#one fic away from the first hundred‚ months before the series even aired

[braceletofteeth]

depicted: the calmest most patient fandom out there

[tojipie]

welcome home <3

he’s unboxed ! who cheered. by far one of my most requested fics of all time. started this series 6 months ago and it remains one of my favs :,) this is by no means the end though ! i haven’t been writing any of the additions to this series in “order” and i am still 100% open to writing about his life inside/after prison lol. thank u to all the lovely ppl that have been showing love to these since april mwah mwah mwah mwah

as always, prison bf toji series linked here <3

content: (incarceration, fem reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, p in v smut, pining, road head, swallowing, creampie, dirty talk, multiple rounds)

“just step through here and—yep,” the guard waves his security want across your outstretched arms, clearing you to take your belongings from the conveyor belt.

you’d done this dance a hundred times over the past seven years, driving up to the district penitentiary twice a week to see your boyfriend—now fiancé.

toji told you he didn’t have it in him to wait, popping the question during a conjugal visit a month ago. 

the man had known he’d wanted to marry you even before he got locked up. the feeling was mutual, but unspoken, always hanging in the air between the two of you.

you on the other hand had known you wanted to marry toji the moment he whispered his first “i love you,” said to you through the crackly speaker of a burner phone on a night when neither of you knew if he’d be coming home or not.

you make a beeline for the release wing, breaking into a subtle jog without drawing too much attention to yourself. the bouquet of green flowers you’d bought at the grocery store jostles in your purse, leaving a breadcrumb trail of stray petals.

there, around a bend and down the corridor stands the man of your dreams, flanked by officers and personnel at the front desk. 

metal cuffs clack together as the man reaches to accept a clipboard from the release agent, skillfully uncapping the pen with his teeth to fill out the means for his freedom.

he looks up a split second before you speak, dropping the clipboard with an audible clatter. toji tears down the corridor with a look that speaks of relief beyond words.

“toji!” you yell, sprinting to the inmate with outstretched arms. you nearly trip over your own feet with how quick you barrel towards him.

warm bodies clash together at last, squeezing, cradling, and caressing every inch of each other at last. his law enforcement entourage watches from afar, some smiling, others annoyed.

you’re lifted clean off the ground as strong, tattooed arms slip over your head and around your body. thick fingers work their way into your hair, cradling your head to his shoulder. 

actions speak louder than words, you know that much from how quickly he buckles, dropping to his knees with your body still wrapped around his. 

toji smells different every time you come to visit. there were days when the tang of blood stuck to his skin no matter how hard he scrubbed, a telling sign of his short temper. 

other days he’d smell like the earth, soil from the rec field permeating his already brown garments after his morning run.

once in a while, you’d catch hints of industrial paint and car exhaust, a smell built up from hours of making license plates for pocket change from the state. “pennies,” he’d tell you, “that’s all we fucking get in here.”

today, toji smells like himself. like the man you fell in love with 7 years ago in the passenger seat of a BMW, gazing into green eyes while gentle hands brushed the hair from your face. 

you almost think he’s laughing until warm tears trickle through the porous fabric of your shirt. 

strong shoulders quiver as quiet sobs rack his body, you rub his back in small circles, unable to pull away with how tight he’s holding you against his chest.

“i love you,” the inmate whimpers, wiping hot tears with his sleeve. he pulls back to press your lips together, mumbling nonsense in between kisses.

“pretty girl—m’ sorry— missed you,” his hands shake as they curl into the fabric at your waist.

you’d seen him cry exactly twice in his life. the first being the night he’d opened up to you in full for the first time, quietly relaying stories of neglect and abuse from his childhood while you kissed tears from his cheeks.

the second was well, the day he went away.

to see him break down like this so openly was devastating. he hated being emotional, told you it was humiliating. you’re sure he felt more than vulnerable, the leader of the city’s biggest drug ring, crumpled on the floor of a prison hallway 

“it’s okay baby,” you tell him, still rubbing circles into his skin.

to touch him like this, at last, was unlike anything the two of you had been allowed to experience for the past 7 years. this wasn’t your two legally allowed hugs at the beginning and end of your visits, or a quick fuck in a storage closet.

this was love. to hold and be held in front of law enforcement personnel without threat of being reprimanded. this was the first time you had been allowed to feel him under the tips of your fingers with an audience, publicly declaring your claim on each other without fear. 

you never blamed toji for what had happened, as angry as you were that first year. he blamed himself enough for the both of you really. 

you’d come to learn over the years that it had already been too late for him to get out of his line of work way before you’d found each other, a cycle he couldn’t break.

prison was always a possibility, inevitable even. that’s just how it was.

you slowly gather your purse off the ground, cellophane-wrapped flowers coming into view. 

“for me?” he laughs, slightly embarrassed. dark green carnations, just like his eyes. 

“who else?” you tease, watching the distress melt from his face.

you share a look briefly, yours saying you’re safe with me. his saying i know.

the soft clicks of black work boots pull you from your thoughts, a female officer in tow.

“you guys ready to get started?” she asks softly, shooting you a sympathetic look.

toji stands with a chuckle, not letting you respond. silver cuffs dig into the meat of your thighs as you’re carried back to the group.

 ˚ ✧ ───────────

half an hour of paperwork for his freedom. that’s what you give the prison in exchange for his belongings and dignity. 

the waiting room is quiet, sterile air filtering through dated vents. calloused fingers rub over your ankle, legs propped up in his lap.

“feels like a hospital in here,” he mumbles, trying to cut through the silence.

the cuffs are gone, thank god. though you’re more than unhappy with the marks they left on his wrists. toji doesn’t seem to mind, used to almost a decade of this treatment.

the release desk worker slides you two a yellow bag under the glass divider once you finish your task, pointing you in the direction of the bathrooms in case toji wanted to change. 

the inmate—no, ex-inmate you remind yourself— hands you the bag with a disinterested look. 

he doesn’t want to remember, you realize. too scared to wear the suit he had on the day the world took you from him. you quickly trash the old clothes and hold out your shoulder bag to him, fresh clothes neatly folded inside. 

“always prepared huh?” toji smiles, grateful at the gesture. “haven’t changed a bit.”

you wait a couple of minutes outside the single-stall bathroom, physically picking your jaw up off the floor when he emerges.

to say that his old shirt fit would be... egregiously wrong. blasphemous even.

toji’s shirt doesn’t just “not fit”, it’s bursting at the seams as it struggles to accommodate his hulking form, stretching over plains of corded muscle like a rubber band pulled too tight. 

seeing him so often had likely gotten your brain used to the change, preventing you from realizing how fucking big your fiancé had gotten. truly.

the black garment is so tight against his body that it’s practically a second skin. you make note of the way it molds into the dips and curves of his abs, mentally reminding yourself to get him to wear it for you later. 

you suppose the change makes sense. if toji wasn’t with you on a day visit he was always in his cell, sticking to a strict workout regimen to take his mind off things. still, you rack your brain trying to pinpoint how and when such a massive transformation slipped your mind.

a tattooed hand snaps you out of your trance, cradling your cheek.

“you focused?” your fiancé teases, rubbing circles into your jaw with his thumb.

“i think that thing’s gonna explode if you move,” you swat his hand away. 

“would you rather i take it off to be safe?” he asks, jutting a thumb behind him at the waiting room desk.

the workers make no attempt to hide their oggling, faces pressed against the glass barrier separating your party from theirs.

“no— god keep it on,” you mutter, shooting them a nasty look.

“you and your girlfriend ready to go fushiguro?” an officer says, holding the door open for the both of you. toji squats down momentarily to get a grip on your thighs, folding you over his shoulder to carry you fireman style.

“wife,” he corrects, shouldering past the guard and trudging down the corridor with calculated steps.

the coos that ring out from the help desk are humiliating.

waxed tile fades into worn concrete as the two of you pass the threshold into the prison parking lot, your soon-to-be-husband muttering a curt “go fuck yourselves” to the officers who’d wished him good luck on his way out the door.

you’re proud of him for holding his tongue, in a way. knowing toji and his temper there were a hundred more creative and undoubtedly gruesome things he could have said to the personnel who’d kept him locked up for the better half of a decade. 

the world flips right side up again as you’re gently placed on your feet in front of the car. 

toji raises his head to the sky, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun.

“s’ nice,” he mumbles, reaching to intertwine your hands. “felt the sun during rev time but.. not like this.”

you hum, rubbing your thumb over tattooed knuckles. 

“get ready to experience a lot more sun then,” you giggle. “wanna have a look at the car?” the question is more of a rhetorical one at this point considering he’s already running his hand over the hood with a whistle.

“haven’t seen this baby in a while,” he smiles, internally gushing at your choice to welcome him to the world in the car he used to drive you home the night you met. your fiancé doesn’t have to say thank you, you know how grateful he is from his smile alone.

he falters for a bit, looking like a newborn fawn with how careful his steps are as he circles the vehicle. you figure wearing proper shoes instead of rubber slides must feel at least a little abnormal after 7 long years. 

“alright,” toji states, rolling his shoulders in his too-tight top. “fuck are we waiting for, i wanna go home.”

 ˚ ✧ ───────────

you pay no mind to toji the first time he turns to look at you, opening his mouth to say something before slumping back into his seat with a frustrated sigh.

the fourth time it happens, you speak up.

“what are you doing?” you laugh, eyeing him from the driver's seat

“getting rubbed to death by my fucking zipper,” he mutters, repositioning his lower half to take the pressure off his cock. his frustration isn’t aimed at you in the slightest, all blame placed on his bottoms.

oh.. oh.

the whirlwind of emotions toji had gone through in the past 3 hours alone had taken a toll on his mind and body. but tasting the first morsels of freedom with you, alone in a car that smelled like you? you’d be worried if he wasn’t hard.

you had no problem helping his little problem go away, the question was how soon.

the idea that piques on you is absolutely shameful, you’re not even sure where it came from but you don’t have it in you to care. 

you know this road, you’ve used it a thousand times to make the trip up to the penitentiary. judging by how long you’d been driving you’d say there was about 10 minutes left before ruler-straight tar merged into the twists and turns of the suburbs.

“when did your license expire?” you ask, cautiously peering in the rearview mirror. good, no cars.

“3 years ago,” he laughs, “why?”

fuck it, you think.

“you still remember how to steer?” 

“course i d— oh.”

it finally dawns on him. you smile, shooting him a look that says “want to?”

you’re sure you have your answer judging by how quick he shucks his jeans and boxers down, freeing his cock from its confines.

“oh fuck,” he groans, struggling to keep his eyes open as your mouth presses against his base. 

your fiancé steers while your head bobs just beneath the dash, one hand on the wheel and the other placed firmly at the crown of your head, guiding you up and down the shaft.

your throat flexes around the intrusion, fighting the hulking feeling of his length mercilessly fucking into your mouth.

“fuck, perfect girl— my girl,” he shudders, hips moving to buck into your slick throat.

“gonna cum, gonna— shit,”

fingers kissed in dark ink massage your throat softly, urging you to swallow the hot load coating every inch of your mouth. you flutter around his length, pulling back to clean him off with your tongue.

“fucks gotten into you, pretty girl?” he whispers, so out of breath you barely hear him. 

 ˚ ✧ ───────────

you barely make it up the steps of the house before you’re shoved against the door, tattooed hands groping up and down your body with fervor.

“keys,” he says against your lips, “keys—fuck, now,” his voice is hoarser this time, desperation clear.

you whip around to jam the item into the lock, not unaware of the rock-hard dick grinding into your jean-clad ass from behind.

you’re being carried to the couch before you even step off the doormat, a stray throw blanket cushioning your fall as you’re pressed into squeaky leather. 

“won’t be gentle,” toji groans, ripping your jeans and panties down in one fluid motion.” can’t right now.”

“don’t be.” you say, rucking his shirt off his body surprisingly quick. “wouldn’t want you to.”

you needed him, needed toji to have his way with you. to christen your home round after round until you couldn’t feel where his body and yours ended.

when it came down to it, you suppose 

he smiles at the crude admission, rubbing the head of his cock up and down your drenched folds.

“filthy,” he mutters, said almost lovingly. toji grips his base and sinks to the hilt with a sharp groan, shuddering at the heat of your walls.

the stretch is delicious, filling you from every angle and pressing right against that special spot. you’re surprised at how easily he slams in, though you’re embarrassed to admit it was entirely because of how soaked you were. 

toji immediately pulls back with a flick of his hips, pistoning into you like his life depends on it. 

he hasn’t changed, you think. still so incredibly in tune with your body, skills that would put a pornstar to shame.

this was better than some quick closeted fuck under the cover of night after slipping a guard a rubber band of cash. this was primal, filthy. two bodies writhing against each other, the only goal being complete and utter pleasure. 

toji makes no effort to shush you like he would if you were sneaking around, basking in your sighs and whines like water from a stream.

“missed this,” he says, licking a long, wet stripe from your sternum to your pulse. “missed you, missed having you every day.”

“you’ll have me forever,” you moan, sucking a purple bruise into the tattooed skin of his throat.

thick fingers thread into your hair to hold you to his neck, silently commanding you to bite down.

and so you do. you bite down hard on the junction of his neck and shoulder, licking over pink teeth marks as his thrusts reach their maximum speed.

the pleasure you feel is blinding. stars explode behind your vision while the curve of his cock hits that heavenly spot in you just right. over, and over, and over.

your climax sneaks up on you before you can think, ripping a wail from the depths of your chest. toji’s thrusts falter to a halt as you lock down on him, pleasantly caught off guard by the vice grip you have around him.

“oh my g— holy shit,” he groans, mouth hanging open. dark brows furrow it to a look of pure pleasure, emerald eyes squeezing tight.

“keep going,” you mumble, scratching rivets down the skin of his back. “just keep fucking me please don’t stop please pl—”

“yeah? keep going?” he teases, groping at the swell of your breast. “greedy huh?”

you did want more, that was the thing. you just came the hardest you ever had in years but you’d be damned if he didn’t keep giving it to you.

brutal thrusts shake the frame of the couch. your bodies meld like they were made for each other, sharing pleasure in the comfort that came with the knowledge that the both of you intended to fuck until you physically couldn’t anymore.

“gonna come,” your fiancé pants, mouthing at the curve of one of your breasts. blunt teeth brush over the bud of your nipple, sending shockwaves down your spine

“inside, fuck—please,” you’re practically shaking.

“inside?” he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue like gold. “you want my seed? huh?” 

you nod, clutching to his naked back as he ruts into you, deeper than ever. strong hands grip the back of your thighs practically folding you in half, opening you up in ways you thought to be impossible.

hot release fills you up for the second time that day, shrouding your lower half in a blanket of warmth.

you sigh, low and satiated at the feeling inside of you, pulling toji to your chest when he collapses on top of you.

“we should probably..” toji trails off, completely out of breath. “should probably head upstairs.” he heaves, chest swelling with deep gulps of air.

“or we could go another round?” you mumble, throwing the question out there. 

“shit, yeah.. probably should right?” he chuckles

taglist ! 🏷️

@honeybee54321 @m150-50up @kuryoomi @t4naiis @serendippindots @sillyalo @levixbby @powerrwa @tojishugetiddies @wheredidmycrowngo @unknownspecies @ushygushybaby @ebiharachan @hoshigray @crazychaoticizzy @denypipa @watyousayin @tempest1art @sakuraryomen01 @kariito-art @vkeyy @mxtokko @inumakiiz @rosieee491 @loveme-b4by @suguxo @namjoonsbuspass @tojis-luver @complexivelovely @dancingwithdeities @sunflwrsugar @catvader101 @ktsgrl @princessos-blog @4ut0p5y @swiftsongs-mp3 @mycocoapuffs @adrenepinephrine @na0koz @suguscape @jaswonder3 @bokutosprettylittlebimbo @getousrep @jeannieboys @darkstarlight82

[freshbakedbreadstick]

No. 1 Party Anthem - Mikey Berzatto x F!Reader - Prologue

Past!Mikey Berzatto x F!Reader

Carmy Berzatto x F!Platonic!Reader

Richie Herimovich x F!Platonic!Reader

Summary: After running for so long, it was time to come home

Warnings: All my fics are 18+ regardless of the content. Heavy spoilers and angst. Mentions of death, mental health issues, and toxic relationships. It’s not graphic or detailed in this one but I just want to warn you now that this series will deal with extremely heavy topics as it goes on (similar to the show).

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: Hey bestiesssssssssss!!! This is my first ever series and actually first ever written work that I'm posting lol and I'm so excited for it!!! I'm starting off with a series because i had this really good and angsty idea while reading ANOTHER fantastic piece of work and was like “fine…….. I'll do it myself” so i'm here now writing it lmao anyways i'm starting off posting my fanfics with Mikey and Carmy because i've been a little too focused on The Bear lately n love them so much. Chapter one of this series should be coming up this time next week so dw abt waiting so long for an update!! Anyways i hope you all enjoyyyy <3

MASTERLIST

The cool Chicago night air nips at you as it blows by, rolling along the exposed skin of your arms. It was 3 in the morning and the street where The Original Beef of Chicagoland stood was empty and silent.

The building stood before you, quiet and lifeless. It was odd seeing it so silent and it almost seemed… peaceful. But one glance at the rusting sign that seemed to be barely hanging onto the building made the façade of tranquility fall.

The knot in your stomach grew as your eyes traced over the rusted sign and then onto the walls that showed cracks and age. The sidewalk wasn’t any better with uneven cement and haphazard patching. Just then, a piece of trash rolled by the curb, coming from the alley right next to The Beef. 

It was just like how you remembered it. 

The wear and tear was what originally made you appreciate it. It showed use and love, the same way that laugh lines around a person’s mouth showed you that they lived a life full of smiles and laughter. The walls were in use as hundreds filed in and out of the building for their favorites, every week. The floor was worn away underneath the soles of families, drunk friends, older couples, working folk, and more. The ungentrified building made the whole thing feel nostalgic, despite not being a building you were around as a child. It had felt… familiar in a both comforting and melancholic way. 

But now, seeing the building, especially with its marks of age, made your blood run like ice through your veins. It made you shiver, despite it being September in Chicago. 

What once was a warm and inviting place felt cold and even scary. 

