitories, as most of the children do. But he wakes fully rested, hungry for breakfast, and eager to throw himself into his new life. He has a sunny temperament, a personable nature, that serves him well here, and any talented Grisha can climb high in the ranks, almost as high as the Black General himself. Back home, what did he have to look forward to, aside from the taunts and punches of his brothers, who always saw him as more like one of their sisters than one of them? He is learning things here. Religion and medicine and geography and history. And, of course, the arcane art of the Small Science, the one thing that binds these young people from all across Ravka. Their power, their responsibility, and their upcoming effort in the endless wars.

His first few years pass rather well, all things considered. When he is thirteen, it is officially declared that he will be taken onto the Order of Corporalniks, and – somewhat to everyone’s surprise, including his – he is best suited not as a Healer, but a Heartrender. It turns out that unassuming, smiling, friendly Fedyor, who knows everyone’s name and is always given an indulgent second portion of dessert from the doting canteen ladies, packs quite a punch.

It’s here where he first puts Ivan Sakharov on his back, and his whole life changes.

Fedyor and Ivan have known of each other, ever since they arrived in the same class of recruits. Ivan is a tough, taciturn northern boy from Chernast, skinny and scowling and always displeased about something, no matter what. Fedyor once saw him brood through the whole Winter Fete, and he has taken it as a professional challenge to get Ivan to smile. Once Fedyor plays a practical joke on him, to the awe of the entire dormitory, who would not dare to even imagine such things themselves. Ivan scowls at him like the Black Heretic himself, and stomps off to have his important life problems somewhere else. But now they’re both thirteen, Ivan is shooting up like a weed and channeling all that pent-up resentment into some really effective Heartrending, and Fedyor is regretting all his previous liberties. As they face each other and bow, thus to commence the duel on Botkin’s word, he thinks, Please don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me.

Then he remembers that he’s the same Order, he has the same red kefta awaiting him when he finishes his trials, that he has as much right to be here as some tight-arse bastard from the frozen northern wastes, and that is why, thirty seconds after the duel has begun, Ivan is flat on his back and looking astonished. Everyone is applauding, and Fedyor feels somewhat confused. He strides over to his fallen adversary and offers him a hand. “Good job.”

Ivan glares at him, exquisitely sensitive to the possibility that he’s being mocked. “You’ll regret this, Kaminsky,” he says, low-voiced. “Mark my words.”

After that, for several months, Fedyor lives in terror of going anywhere in the Little Palace alone, lest Ivan suddenly leap out from behind a shrubbery and murder him. He and Ivan spar in their classes, in practice, in trying to outdo each other in Baghra’s ridiculous lessons, throwing all their effort into the sort of stupid, pointless rivalry that can only be maintained by teenage boys with too much pride and too little sense. They start to look for each other wherever they go, waste no opportunity to glare heatedly, and they are sixteen years old when Fedyor notices to his extreme vexation that during all this time spent staring at him until he has memorized his face, Ivan has gotten a little… handsome.

(What? No? Ivan? Horrifying.)

Fedyor himself isn’t exactly cursed in the face department, once a persistent bout of acne clears up. With his wavy hair, dark eyes, and easy smile, he provokes his fair share of sighs and pining among the female Corporalniks, but he is oddly uninterested in reciprocating their advances. Then he and Ivan get paired together on some training exercise that goes horribly wrong, they are trapped in the woods for hours until someone comes to find them, and with nothing else to do, they are forced to actually talk. Ivan has that northern chip on his shoulder that they all seem to, and probably started fighting Fjerdans when he was two years old, but what he says next takes Fedyor completely aback. “You’re… not that bad,” he says grudgingly. “You’re the only one who’s brave enough to actually talk to me, not just tiptoe like a mouse.”

“Well.” Fedyor throws a stick of wood at him. “Have you considered being less of a total grouch all the time?”

Ivan scoffs, lunges at him, and they end up wrestling in the leaf mold, an exercise that both of them enjoy a bit too much and take extreme care that the other not notice. By the time the search party from the Little Palace comes to retrieve them, they have forgotten all about being lost. In fact, as they were lying on the ground together, tangled up and panting and staring at the stars, Fedyor had the strangest thought that it was the best night of his life, and he doesn’t have a clue what he should make of that.