It had been months since you spoke to the Berzattos. Actually, it had been months since you were in Chicago at all. About 8 months, that is. You left in February after… everything and never looked back. The east felt too familiar at that point, so you traveled west.

You chased the highs and avoided the lows, moving from one place to another until you settled in a quiet town where you felt loved. But that love didn’t come without its challenges and when it got hard, you did what you knew best and that was leaving. 

So you left with no clue as to where you were going, too proud but mainly too afraid to reach out to the family you had in Chicago. You drove with a car full of junk you couldn't even stand looking at anymore for all the memories of the past couple of months attached to them made your stomach churn. With no place to go, you found yourself, 5 days after leaving and living in your car, sitting on the hood of your 2002 Chevy Impala, stopped and watched the sunset of the west for the last time at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere with your head hurting and eyes puffy. It was then when your phone buzzed. 

The cracked screen blinked brightly as you glanced over at it.

‘Please come home, we miss you - Nat’

Your mouth dried as you read the message. Your heart pounded in your ears as your eyes raced over the words over and over and over.

‘Please come home, we miss you’

‘Please come home, we miss you’

‘Please come home, we miss you’

‘Please come home, we miss you’

‘Please come home, we miss you’

‘Please come home, we miss-

Another message popped up then, interrupting your reading and making you jump. 

‘I promise it’s okay’

Your hands trembled. How Sugar got your number after you changed it twice to avoid your ex from the west was a mystery but it almost felt like divine intervention as you read it under the glow of the cotton candy clouds in the sky. 

‘Come home’

So you made the decision to go back. 

To go home. 

But this decision didn’t mean that you were leaving right away; for two months you practically lived in motel rooms and in your car, pacing back and forth for hours in parking lots, empty hallways, and tiny motel rooms at the thought of facing everyone again. Would they be upset? Angry? Sad? Would they hate you? Welcome you with open arms? Especially after abandoning them the way you did? 

Some nights were spent breathing deeply and slowly, desperately trying to get your heart to beat at a reasonable pace and other nights were spent with tears streaming down your cheeks. You almost even decided to just not come home at all; it felt like moving out of the country and assuming a new identity would be easier to deal with than going home.

But you got yourself together and after pawning everything you didn’t mind parting with for cash, you drove with a lighter trunk and a lighter heart across the country and eastward toward Illinois. 

Before you knew it, the giant ‘WELCOME TO ILLINOIS, THE LAND OF LINCOLN’ sign had appeared in your vision. It greeted you like an old friend, making your eyes sting and your chest tighten as your car zoomed by it. 

Two hours away from Chicago, your stomach would not stop growling so you decided to stop and grab a bite to eat. After settling your car at a nearby park next to an empty bench, you got off and focused a bit too much on grabbing your belongings to notice what your surroundings looked like. 

It wasn’t until you had sat down and ripped the bag of food open, when the smell of a salami and mozzarella sub wafted in the air, perking you up and prompting you to smile softly, that you glanced up. Over the dark green shrubs and still water of Peoria Lake were cotton candy clouds, nearly identical to the ones that you had seen while sitting on the hood of your car, terrified and hoping for a sign, any sign, that what you were doing was the right thing. 

Five minutes later, your car was back on the highway and speeding towards Chicago.

You stayed over at your parents’ house that night. They were overjoyed to see their child. Your mother cried, holding onto you as your father rubbed your back, comfortingly. Part of you wanted to, so badly, melt into their arms, but another part of you reminded you of the last time you were here. Despite the furniture being different and the decorations being rearranged, your body twitched as it remembered the exact emotions and position you were in when you got the news. 

The news that your boyfriend, Michael Berzatto, was found dead.

You couldn’t sleep that night, nor the next, or even the one after that. You got a combined total of about 15 hours of sleep in the past 72 hours, making you look and feel exhausted. But your mind was the only thing that wasn’t exhausted from replaying the memory over and over and over. 

About 5 days after you arrived, you got another message from Sugar. This time, a pit formed in your stomach as you read it.

‘Hey, it’s me again! Can you swing by The Beef tomorrow? I'm working there now and would love to see you. I’m sorry this is on such short notice but I've been crazy busy and I heard you were in town. I really want to see you and if you can’t do tomorrow, let me know so we can plan another day.

We really do miss you.’

You rock your jaw and put your phone down on the edge of the twin mattress you sat on, in your childhood bedroom. Right then, your mom gently knocks on your bedroom door before pushing it open.

“Have you talked to Natalie at all yet?” she said softly, clasping her hands together and leaning against the door frame.

You huffed and smiled weakly, of course your mom would mention something to her, that’s how she knew you were here. While your mom respected you doing things on your own time, she also knew that you needed a little push to make that connection. 

“Uhm… yea she just texted me. I uh, i might see her tomorrow at The Beef,” you murmured with a shaky breath. 

Thank god Sugar ended up being the one to text you instead of you texting her. 

Your mom smiled sweetly, “I think you should go, sweetheart. I know it seems scary but… I think it’s time you saw them…” 

Nodding, you turn and crawl up to the pillows of your bed. With a sigh, you lay down and close your eyes, exhausted. 

From your door frame, your mom quietly watched you and sighs softly. She slowly grabs your door and closes it behind her as she leaves. The hallway light goes off, leaving you and your thoughts alone in the pitch black dark.  

And here you were, a couple hours after you read her message, standing across The Beef on a cool Chicago night with the air nipping at your exposed skin as it blows by. You left in such a rush that you forgot to bring a hoodie and didn’t even bother to change from your thin pajama pants and loose old t-shirt. All you did was throw on your shoes and climb out your window, car keys clutched in your sweaty palm, like you used to do in high school to sneak off with Mikey. 

But those days seemed so far away now the same way that The Beef seemed so far away. It felt as if the trek across the street actually spanned thousands of miles and not a minute walk. 

So you sighed and turned around, walking down the sidewalk and back to your car. Who knew what time it was anymore, but you knew that you really needed to get rest tonight… you had a big day tomorrow. 

[vgilantee]

Worlds Apart {Neteyam Sully}

Prologue

neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan x human/avatar reader

words: 3.5k

a/n: welcome to the start of a new series! as stated in the masterlist, this series is going to be canon divergent, starting with the fact that everyone (bar Tuk) will be aged up 2-3 years in the main series. this is because that's how old i thought they were and so that's how old i'm writing them to be. (for once, i have proofread a fic! i had to retype this... entire chapter because of a single, tiny change i made. but hundreds of words had to be changed so i retyped the whole thing) important: while i couldn't find a canon answer, for the sake of this fic, Pandoran years are approx. 1.2 Earth years, so when I mention the ages of the reader and other characters, I'm referring to them in Pandoran years. (i.e. when i mention the reader's first birthday, technically she is 14 Earth months, and when Tuk is born, she is 13 Pandoran years, which is about 15 Earth years.) After this chapter, specific ages won't be mentioned, though chapter 1 will open with the year the series is set in!

warnings: side-character deaths

pronouns: she/her

series masterlist // taglist form

Never before had someone been placed in cryogenic hibernation while heavily pregnant. It was considered dangerous, highly risky for both the parent and the child. But billions of dollars had been invested into your mother’s avatar, and she was considered one of the best biochemists on Earth. So, after many months of warnings, she was placed in cryo whole her avatar was set to grow in the final of the six year flight to Pandora.

Only four months away from landing on Pandora, alarms blared on her cryo pod, and the few medics who remained awake for the duration of the trip were quick to pull her out. You were by no means the first child born in space, but you were the first born so far from Earth. And though they were highly trained, there was nothing the medical crew could do to save your mother. The combination of giving birth in space, being pulled so abruptly from cryo hibernation, and whatever had caused the alarms to sound in the first place was all to much for her body. Her last word was your name, barely whispered into the air. Your mother never made it to Pandora.

Cryo was not designed for infants, especially not newborns, so the first few months of your life was spent in space. The medics and awake crew did their best to work with what they had, teaching you babbled speech with medical and ship information. You were wide-eyed and happy, not knowing the life you were missing.

After landing on Pandora, the first person woken was Noah. A military man who had met your mother while training for the long-haul hibernation to, and eventual life on Pandora. He had known, of course, that she was pregnant, but nothing could prepare him for learning that she had died only months prior, and you – who was nothing more than a shape on a sonogram last he saw you – were chewing on your fingers and babbling replies as those who had raised you those long months had conversations you couldn’t understand.

Though he was ill-prepared, Noah still held you carefully in his arms as he adjusted the much-too-big oxygen mask onto your face, and held you close to his hip as he carried you off the ship and into the military base.

For a baby who had only ever seen greys and whites, only broken up by the blue of the avatar grow tanks, the bright and colourful world of Pandora had your tiny head looking around, eyes wide and mouth open as your mind raced to take all the new sensory information in. Your small hands drummed on your father’s shoulders, the only way for your excitement to manifest. And all too quickly, you were returned to the familiar monotone of the inside of a military base.

While Noah was working through orientation, you were held by a scientist as he moved around the lab and your eyes found the window into the forest at every opportunity. When he came to you that evening, Noah pressed a kiss to the crown of your head before easily taking you from the scientist who was looking after you. As he walked out of the lab and away from the window, you stared up at him with pleading, tear-filled eyes and in that moment, as you began to bubble with sadness, your dad realised that he completely and truly loved you, ad would do anything on this planet or the next to keep you, his tiny baby girl, safe.

---

When Jake arrived on Pandora, he was surprised to find a baby in the science lab. Even more so when you crawled as quickly as you could toward him once you saw he had wheeling in, followed closely by Max who bent down to scoop you up off the floor. You giggled as he rested you on his hip with a swing, then you turned to wave at Jake with chubby fingers.

He watched you as Max spoke, fighting the soft smile as you tilted your head and nodded along as if you understood what he said.

`“And this little one,” Max bounced you on his hip, causing more giggles to bubble out of you, “is out lab assistant.”

Although the title was entire a joke, you were still there watching (‘supervising’, as your dad would say) as Jake and Norm entered their link pods for the first time the following day, stood beside Jake’s pod with one hand on the edge of the pod to help you stand, and the other wrapped around his finger, giving it a squeeze with a smile as the metal cage was lowered over him. Jake wasn’t sure if you knew the action was usually used to comfort someone, but he accepted the reassurance. The confident smile from a wide-eyed toddler somehow working to settle his nervous heart.

The avatar program was something that you held an obvious fascination for, always watching whenever Jake or others went into their link pod, running your hands along the glass tunes that both currently and formerly grew the giant blue na’vi.

You always took longer on your mother’s one. Death hadn’t been explained to you, all you knew was that your mother was gone and that the avatar was going to be hers. And now that she was gone, the avatar was left to grow in the pod in hopes of finding a solution that would mean the four billion dollars put into it wouldn’t be wasted.

After the death of your mother, her avatar was all but ignored past wondering what to do with it now that its host was gone, because all focus was on you. But once you had been reunited with your father, the team could move their attention away from you, and return it to the avatar problem. Somewhere in the seven Earth months since your birth, the genetic code of it had collapsed, no longer growing and still stuck looking like a young toddler.

There was little that could be done with it, until one day Noah mentioned off-handedly to one of the scientists who had claimed the role of uncle – he was the one who took the most care of you when your father wasn’t around, the one who carried you while he was at orientation, and he worked closely with your mother back on Earth – that it was a shame you couldn’t use it when you got older, already so fascinated with the planet he could only imagine what would happen as you grew. This sparked the idea within your uncle.

With half of your genetics matching your mother, he used your DNA to complete the broken strands within the avatar. And to ensure it would grow properly, the markers that accelerated the ageing process was removed.

It was noted within the report file that since combining your DNA with the existing genetics of the young avatar, the face shape had changed. Though clearly older, the new face – especially compared with the old – was unmistakably becoming more you.

---

As war between the humans and the Na’vi quickly arose, you were often kept in a room adjacent to the lab so you could be cared for if adults were required, but you would never have to bear witness to any of the symptoms of war. You were confused the day you watched as Grace and Norm packed up their link pods and left, chewing on your lunch as they took the equipment. But you were assured by your dad that you would see them again.

“They’ll be okay, pumpkin,” he reassured as your eyes began to well, “they just have to move to somewhere quieter for now.”

He hoped that one day he would be able to return home to Earth and that you would be able to go with him, live a life that wasn’t filled with medical beeping and soldiers as playmates. But should that never happen, should you never be able to go to Earth or never want to leave, he would stay with you. This planet was your home, and his home was now with you, his happy, curious daughter.

With war plans picking up, your father was away more often, sometimes gone overnight, leaving you to be cared for by Paz. She was a soldier, like most people in the military base, but she had more free time than others. Though stubborn and wanting to continue with training and missions, her heavily pregnant body wouldn’t allow it. So reluctantly, she stepped down from active duty. Paz was happy to care for you, holding your hand when you demanded, making sure that you ate and were safe. She also adored the way you would look up at her with pleading eyes to rest your hands on her stomach, wanting to feel for the kicks of the growing baby.

You had never seen another child in person, didn’t quite understand what was going on, but what you did know was that you were already fascinated by and adored the baby. So when Paz went into labour, you excitedly waited on a bench outside the medbay under careful supervision of other staff. All you were told by Paz as she was escorted in, arm cradling under her stomach with a wince, was that she was going to be okay and you’d be able to meet the baby properly soon. That was enough for you to act as almost security on the door, tiny arms clumsily folded to mimic something you had seen from your father many times. You were worried, of course, as you heard the sounds of Paz in pain. But she had assured you that everything was okay, and you trusted her.

Your dad returned to base from a field mission to see you curled up on the bench, fighting with your heavy eyes. He sat down beside you and pulled you into his lap, and you easily curled up against his chest.

“Baby soon.” You mumbled to him.

“Oh yeah, is Aunty Paz having her baby?” He hadn’t known that Paz had gone into labour, though he knew her due date was getting close. Paz wasn’t your biological aunt, of course, but she didn’t want to take the place of your mother, so she took on the title of aunt. You nodded with a tired smile. With your father rubbing slow circles on your back, you fell asleep.

You woke to the sound of your father’s voice saying your name and the feeling of his hand giving you a gentle shake. You hummed, rubbing your eyes.

“You wanna meet the baby?” All sleep was shaken from your little body as you wriggled to get off of his lap, almost falling in the process. He caught you, standing to scoop you onto his hip. Carried into the room by your dad, you saw Paz and in her arms, wrapped in a hospital-white blanket, the new baby.

You were placed on the side of the hospital cot, carefully shifting forward as to not hurt Paz, but to see the baby - the first baby you had ever seen.

Paz held out her hand and you placed one of your own in it, allowing her to guide it to rest on the baby.

“His name is Miles.” Your eyes flicked up to hers for a moment, before quickly returning them to Miles. You watched in fascination as his tiny nose scrunched as he took in a breath, making tiny humming noises. “Are you going to help me take care of him?” You sucked in an excited breath, eyes lighting up as you nodded.

Days later, soldiers were rushing around and you were back in the room by the lab, this time with the newborn baby. Paz was dragged back into the war - though she did demand being allowed to pilot again immediately after being medically cleared to walk - and returned to the cockpit of her gunship.

Her body was never recovered, like many others who attacked the Tree of Souls. She was buried by Eywa where she landed.

A lot of things changed after that day. Jake, who you used to see in the avatar lab nearly every day, was gone. Most of the soldiers and scientists who had been living at Hell’s Gate left, leaving only a handful of people behind. And suddenly the bustling military base that you called home fell far quieter.

While both you and Miles were initially given birthdays using Earth dates, it quickly became clear to the adults around you that neither of you would return to Earth so they shifted, referring to your ages in Pandoran years.

Though both you and Miles were far too young to attend Neteyam’s naming, and his and Kiri’s joint first communion with Eywa, Jake and Neytiri brought the babes to Hell’s Gate for you to meet them. Although you had seen Miles grow from being a newborn, you were still fascinated by the tiny, blue forms. You were used to the na’vi, their looming heights and builds nothing new. But seeing two so small and helpless had your eyes alight with curiosity.

Because of the sudden lack of personnel, your father didn’t get to celebrate your first birthday as he wanted to, guiltily too busy with the few-month-old, now orphaned baby Miles. So, while your second birthday was nothing special it was something Noah would say was decidedly better. It was small, still nothing close to what he wanted to do for you. But he was limited by what he had access to. So instead of a cake, Neytiri brought a fruit - soft and safe for human consumption - that was traditional to give to na’vi children on their first birthday.

She still saw you as an alien and not one of the people, but she knew of Jake’s softness for you and would not deny him seeing the human celebration of your second year. You could not blow out a candle, the fire both a danger to the base and something that would use some of the precious oxygen. So Noah had you sat on one of the tables in the canteen, the large fruit on a plate in front of you. You were surrounded by those who helped raise you, scientists and soldiers alike, with Miles sat on Max’s hip and Neytiri and Jake carefully cradling the babies close.

You learned to run alongside the Sully children, clumsily tripping over branches that they, though a year younger, seemed to easily avoid. You chased them, laughing as you played, closely followed by the tiny but ever-determined Miles.

When Lo’ak was born only a year later, you already spoke in a mix of Na’vi and English. Jake laughed with Noah as your father commented on how you were already better at the Na’vi language than he was, despite Jake being one of the People. Jake ruffled his hair, a motion he mimicked a lot when they were new in the marines together. But now Noah’s hair had grown longer and curls fell into his eyes as he batted Jake away.

---

As you continued to grow, Miles always close behind you as you played with the Sully children, your father tried his best to give you a normal childhood, all things considered. He watched  you explore the forest near the base, supervising as you climbed around the roots of the large trees, teaching you to paddle and eventually swim around in the small lake Jake had shown him. But it became clear very quickly, that while Miles was able to run further and for longer, you were plagued with gasping breaths that had you clutching your chest trying to breathe.

Asthma. It was hard enough for you as you played with your friends that you were stuck wearing an oxygen mask. But the addition of asthma left you sitting on the sidelines and watching often.

The medical facilities at Hell’s Gate had inhalers, as well as attachments for your exopack to fill your lungs with ventolin when you needed it. But the access to the medication didn’t stop the knowledge that you would never be able to play with your friends like Miles - or Spider, as he was being called more often than he was Miles - from making you feel even more like an outsider.

By the time you were 10, your asthma had eased, but you still couldn’t run and climb with your friends like Spider could. You visited the village occasionally, but didn’t want to risk being stuck so far from the base should your lungs decide to protest against you, so when you spent time with the Sully children, it was around Hell’s Gate or in the lab. 

You leaned against a tree, struggling to catch your breath after running away from Spider who was determined to drop an overripe fruit onto your head. You watched enviously as he changed his target to Lo’ak, who shoved Kiri in front of him as a shield. The laugh you let out as purple splashed across her chest and she yelled at Lo’ak was wheezed and you were worried that you would have to use some of your ventolin.

Neteyam looked over at you, even smaller than usual as you curled in on yourself. His long legs quickly carried him over to you, and Neteyam rested a three-fingered hand on your back.

“Breathing?” Jake had tried his best to explain asthma to his kids, but gave up after receiving many blank stares. Instead he elected to say that sometimes you couldn’t breathe very well.

You could only nod, relaxing a little as you realised that if an asthma attack were to occur, you wouldn’t be alone in the Pandoran brush. Neteyam’s eyebrows pinch in concern as he tilts his head, feeling bad that there was nothing he could do to help. All he could do was stay with you, sat beside you and keeping you company as your breath gradually lost its wheeze.

---

As the years passed, Neteyam gradually spent less and less time with his siblings and with you. In the traditions of the clan, he was being introduced to the responsibilities of being next in line to be olo’eyktan. Though not quite old enough to be taken out on hunts, his training became more frequent, to the point where he wasn’t only being called away by Jake in the middle of a game, but simply wouldn’t appear for days. 

“Am I too harsh on him?” Jake asked, turning his attention away from the preteens playing in a pond by Hell’s Gate to Noah. Spider was chasing after Lo’ak and Kiri, trying to splash them with water, while you and Neteyam were sat side-by-side on a rock, feet in the water. You nudged him with your shoulder as he kicked water at you with a laugh and Jake sighed. 

“I won’t pretend to understand the pressure you both have on you,” Noah said with a sigh, “because this isn’t Earth and he is being raised to be the warrior leader of the clan. And you don’t always have a choice because of the clan traditions.” You let out a shriek and Noah quickly turned his head to you, only to see that Neteyam had picked you up to drop you into the water. 

“I know it’s just-” Jake cut himself off with a sigh as Neteyam laughed with you. “I feel like I’m not letting him be a kid for as long as he deserves.” Noah gave him a pat on the arm, reassuring. 

---

When Tuktiry was born, you hadn’t seen Neteyam in weeks. Lo’ak had complained that he was training to be the golden child, but Kiri quickly nudged him when she saw the sadness in your eyes. While Spider had connected himself at the hip to Kiri and Lo’ak, you ended up closer to Neteyam. So when he had up and vanished from your daily life, you felt something missing. 

“Neteyam!” You called out once you saw him. You and Spider, along with your father and a select few other humans, were invited to Tuk’s naming. Spider had insisted on dragging you to the village early, and with a lighthearted roll of your eyes, you joined him. 

“Y/N? Hi!” He jogged over to you, crouching down a little to pull you into a hug. “You’re early.” Neteyam let you go and stood back to his full height.

“Spider.” You pointed over your shoulder toward your cousin who was already tugging at Lo’ak’s tail, the only explanation needed. Neteyam nodded with a laugh. 

“I am glad you’re here.” His voice was soft as his head tilted. 

For the rest of the day leading up to Tuktiry’s naming, you and Neteyam spent time together and with his siblings, everything easy as if Neteyam had never been dragged away from spending time with you.

But just as quickly as things seemed to return to normal, Neteyam was gone again. After Tuktiry’s naming and first Eywa communion, his training seemed to double, and while Spider could see him in the village, you remained stuck close to Hell’s Gate. 

end notes: did i give the reader asthma because i grew up with asthma? am i planning on giving the reader migraines because i now suffer with migraines? noooooo /s (listen it's my fic and i can be as self indulgent as i want)

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[alteredphoenix]

An Unexpected Joyride (The Veleanor Modern AU #7)

A/N: While I'm thinking of which Celia/Michelle WIP I'm going to pull from the USB Drive and work on next (and given the month we're in, it'll probably something holiday-themed), I decided to open this guy up since it's last update in June 23 (to which it was created in May 23 of this year) after I received a lovely ask from an Anon last night about the Veleanor Modern AU series.

I had been thinking about this WIP on and off again since the last time I touched it, and I figure now would be a pretty good time to dust it off and work on this while (1) I am browsing my WIP list and (2) it's still on my mind before the brain decides To Go Brrrr and plunks it back into the far recesses of the thoughtful nether where all things belong and go to.

This is also the fic where Magilou makes her first actual appearance! But the WIP so far hasn't gotten to that point yet (but it's almost there!), so this little snippet will do for now.

Part of the summary goes as such: "(Or: Magilou has a busted muffler and it needs to be fixed last month, so Velvet, being the good convict that she is, decides to drive the damn car to the auto shop herself. As always, Magilou makes for...interesting company.

There are less than one-hundred ten hours to go.)" (I honestly might change this up as I go along idk, I kind of want to try fitting the countdown into the titles somehow)

(At the moment, the doc is sitting at 2.1k words. I get the feeling it might turn into a longfic, or close to it, so I foresee this maybe reaching around the 10k mark. Even if it doesn't, it's a good idea to set a tentative goalpost - Just To Be On The Safe Side.)

-

The first thing that Velvet notices that today is not going to be like any other normal day in this corner of hell upon waking up at six in the morning is there’s a distinct lack of music playing somewhere from the next block over. Only the fan churning quietly in the corner and the distant early morning traffic that would surely get drowned out by a higher setting could be heard.

Why the fuck...? is the first thing she thinks of after listening to the world, and then she frowns and glares up at the ceiling. No. It’s nothing. Quit being fucking paranoid all the time. With a grunt she pushes herself up onto her elbows and swings her legs off to the side of the bed. Just as she’s about to stand, she stops, and glances behind her, mattress creaking with the motion.

On his back, with his paws up in the air, Doodle snores gently, his smile eternal.

Velvet slowly shakes her head, gets up, and starts the day.

The sun is just peeking over the horizon when she’s refreshed, alert, and wondering once more how she’s going to spend her day off. The tiled floor on her bare feet say it’s cool, but one glance out the door into the world beyond the houses with their manicured lawns and the vehicles parked on the sidewalk next to their trash and recycle bins and then the street that’s plunging away down the decline and deeper into Pendrago proper and Velvet can already feel the heat is going to be a motherfucker.

This is the second thing that crosses her mind when she goes back into the kitchen to open up the fridge and crack open an ice-cold bottle of canned coffee that Eizen loves to call Aifread’s finest espresso on this side of the equator, grown and brewed straight from the coastal towns of Shining Blue: hot weather makes for a hot girl in all the wrong ways, and working in the garden, in all her pasty-ass white girl glory, makes for being hot in all the wrong places. At this rate, she’d welcome the rain. She’d even welcome snow, lack of shovels and snowblowers and extreme winter weather survival gear be damned.

Her hand is slick with the gathering condensation. Velvet sighs and halfheartedly knocks it back.

(It’s not the worse coffee she’s ever had. It could be whatever black magic the Katz Gang throws together in their labs, nicked off the boats and the warehouses in their raids from nearby Hellawes to distant Fennmont and Sapstrath in Rashugal – but knowing Eizen, and knowing Eizen’s luck, he’s probably had it and then some. The Reaper’s Curse as he calls it, and Velvet’s not sure if it’s from his time rolling with the Van Eltia Family before he got involved in her bullshit that made him miss death every single time or, as Edna puts it, is ungodly, recklessly stupid enough to somehow avoid going to an early grave by sheer circumstance every single time, without fail.

Velvet likes to think it’s the latter.)

She plugs in the toaster, jams in two cold Pharia cinnamon waffles from the freezer into the slots, and watches them slide out of sight as soon as she primes the lever down and mucks around with the settings (just enough to make it brown; she’d have to be out of her goddamned mind like Rokurou and Eizen are for wanting to have her grains black as sin). Then, after a pause, she walks across the island and turns the TV on. As always, it’s tuned to the news, the necessary evil in her life among the sea of reality shows, game shows spanning back forty years, and other programs that pad the airwaves for the stay-at-home parents, the retired elderly, and people that don’t have anything better to do with their lives.

Thankfully, it’s not about the weather (and anybody with a brain that’s lived in Pendrago, even just Hyland by itself, or the westbound border of Rolance, for more than a month would know that the forecast is almost going to be warm and dry as hell ninety percent of the time), so Velvet more or less ignores it in favor of getting her plate out of the cupboard and preparing the rest of the meal. The toaster hums away.

[myherowritings]

PART 1. A VERY WELL-DESERVED TIP

SUMMARY. Todoroki Shouto was a wealthy, young CEO who inherited his father’s enterprise. You were a barista at a local cafe who wouldn’t mind some extra cash. One day, Shouto came in during an early morning shift and tipped you such a large sum of money, you were certain it had to have been an accident. To your surprise and complete pleasure: It was not.

PAIRING. ceo!todoroki shouto x barista!reader

WORD COUNT. 2.0k

GENRE. ceo/barista au, fluff, eventual smut

WARNINGS. none in this chapter

A/N. my brief work as a barista is finally paying off. i suffered at sbux all to write this fic ✌︎('ω'✌︎ ) LMAOOO i frl had so much fun writing this and i’m very excited to share the next parts ;) i hope you enjoy this fic as much as i do!! xx sof

SERIES MASTERLIST

© myherowritings — all rights reserved. reposting, modifying, copying, or translating of any kind is not allowed. do not read my writing as asmr. do not plagiarize.

You were not looking forward to your new work schedule for the next month. 

The employee who usually came in for opening shifts at four in the morning gave her two weeks notice...two weeks ago. And since you had your availability open (you knew you should’ve blocked it off and said you had morning class), your manager asked you to fill her place. 

The night before your first—of many—morning shifts, you tried tricking yourself into thinking it was a good idea. And it almost worked! Sort of. 

You told yourself waking up early when the sun rose worked with your body’s natural circadian rhythm and this experience may adjust your sleep schedule for a healthier one in the long run. Better health and wellbeing and lower risks of cardiovascular disease. Or something. You weren’t too sure exactly; you never paid much attention in biology but it sounded like something you’d find in a textbook, right?

When you arrived on your first day, the morning shift was just as hectic and chaotic as you expected. People in business suits with name brand bluetooth earphones in their ears and the latest new smartphone in their hand filled the shop and waited for their online order. It was as if they wanted the least amount of social interaction possible, which would be fine if being able to make connections with customers wasn’t the most interesting part about being a barista. 

Although the cafe you worked at was a small business who actually (tried) to pay their employees fairly and wasn’t a purely money hungry franchise like the certain green siren, it surprisingly had gained enough traction in the area to rival one of those cheap, chain stores. 

Good for the business, bad for sleepy workers who could barely function in the mornings.

But you enjoyed working here and the owners were kind, so you did your best to shove away the tiredness and put a bright and cheery smile on your face. The customers were grumpier than you were used to, but who wouldn’t be a little ill-mannered having to go to work at 5 a.m. and probably not leaving until 6 p.m. or later because of bosses who overworked them? Trying to get them their morning coffee with an amiable attitude to start off their day right was something you were more than happy to do. 

It was too bad barely any of them gave you the time of day. They just wanted to get their caffeine and leave with as little human interaction as possible. It was understandable, of course, but it wasn’t the lively cafe environment you were used to during later shifts. You sighed, hoping the atmosphere would be friendlier when it wasn’t a major rush hour. 

“Hi! I can help the next person in line,” you called for the twentieth time this hour. When they moved forward towards the cash register, you gave them a smile. “Good morning. I hope your day has been going well!”

“It’s been okay, thank you. And yours?”

Your eyes widened in surprise and you almost sputtered over thin air. Someone who actually replied back to what you said and asked about you in return? Even if the intent was a courtesy conversation that was meant to be quick and brief, the sentiment was there—the upholding of the values of common courtesy and human decency. Something too many people seemed to lack. 

“I’m good as well! A little tired but what’s to be expected a quarter ‘til 6 a.m.?” you said with a laugh. “Thank you for asking.”

The customer gave a small smile in return and you internally celebrated for finally seeing your first pleasant expression this morning. “Must be even more tiring dealing with all these people. Doesn’t seem easy. I have to commend you for it.”

He was a tall, handsome man with a pretty face, soft-looking hair, and genuinely nice? There was no way this was real; you had to be dreaming. 

You twiddled with the pen in your hands, taken aback and mildly embarrassed by the praise. “Just doing my job,” you said with a bashful look. “Thank you, though.” You cleared your throat, not wanting to hold the line up for too long, even if the customer was one you would rather keep talking to than the others. “Now, what can I get started for you today?”

“Right. Can I get a flat white in the medium size?” 

“Of course.” You typed in his order into the register before asking, “And is there anything else I can get for you? Like a pastry? Today we have some freshly baked cheese danishes that are really yummy if you’d like to try!” 

He thought for a while before shrugging. You weren’t sure if it was your eyes playing tricks on you or he actually had an amused look on his face. “Sure, I’ll take a couple dozen of those as well.” 

“A couple dozen—?” your voice faltered. The suggestion of a fresh pastry was one you made to almost every customer, though most turned it down on the spot. 

The cafe had a little weekly competition between workers to see who could sell the most pastries in the week and the one who sold most got...well, a free pastry and bragging rights. Admittedly, it wasn’t much, but nothing revved up sales like friendly rivalries. An order of a couple dozen was sure to land you in the top spot this week! Still, you had to make sure he meant it. You’d feel bad if he was just spending all his hard-earned office work money because he was trying to be courteous. (Or at least, you assumed he was some office employee.) 

You cautiously asked, “Are you sure?”

Either your eyes were playing tricks on you yet again, or the look of amusement on his face grew even more than before as he said, “I’m sure. One medium flat white and, say, three dozen boxes of cheese danishes, please.” 

“C-Coming right up!” you said, quickly entering his order and celebrating your free end-of-the-week pastry in advance. “That will be $42.81. Would that be card or cash?” 

“Card.” He pulled out a sleek, black card with gold detailings on it and you never knew you could be sexually attracted to a credit card until now. 

“Perfect! Go ahead and swipe, insert, or scan your card now. In the meantime, can I get a name for your order please?” 

He scanned his card over the machine before looking back up at you. “It’s To— Ah, Shouto.” 

“Shouto?” you asked in confirmation. You assumed it wasn’t ‘Toahshouto’. That sounded too much like the abbreviation used to remember how to find sine, cosine, and tangent.

“Yeah. Shouto.” 

You smiled. “Well, Shouto, your order will be ready in a few minutes. Please wait over to your right to pick it up!”

He nodded. 

“It was nice meeting you!” you called, waving goodbye. “I hope you have a good rest of your day.”

“Thank you,” he glanced at your nametag, “Y/N.” 

Oh, how nice it felt to be treated like a human by a customer and have them actually address your name— And not to say it in a condescending way either. 

“Do individual baristas get to keep the tips here?”

You blinked, feeling your face warm up slightly. “We do, actually.” One of your favorite parts of the job, you had to admit. 

“Glad to hear.” Shouto pulled out some crisp-looking bills from his wallet and placed one in your hand that said ‘100’ to you. “Thank you for your kind service, Y/N.” 

“Wha—” Your eyes widened. You were expecting something along the line of three dollars. Maybe five at most. But a hundred? By the time you had processed what had happened he was walking away from the cash register. “Wait— Shouto...sir! I think you accidentally gave me the wrong amount.” 

He shook his head, only briefly turning back to face you. “Nope. It’s for you,” he said simply. “I’m looking forward to the cheese danishes.” 

His words left you stunned, but the next customer in line tapped their foot impatiently, signaling it was now time for you to take their order. You hoped the line died down before Shouto left the cafe so you could return the tip, but seeing as how the queue almost extended out the door, you had the sinking feeling that wouldn’t be a possibility. 

“Hello, I can take the next customer in line!” you recited cheerfully, mind still occupied by thoughts of your last encounter. 

The next few orders went along uneventfully (though you did manage to sell two more cheese danishes) and by the time Shouto got his coffee and pastry boxes, you still had a handful more customers to get through. 

“Pardon me real quick,” you said apologetically to the woman in front of you. “Please give me one moment?” 

She graced you with a nod and you thanked the stars above for an understanding patron. 

“Wait— Excuse me, sir!” You waved in Shouto’s direction before he could exit the cafe. He glanced at you curiously but walked over. In a hushed voice, you said, “I really appreciate the tip, but there’s no way I could accept this much money from you!” 

For the first time today, you say the hints of a frown on his face. “You cannot?” 

“No! $100 is a lot! You already bought $40 worth of cheese danish pastries— Are you sure you meant to give that big of a tip?”

“Of course.” He took a sip of his coffee with a satisfied hum. “You getting up at such an early hour to take people’s orders with a kind attitude isn’t easy. Plus, trying to build rapport with each of them all while keeping the interacting swift is a difficult task itself. And it’s probably worth more than your current pay, the $100 tip, and then some.” 

You blinked, stunned by his words. This man kept surprising you so many times in just one morning. 

“I find it ridiculous how certain occupations are paid an ungodly amount more than others, especially when a lot of it comes from privileges you were born into.” Shouto seemed to mumble the last bit to himself, but you were still able to understand what he said. “It’s bullshit.” Before you could respond, he recollected himself. “Eat the rich, right? All that to say, please accept the tip. You deserve it. And I promise it’s of no detriment to me, so please don’t feel bad.”

Seeing the determined look on his face, you couldn’t help but stare at him before nodding. He didn’t say anything you didn’t already believe yourself, and if someone really wanted to give you $100, you weren’t going to fight them on it. Think of all the dumplings you could buy, you told yourself.

“T-Thank you then.” You gingerly placed the folded bill back into your pants pocket. “I think that was really insightful of you and I’m very grateful.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiled before glancing towards the exit. “I’m running a bit late for work now, so I should be going. Have a good day, Y/N.”

“You too, Shouto. And… Thank you again!”

With a glowing expression on your face, you walked back to the cash register ready to face the day and talk to more lovely customers!

“Hey, little barista!” a gruff voice called from the line, snapping you out of your stupor. “Hurry it up already before you force me to complain to your manager.” 