After that, an even stranger thing happens: they become friends. Well, sort of. Ivan maintains his default posture of appearing to hate everything and everyone, but Fedyor is the only person he tolerates, or allows to yank his chain in any way. And in turn, though Ivan Sakharov is the last person who would seem to need any kind of protection, the favor is returned. Once, when a city boy from Os Alta starts going on about how savage northerners are, staring pointedly at Ivan the whole time, Fedyor launches him halfway across the room. He gets in trouble, but it’s worth it. And they do undoubtedly work better together, Fedyor fighting right-handed and Ivan fighting left. They cover each other’s weak sides, learn to anticipate each other’s moves, and…

It’s a deeply inconvenient fact of life that when you are a Heartrender, and are exquisitely sensitive to pulse rates, you notice when yours starts going consistently haywire around certain people. Especially when, the year they turn eighteen, they are assigned to room together. The Little Palace is spacious, but not enough for every Grisha to have his or her own room, and since they’re no longer children, they’re not expected to share with the entire class. So Fedyor and Ivan end up in a garret room of their very own, and it is here, to his extreme consternation, that the next phase of Fedyor’s torment re: Ivan begins.

It is difficult to share a small room with Ivan and not want to look at him, and unless he is much mistaken, Ivan always seems to be concentrating a little too hard on his books whenever Fedyor is changing clothes. Fedyor is self-aware enough by this point to know that he prefers men, but he has absolutely no idea as to Ivan. Do they do this sort of thing in Chernast, or does it distract from arm-wrestling bears and shooting drüskelle? Ivan is so constantly unwilling to admit any kind of weakness or effeminacy that Fedyor figures gloomily he’s just doomed to suffer in silence. Naturally.

Except then both of them start rejecting any other romantic overtures, and they even go to the Summer Fete dance together, and Fedyor is taken aback when Zoya Nazyalensky asks bluntly the next day, “So, you and Ivan? Really?”

“What?” Fedyor is aware that Zoya and Ivan cordially hate each other, though she and Fedyor have always gotten on. “We’re not – Zoya, it’s not like that!”

He pauses.

“At least,” he adds guiltily. “It’s not like that as far as we’ve said?”

Zoya gives him a look silently agreeing that for the sake of their friendship, they will never mention Fedyor’s terrible taste in men again, though that doesn’t mean she has to like it. As for her, she’s pining after Kirigan, as almost all Grisha do at some point. Fedyor did so himself – the Black General is gorgeous, all right, shoot him – but he cares about nothing except finding the mythical Sun Summoner and engaging in a busy schedule of brooding even more intense than Ivan’s. Ivan, for that matter, seems to have struck it off with him, as Kirigan always values talent, and Fedyor has to fight down an unbecoming surge of jealousy. It’s not like they’re something. Not really.

(Though not for lack of wanting.)

After that, an even stranger thing happens, which is that people start assuming that Fedyor and Ivan are, in fact, a couple. Fedyor gets asked how his boyfriend is doing (sometimes sardonically, sometimes in a tone that turns genuinely surprised when he hastens to correct them) and he minds it less and less. Of course, for his part, Ivan is utterly oblivious. They’re sitting in a sunny hallway one day, Ivan tolerantly letting Fedyor play with his hair (though he keeps it military-short and it’s not like there’s that much of it) when Genya Safin walks by, glances at them archly, and says, “You know, Ivan, you’re much nicer now that you’re going out with him.”

Ivan turns such a deep shade of purple that Fedyor’s afraid he’s going to blow a gasket. “What?!” he splutters. “We are not – we are not – we are not going out! Never! I don’t – what are you talking – I don’t even like him!”

Fedyor’s lip quivers, despite himself. “Come on,” he says, failing to make it entirely lighthearted, wounded deeper than he wants to admit. “You don’t mean that, right?”

Ivan turns to him, flustered. “No,” he says convulsively. “Don’t look sad. Don’t look at me like that. Shh. Of course I like you.”