You internally sighed. You understood they were in a rush, but they still had no right to be that rude. 

“Can you even hear me? Or are you too incompetent?”

Cue another internal sigh. 

Yeah, okay. Maybe you did deserve this $100 tip.

Regardless of the rude customers that may have come in, at least you had your thoughts of a cute, kind businessman who went by the name of Shouto to get you through your shift. And you could only hope you’d be able to see him again.

a/n: the end of part one folks!! oh what i’d give to have gotten a tip like this when i worked as a barista BAHAHA only in my dreams. i hope you enjoyed this little intro part and are excited for what’s to come !! :3

what to expect in the next part:

~maybe~ y/n will see shouto again and,,perhaps,,get more tips from him idk who knows 

old lady imparts some...helpful(?) advice 

we briefly get to see shouto’s pov! ;D

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Rectify: Part 3

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

As requested by anonymous: It would be awesome if you could make a tfatws Bucky fic or series where the reader is on the list for his making amends because the winter soldier did something to her or someone she loves, and once he gets close to her in some way he ends up falling for her and it’s really angsty but a happy ending !!

A/N: FALCON AND THE WINTER SOLDIER SPOILERS AHEAD!!! also, NO TAGLIST WILL BE AVAILBLE.

A/N2: this is a little hard. there's some violence, angst, and bucky has an anxiety attack.

Part 1 Part 2

"P-Please! We don't have them! We destroyed them!" the man suffering under the Soldier's hold rasped out. The man's own hands trying to rip the metal arm off his neck. The Soldier turned the man around, putting him in a chokehold. The man stared into the frightened, weeping wife. There was a snap and the man fell limp.

The woman across the room cried harder as the Soldier marched over to her. She looked up into his emotionless eyes, "Why are you doing? We don't have anything any more! Just tell them we don't have them!"

The Soldier pulled out his silencer and stared deep into the woman's eyes. He pointed the gun at her and spoke clearly, "Hail Hydra." he pulled the trigger and the women fell onto the floor, a splatter of blood smearing down the wall. He pocketed his gun and took another look at the woman, but her face changed.

It was you.

Bucky gasped as he shot up from his place on the floor. It was still dark, but the tv illuminated the room. Bucky was panting, a sheen of sweat covering his care torso.

He ran his vibranium arm through his cropped hair, trying to catch his breath. He swiped up his phone from the floor and mindlessly dialed your number. It rang a few seconds before you answered with a rasped voice, "Bucky?"

He mentally cursed, not even thinking about how you'd be asleep right now.

"Bucky? Is everything okay?"

He gulped and rasped out, "Yeah. Sorry I woke you."

"Was it a nightmare?"

It had been three months since you first met and started talking. Bucky had told you once that he still gets plagued with nightmares, recollections of his time...contracting. He told you that he goes to therapy, but he doesn't think it helps him that much.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" your voice a little bit more clear now.

Yes. "No, it's okay. I'll let you go back to sleep." I'm sorry. It's my fault. I killed your parents. It's my fault.

"Are you sure?"

No. "I'm sure. I'll talk to you later, Y/N."

"Okay, Bucky. Remember that I'm here for you and I care about you okay?"

You shouldn't. "Okay."

"Good night."

"Night." he ends the call and let's his hands fall from his hand and clatter onto the wooden floor.

Bucky started feeling this heaviness in his chest, it was starting to become hard to breath. His tears started to water and he let out a whimper.

He's messed up so much. In the past months he's gotten to know you, become your friend, it made it increasingly hard to tell you the truth. He couldn't stop himself from being drawn to you. You weren't just a name on a list. He couldn't believe he tried to resort you to something so simple when you were anything but. But because of that, he's now put into a difficult situation and no matter what, someone's going to end up getting hurt.

__________________________

Bucky's been distant and you're not sure why. For the past two weeks you've hardly seen him or heard from him. You're curious if something happen, but, because you're such a caring person, you left him messages letting him know that you hope he's doing okay and that you're there for him.

It's after two weeks of silence that you see him again.

He approaches you at the cemetery Sunday afternoon when you're seeing your parents.

He's wearing the black leather jacket that you see him wear often. He wears a hoodie underneath it, and the hood is drawn up. Despite the gorgeous weather out, he looks like he has his own personal rain cloud looming over him.

You shoot up and meet him halfway, arms wrapping around him in a tight hug, "Bucky! Oh my gosh! It's so good to see you! I was so worried!"

You pull back to look at him and he looks so solemn, "Bucky," you breath out his name, "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry for disappearing like that. I've-I've just been having a rough few weeks."

"It's okay, Bucky. I understand. Given the things you've gone through, it's understandable that you might go through these things." you put your hand on his arm and squeeze, "But it's okay. You're here now." you then slip your hand into his and pull him towards your parents' plot, "C'mon. Sit with me."

You feel Bucky hesitate and you shoot him a warm smile, "It's okay."

Alarms are going off in Bucky's head as he follows you to your set up.

You should tell her now! You can't keep prolonging it! You just have to accept the consequences of your actions! His and yours!

But he doesn't listen.

No. Not today. I'll tell her. I promise. Just....let me have this with her. One last time.

So that's what he does. He doesn't talk much, letting you do all the talking. You update him on the things that he missed during his two week hiatus. He'd occasionally ask questions for clarity, but other than that he just sat there relishing in your presence and the joy you radiate.

He munches on the snacks you share with him, giving you nods of understanding and gratefulness. There's a moment, after you've both eaten all of the food that a silence washes over you two. It's not an awkward one. It's light and comfortable. For a moment, Bucky feels one hundred percent at peace. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. There's a slight breeze that cancels out the heat the sun provides.

He's looking up at the sky and smiles.

He freezes when he feels warmth press to his cheek. It's not the sun, no. It's your lips. But is there a difference?

He gulps and looks at you when you pull away. You suddenly look really shy, looking down and avoiding his gaze, "Sorry. I don't-I shouldn't have done that."

Just let me have this moment....before I ruin it all.

"Y/N?" Bucky calls out your name and you look up. He suddenly leans over and cups your face with his hands and his lips are on yours. You're shocked for about a second, but then you fall into the kiss. You grip the lapels of Bucky's jacket and you pull him closer. You two end up falling, you backwards and him forwards.

"Oomf!" you say against his lips and he pulls away with a chuckle, "Sorry," he replies in a low murmur.

You softly smile up at him as his face hovers over yours, "It's okay." You two stay in the position, eyes wandering over each other's face, until you speak up again, "I really like you, Bucky."

Then the air changes.

His eyes harden and he climbs off of you and onto your feet, "I'm sorry."

You clamber into a stand, confusion written all over your face, "Wait, Bucky. I'm sor-"

"I have to go." he stuffs his hands into pockets and he's walking away, leaving you alone, too shocked to comprehend what exactly just happened.

[seasonofthewicth]

nobody does it like you do - act 6

The final part!! I hope this is a satisfying conclusion! Thank you so much to everyone who has reblogged/commented/shared - it has meant so much. Special thank you again to @morganofthewildfire I'd still be working away at this fic if it wasn't for you, I don't know I ever would have finished it off. Your comments and analysis helped me so much and made this fic better than I could have alone, I'm so grateful.

13k - masterlist - ao3

--

There are five weeks between the eventful wrap party and her first day shooting the Netflix miniseries in Antica. Five weeks for Aelin to sort her shit.

It’s ambitious, and probably unattainable, but she needs a goal.

She needs something to draw her mind away from Rifthold and the director she knows is no longer there.

She gives herself a week of self pity. A week of lying around her sparsely decorated and impersonal Orynth apartment dwelling and pointedly ignoring the headlines she knows have been released. Elide let her know only one picture was captured of her with tears in her eyes leaving the party. Only one and gods bless Elide she shut it down.

Aelin lies on her uncomfortable couch in well-worn pyjamas with unwashed hair and runs through the photos on her phone of her and Fenrys, her and Manon, and the group of them together on set doing whatever shit they used to do.

She spends more time than she should like that. She sits there until her coffee table is overflowing with takeaway wrappers and Aedion and Elide have stopped texting more than once a day. She’s awful for ignoring them but she’s still mortified.

She hasn’t been able to look Aedion in the eyes since he dropped her back at her apartment after their long flight home from Rifthold. He didn’t say much. After he managed to again get her out of the party with minimal press she had cried, curled up between Aedion and Lysandra in their bed, and he didn’t offer judgement or instruction.

He just held her, whispering words she can’t remember but appreciates anyway. Now she hasn’t replied to any of his texts.

She hasn’t texted Fenrys or Manon either. She doesn’t know what to say.

She knows Fenrys jumped immediately into another movie, an action movie she knows he’s been chomping at the bit to get training for, and Manon into the second series of her show that she’s probably too famous for now.

They’re busy. They’ll understand. At least that’s what she tells herself.

The worst thing she does in that week is pour over the photos she has of Rowan. She didn’t realise she had so many but her camera roll is full of silver and green.

There are photos of just him, looking like Rowan, tall and handsome and understatedly happy, smiling covert little smiles at Aelin behind the camera. He was used to her instructing him to pose by the end of filming, she loved snapping away as he did anything. Eating, sleeping, smiling, everything - if it was Rowan she wanted it captured.

Now every photo is a knife to the chest.

The ones of the two of them together are worse, they twist the knife, pain splicing through her until she can hardly breathe. There are pictures of their cheeks pressed together, eyes shining, some serious, some silly. In all of them Aelin can clearly see her own happiness.

She can’t stop looking at them even as tears swell in her eyes and her throat gets tight.

For one week.

Until it’s been seven days since her flight landed back in Orynth and she gets up off her couch and deletes them. She almost doesn’t, her thumb hovers over the button for a good minute before she presses down but then it’s done and they’re gone. She showers and changes her clothes, she throws away all the rubbish on her coffee table and makes a plan.

Filming the movie with all of them it was easy to feel better than she did before, surrounded by new and exciting things, new people who didn’t know her before or treat her differently because of it. It was easy to lose herself in who she was there and with them.

Now though, she’s back to real life and real life lasts for an uneventful three weeks.

She tries what she can, she reads, she runs, she bakes, she teaches herself how to knit. None of it is satisfying and it's hard to make it stick. It’s all boring and never quite captures her attention the way she hopes. Never captures her attention enough to tear it away from Rowan and Rifthold.

A week before she flies out to Antica it changes.

She stumbles upon the change, completely accidentally, and she doesn’t realise what she’s needed until it's right in front of her.

Her usual run route is obstructed by construction and so she takes a left where she usually takes a right, heading down into the west side of the city, the side she doesn’t often frequent.

She used to. She used to spend hours strolling the streets letting the warmth of the sun and Sam’s hand in hers settle into her skin as they observed the numerous bakeries and small boutiques. Thankfully the scenery appears to have changed since.

The chill breeze of the September Orynth air teases the loose strands of hair tickling her face as she comes to a stop outside the sleek shop front. The wooden panels are painted a dark, glossy black and the windows are polished so brightly they reflect what’s left of the sunlight.

Music of Mistward the sign reads in curved, white lettering.

She can see her reflection in the shop window, her cheeks flushed, hair unruly, her running gear nowhere near to what would be appropriate attire for the shop dripping in class but she can’t turn away.

A bell tinkles as she pushes through the door, her headphones gripped tight in her fist as the gentle jazz playing over the sound system greets her. She doesn’t like jazz, it’s not her thing, but along with the musk of wood in the air it’s soothing in welcoming her in.

She passes walls of guitars and violins until she reaches the instrument that caught her eye. It’s sleek, black lid propped open revealing the elegant strings, pulled tight in neat lines. The sharp contrast of the keys against each other, bright against the deep black of the case. Her fingers ghost over them, dying to press down.

She hasn’t played since those days in Rowan’s Doranelle home. She’s wanted to, longed to feel the cool keys under her fingertips and the flood of the music pouring out of her, but the cheap keyboard in her Orynth apartment wouldn’t do Rowan’s beautiful instrument justice.

Aelin would rather not play at all than attempt a cheap imitation of what she felt there.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A voice sounds behind her, low and raspy but cheerful all the same.

She turns, taking in the older man, his grey hair cut short and his classic shirt and slacks pressed crisp. She glances back to the piano before facing him fully.

“Stunning,” she breathes.

The man steps forwards and offers her his hand. She slips her hand into his and he pumps firmly as he introduces himself.

“Emrys,” he says. “Welcome to Music of Mistward.”

“Aelin,” she says, surprised to hear her voice thick.

“Great to meet you, Aelin,” Emrys says with an ancient smile. He nods towards the piano. “Do you play?”

“No,” she says and Emrys’ smile flickers. “Yes, I mean I used to. I want to,” is what she settles on.

He nods, satisfied, before taking a step closer to the piano. He runs a hand over the top, almost reverently and smiles to himself.

“Antique,” he starts, “almost one hundred years old but well loved. I acquired it recently - here we deal mostly in antique instruments, it’s a passion for both myself and my husband. The previous owner only sold it to me when she inherited it and didn’t know how to play, she wanted it to find a good home.”

He shares a smile with her as if she’s in on the joke but her breathing still hasn’t settled.

“Satin Ebony finish,” Emrys continues, “eighty-eight keys, all original but preserved to the highest quality. Accompanying bench, cut with refreshed velvet. I don’t know in all my years I’ve seen such a fine instrument as old as this.”

Aelin glances back to the piano, it’s big, it won’t fit in her apartment in Orynth but she doesn’t care. She can… adjust. She hasn’t felt a pull like this in a while, she doesn’t want to deny it when she does.

“How much?” she almost demands from the man in front of her.

He appraises her and she knows what he sees. Her bedraggled state and the tension through her shoulders doesn’t give the impression of someone with this much cash to throw around. She abruptly ignores that the way she probably can afford this is because of Rowan’s movie.

When he doesn’t speak she repeats herself, more firmly. “How much?”

“Our price includes delivery and tuning on arrival.” He seems apprehensive of telling her the truth. Aelin waits.

When he finally reveals the figure Aelin blinks. And then she extends her hand. “I’ll take it.”

To his credit Emrys just nods, shaking her hand. “You don’t want to at least play it first?”

Aelin feels the smirk she hasn’t worn in a while creep onto her face. “Is there a risk you’re pulling a fast one on me?”

Emrys returns her smile, a playful glint in his eye. “Not a chance, Aelin. Please follow me to the register where I can take your details.”

Aelin almost stumbles. Almost, but then recovers.

“Any chance I can pay a deposit and then let you know where you’ll be delivering sometime soon?”

Emrys winks knowingly. “Absolutely.”

She follows him to the counter, signs away part of a disgustingly large total of money but leaves with a sense of satisfaction. It’s an accomplishment, a step for purely selfish reasons.

The first thing she does when she leaves the shop is call Elide.

Aelin meets her new therapist two days before she flies out to Antica.

She hasn’t called her old one in months and thinks that’s probably a sign. And she’s all about changes at the moment.

She isn’t shooting in Antica for too long, only a couple of months until she’s back in Orynth and then back to Rifthhold for press. Her stomach drops everytime the thought wanders into her head.

She’s excited to be back in Rifthold, but the company is daunting.

Fenrys and Manon will easily be pissed at her disappearance. She knows Manon will play aloof but she also knows she’ll be upset, Fenrys too. Aelin didn’t mean to hurt them, didn’t mean to drop off the face of the Earth, and she knows she’s let them down but Fenrys and Manon remind her of Rowan. She couldn’t trust the conversation not to eventually steer towards him and Aelin isn’t ready for that.

Their break-up feels weirdly anticlimactic. After everything they built to, Aelin just dipped.

She knows it seems that way to Rowan at least. She hasn’t texted him, or rang him or anything since the party. She’s wanted to, wanted more than anything to hear his voice as she cried, but it’s not fair to him to drag it out and she knows that. She knew when she drew the line she had to stay on her side of it, no matter how much it hurt.

She had cried until her head pounded and her throat was raw. She cried until her eyes itched with no tears left to fall, until all that came out of her was hoarse screeches as she ached to hear him call her Fireheart one last time.

But no one needs to know that, she had kept it as hidden as she could.

She definitely didn’t need any more paparazzi pictures of her with red-rimmed eyes looking downtrodden. She couldn’t bear the thought of Rowan, or worse her mother, seeing them.

She knows Fenrys and Manon; Aedion, Lysandra and Elide would see through her flimsy excuses and so it was easier to stay quiet.

She’s not thinking about facing them yet. She supposes that will be something that likely comes up with this new therapist, but so far on her own, she’s choosing avoidance.

She gets Maeve’s number from Dorian, and she comes highly recommended by a number of Dorian’s other high profile clients. She’s well-versed in non-disclosure agreements, secret sessions and back street exits; she feels like the perfect fit for Aelin.

Unofficially, Dorian lets her know Maeve takes no shit, and that’s also just what Aelin needs.

They agree to online sessions while she’s in Antica, but Maeve recommended an initial meeting and Aelin is open to all of her suggestions.

Their first hour is not directly her most life changing but it’s a start.

“Welcome, Aelin,” Maeve says, sweeping an arm out towards the firm-looking, orange couch in the centre of the room.

Aelin takes a seat, mutters her thanks and glances around the room.

The room should feel cold with the exposed brick and minimalistic decor, the only furniture being the couch Aelin perches on, the almost regal armchair Maeve reclines in and a lamp, but it doesn’t and she gets comfortable tucking her feet beneath her thighs and leaning against the arm.

“So,” Maeve begins, surveying her in the way only a true professional can. “Let’s get started.”

Aelin feels bare beneath her gaze, and like everything about Maeve and her practise it should be unnerving but she just blinks against the scrutiny.

“Why are you here today? You could start with sharing why you have made this appointment.”

And isn’t that the million gold-mark question?

Aelin takes a deep breath through her nose and raises her chin.

“I don’t want to move backwards,” she admits. “Or maybe I just want to know I’ve actually moved forwards.”

Maeve’s expression stays calm, but Aelin knows she’d be smirking if she could. She’s well aware of how therapy works but even so, speaking her thoughts aloud can help to verify them in her own mind.

Aelin hopes so at least.

Their hour is over quickly and Aelin is resolved that Maeve is a good fit, reassured in Dorian’s claim that the woman takes no shit. Her all-knowing assessment of Aelin should have been unsettling but the frank dissection is what she needs.

Online therapy, especially fitting it around shooting might be a challenge but it’s for the best. As much as she values her independence and standing on her own two feet, Aelin is big enough to admit that facing her mother again may require some professional guidance. Seeing Rowan too, but again, she’s not thinking about that yet.

Antica is hot and Aelin is sweaty within seconds of stepping out of the air-conditioned luxury of the airport. That feeling lasts the entire time she’s there, disrupting the otherwise enjoyable time she has shooting the series.

Her new co-stars are fine, they invite her out with them and make her smile but she can’t help as though a part of her is always comparing them to who and what she left in Rifthold. Aelin tries her best to enjoy her time there with them, she hosts dinner parties and invites them to a game of Aedion’s but nothing quite hits the same as her time spent on The Crescent City.

She rationalises it to Maeve, that The Crescent City was a big turning point in her life and that it has nothing to do with Rowan, Fenrys or Manon, but she’s not sure she even believes it herself.

She spends the rest of her time in Antica trying to convince herself, and Maeve, that she’s moving past it. That she’s moving forwards or else she’ll move backwards. She’s not sure how much of it is futile.

The Crescent City is done, whether she likes it or not, and she can’t deny it changed her in ways she didn’t expect. It’s a hard pill to swallow that maybe it changed her beyond return to how she was before. She also can’t quite figure out whether she thinks that’s a bad thing or not.

They have a dinner for the core cast and crew, including Rowan, once they’re all back in Rifthold for the beginning of the press cycle. They have one night to reacquaint before they’re shoved into the whirlwind that is interviews, photoshoots and promotion.

She’s seen the trailer already and it’s just as she expected but more. It’s dark and dreary with flashes of brightness from herself and Fenrys and she’d want to watch it if she chanced a viewing as a member of the public.

What is surreal, is to see herself in a polished version of the film they were creating. Or at least a part of it.

She said each of the lines, rehearsed them over and over until they fell off her tongue without thought, but she still doesn’t recognise the girl in the trailer. A droplet of pride slips down her chest at the realisation that it’s not Aelin in the trailer but Feyre. She knows she’s good, has known it all along, but the realisation and reaffirmation is ecstasy better than any drug.

She hovers outside the restaurant, watching through the window, needing a couple more seconds before she submits herself to the assault of them all again. She still hasn’t replied to either Fenrys or Manon and the thought presses on her like lead but it’s too late to change that now.

If she’s honest she’s concerning herself with Fenrys and Manon in the hopes of distracting herself from the fact that she’s seconds away from Rowan. Seconds away from him in the flesh, his solid body in front of her that she had learned almost as well as her own.

Her palms are clammy and she wipes them against the fabric of her trousers. The upcoming interviews and photoshoots will all be styled for her and so she’s relishing in her last moments for a while of truly dressing like Aelin.

She takes a step towards the restaurant door, the tip of her trainer bumping the wood when a voice sounds behind her.

“Well, hello there, Stranger.”

Aelin braces herself, hand paused outstretched where it had been reaching for the door.

She turns, biting her lip as she faces Fenrys. He looks the same as he did, skin still golden, eyes still dancing with mischief, but his golden curls are trimmed shorter than the last time she saw him. His expression is carefully blank.

“I- Hi… um,” she stumbles over the words. “I’ve missed you.”

Fenrys breaks almost immediately. “Oh thank the fucking gods.”

He surges forwards and wraps her into a tight hug. Aelin clings to him, fighting the tears in her eyes as she buries her face in his chest. She’s gone far too long without this, without him, and it’s all her own fault.

“Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” Fenrys asks. “Oh wait, no you don’t. I’m assuming your phone broke, or was stolen or something since you never replied to any of my texts letting you know.”

Aelin knows her cheeks are stained pink. “I’m sorry,” she admits.

“I know.” His voice softens, losing the teasing edge as he presses a gentle kiss to her cheek.

He pauses before he speaks again, his eyes running over her face. “You could have texted me anytime, you know. Manon too. I know you might forget or try to convince yourself otherwise, but we are your friends. You could have called us about literally anything.”

Aelin feels like she could cry. She’s not sure that she isn’t.

“It doesn’t have to be about anything serious, especially not related to the movie,” or Rowan he doesn’t say but Aelin hears it. “We just wanted to hear your stupid voice.”

Aelin pouts. “My voice isn’t stupid.”

She pokes her tongue out as he rolls his eyes, easily falling back into the dynamic they had shaped a few months ago.

“Not what I meant,” he says before pausing, taking her in as she stands in front of him. “You can’t lose us that easily, you know. We’re like rats or fleas or something. Hard to get rid of.”

“Nice,” she comments, but her chest is tight at his words.

He smiles at her before adding, “and you had fucking better text me back.”

Aelin laughs through the sniffles he’s kindly ignoring. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and finds his contact. Hi she sends and feels his phone buzz against her.

“Much better,” he says and releases her from his arms. “Now, are you ready for a night of the finest dining all on the studio credit card?”

Aelin laughs again. “Lead the way.”

He shoots her a wink and waltzes ahead to hold the door open for her.

Fenrys’ presence shouldn’t reassure her the way it does, especially after the way she has treated him but she clings to him anyway. He’s her buffer for now, a crutch for tonight and tonight only. Once tonight is over and tomorrow begins she and Rowan can be professional, they managed it for months during filming and this should be no different.

Rowan still looks the way he did the night she broke his heart.

His silver hair falls elegantly over his forehead as he bends his head to talk to Manon, the pair of them are engrossed in a conversation as she and Fenrys walk over, not spotting them yet. She loves his hair, loves the thick silver waves and the way they feel between her fingers. She loves the way any attempt he makes to arrange the thick strands is never quite able to tame the beast. She loves the shirt he has on, with the sleeves rolled up exposing inches of tanned skin and dark ink, the same worn green cotton she wore numerous times around his living room all those months ago. She can still remember the feel of it against her bare skin.

His smile is the same, his green eyes crinkling as his lips barely part as he does his best to hold it back.

His smile is the same until he spots her.

He catches sight of her when she reaches the table and his smile drops, the shutters closing over his expression so fast she wouldn’t know he knew how to smile had she not just seen it.

It tears her chest in two and any attempt at a smile on her part is futile. It’s all she can do to make it to her seat without stumbling and she’s sure she misses any other greetings she gets as she slumps onto the chair opposite Manon. She absently notes Fenrys dropping in at her side.

She can’t look away from Rowan, her eyes scanning to try and find anything that distinguishes him from the man she loved all those months ago. She finds nothing. He’s still Rowan and Aelin still… fuck.

He recovers before she does, ever the collected courtier, clearing his throat and nodding.

“Aelin,” he says and she adores the sound of her name on his tongue.

“Hi Rowan,” she manages and hears how weak she sounds. Rowan hears it too. She can tell from the purse of his lips and the tension in the hand he rests along the back of Manon’s chair.

Aelin allows her eyes to drift to Manon and she finally catches the thunderous expression the younger girl wears.

“Hi,” she whispers and Manon blinks.

“Hi?” Manon repeats incredulously.

Aelin is fucked.

“Five months and I get a hi?”

It’s loud and a few heads turn their way. It’s simultaneously mortifying and everything Aelin deserves.

“I’m sorry,” she says plainly.

She could lie, make up some useless excuses but in the end there’s nothing else but the truth and if Manon wants her to grovel she will, she’s just not sure this is the time or place.

Fenrys shares her thoughts. “Later, Manon,” he says, gently.

Rowan’s eyes stay firmly glued to the tablecloth as Manon frowns, seemingly unwilling to let it go.

After a few seconds, seconds Aelin spends waiting for the ground to open up and swallow her, Manon nods. She nods and turns to Fenrys, demanding to know what he’s ordering. And just like that Aelin has a moment to catch her breath.

She knew this dinner wouldn’t be easy, knew she’d be walking into the lion's den of her own making, but she hadn’t expected it to be as hard. Hadn’t expected seeing Rowan to feel like a slap, hadn’t expected Manon’s hurt to scrape across her skin leaving her raw.

She tries not to think she deserves it, Maeve would only raise a brow as if to say we’ve been over this. The thought is sobering, and she manages to lift her head.

It is what it is, what’s done is done and she can only apologise and move forwards.

As much as she tries to resist, Aelin finds herself watching Rowan throughout the night. It’s scary how familiar he feels, he should feel like a stranger, but he feels like she knows him too well. He laughs when she expects, rolls his eyes when she predicts. He orders what she thought he would and he sips away at an orange juice the way he did the first dinner they all had together.

Aelin already feels so different than she did the last time she was in Rifthold and he seems unchanged.

She observes for most of the night, feeling drained despite her minimal contributions to the conversations. She speaks when spoken to and actively avoids speaking when Rowan does, she definitely doesn’t respond to anything he says even though she wants to at least twice and wants to laugh a couple more.

She makes it through and clings to Fenrys again as they all leave, linking her arm through his as they leave the restaurant. He knows what she’s doing but graciously guides her out of the building. Once on the pavement outside the restaurant he pauses and turns to her.

“What hotel are you staying in while you’re here?”

The rest of the group are milling about, calling taxis and bidding their farewells. Aelin doesn’t know how she’s getting back yet, she’s assuming she’ll split a ride with someone.

“Um, the Glass Castle, I think,” she says, desperately trying to recall the name of the hotel she dumped her bags in a few hours earlier.

“Boo,” Fenrys laughs, pointing his thumb down. “They’ve got me in the Torre Cesme. Think I’m ages away from you.”

Aelin laughs, disappointed but ready to order her own taxi back when a voice she didn’t expect sounds.

“I’ve just ordered a cab to the Glass Castle, I’m staying there too. You can jump in if you want.”

Rowan.

She shoots Fenrys a panicked look but his expression is pure glee.

“That would be great thanks, Boss,” Fenrys says, shrugging his arm out of hers and nudging her towards Rowan.

“No problem, Boyo.” Rowan offers Fenrys a dark grin at the nickname and the sight of it stills her. It’s new, he used to roll his eyes whenever Fenrys would drop it into conversation, but now Rowan’s playing along. And the grin, the curl of the lips and the narrowing of the eyes, it’s sexy as fuck.

It’s only taken one night and she’s back in the danger zone. She doesn’t want to be, hell, she wants him to take her back to his hotel room and peel off her clothes but this is Rowan. She’s spent the last few months trying to get over him, falling into bed with him the first night she sees him again would not likely be defined as progress.

He’s also not likely to want that after what she did.

“You don’t have to,” she says. The first direct thing she’s said to him since their greeting.

“I know.” A slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “But we’re going to the same place, it wouldn’t seem logical to take different cars.”

Logic. That’s all it is.

“Right.” She doesn’t think she’s ever felt so awkward with him, not even at the start. “Thank you,” she says, following him to the car.

Fenrys shoots her a grin as he slips into his own taxi. Traitor.

Rowan holds the door open for her and slips in behind her. She tries not to think anything of the fact he could have easily taken the front seat.

The ride is silent apart from the easy chit chat he makes with the driver, another thing she’s not sure she noticed him do before, and she stares out the window as the city passes by. The streets of Rifthold are not her home but she feels a brightness as she glances down the curving roads, spotting groups of people milling about enjoying the night.

She knows the first call she made to Elide in weeks was the right call. Elide is the only person she’d trust with her bank account and access to real estate listings. The link to the flat her friend had sent over has stayed open in her browser since she got it.

It’s modern with classic twists, situated in a recently renovated old warehouse with miles of exposed brick and rustic wooden panelling. She loves the master bedroom the most, with its adjoining en suite with a huge bathtub she can picture herself soaking in. She has a viewing booked in two days but doubts she’ll even need it.

It’s not long before the taxi pulls up outside the hotel and she follows Rowan through the glass doors. He presses the button for the lifts and Aelin shifts in the awkward silence.

Awkward is not something she’s used to with Rowan. Or it wasn’t before.

The doors slide open and again she follows him inside.

He pauses with a hand hovering over the buttons for the floors. “Which floor?”

“Nine.”

Aelin hates these one word exchanges compared to the hours they used to share talking about everything and nothing. She can’t believe this is the man she was so vulnerable with.

His short huff of laughter drags her gaze to his face.

“What?”

“Makes sense,” is what he says, shaking his head and pressing only the button for the ninth floor.

The ride takes seconds, a minute at most, filled with the silence between them.

When the doors open to the ninth floor she steps out, determined not to follow him again, and she feels him follow her. Even now she’s so aware of his powerful body and the way he moves it. She shouldn’t be so attracted to the power emanating from him, from the breadth of his shoulders to the sureness of his steps. She wants him, doesn’t think she ever stopped, except now he’s the forbidden fruit. Forbidden only by her own actions.

She reaches her door, room 905, but pauses with her key tucked in her hand.

“Thanks for letting me share your cab,” she says, finding herself desperate not to say goodbye yet. “I can transfer you for half.”

That finally, finally, cracks a whisper of a smile but she’s not sure she enjoys his laughter if it’s at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

That should be the end of it, she should open her door and shut it behind her, they have a few weeks ahead of them that will be hard enough without any complications.

She left him and he seems gracious enough to have mostly moved past it.

“It was good to see you, Aelin,” he says, seemingly unwilling to let the night end as well. She doesn’t let the seed of hope sprout because what would be the point?

Nevertheless, Aelin smiles, leaning back against her door.

Rowan continues, “even if I wasn’t sure how the night was going to go.”

Her attention is spiked. “What do you mean?”

She can’t lie, a part of her expects him to back down at the edge to her voice. He doesn’t.

“I wasn’t sure if you were going to pretend nothing ever happened between us.”

She blinks, giving herself a second to process.

Maybe this isn’t the same Rowan from all those months ago. That night he let her walk away from him, gods know she needed it, but a dark little part of her had wanted him to fight her harder. Fight harder for her. When he hadn’t she’d taken it as her sign.

She knows the expectation was toxic, if he had fought her it would have only pissed her off, but she wishes she’d had someone to tell her it was the wrong choice. It would have helped to hear in the moment, rather than be faced with Rowan months down the line that she wants and can’t have.

The Rowan in front of her, the third Rowan she’s known, stares her down. His eyes peel away each of the layers she’s worked with Maeve for months to don in a second.

“I wouldn’t do that to you.”

It’s honest and maybe she’s not the same Aelin as a few months ago either.

That’s what she had asked for that night in the cool air, to move past them with as little commotion as possible, stirring up as little attention as they could. She hadn’t wanted to let them eclipse the movie and yet that ended up being exactly what she had accomplished.

Now though, Aelin knows better.

Rowan nods as his eyes dart across her face. He seems to step closer without realising. Aelin notes the motion, still so aware of him and his proximity to her.

His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. “I was so angry at you for leaving.”

Aelin loses her breath at his confession.

Eventually she manages, “was?”

He looks away from her, glancing down the dark hallway, his jaw tight. When she’s with him she forgets about the world around them, there’s probably-definitely-CCTV in this hallway but he’s here and she can’t let him go yet.

His fists curl and uncurl as he takes a deep breath.

“Was,” he says shortly. “I was so angry at you, the way you did what you did was shit.”

Aelin swallows. He’s not wrong.

“I know.”

“But now I don’t know.” She lifts her eyes to his, swimming in the openness she doesn’t deserve. And fuck that. That is such bullshit. She meets his stare, returning all that he isn’t saying. “I spent a long time thinking about it, thinking about you, and it took me a while but now I get it.”

That hurts more than she expects. She didn’t expect him to be all over her the minute they reunited but his understanding was always a kicker.

“I know why you did it,” he continues. “And that took most of the wind out of my sails.”

Aelin frowns. He can’t possibly know why.

“I don’t think you do.” He tilts his head, an invitation for her to expand. “Or you’d know that nothing has changed.”

“Hasn’t it?”

His question throws her. Completely.

She tilts her head up to look at him, closer to her than he’s been all night, pushing her to keep being honest with him.

She’s dazed being this close to him again after so long, the green of his eyes stronger than she remembers. Or maybe her brain had assured her the memory of him couldn’t have been real.

“I don’t know,” she admits, unable to fight the way her body leans into him.

His teeth graze his lower lip and she follows the motion.

He’s silent for a beat too long and her skin is thrumming under his attention. She doesn’t know how she’s gone this long without him, she doesn’t know how she thought she’d survive never having him again.

“Let me know when you figure it out,” he says finally, drawing back and a rush of cool air fills the space he had taken. “Goodnight Aelin.”

He turns and she watches his back down the hallway. He slips easily into a room a few doors down and she’s left watching the path he’d taken, feeling the weight of his eyes on her lips.

Her head thuds against the door as she screws her eyes shut. She wants to scream, wants to chase him down the hall, wants to fly back to Orynth where she was safe.

She doesn’t do any of those things.

She tucks herself into her hotel room and readies herself for the whirlwind that’s about to hit. These next few weeks are going to be hard, not just dealing with the Rowan situation, but she can’t fight the excitement she feels.

Fuck. She’s back in Rifthold, back where she loves, doing what she was born to do.

This is big. She can feel it.

The Crescent City is not her first project, and so she’s been a part of press cycles before, she knows how they go. What she doesn’t know is how a press cycle for something like this works.

The only word she can find is insanity.

There are somehow earlier mornings than they had while shooting and often longer days. She gets poked and prodded in hair and make-up for hours before they spend all day sat in a hotel room filming repetitive interviews for various magazines.

She and Fenrys are genuinely friends and yet they still have to put on a show in front of the cameras. She plays up her laughter when he cracks a joke and he makes sure to never look away from her for longer than two seconds when she speaks or a producer behind the camera makes a comment.

She loves Fenrys but it’s exhausting. Her only blessing is that for most of her engagements she’s with Fenrys and Manon with Rowan conducting his own interviews separately as she had hoped.

Sometimes though, given their relatively similar ages and general level of chemistry, they get grouped together.

The four of them are filming a video for Buzzfeed, filling in a quiz to find out which character from The Crescent City they’re most like. She’s unsurprised to discover her result is Rhysand and it’s fun even if her heart does pound every time she has to act like she’s unfazed and friendly with Rowan.

There’s a moment, just a moment, where she almost breaks from her friendly and unbothered interview persona. It’s her turn to read the question, what item could you not survive without on a desert island?