Fedyor brightens.

Genya gives them an obnoxiously knowing look and walks away.

By now, they’re twenty-one, old enough to be properly deployed as soldiers to the front, and Fedyor can’t help but thinking about where Ivan is, what he’s doing, if he’s all right, whenever they’re apart. He doesn’t like it, it feels wrong and unnatural, they always did better side by side anyway. Finally, they both get back to the Little Palace after a grueling campaign of many months away, Ivan against the Fjerdans and Fedyor against the Shu Han. They see each other, and it’s like lightning, rooting them to the ground. They’re dusty, dirty, banged up, bruised and bloody, but they know as a simple truth, beyond any doubt or questioning, that Fedyor will be coming to Ivan’s room tonight, and that Ivan will sit up and wait for him.

And that, therefore, is what happens. Fedyor can barely concentrate on washing up and fetching supper because he is so fixated on the knowledge of what’s coming later. He goes through the motions, barely hears his friends, barely tastes what he’s eating. He scarcely manages to wait until it’s dark. Then he gets up, slips through the corridors – they no longer bunk together, but he knows the way – and reaches the door. Fights a final attack of nerves, about how long he’s been waiting and how it might go wrong – then knocks.

“It’s open,” Ivan calls from inside, his voice dark with wanting. Of course it is.

Fedyor steps inside, and looks at him. After all this time, it feels like he should make a speech, have something more grand to say, or perhaps even an I-told-you-so. He doesn’t get around to any of that. He can’t stand it. Instead he shucks his kefta in a quick, practiced movement. Runs across the room, and climbs, claws, into Ivan’s arms.

Their kiss is rough and wet and wild, mouths open, teeth dragging, tongues scraping, trying to get as close as they possibly can, and then closer. Ivan’s hands, deft and eager, rough with calluses, spread across Fedyor’s arms and shoulders, the neat muscled column of his torso. “You should have let me do that,” he scolds between kisses, evidently referring to the business of undressing Fedyor. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”

“You’ve been waiting long enough – ?!” Fedyor Kaminsky really does love this man, but Saints help him, he is dense. “You could have said something!”

Ivan looks at him with pure wickedness in his eyes. “I thought I just did.”

Fedyor groans, grabs Ivan’s head to kiss him again, and they roll down onto the covers together, tearing at the remaining clothes in their way. It’s raw and agonized and real, this coming together, this needing, this consummation and completion, and afterward, as Fedyor lies gasping on Ivan’s chest and Ivan sleepily strokes his hair with a tenderness that seems totally inconceivable to anyone who has met him at literally any other moment, Fedyor knows, in some way, he will never truly leave this room again. That he’s here. Home.

(Later, Fedyor finds out that Ivan actually asked his boss for help with his romantic quandary, and Kirigan’s advice was evidently so terrible that Ivan decided to just give up and go for it with Fedyor rather than trying that again. Even if Aleksander Kirigan is the Black General, the Shadow Summoner, the most powerful Grisha in the world, Ivan does not intend to let him forget it. They are all fortunate that Aleksander thinks it’s funny.)

#ivan x fedyor #heartrender husbands #henchmen deserve happiness too okay #<<is my tag for them #oops now i ship it #mearcatsreturns #ask

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writings-of-a-hufflepuff · 4 years ago

Text

The Portrait of Love

Fandom: The Mentalist

Pairing: Marcus Pike x Reader (Reader wears a dress, but other than that no gender sign posts)

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: G

Warnings: N/A

Requested by @iamburdened: ‘Heart eyes when the other talks, sings, dances, argues, does literally anything especially things which others make fun of them for or find annoying’ with Pike because this baby boy deserves just the absolute best!! Cont.

Summary: When Marcus takes to you a work gala for the first time, he just expects a nice night chatting with colleagues and being proud to have his partner on his arm. He’s in truth a little bit worried that you’ll get bored hearing him talk about the latest art recoveries, truthfully, there’s nothing you enjoy more than listening to Marcus talk passionately about something.

Notes: Spent about 15 minutes just deciding which painting he should talk about in depth because research is important to me. Every time I write Marcus I just get this deep longing to curl up with him and express my love.

Archiveofourown

“Hey, honey, you ready to go?” He’s straightening his tie in your hallway mirror. Marcus had been predictably early to pick you up for this FBI Gala, but he didn’t mind waiting for you to finish getting ready. It gave him time to straighten out his tie, brush off his suit jacket, and check that his beard wasn’t getting a little too wild now that he’d decided it was staying for the foreseeable future.

The two of you hadn’t been dating long, four months at this point, and he’d never taken you to any of his work parties or events before. But, after a little bit of a pep talk consisting of talking to himself in his bathroom mirror one morning he’d decided to take that leap and invite you further into his life. Even if the possibility of getting hurt again gripped his heart with fear.

The gala was just the usual sort, schmoozing with officials and encouraging interdepartmental cooperation. There’d be alcohol, finger foods, some music, but mostly talking. He didn’t mind them, they usually meant he got to have a chat with friends in other departments and it helped to meet new people who might be helpful on a future case. He wasn’t sure, however, if you’d enjoy yourself at all. You weren’t a big party person, preferring to stay in with him and cuddle on the sofa while watching a movie and eating take-away food, and you didn’t know many people there. Conversation would be work based and he’s not sure how riveting talking about stolen art really is in truth. But, you’d agreed and he was at least proud to know you’d be hanging off his arm tonight. He usually went to these things alone and his team were starting to tease him about this mysterious partner of his that he never brought along, not that he was trying to hide you. He just...he just didn’t want to rush things, that had been his failing in the past.

“Yeah, sorry for making you wait,” You’re fastening the clasp of your necklace as you walk down the hall from your bedroom. When you’re greeted by silence after grabbing your bag off the sofa, you flick your eyes to Marcus.

He’s standing stock still in the hallway, hand still gripping his tie, mouth slightly agape as his lower jaw drops just a fraction of an inch. He’s handsome, always is, but there’s something about a well cut suit and crisp white shirt that looks especially good on his broad shouldered frame. He’s even trimmed his beard, just enough to neaten it up, determined to keep it’s length after you commented on how handsome he was with it one too many times.

“Marcus? Are you okay, baby?”

“Yeah...yeah, I’m...I’m fine. You just..” He takes a deep breath, stilling himself. C’mon, Marcus, this is your partner for God’s sake. “You look beautiful, wow, really, really good...wow, sweetheart.” He wants to kick himself for how inelegant that was, of all the things he could say and he’s stumbling over how radiant you look, practically effervescent, some sort of ethereal being that he’s lucky enough to call his.

The dress really does look beautiful on you, following the curvature of your body, the soft lines that he’s hugged close more often than not. He’s half tempted to just forgo the gala, grab your hand and tug you back to your bedroom where he can get lost in the shape of you. But, you’ve put so much effort into getting ready and there’s an excitement in your eyes that makes him think you might actually want to go to this thing. He’d never take that opportunity away from you.

You laugh at him, but it doesn’t feel mean or mocking, just the sweet humoured expression of enjoyment at his words. A wide smile, the one he loves the most, twisting at the corners of your lips and crinkling the skin by your eyes. God, he loves you. He’s not ready to say it and he’s sure you’re not ready to hear it. But, he knows he loves you and this time, this time he hopes that it’ll work out.

“Thank you, baby...you look very dashing. The picture of a handsome gentleman.” You walk up to him, hands smoothing out the lapels of his jacket, gentle touches over his shoulders, before easing his hands away from his tie and holding them in your own. The kiss you place on his lips is soft and chaste, but he can feel that warmth in the pit of his stomach, the longing for you that burns brighter whenever you’re around.

He’s sure there’s a hint of redness to his cheeks, he always burns brighter in the face around you too. You have a way of flustering him like he’s 17 years old again and not a fully grown adult with a house, a car and a proper and responsible job.

“C’mon, if we don’t go now we’ll be late and didn’t you say you wanted to talk to Andrews about that case you just finished up?”