It’s Rowan that speaks. “Her shampoo,” he says, “it’s jasmine.”

There’s a split second where she doesn’t speak, where all she can do is stare at Rowan, stunned that he remembered and thought to mention it now.

In that split second she’s transported back to memories of them together in the shower at her rented apartment, kissing lazily under the spray after spending hours between her sheets. She remembers dumping the shampoo into her hand and then onto his head, massaging his thick locks and surrounding them in the scent of jasmine.

She remembers how he kissed her neck as she did, trailing his hands over her silky curves, slick with the soap, with his kisses building in heat until her hands dropped to his shoulders. He’d lavished kisses down her chest until he’d jerked back, shampoo in his eyes and she’d laughed until he was safe and pressed his lips again to hers, continuing where he’d left off.

She’s shocked he’d bring this up when there’s a camera on the two of them and she can only imagine the comments it will spark. She’s not sure she cares if it keeps Rowan’s eyes on her.

“It’s luxurious for a reason,” she says when she recovers, tossing her thick locks over her shoulder. “Well worth it.”

She doesn’t miss the flicker in his own mask at her comment.

That kind of interaction will no doubt ignite the sparks she’d only ever wanted to avoid.

As the press cycle goes on and on, and they get closer and closer to the premiere it only becomes harder for her conviction to hold.

She tests her own argument, the clear line she drew in the sand, when she manages to keep it professional with Rowan and she’s not sure where that leaves her. She had thought they would overshadow everything about the project and now she’s not sure.

She said nothing had changed and he had challenged her.

She’s still not sure who’s in the right.

Everything is simultaneously completely new and exactly the same. Rowan is still gorgeous, still charming in his own reserved way, still almost reverent when he talks about his craft throughout interviews. He still talks with his hands and Aelin still can’t draw her eyes away from their motions, she still craves the touch of them on her skin. He’s still seven years older than her and the director of her big break.

Yet there are differences.

They’re still often on the same page, offering similar answers and backing each other up but now he never backs down from a challenge. Now he doesn’t hold back those comments she knows he was always dying to let slip. She should be annoyed, everytime he drops a line that pushes her to expand a little part of her wants to roll her eyes.

She doesn’t though. Her blood heats and her skin prickles. She loves this with him. Loves the dance they play, the teasing, verbal games that shouldn’t start her off but do. She loves the smirk he wears when they end up down that path, and she knows she wears it’s mirror image.

She always ends up squirming in her seat and it should be wrong but it isn’t. The cameras can’t see below their chests and the flush in her cheeks could easily be from the warmth of the day.

She’s beginning to wonder if she’s powerless against Rowan Whitethorn. If she’s powerless against the green of his eyes or the curl of his accent. The slant of his brows or the points of his teeth when he smiles.

She doesn’t know that it’s just one thing. It’s all of the things, it’s all of him, and more so than ever she’s completely fucked.

But they aren’t talking outside of the interviews and photoshoots, and the knowledge of which hotel room is his itches her toes every night. It would be so easy to sneak down the hall, to knock on the door and slot her lips to his when he opened.

It’s only a couple of nights before the premiere when the temptation becomes too much. She’s been around Rowan all day, surrounded by the smell of his aftershave, the notes of pine and freshness and Rowan and it’s too much. She strides down the hallway, resolved in her decision and closes her fingers over the button for the lift.

She needs to be elsewhere or she’ll make some bad decisions.

She’s come so far, survived months without him, she can’t cave due to proximity.

The hotel bar is deserted when she walks in and makes a beeline to the bartender. Yeah, maybe after her wobble at the wrap party a bar isn’t the best decision she could make but her options are limited. Trying to sleep with Rowan is, after all, probably the worst of both options.

“Just a sparkling water please,” she says to the barman who nods and returns a moment later.

“Put it on my tab.” A voice from the end of the bar.

A laugh bubbles out of her chest as she closes her fingers around her glass. Of course he’s here. She should have spotted Rowan the minute she walked in and it’s cruel that the reason she didn’t was that her thoughts were too wrapped up in him.

“Be careful what you sign up for,” she says as she walks over, her steps measured as she comes to a stop before him. Her hips swing of their own accord and his eyes dart up and down the length of her. “I can put a number of these away.”

The smile he gives her is surprisingly unguarded. It seems he’s done holding himself back too. Aelin loves it.

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, nodding at the stool next to him. She obliges as he speaks again. “It’s hard to switch off sometimes.”

He’s always on the same page as she is. Aelin shrugs, taking a sip of the drink he bought her.

They’re quiet for a moment, both unsure of how to break the silence between them when one of the last things they knew was the taste of each other’s lips.

“I keep thinking I’ll get used to it, that one day this will just be my job, but I never do,” Aelin says eventually, tracing a fingertip through the condensation gathered on her glass.

Rowan nods, smiling softly down at the bar and taking a sip of his own drink. An orange juice as usual.

“It’s hard to sleep at the end of days like today,” he says. “It’s why I’m in here.”

The bar is dark at the late hour, and quiet with no one else in there but them and the bartender. There’s something about the late hour, the darkness and the stillness surrounding them a break from the recent rush, that feels a little bit too close. She feels a little too exposed under the weight of his gaze but she rolls her shoulders back and leans an elbow on the bar as she turns towards him.

“I thought you’d be used to all of this by now,” she says and he cocks his head.

“Why?” His question is coy, begging her to expand.

“This is not your first rodeo and all of that,” she says with a smile.

Rowan laughs softly, the sound curving around her like an embrace.

“It can still be overwhelming after your first big movie,” he says gently, but with an edge to his voice that she needs to immediately get rid of.

“I don’t doubt that,” is what she whispers and his brow seems to soften, sensing her lack of malice.

She hates the way they’re in the position where he assumes the worst of her. She has to make that change.

“I don’t think if I get to do this for the rest of my life that it would ever feel normal.”

“No,” Rowan agrees, “I don’t think it could.”

“So then we need this film to do well.” Aelin shifts on the stool, finding herself leaning closer to him without conscious thought. He doesn’t retreat. He stands his ground until they’re only inches apart. “Lest we find ourselves fading into obscurity.”

“I doubt you ever could,” he says with a laugh and it’s the best thing she’s ever heard.

As he looks at her, his expression soft in the dim light, his smile holds something special for her and her chest lifts that she managed it. That he was willing to give that to her.

“My agent sent over the initial critic reviews earlier,” he says and her stomach plummets.

“And?” she demands, her voice wobbling slightly. Her confidence from a minute ago vanished.

This is the moment where she could sink, the moment this could all be over.

“And they’re good,” he almost whispers.

“Good,” she repeats and it’s not a question but he nods.

She wants to throw herself at him at the news, a couple of months ago she wouldn’t have even hesitated, but now she sits clenching her fists and trying not to smile too wide. It feels like a waste. She’ll never get this feeling again.

She turns to him and he’s smiling so she does what she’s wanted to for months. Aelin leans forwards and wraps an arm over his shoulders, pressing her chest to his.

His arms slip up slowly over her shoulders at first, unsure but gaining confidence as he tightens his grip around her, drawing her further into his chest. Aelin laughs a little, throwing her other arm around him and resting her face against his shoulder.

It’s not enough, it never could be with him, but it will do. She’s just happy he didn’t push her away.

Eventually, after a length of time that feels far too short, she pulls back to see him gazing down at her with an expression she can’t name. His brows are drawn in with his lips gently parted. He’s happy but apprehensive, open but distant. Aelin will take what she can and the distance between them has always been too far.

She wants nothing more than to close it, to draw herself into him and he into her, but she can’t. They’re here for one thing and one thing only and she refuses after what they’ve been through to mess it up again.

She knows he can read her own expression but she doesn’t care. She’ll hide from everyone and anyone but she’s realising she could never hide from him.

She wants Rowan, will probably want him for the rest of her life, but she made the call and he’s wrong, things haven’t changed.

Apart from all of the things that have.

The day of the premiere Aelin feels sick.

Her stomach twists and she tosses and turns all night and the dark circles under her eyes are brutal as a result. Her make-up artist tuts but diligently packs concealer on until Aelin looks well rested. Or as close as she can.

She’s trying not to think of the stretch of carpet she’ll have to walk tonight, a smile plastered across her face as she poses for the hundreds of cameras. Their premiere is one of the biggest of the season and, along with Fenrys, she’s the star.

She’ll have nowhere to hide.

Aelin sits in front of her mirror, her hair and make-up are done but she’s yet to get dressed. She takes herself in, making sure to note every strand of hair to every line of her lips, feeling as though she needs to remember this moment. The moment before it all explodes.

They’ve been building to this for almost a year now and this is as close to a culmination as she’ll get.

Her dress is something fierce. Endless, flowing velvet in the darkest shade of black. Long sleeves and a fitted bodice with an almost indecent dip in the back. The dress would be modest without that cut out, she can’t wear any underwear it dips so low.

It would be a simple dress, some might even dare to say boring, if it weren’t for the back. The majority of the fabric that remains is covered in gold embroidery taking the form of a dragon, coiled to strike. Aelin adored the dress the moment her stylist revealed it to her. She didn’t consider any of the other dresses, didn’t even acknowledge them as options.

The dress is what she needs, something strong, something to help her hold her head up high. She can walk the red carpet and stare down every single person who doubted her and know that they were wrong.

Aelin doesn’t need their approval. She doesn’t need the reassurance of faceless commenters, she doesn’t need the support of the magazines and the newspapers. She doesn’t need her mother’s approval. On anything.

Aelin is confident and self-assured and she can walk the red carpet knowing that.

Her sessions with Maeve have helped to reassure her stance, but she’s realising day by day she’s known it all along. It’s just taken a little bit of digging to uncover it.

She slips into her dress and it slides on like a second skin. She takes in her appearance, the arch of her brow and the red smirk of her lips makes her look intriguing, like a confident young woman.

Aelin was born to be an actress but she’s proud to say the sight in the mirror is real.

She poses for a few photos before she’s led out of her room and into the car, waiting to take her to the theatre.

She spends the ride in silence, barely listening to the jabbering of the aide in the car with her, and she focuses her thoughts on the calm before the storm. She takes deep breaths and centres herself the way Maeve has taught, she knows this could so easily be overwhelming but she’s determined to enjoy it.

The car stills and she can hear the noise of the crowd outside. She takes a final deep breath and allows her lips to spread into a smile. This one is genuine, nothing forced about it, and she pauses for one last beat.

This is big and Aelin is ready.

The car door opens and the sound hits her like a wave, slamming down onto her and it's so loud she can hardly think.

This is it. This is the moment she has dreamed of.

The nights where this image was all she could cling to to make it through could never have compared to how it feels standing here now, screams of her own name wrapping around her and urging her on.

Her steps are slow and purposeful as she glides down the path forged for her, the red carpet beneath her stilettos is plush and bright. She pauses where she’s instructed, rolling her shoulders back and smirking at the cameras with a hand on her hip.

She knows she looks incredible and the shouts of the photographers do nothing to change her mind. They are here for her, they’re all here for what she has accomplished, along with Fenrys, Manon, Chaol and Rowan and everyone else involved.

There are so many forces upon her, the flashing of the lights, the screams and shouts calling her name or Fenrys’, the magnitude of what this is could knock down a lesser individual but all it does is raise Aelin up.

She’s been through worse than this and survived, she’ll stare down the lense of all of these cameras, of everyone who has ever spoken her name and she won’t cower, she won’t just survive. She’ll thrive.

A warm hand lands on her waist and somehow the flashes of the cameras explode.

“Hey, golden girl.” Fenrys’ words are almost hard to hear even though his lips brush her ear. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Aelin wraps her arm around his back and grins, “I thought I’d at least show my face.”

He returns her smile and together they pose for the cameras, their shoulders back and smiles confident. She’s not sure this could be better.

Until she turns slightly to her left and gets flashes of silver where she and Fenrys are gold.

Rowan and Manon, posing for their own pictures mere metres away. He looks spectacular, the deep black of his tuxedo doing nothing but bringing out the depth of his tan and the shine of his silver hair.

He’s smiling his public smile and it’s gorgeous even though it’s not her favourite of his smiles, she loves the private ones he used to save just for her, and her own smile falters at the sight.

She’s here with Fenrys and it’s not wrong but it doesn’t feel right. The arm around her waist shouldn’t belong to Fenrys.

She should be where Manon is, smiling up at Rowan while they marvel at what they’ve accomplished. She knows her smile has dropped and she fumbles for anything to plaster onto her expression other than the longing she feels for Rowan.

As if she’d called his name he turns to her, green colliding with blue, and she knows he feels the same.

And that hurts far more than all of the months they spent apart.

All the months she spent hurting, trying to deny what she always knew, trying to pretend that they were anything other than a force of nature. They had been an eclipse, threatening to over take all of this but she was wrong. Rowan was wrong too.

It doesn’t matter whether everything or nothing has changed because she wasn’t right in the first place.

She should have known better than to think that whatever flimsy decision she made could halt what they were, what they should be.

She can only hope he forgives her. She can only hope he feels the same.

But the thing about this new Rowan is that she can’t read him the way she used to read her Rowan, she can’t tell if the way he steels himself and turns away from her is a dismissal or if the look they shared had been just as painful for him as it had been for her.

“A masterpiece.” - Rifthold Reporter

“Fenrys Moonbeam shines alongside Aelin Ashryver in The Crescent City. See our full review here.” - Wyrd Stone

“Latest Rowan Whitethorn flick smashes Box Office records.” - Valg Weekly

“Unapologetic, daring and thought provoking. Award nominations expected to follow for The Crescent City.” - Terrasen Tribune

Her phone has not stopped buzzing for the past four days.

Dorian texts every waking hour with the updates he gets, the numbers coming in and all her latest offers. It’s surreal. She knew they were good but she’s not sure she ever really expected this. Aedion texts her a picture every time he sees or hears her name, it should be terrifying the frequency with which he texts her but she has to fight back her smile each time he does.

She managed to find an hour the night before to call Lysandra and the majority of their call had consisted of Aelin repeatedly asking what the fuck was happening while Lysandra cackled down the phone.

She’d even got a text from Lorcan. It was alright, he’d written. Followed by, I hope I die before ever having to watch you make out with someone like that again.

She’d sent three middle finger emojis and a kissy face in response.

Now is probably not the best time to move to a different country but she’d signed her name on the papers two days before the premiere and Rifthold is calling, irrespective of the fact she’s only been back in Orynth for two days.

Most of her stuff headed out yesterday with the moving company leaving Aelin with two suitcases to fly back to Rifthold with tomorrow.

There’s one last place she needs to go before she heads back to finally get a good night's sleep before her flight tomorrow. She’s never set foot in this graveyard before, she’s never had the courage to dare before, but she’s emboldened. By the success of the movie, by her progress in the past year, by her sessions with Maeve. This has felt like a natural step.

The shining, black headstone is understated and classy and completely to his taste.

Sam Cortland. Beloved son and brother, taken far too soon.

Aelin waits with her head bowed, allowing all of her emotions to rush through her veins. She doesn’t fight them, it would be pointless to try, and she embraces the tears that gather. Eventually she steps forwards, placing the smooth, small stone on the crest of the headstone.

She rests her hand on the cool stone for a moment before sinking down and crossing her legs beneath her as she leans against it.

“I’ve missed you,” she says aloud, “I can almost hear you telling me to stop being such a sappy shit. I can’t help it, it’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

She pauses, letting the wind drift through the field sweeping her words away.

There’s no one else here but her and Sam, no one else she’d want to hear her confession.

“I wonder what you would have made of all this. I think you’d tell me to enjoy it all, to not miss a moment, and I’m not. I’m just choosing the ones I want to savour. And this is one of them, Sam. I wish you’d been there with me, you would have loved it, the cameras, the lights, everything.

“I have to keep pinching myself to know it’s real, I did it, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come and see you.”

She sighs, letting her head tip back to rest against the stone. She didn’t prepare anything to say, didn’t realise she’d even want to speak to the open air but here she is.

“I’m not the same Aelin as the girl you knew anymore,” she says after a few moments of silence. “I didn’t think I would have the capacity to love again after you but I did, and I feel terribly guilty that I do. I have to remind myself that this is what you would have wanted, you would have wanted me to be happy.”

The silence in the field is more than an answer enough. So typically Sam to give her an answer without so much as speaking a word.

“I was happy,” she says, trailing a fingertip along the words etched into the stone. “I will be again.”

A faint haze of sunlight drifts through the Orynth autumn clouds, a whisper compared to the chorus of brightness she misses in Rifthold, and she stands, brushing off the dirt from her jeans. She touches the stone one last time before turning and heading out of the graveyard.

Her visit was years overdue but her chest didn’t crack open the way she had expected, the tears hadn’t been relentless the way she had expected. She’ll visit him again the next time she’s back in Orynth, probably visiting Elide and Lorcan for Yulemass, and she’ll visit again and again for as long as she lives.

But for now, she has a plane to catch.

Months later and two days before the Oscars, when they’re all back in town for the ceremony held in her new home city of Rifthold, Fenrys throws another party.

She’s managed, this time, to stay in touch with Fenrys and Manon, having made up with the younger girl before the press cycle had finished. Aelin knows her upset was real but partly suspects the animosity was a front. She even finds herself participating in the group chat with the three of them and Rowan. She’s only texted him one to one once to wish him a happy birthday and they had caught up briefly but not texted since.

She’s missed him in a different way to the last time she missed him. This time missing him doesn’t feel necessary, it feels wrong not to text him, wrong to be away from him and she’s itching to see him again.

It’s no one's birthday this time but they’re all together again to celebrate, no matter the results they’ll see in two days. Aelin is very carefully measuring her excitement about her own nomination for best actress. Fenrys is up for best actor, Rowan best director and the movie best picture.

She’d almost dropped her phone in the toilet when she found out from Dorian a few weeks ago.

The party is small but still in full swing by the time she arrives. Big names from the industry, all in town for the ceremony, are scattered all around Fenrys’ Rifthold apartment. He’d bought a place here not long after Aelin and she’s secretly relieved she’s not the only one so moved by their experience.

She waves to a few people she knows and tries to stay calm when she spots Sartaq Khagan in the corner chatting away to a small group of people. Holy shit Fenrys has some famous friends.