“Yeah, yeah I did.” It’s the fact that you remembered something so minute, something so miniscule that has him smiling wider at you and holding your hand as he walks you to his car. Like always he opens the door for you and helps you get in, adjusting the bottom of your dress so that it doesn’t get trapped in the door, before even thinking about getting into the car himself. He’s a gentleman and it’s the thoughtless, unthinking nature of it that makes your heart jump the most. He doesn’t do it to impress you, he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, he just...does.

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

The gala is enjoyable, it’s not some massively energetic affair but you like that, like that it doesn’t feel too overwhelming, that you can wrap your arm through Marcus’ and not fear losing him in the crowd. That you can chat with his colleagues, get to know the team mates who tease him about you saying ‘Oh, so this is your mystery partner!’, and enjoy the soft instrumental music that plays in the background.

Marcus practically preens every time someone compliments you on your outfit, there’s no jealousy, just pride and it amuses you to see him puff his chest out and stand a little straighter before looking over at you like you’ve got the world in the palm of your hands. You hope he sees you react in much the same way when someone compliments the cut of his suit or the trimmed beard. He’s a handsome man, a kind man, a good man, and everything about him makes you proud to say he’s yours even if you’re only four months into your relationship.

You’re just nibbling on some small pastries of some kind when a booming voice calls over the other people, many of whom turn to look before rolling their eyes as if they should have expected it.

“Pike! How’re you doing?” The man in question is older than Marcus by quite a few years, coiled grey hair and a warm smile on his face as he grabs Marcus’ free hand in a friendly shake.

“Hey, Andrews, not too bad, yourself?” It’s clear from the smile on Marcus’ face that he likes this man, but having heard him talk about Andrews in passing you knew the two were something of work buddies despite being in completely different departments.

“Oh, well given the amount of complimentary booze I’ve been throwing back, pretty good!”

“Andrews, this is my partner, Y/N.”

“Y/N, this is David Andrews he works in the Behaviour Analysis Unit.” Marcus introduces you to him, with an arm around your waist pulling you tight against him. The smile that beams down at you is nothing if not bright and proud to introduce you to his friend and you can’t help but smile back with similar ardor.

“Should I be worried that you’ll psychoanalyse me?”

“I’m a gentleman, Y/N, I’d never profile and tell.” It’s said with a wink, but that sort that’s more humour than flirtation. It puts you at ease and makes him seem more approachable. Unlike, some of the people you’d met tonight who were a bit stiffer in personality and harder to relax around.

“So Marcus, about that last case you mentioned? A Klimt?” You know Marcus has been dying to talk about the case too, always on the verge of bringing it up before telling you that he’s sure you don’t want to hear about it. He always ends up stopping himself and every time something distracts you from forcing the issue because there is nothing boring about Marcus’ work or anything he’s passionate about.

“You really want to know?”

“You know you’re the only one who’ll talk to me about art! Even my wife gets bored of hearing me talk about art and behaviour analysts are more interested in serial killers and their mummy issues!” David Andrews is a warm man and you settle yourself comfortably against Marcus’ side knowing he’s about to finally talk about his most recent case of art theft. You’re not an expert on art, not in the slightest and you’d never call it your calling in life or your major passion, but anything that gets Marcus to talk passionately is something you are enthralled by.

“The Portrait of Adele Bloche-Bauer I, this rich guy bought it a couple years back for $135 million dollars. Big money, big painting, and pretty interesting history too. You know it was stolen by the Nazis during World War Two? Adele had asked her husband in her will to donate the Klimt paintings to the Austrian State Gallery when he died. When the Nazis took over Austria, he had to flee to Switzerland and leave them behind. The Nazis confiscated them and it in 1941.”

You’re sure there are proverbial hearts in your eyes as you watch him, neck craning. His free hand moves as he talks, gesturing with each word and there’s a sparkle in his brown eyes when he talks about art, any art. Even art that he hates he talks about so passionately that you can’t help but enjoy anything he says. You lean your cheek on his shoulder as he talks and you’re sure it’s obvious in that moment how deeply in love you already are, even this early into your relationship.