Aelin finds herself a glass, tops her orange juice off with a splash of lemonade and begins her rounds. So many more people want to talk to her after the movie dropped.

Her mother had been one of them, and Aelin’s thumb had hovered over the accept button for a moment before decidedly pressing decline. She had blocked her mother’s number a moment later, and then she had made some calls closing the bank account her mother kept topped up and arranging for every penny she’d ever received from Evalin Ashryver to be paid back.

It had hurt, emotionally and financially, especially in the month she’d moved to Rifthold, but it had been worth it. To never let Evalin pass any judgement over her life again was a relief worth any cost. Aelin’s hoping there’s a possibility she could end up with a reward.

She doesn’t know how long she spends talking to big name after big name and it’s a realisation that drops onto her that she fits in here. Aelin Ashryver is a big name. No matter the outcome of the ceremony she has prospects, already a number of projects lined up and she’s loving every minute of it.

She drains her cup for the third time tonight and heads back into the kitchen. She’s barely seen Fenrys all night, and she doesn’t even know if Manon is here.

She frowns into the fridge, there was definitely a full bottle of orange juice in here the last time she topped herself up. She shuts the fridge and spins around.

“Looking for this?”

She should have known.

Rowan looks predictably gorgeous in the dim kitchen lighting. All tanned skin and silver smiles. He’s dressed in her favourite look of his too, worn denim jeans and a soft cotton shirt.

It’s the softness in his gaze that really takes her though, it seems the animosity from the last time they saw each other has faded if not disappeared. Her chest squeezes at the thought. She has no idea what could have triggered it but she will take it.

“Nope,” she says, stepping over to where he stands with an arm braced against the counter at his side, the other holding out a bottle of orange juice. “I was hoping Fenrys would have some chocolate in there but I guess this will have to do.”

She takes the bottle from him, her fingertips brushing his and she feels her cheeks heat at the innocent brush.

His smile is genuine and she knows what he’s remembering because she’s thinking of it too. The first time she visited his house during filming and their moment in the kitchen. They’ve been through cycles, she supposes, but hopefully now for the better.

“I’m sure we can find you some somewhere in here,” he says as she fills her cup, pulling open the cupboard next to his head.

Aelin smirks. “I’m going to leave the rummaging through Fenrys’ cupboards to you. You could find anything in there.”

Rowan winces, closing the door before returning her smile. This is friendly and the hope that’s been planted in her chest begins to sprout.

“Yeah, maybe not,” he says with a conspiratorial smile. “We wouldn’t want to risk it.”

Aelin pauses for a moment, taking in the glory of him in front of her. He’s still Rowan, he’s still tall and deliciously broad. His silver hair is slightly more grown out and there are a couple more lines around his eyes but she doesn’t care, in fact it’s charming. He’s still and always will be stunning. She takes a sip of her drink before she takes one of her biggest risks so far.

“I’ve missed you,” she says, not daring to look away from his face.

He bites his lip, his tongue darting out to soothe the skin before he speaks. “I’ve missed you too.”

The smile that spreads across her face is all too telling but he’s smiling too so she doesn’t think it matters. He definitely feels the same and she’d be annoyed at the months she spent worrying but the relief is too sweet.

“Good,” is what she says, far too happy they’re here to bother with pretending she’s anything other than ecstatic. “Congrats on your nomination.”

His eyes dart to the floor and then back up at her, he’s too modest about his own skill and Aelin adores it. “Thank you,” he says softly, “you too.”

“Thanks,” she says. “I couldn’t have done it without you. All of you.”

“Me neither,” Rowan says.

He’s close to her now, closer than he has been to her for months and her skin cries out for contact. She almost can’t believe she’s here now, talking to Rowan without any animosity, days before the Oscars that she’s nominated in.

The smile that takes over her face is completely of its own accord. She’s floating and it seems Rowan is too if the beat they share, exchanging incredulous smiles, is anything to go by.

“It’s crazy, right?”

She’s been asking herself the question for so long it seems only natural it slips out to him.

He laughs softly, and the rough sound curls straight to her core.

“Definitely,” he agrees, his voice low. “I don’t think last time felt like this.”

Aelin slaps a gentle hand to his chest and ignores the thrill that shoots through her at the eventual contact. “I get it, this is not your first nomination.”

Rowan rolls his eyes and she didn’t know how much she missed this, playing with him. She adores his reaction every time, the begrudging amusement he only lets shine through to make her smile.

“Some of us have never been nominated before, this is all completely new.” Aelin takes a sip of her drink. “I had to give up my social media accounts to Elide, it got so crazy.”

Something flickers over Rowan’s face at her comment. “Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes darting across his face trying to decipher the expression. “She’s always had access and I still do so I can post if I want to but it just became a lot. It stopped being fun when I would see what people were saying, whether it was good or bad I don’t want to see it anymore.”

Rowan nods before his eyes lock onto hers, the intensity in his expression shreds her control.

“And you said nothing had changed?”

Aelin gets it now.

She shifts her weight, leaning as close to him as she can without sliding herself completely into the circle of his arms. “I was wrong. Lots of things have changed,” she says, her voice quiet but strong. “And lots of things are now right that weren’t before.”

She doesn’t mean to skirt around the truth, hiding in veiled words and double meanings, but as always, Rowan sees her. He sees her meaning and he smiles. It’s the most beautiful smile Aelin has ever seen him wear.

“I’ve been looking for you two.”

Fenrys bursts into the kitchen, startling Aelin back from Rowan. She hides her guilty smile in her drink and notices Rowan doing the same. Fenrys just grins, clearly enjoying whatever he thinks he’s seeing.

“You’re missing out, we’re playing kings in the living room if you want to join?”

Rowan glances at her before he turns back to Fenrys. “I think we’re good, thanks.”

Fenrys’ smile turns smug and Aelin resists the temptation to flip him off. She’s in too good of a mood to be annoyed at him.

“Okay, see you later, lovebirds,” Fenrys says, already on his way back out of the door.

Aelin pretends she isn’t blushing as she turns back to Rowan, his green eyes shining.

“This might sound crazy,” he says with an alluring tilt to his lips, “but do you want to get out of here?”

She’s reached a point she truly never thought she would.

She’s an Oscar-nominated lead actress in a box-office-record-breaking movie.

She’s happy, healthy and out from underneath the thumb of Evalin Ashryver.

The part that’s most uplifting, the part that has her unable to wipe the smile off her face as she strolls down the streets of Rifthold, is the arm she has tucked through Rowan’s.

They’ve been walking for a little while, enjoying the cool night air and the ease with which they managed to sneak out of Fenrys’ party. Her heels are killing her and Rowan very graciously offers her an arm to lean on and each time she takes a step in time with him she smiles.

“I never thought I’d like doing television,” he says.

She didn’t know he’d taken on a miniseries, similar to the one she’d done after filming, but she’s loving the recap she’s getting of the months they’ve been apart. The chill of the air is more than fought off by the warmth of Rowan by her side. The streets are mercifully empty and she can bask in the knowledge that it’s just the two of them out here, that they’re insignificant, that anyone who sees them will immediately dismiss them.

“I always thought I’d stick to movies, singular stories but I enjoyed it. I guess change can be good.”

Aelin laughs softly and squeezes his arm. He looks down to her, a question written in the slant of his brow.

“Change can definitely be good,” she says as she takes in the sights of the skyscrapers surrounding them. “I would know that I suppose.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I bought a flat recently.”

“You did?”

He’s so graciously giving her the floor to say what she needs to say and she holds his arm even tighter.

“It’s right here in Rifthold.” Aelin avoids his gaze, lest he think it’s a speedy invitation and that that’s all this is. “I bought it just after we were back here for press, I realised that I adore Rifthold and being here. I missed it when I wasn’t here and I don’t feel there’s anything holding me in Orynth anymore.”

Rowan laughs softly, his feet scuffing the floor.

“What?” she demands.

“I swear I’m not following you,” he says and she feels a smile creep onto her face. “I bought a loft here too.”

Aelin gasps. “But your house was gorgeous!”

Rowan’s smile twists as he looks away from her. “I didn’t say I sold the house.”

Aelin cackles as she squeezes his arm, the sound joyous and bright as it echoes around them. “I knew being Mr Big-Name-Director has its perks.”

“It does,” he agrees with a smirk.

Aelin wants to kiss that smirk. Wants to pull him down and twist her fingers through his hair as his own tangle along her skin.

Instead she says, “I copied you somewhat too.”

He only raises a brow.

“I bought a piano like the one in your house. It was too big for my old flat in Orynth and so I knew what I had to do.”

“That’s good,” he says as his arm drops out of hers. She almost pouts until he instead tangles their fingers together. Her smile says it all, reflected back in his own. “You play beautifully.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks are glowing. “You’ll have to come over and I’ll play for you sometime, neighbour.”

“I’d love to.”

Aelin slows, using the hand tangled with his to pull him to a stop too. Her free hand trails a gentle path up his chest before coming to rest at his collar, her fingertips tracing the golden skin peeking out from his shirt. His free hand finds her waist.

They’re close, closer than they have been in such a long time when he speaks.

“I don’t know what you think has or hasn’t changed.” His hand leaves hers to cup her cheek. “But I still feel the way I used to about you.”

Her heart takes off, pounding within her chest.

“I do too, Rowan.” Some of the easiest words she’s ever said to him. There’s something about the way the streetlights shine through the silver tips of his hair and the way his calloused fingers feel between hers that she’s feeling brave. “I loved you then and I love you now.”

His eyes flicker across her face as his smile dawns, taking over his face as he smiles so brightly. This is all she’s ever wanted, to have a Rowan like this, with pure, unfiltered happiness in his eyes as he looks at her.

“You love me?”

“I do. To whatever end.”

His lips are barely a whisper from hers and she only acknowledges the thought that they’re in public for long enough to realise she doesn’t care.

“And I love you.”

His words are simple, but sweet. They wash over her and settle into her skin as his lips land on hers. He kisses her with what she can only describe as love. His lips pour devotion onto her and his hands light a fire inside her as he tastes her tongue.

They kiss for longer than she can keep a track of, wrapped up together illuminated only by the street lighting. She’s missed this, missed him, and she can’t help but feel right when his hands are on her. She can’t help but feel right as she stretches onto her toes to throw herself into his kiss.

This was never wrong, this was one of the first things she knew was right.

She loves him and he loves her and nothing and nobody else matters.

She doesn’t win the Oscar, and neither does Rowan. Fenrys does and she screams herself hoarse cheering him on as he makes his way to the stage.

The moment that takes the cake is when The Crescent City takes best picture. She takes to the stage with some of her best friends to recognise what they achieved together and maybe she is a soppy shit but she definitely cries. Fenrys laughs at her and Manon grins but Rowan just throws his arm around her shoulders and it's worth it.

Afterwards, she logs into her Instagram account for the first time in a long time. She posts a picture of Rowan looking absolutely delicious with his tux unbuttoned and his bow tie hanging untied around his neck with a greasy burger in one hand and hers in his other.

Posting him is a statement but she doesn’t care. In fact, she wants the world to know. She wants the world to know that nobody does it like he does. Nobody does it like they do.

[pascalpanic]

Sunscreen (Frankie Morales x f!Reader)

Summary: You take a trip with Frankie and his three idiotic best friends. They find an interesting purchase in the gift shop.

W/C: 2.9k

Warnings: language, implied sexual content, lots of innuendo and flirting

A/N: HI!!! this is the first fic of the Beyond The Sea series Rach and I are writing! I can’t wait for everyone to read these! I also love @mandoalorian for doing this with me and putting up with my shit!

and happy birthday to the man behind it all!! lots of love for Pedro on this day <3

The moment Frankie steps off the plane and into the hot weather, he feels instantly at peace. He’d never even heard of St. Kitts before Santiago brought it up a few months ago, but as he looks around, he’s already thinking this might have to be the place he brings you on your honeymoon someday, once he gets the courage to propose.

Your bright laughter rings out behind him, a few steps higher as you walk down the stairs for deplaning. “It’s gorgeous,” you grin, wrapping your arms around Frankie’s neck from behind and pressing a loud kiss to his cheek.

“Shut the fuck up and keep it moving,” a loud voice calls from further behind Frankie- it’s Santiago, grumpy from the somewhat-long flight. The energetic man hates sitting still for too long. “You two can make out at the hotel. There’s a whole plane behind us.”

Sighing, you walked along until both you and Frankie had your feet on solid ground. Frankie pulls you into his side with a strong arm, kissing the top of your head and grinning at the way he can already feel a little sweat forming on his brow. God, it’s fucking hot. He loves it. It’s not the grueling heat that plagued the men when they were at boot camp all those years ago; it’s not the sticky humidity that makes Frankie’s curls turn to tufts of frizz beneath his ball cap. It’s just right, he thinks, as a cool breeze rushes through and moves the still heat of the tarmac. “Welcome to paradise, baby,” Frankie grins as he slides his hand down your arm until your fingers lace together.

-

The resort is beautiful. The lobby is open-aired and gorgeous, with high ceilings and marbled floors. You bounce excitedly alongside Frankie as the two of you walk in, the other three men trailing behind. Benny makes comments to Will about how the two of you are about to be insufferable, and Frankie turns and shoots him a glare.

After you check in, you drag your luggage up to the highest floor. The other three men go to their respective hotel room next door, and Frankie opens the door to your room for you.

As soon as you walk inside, your breath is taken away by the large window, showing you the expanse of the Caribbean Sea, glimmering turquoise. A hand reaches up to cover your mouth, eyes watering as you look up at Frankie. “Oh my god,” you murmur and drop your bags, rushing over.

Frankie had planned this moment. He knew you’d never seen the ocean before just moments ago, but knew you’d love it. You’ve always loved water, loved swimming in pools and creeks and any body of water you could find. The two of you had kept your little window shut during the flight, preventing you from any sneak peeks. “You like it?” he asks as he walks after you, where your face and hands are pressed to the glass.

With eyes sparkling from tears, you turn to him with a grin. “It’s gorgeous.”

“You know there’s a balcony right there,” he teases, putting a hand on your waist and pointing to the side where there’s a sliding glass door. “I’m an idiot,” you laugh and rush over to open it. You step out into the warm air once again, and the smell of sea salt fills your lungs. You can hear the rushing of the ocean, the way it crashes against the shore.

Frankie steps out after you, removing the flannel over his t-shirt. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I think you’re an ocean kind of girl,” he tells you quietly, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I think you’re right,” you agree and grin, kissing the side of his face.

The peaceful moment is interrupted, as always, by a loud whoop from Benny. The sliding door on the balcony over flies open and out rush the Miller brothers and Santiago. “It’s fuckin’ amazing!” Benny laughs as he grips the railing tight, leaning out over it.

“Calm down, Ben,” Will laughs but steps out as well, resting his forearms on the railing. “Look at that. The lovebirds beat us to it.”

“Ah, damn, so they can’t fuck out here now,” Santi teases, causing you to make a face of annoyance.

You lean back against Frankie and roll your eyes. “I was just telling Fish I’ve never seen the ocean,” you admit, placing your hands on his forearms and tracing the strong skin with the pads of your thumbs.

“Really?” All three men ask in sync, surprised.

You nod and shrug. “Parents never took me as a kid or anything, and I’ve never really left the Midwest before I met you fuckers,” you chuckle as you watch the white-capped waves rolling along out in the water.

“Well, you’re welcome,” Santiago grins over at you. It was his whole idea to come, and you’re sure you’ll never hear the end of it. “Could’ve mentioned it sooner though.”

“Didn’t think it mattered,” you shrug, smiling at the way you can feel Frankie’s chest bounce with a laugh. “Come on, let’s go to the beach,” you turn in Frankie’s arms and ask him with a grin, eyes wide with excitement.

“Sure thing, babe,” he nods and steals one more kiss before the two of you walk back into the hotel room.

There’s a voice from the other balcony before Frankie slides the door shut. “We’re going to the bar,” Santi yells. “Meet us there after!”

-

“What the fuck is this?” Will Miller’s gruff voice conveys across the gift shop, to where you’re admiring a shibori-dyed garment.

Looking up, you hear Benny’s loud laugh. “No way. Why would they even make this shit?” You wander over to where the four men have congregated, all staring at something in Will’s hands.

Santiago does the work for the three of you who have yet to see it and reads the label on the bottle aloud. “Seduction: pheromone sunscreen.” He laughs, absolutely in disbelief. “Awaken her passion with this pheromone-infused tanning lotion. Contains a masculine fragrance and the male pheromone, to attract a female. Damn. Does it work?” He asks the woman behind the counter, who shrugs in response.

Frankie picks up the bottle, and Will grabs another, reading the fine print. “Why in the hell did someone think this was necessary?”

You shrug and lean against him to read it too. “I don’t know. Probably for guys like Will who are desperate,” you tease, earning a playful shove that pushes you into Frankie and makes you lose your balance for a moment. “Fucker,” you mutter and steady yourself on your boyfriend’s arm.

“I’m buying it,” Santiago announces and puts it on the check-out counter. “Fish, I’m going to steal your girl with this,” he declares and pulls you into his side. “The power of the pheromone sunscreen.”

Laughing, you allow it to happen. “Maybe it’ll be irresistible, I don’t know.”

“Hey, don’t awaken my girl’s passion, man,” Frankie whines teasingly and pulls you back, wrapping both arms around you protectively. “If you’re using it, Santi, I’m using it too. It’s only fair.”

“It’s only fair if you don’t,” he shoots back. “She already loves you. It’s not like it’s gonna make her think you’re hotter. It’s only fair if I do it alone, and you’re the control.”

“Hi, I’m not a lab rat,” you speak up and push Santiago’s chest teasingly. “Try it on yourself and see if you can make other girls around here fall in love with you. Better yet, like I said, put it on Will. That’s a real test.”

The quietest of the men is your favorite to tease, mainly because of how he takes it. “You’ve never been in the ocean. I will personally make sure you never get to,” he threatens, lunging after you and making you squeal and dodge it.

-

“Is it working?” Santiago asks, giving you a full body twirl. You have to admit, the man is good-looking: you’ve always known it, and his glistening abs definitely emphasize it. Sadly for him, nothing about the pheromone sunscreen is making him unbearably attractive in your eyes. Your eyes are hidden behind mirrored sunglasses as you look at him, but you pull them down to roll your eyes at the ridiculous man.