“Now, this is a painting that’s over 100 years old, early 20th century, commissioned by a Jewish Banker, owned by a Jewish Banker and stolen by Nazis. The granddaughter won a legal suit to get the painting back and then sold it the exact same year.”

David’s listening to Marcus, he really is, but he’s also watching you. If there was ever a time when the expression ‘like sun shines out of his ass’ applied then it was now. You were so clearly in love with Marcus, the soft crinkle of your eyes as you listened to him, the way you wrapped both arms around his waist, the attentive way you listened. You weren’t fawning over him to distract him, you were fawning over him because you enjoyed listening to him. It made the older man smile, Marcus had had it rough and it was clear he was finally on to a winner in the relationship department. He briefly considers starting a betting pool on when Marcus will propose or if you’ll beat him to the punch. Now that would be a surprise.

“So this guy is sitting on this painting, he’s got it up in a gallery and it’s a Klimt, so you can imagine...It’s one of his last ‘golden phase’ paintings so all that gold has people flock to it and it’s a pricey painting too! Now we get a call a few months back saying it’s been stolen and it becomes a wild goose chase from there…” He’s too enthused with the art to really think about whether he’s boring you. It had been one of the most beautiful paintings he’d ever managed to recover and had he been dating you officially at the time he probably would have broken a few rules to let you see it.

The night continues much like that. Marcus tells you and those around you about the cases he’s recently done, the paintings and sculptures he and his team had recovered and the history behind them. His knowledge was bolstered by an Art History degree and personal interest and research. While he does this you spend your time listening, genuinely interested in all the knowledge he displays, curled as close to him as you can be at a formal party, and staring at him like he hung the moon and stars in the sky.

It’s not hard to stare at him like that. In the few months you’d been dating he had proven to be a wonderful boyfriend, the perfect partner. While he had expressed a desire to move slowly because of past failed relationships and clearly had reservations about how far to go with you, what to say, what to withhold, and what was okay and not, he was nothing but loving. He respected you greatly, something easy to see with every action he took and every word he said. He always made sure you were okay with a course of action, asked your opinion regularly and listened when you had something to say. The few times you’d raised issues in your relationship he’d listened and so had you, the two of you working through the teething problems together to come out the other side better and stronger. He was unfailingly kind and considerate to you, there was never a day he didn’t compliment you or send you a good morning text, in return you always let him know you got home safe from work and told him how wonderful he was. He made sure you were okay when you were feeling sick or under the weather, always popping round after a long day of work to care for you. He never made you feel bad for a single thing you did for him, like the time you brought him flowers, nervous he’d hate them because your past boyfriends had been less receptive to the thought of them. He always held doors open for you and offered to carry your bag if it was heavy. He always made sure to leave you with a smile on your lips and never made you feel silly when you were upset or panicked.

He had proven to be a wonderful person and wonderful boyfriend all on top of being so incredibly handsome that you wondered how you’d lucked out to find a man who was quite literally the whole package. If there was ever a man who screamed ‘I’m husband material, take me home to meet your entire family’, it was Marcus. He was mature, responsible, safe, and comforting. He wasn’t boring either, the whole concept of safe as a boring baffled you. There was nothing better than knowing you could rely on Marcus, that if he said he’d be somewhere he would, if he said he would do something then he would, that if he made a mistake or messed up he’d own it and apologise for it, that you could discuss problems and figure them out together. He made it all seem so easy and simple, he made the effort and the energy you put in worth it because it was appreciated and returned in equal measure. You never had to baby him or mother him, he was an adult who could look after himself.

“Did you have a good time, honey? I know I talked a lot...hope you weren’t bored?” It’s asked as your hands are clasped swinging between the two of you on the walk back to his car, footsteps echoing around the quiet car park.

You lean your head on his shoulder, turning your cheek to press a quick kiss there even though he can’t feel it through the layers of clothing. “I had the best time...I love listening to you talk, baby, I don’t think you could ever bore me.” You want him to believe you, to be confident in that. The hesitation to talk to you about his interests bothers you because you love him and his passions, because you don’t want him to ever doubt your desire to listen.

You pull him to a stop, both hands now holding one of his, forcing him to stop and look at you with raised eyebrows and a bemused smile. “I love listening to you talk about the things you’re passionate about, Marcus. Don’t hide it from me. Please.”

“You...you mean that?”

“Yes, I really mean it!” You say it with a laugh on your lips because how could you not love listening to him talk about the things he loves the most, the things he’s interested in. He had said on multiple occasions how much he loved hearing you talk about your interests, so why was it so hard for him to understand that you felt the same way.

There’s something blinding to him about your smile in that moment, about the realisation that you actually want to listen to him, that you enjoy listening to him, that his love of Art history, something that his past partners have had little to no interest in, is something you want to hear about. From him. It...it stuns him a little bit in the best sort of way and for a minute he thinks maybe this was supposed to happen. Maybe his ex-wife, Teresa, all of it was supposed to happen to bring him to you. Where he was supposed to be.

He kisses you because he can’t bring himself to say he loves you yet. He’s scared if he says it, this magic feeling, this peaceful place you’ve found yourselves in will shatter like a dropped mirror. So, the love he feels for you, he pours into a kiss, arms wrapping tightly around you, a hand cupping the base of your head. You open your mouth to his without a second thought, your hands trailing up over his arms and shoulders before diving into dark brown hair that had been combed neatly for the evening. Kissing him always brings a warmth to your chest, a sort of ache that makes you want to cry happy tears. There is something so safe and welcoming about his embrace, something so warming about the gentle slide of tongue against yours and the press of his nose into your cheek. It’s all consuming, all you can think about is his touch, his smell, his presence, his warmth. The outside world fades away and only Marcus exists.

“Can I take you home, Honey?” A large palm slips down low on your back as you pull away from each other, Marcus’ nose grazing against yours with a cheeky little smile and a familiar twinkle in his eye that means trouble.

“Only if you stay.” The twitch of one eyebrow and lopsided grin tell you you’re on the same page as you rush to his car like naughty children about to get in trouble and not fully grown adults.

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

He’s grabbing some shitty coffee from the little kitchenette on his floor the day after the gala, feeling like his heads too fuzzy after a late night with you and the horrible event that was forcing himself out of a warm bed next to a warm body, when David walks by and spots him.

Marcus is sure he probably looks as grumpy as he feels, he just...he really didn’t want to get out of bed this morning. Not with you there all warm, gentle and soft. Bedhead everywhere and a little, little pool of drool underneath your arm, not that he’d tell you about that. It’s easy to get up at his place when he’s alone, there’s no one drawing him back, no warmth calling to him.

“So, how’s the partner? Still hanging on your every word?” The grin of David’s face spells trouble, the sort of trouble that usually ends with Marcus bright red in the face and feeling less put together than he should be as head of a department in the FBI.

“What are you talking about?” The words confuse him...separately and individually they make sense. He knows David’s talking about you, who he left in your bed at 5am this morning to come into work early for a meeting. He knows he’s referring to something but not quite what, something to do with words and...and...did he miss something? He feels like he’s missed a whole chunk of a conversation. Marcus decides it’s far too early for this, especially after a long meeting that didn’t get anywhere.

“Last night.”

“What about last night?” He’s definitely putting more sugar than is healthy in his coffee this morning, mostly to combat the bitter fatigue and maybe the short sugar buzz would make his brain understand what the hell David Andrews was talking about. Though that seemed less likely by the second, maybe he’d call you later...you might know what he was getting at.

“Y/N, you did notice right?” The look he gives Marcus can only be described as shock turning to hilarity, as if Marcus had missed out on some obvious punchline to a joke. For a minute he wonders if he’s fucked up again...have...do you not like him anymore? Was this David’s way of warning him that he’d seen something in your face last night that spelled the end of his relationship? “Wait, you don’t...kid, you’re not seriously telling me you’re that blind?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, David.” He’s getting a little frustrated at this point. Usually not quick to get angry or annoyed, the thought that maybe you’d given some sign that you were ready to end their relationship was making him more irritable than normal. While he’d accept it if that was the case, he’s not sure his heart would survive another knockout in the love ring.

“The heart eyes Y/N was giving you all night? Hanging on every word you had to say about art? Looking at you like you hung the moon? Not leaving your side for more than a few minutes at a time? Y/N’s in love with you, kid.” The grin on David’s face is so wide that all of his shiny white teeth appear blinding. There’s a panic that begins to grip Marcus’ heart, an instinctive reaction to the pace at which everything suddenly feels like it’s happening.

Once upon a time he would have enjoyed the rush, ran head first into it, but after too many failed relationships, rushed seemed scary, fast was too much. It was too soon, you’d been dating four months, you couldn’t possibly love him. Sure, he loved you but...but he always fell in headfirst, too quickly

“No...no...I mean...it’s too soon, right? We’ve only been dating a few months and...and…” He thinks back to Teresa, their quick, fast paced romance, the ultimate end when she left him for another man. About his ex-wife, how they’d rushed into marriage young, how it hadn’t been enough to keep her attention, he hadn’t been enough. Then he thinks of you. Of your smiling face, the softness with which you trace your fingertips over his shoulders when he stays the night, the way you laugh at all his jokes even the bad one’s...how you said you enjoyed hearing him talk about his passions last night.

“Look, just because you’ve been burnt before doesn’t mean you’re going to get burnt now. Pike, I've seen love and that was love in Y/N’s eyes. Not attraction, not like, not a crush, love. Maybe you’ve finally found someone going at your speed? Think about it.”

He does. Think about it, that is. Takes his coffee back to his office and sits there for ages not looking at the files on his desk or the case work he has to get done, just thinking about you. He can’t really stop himself when he picks up the phone and dials your work number, knowing that you’ll answer, assuming something’s wrong most likely.

“Marcus? Are you okay? Is everything alright?” You’re worried and that worry adds to the pounding of his heart, the ache in his chest. You worry about him. You care about him. You barely let the phone ring before picking it up.

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay, honey...I just…” His eyes drift to the paper weight on his desk, the one shaped like Michelangelo’s David, that you’d bought him on a trip to an Art Gallery. It reminded him of you whenever he looked at it. His free hand scratches across his beard as he leans more comfortably back in his chair.

“Did...did something happen? Baby, are you…? You don’t sound okay?” You’re worried. Marcus doesn’t just call you in the middle of a work day, not unless something has happened. Despite his words he seems off, not his usual self and there’s an anxiety that fills your chest at the thought that something isn’t right, something isn’t like it normally is.

“I’m great I just...I wanted to say I love you. I don’t say it enough...or at all.” He bites the bullet, knows it’ll come out at some point because he very rarely has any sense of patience. He knows the moment David said you might love him, he was a goner, he wasn’t going to be able to contain his own feelings. Because he loves you. Loves you so much that it’s hard on a morning when he actually wakes up beside you not to tell you he loves you. It’s hard not to say it when he leaves for work or when he phones during a rough case.

There’s a pause on your end. He can hear your shaky breathing, the quick inhale of breath at his words. He has to close his eyes tight, just for a second, just to swallow down the feeling of nausea in his stomach at the thought that you might be about to tell him to take a hike.

“You...you love me? Really?” It’s said with a happy little laugh in your voice, the sort that comes from awe, shock, an unexpected happiness that fills your chest. You can see some of your colleagues looking at you funny from the corner of your eye, but don’t really care in that moment.

“Yeah, honey, I love you. So much. I just...it’s okay if you don’t want to say it, I...I don’t want to rush you or ruin what we have.”

“Marcus, how could telling me you love me ever ruin what we have? God, baby, I love you too. So much, so so much!”

He can’t help but laugh, it’s the relieved sort of laugh. You can hear the happiness in the breathy chuckle, can feel a few tears coming to your eyes because he loves you and you love him. Nothing could be better than that, then this feeling.

The two of you stay on the phone for longer than you should considering you’re both at work, but in that moment, revelling in the happiness that only comes from sharing a declaration of love and receiving that love returned, you can’t find it within yourself to care.

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike #the mentalist reader insert #the mentalist readerinsert #the mentalist #readerinsert #reader insert #gender neutral reader

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