“No,” you say with a sweet smile, taking Frankie’s hand from where it rests on his chest. He’s lying next to you in the two-seat cabana, wearing his swim trunks and ever-present ball cap. “I like this one still,” you grin as you run your eyes up and down his body.

Frankie grins back at you. “Maybe I’ll have to try that shit out,” he laughs, adjusting his hat. “If it’s so seductive, I wouldn’t mind having you all over me.”

Santiago makes a gagging noise and wanders down the beach, to where the Miller boys are playing sand volleyball a hundred yards or so away. “You know that you don’t need that for me to be all over you, baby,” you grin and lean over to give him a kiss. “Can we go swim?” You ask, sitting up and putting your sunglasses on your head.

Frankie sighs softly. This cabana was just getting comfortable. “I was thinking we could tan first,” he says, cracking his neck. “But if you want to, let’s go.”

You squeal and hop up, taking off the sunglasses before tugging on your bikini top and adjusting the bra. Frankie ogles your chest in the swimsuit and you smack his arm. “Francisco Morales, cut that out or I’m going to sit you back down and suck your dick right now.”

Frankie gulps. “Is that an offer, or-”

“Come on, Fishie,” you laugh. Grabbing his arm, you take off running through the sand, leaving him to follow. You both grin as the sand flies around you, the warm wind brushing against your skin. When you reach the edge of the water, you stand at the edge for a second and let the water rush over your feet and ankles. You look up at Frankie with big and confused eyes. “The water is so warm,” you laugh, slightly confused as you wade a little deeper.

“It’s the Caribbean Sea, babe,” Frankie chuckles, walking backwards and holding your hands, leading you deeper into the water.

“I guess,” you chuckle as the warm water surrounds more and more of your legs. “I suppose I just- Frankie!”

Note to self: never turn your back on the ocean, you mentally conclude as a wave hits Frankie from behind and knocks him over, into the salty and sandy water. You laugh a little as he falls over with a large splash, squealing as the water sprays you. He comes up a moment later, shaking his head to get the water out of your eyes. “Come on in, it’s really warm,” he tells you with a laugh, spitting the salty sea water out of his mouth. It’s only about thigh deep now, and you look down at him and wade a little deeper. He swims out and you follow, grinning.

“Hey, Frankie,” you ask, when the water reaches your navel.

“Yeah, babe?” he asks, confused when you drop your hands.

“Catch me!” You squeal as you jump onto him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His arms catch you, but he purposely falls backwards until the both of you are under the crystal-clear water.

When you surface, you wipe your face. “That wasn’t what I meant by catch me,” you laugh, swimming over to your boyfriend, who’s surfaced in a shoulder-deep area.

“Doesn’t matter. Now you went all the way under,” he grins at you. “Now you’ve really swam in the ocean- swam? Swum?”

“Have been in,” you offer, laughing and wading over to him. You wrap your arms around his neck, then your legs, and his arms encircle your middle. “It doesn’t matter. I love you so fucking much, Frankie,” you tell him with a wide grin, looking over his shoulder at the waves further out.

“I love you too, baby,” he mumbles and kisses you. His lips taste like the salt water the two of you have been submerged in. His hands grip your hips as he wanders through the water, you hanging off of him like a koala.

You rest your face in his neck, admiring the scent of seawater and sunscreen and Frankie’s skin. Frankie starts singing a terrible version of the Piña Colada Song, making you laugh and press a loving kiss to the side of his face. “Is this your way of telling me you want to hit the bar?” You tease and squeeze him a little tighter.

“Maybe. You know I hate the flying part of getting here.” It’s ironic, you’ve always thought, but you suppose it makes sense that Frankie doesn’t really like airplanes. Helicopters are and always have been his forte, and it’s a feeling you understand: when he isn’t the one flying, he gets antsy. Things are out of his control, and he doesn’t like that. “I just need a strong drink and some lovin’ from you and I think I can finally relax.”

You grin and pull back, kissing him happily for a moment before pulling back and grinning. “Well, one part of that accomplished,” you grin. A realization hits you and you gasp. “Oh my god. You’re Fishie, and you’re in the ocean,” you laugh. “How did you ever get that name?” You ask, suddenly curious.

Frankie shakes his head, his hair starting to curl as it dries. The salty water makes it even wavier. “Doesn’t matter.”

You shrug and rest your head in his neck. You sigh and enjoy the feeling of Frankie’s arms and the warm water, the way a breeze rushes past and makes the back of your neck chilly from the drops of water resting there. Frankie mindlessly watches the other three men playing volleyball, wandering around the water with you. “Frankie?” You murmur into his skin.

“Yeah baby?”

“This has already been the best vacation ever, and it’s the first full day,” you tell him and remove yourself from his body, standing next to him in the water.

He grins and kisses you softly, wrapping an arm around your side to keep you close. “I fully agree.”

The two of you wander up to the shore a while later, plopping back down in your cabana. Will has gone to the bar and comes back with tropical drinks for each of you, which you hold in one hand and sip, your boyfriend’s hand in your other one.

A while later, Santi and Benny run back, covered in sweat from the heat and the game. “How about now, huh?” He asks you, flexing his arms, grinning.

You play into it, gasping and sitting up straight. “Oh, Santi,” you coo seductively, pouting. The face drops immediately. “Nope. Not working.” “Ah, should’ve figured. Anyone attracted to Fish would have weird preferences,” he shakes his head.

Frankie takes the alcohol-saturated lime from the rim of his drink and throws it at him, which makes a smack noise as it makes contact with Santiago’s chest. “Fuck off.”

“I will do no such thing,” Santi grins at him and plops down in the chair next to him. “My sole job here is to pester you two lovebirds and ruin your wonderful vacation.”

Benny, ever the prankster, sneaks up behind Santiago and pours a glass of ice water from the bar over his head. Santiago practically squeals at the sensation and Benny launches off into a run. Santiago follows. “You little shit! Just because you’re a fighter doesn’t mean I’ll kick your ass, Benjamin!”

The two of them occupied and Will up at the bathroom, you sigh as you roll over onto your stomach. “Frankie baby, will you sunscreen my back?” you ask him, propping yourself up on your arms.

“Sure thing,” he nods, sitting up and grabbing the bottle from your beach bag. He gets up and squirts some in his palms before working it into your lower legs, then your upper thighs. When he reaches your ass, he takes a few liberties in squeezing it. “That’s not how you put on sunscreen, flyboy,” you tease and giggle at the motions.

“Just got carried away,” he chuckles and works at your lower back, then your shoulders and arms. “There. All good.”

“Thanks, baby,” you coo and kiss him softly when he sits back down. “You want some too?” He nods, flopping onto his back. You repeat what he did, standing and working on his legs.

The further you get up his thighs, you can hear his breath hitch slightly, the wet swim trunks sticking tight to a hardening crotch. “Frankie,” you coo, working your hands up beneath the fabric.

“Sorry,” he winces, willing himself to force the growing erection down. Naturally, it doesn’t work.

You giggle softly, working some sunscreen into his stomach. “Don’t be. Pull up that shade, baby,” you tell him, referring to the shade that can completely cover the cabana when pulled up.

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles as you pull his swim trunks down just enough. “Guess I didn’t need that stupid pheromone sunscreen,” he murmurs hurriedly as the shade covers the both of you.

-

Beyond The Sea Masterlist

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic

[rhaenyratargeryn]

So I wrote an entire Gojo x Reader multichap fic in the space of like a month?? And it’s the first multichap fic I have ever completed.

Title: Convergence Theory

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader (oc)

Tropes: Fake Engagement, Idiots in Love, Canon Divergence, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Porn with Feelings (after ch. 13)

Summary: An on-going and haphazardly updated series of works where you, the reader, are a sorcerer and Limitless user in a not all-together fake engagement/relationship with one Gojo Satoru.

Status: chapters 22/22 ✅

Ao3 Link

Excerpt:

August, 2005.

That summer had been oppressively warm, a layer of heat trapped beneath a layer of moisture that made even the light fabric of your kimono stick to your sides. It was the kind of weather that made your body beg for relief, to lay shivering and sweltering under the barest breath of cool air.

Your mother had opened the outside screens in the room, letting you sit on the porch overlooking the small garden at the center of the expansive, traditional home. The view was lovely, overlooking a manicured garden, a small koi pond bubbling pleasantly even as the night air chirped with the sounds of insects.

The main house was equipped with air conditioners in some of the rooms— just like your parent’s own home, only a short distance away, but somehow so far removed from the atmosphere of this place it felt miles away. Centuries. The clock on the wall seemed suspended in time, halted too by the weight that fell over this place.

There was nothing to be done. When the head of the Gojo family called, even the smallest vine, hanging from the tiniest branch, curled in. Your great grandmother had bore the Gojo name before she married, a detail of minor significance that had not effected your own family until your birth. You had often heard your parents discussing the main family in hushed voices when they thought you were not listening. First with excitement and eagerness and then with worry.

There had been a phone call, an order disguised as invitation.

Gojo Satoru, heir to the name, barer of the Six Eyes, was turning sixteen in December, a scant four months away.

Six Eyes.

Two words that managed to leave the bitterest taste of bile in your throat.

It had been thought the next Six Eyes would be born in your generation, your parents hopeful at one point that you were the one so blessed. A hundred years of waiting ended by the birth of another child, honored above all other sorcerers. You had been born with the Limitless technique, that much was certain and an extra unnaturally keen ability of foresight… the signs were there. The possibility that the the massive potential of the Limitless was within your grasp if you could only prove to possess the fabled Six Eyes…

You were hailed for a short time as possibly a true child of the Gojo blood, a blessing. A boon. And then not even a short year later that boy was tested. No two Six Eyes could exist and it was him, not you, who was truly blessed.

You ran your hands up the back of your neck, dislodging the hair stuck your heated skin.

And worse yet, now you would suffer the indignity of being paraded around with every other eligible girl with a single drop of Gojo blood diluted enough to be proper for marriage.

Gojo Satoru needed a betrothed and only the best would do, naturally.

You were to be polite, courteous and docile. Laugh at his jokes, bat your eyes. Play the role of the pursued for the pursuer.

Did you even want to be selected? Once hailed as the promised child, now degraded to probable broodmare ?

You sucked your teeth, holding back a feral shriek somewhere deep in your throat. There was a knock on the wooden frame of the room, lazy and slow. The door slid open before your mother could get you to return inside to the low tables and too hot tea laid out.

You were all but deaf to the sounds of stilted, forced polite conversation, but could not ignore the sudden presence of a young man who came to sit down hard at your side.

Gojo Satoru was not an unattractive young man. He had the signature Gojo coloring, his eyelashes even as pale as driven snow. You yourself had even inherited two streaks of white in your hair, framed near your face and standing in contrast against the rest.

But that handsomeness was hard to enjoy when his expression was one of such utter indifference. He did not even bother to remove the dark glasses that shaded over his eyes, but you hardly were offended. It would have been all the worse to have to look at the very thing you coveted most in this world. Taunting you. Dismissing you.

How many girls had he been forced to sit with today? Judging by his bored expression, too many.

“This is the part where you tell me your name.” He said, voice amused, yet slightly condescending. Behind you both, his parents spoke with your own, but that too was part of the charade. All eyes were on you. All ears tuned to your words.

“You know my name.” You said with a thinly veiled sigh. His attention shifted just a fraction and you noticed with an indignant flush he was wearing his school uniform. Shirt untucked, jacket unbuttoned. You had been forced to spend hours getting ready for this meet-up. Forced to wear a kimono in this hot weather.

He tilted down his glasses to give you a halfway appraising look and you turned away.

“Goin’ for the aloof angle then? Some other girls tried it too. As if you pretend hard enough that you aren’t interested somehow I will be.”

How fucking arrogant.

Your fists clenched in your lap.

“It won’t work.”

“I’m not working any ‘angle’.” You grumbled, “I was told to be here so I’m here. That’s all.”

“You expect me to believe that, huh?”

“I don’t care what you believe.” You spat back, turning to shoot him a piercing glare.

There was silence then, even the voices behind you seeming to falter and lower as if worried they were missing out on some secret hushed conversation.

“Ohhh, wait. I remember now! I do know your name.” Gojo continued, taking off his sunglasses and wiping off some smudge or dust from the lens, “Aren’t you that girl they thought was gonna have the Six Eyes in her?”

Your fist clenched tighter.

“I get it now. Sour grapes and all. Tell ya what…” he spoke softer and leaned in until you felt his breath against your ear, “If you ask me really nicely, for one night, you still could."

The only sound that came after that was the harsh strike of skin against skin. The contact of your palm connecting to his cheek stunned not just the adults inside, but you.

No self respecting sorcerer with the Limitless ability would have been taken by surprise and yet here you sat, having successfully struck the heir to the Gojo name right across his smug face.

You drew your hand back. His cheek had turned a throbbing red so quickly, his smirk raised as his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose and revealed how his blue eyes danced with open amusement.

[g4rous]

Sunlit memories (Garou x reader)

tags: slight mentions of blood, no warnings really

words: 1.3k

notes: hi lol finally dropped the second chapter of the fic, feel free to tell me your thoughts again it means the world 💕

series masterlist

previous chapter

Chapter two

It had already been a week since that odd encounter with the mysterious guy, nonetheless you didn’t think much of it. The days weren’t as scorching as before, tempting you to go to the park to sketch even more. On one of your strolls you’ve noticed a cat lazing around your building and much to your glee it let you pet it almost every time it passed by. Despite occasionally having some work on your hands you even managed to clear away those 2 month-old boxes from when you first moved into your new apartment, finally tempted to call over a friend or two so they could see what you did with the place. At last you were getting used to the city and routines.

Well, at least that’s how you wanted it to be.

In reality the past week has been intriguing as it was chaotic. Monsters have been popping up and wreaking havoc even more fluently than before, making you question was moving here a mistake. Your daily strolls in that peaceful park reduced greatly with so much unease in the air. Even passing by one of the cafés wasn’t as soothing as before, since instead of music you only heard the citizens’ nervous chatter and rumors, most prominently about some “nutcase that hunts heroes for a hobby”. At this point walking home alone even after a relaxing day seemed straight up spine-chilling. To top it off “that dude” from before coincidentally just happened to cross paths with you almost every day, and you weren’t sure was it plain hilarious or just ridiculously awkward.

Be it at that same, now mostly deserted park from before, catching him speaking to some kid with a book in hand, or just in the passageway of one of the many alleys in the city, your curiosity grew even more. And the fact his occasional bruised, even bloody form caught your eyes more than once didn’t help. Even so, you’d always give a small wave, which he would (awkwardly) return. Truth be told, you were keen on actually starting a normal conversation with the man whose name still remained unknown. Why not? He doesn’t seem ill-mannered despite all the mystery surrounding him, too bad your plan to befriend often got spoiled by the fact he always seemed so preoccupied with something.

And here you are, waiting for the coffee machine at the nearest mini-market to deliver your drink while trying desperately not to glance over to that same man picking out what bag of chips to steal. (And yes, you bore witness to that before as well.)

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you sighed internally, keeping your eyes on the drink in-the-making.

Oddly enough, this actually seemed like a good opportunity to say hello. The machine finally finished its work, allowing you to take a good whiff of the delightful hot drink in your hands before taking a long waited sip.

“Eh, isn’t as good as when I make it but this’ll do.”

After glancing at him one more time, you mustered up the courage to walk in his direction. Though, as soon as you turned around someone else bumped into you, almost spilling your drink. A hero, to be exact. A tall man with black markings on his eye matching with his onyx hair, beside him three more who you couldn’t identify; one practically naked, the only clothing on him being a thong, heels and butterfly wings, one with light blond hair decorated with a peach headband and the last one wearing a dark expensive-looking suit with avocado patterns. Definitely didn’t see that one before.

The tall one was quick to apologize, to which you only gave a small, reassuring smile. Trailing your eyes to the other three, you noticed their stern, focused expressions, giving you the impression they didn’t come here for some junk food and sweets.

“Wonder what they’re up to,” you pondered after taking your eyes off them.

“Well, doesn’t matter to me anyways.”

After taking a small circle around the isle in front of you, the silver-haired teen was at long last close enough to converse with. Despite being right next to him, much to your surprise he didn’t bat an eyelid after you gave your signature wave.

“Um, I’m sure you already saw me when you came in but still-” you continued with a nervous smile“-I felt like I just had to say hi.”

And again you were greeted with more silence before he finally took the chips and turned the other way.

“Ah, sure. See ya then.”

“Yo, what?”

Was this some kind of a joke? Even that one haughty girl you remember you disliked in middle school wouldn’t give a response so numbingly dry.

Before you managed to ask any more questions, the man glanced over at your direction for a brief moment.

“Quit talking, they’re gonna think we’re friends or something.”

Standing there with a deadpan expression, drink still in hand you watched as he nonchalantly exited the store without the clerk noticing that unpaid bag of chips. At this point you regret even thinking about befriending him.

“So much for socializing,” you rolled your eyes and took another sip.

“Might just get a bag of chips myself. And pay for it.”

Sunlight shone from the store’s humble display window onto the handful of isles, making it look like a scene from some nostalgic 90s movie. Lost in thoughts, you stared at your sunlit reflection on one of the glass panes. The radio played one of your favorite songs, making you wish to stay in that comfy mini-market just a minute or two longer. Well, if only you didn’t turn around to see a bald man with a ridiculous-looking outfit and a horror-struck face trying to bargain the clerk to accept his expired coupons.

“Yeah, let’s just get out of this store already.”

Despite all the eccentric behavior you bore witness to today, one thing was still faintly clinging on to your mind as you walked down the almost empty street. Still somewhat irritated from that remark earlier, you’ve began to wonder what was that about in the long run, but on second thought you didn’t feel like getting any more annoyed.

You let out a small sigh before glancing at your phone. Looking ahead, now you were somewhat tempted to take a few good pictures of the sunlight reflecting on the eerie looking district about a hundred meters away. It was a ghost town filled with ghastly rumors, even so still incredibly intriguing.

“Huh, I wonder does anyone live there?”

However the instant those thoughts came to mind, your attention was drawn over to the alley on your left with its ruckus. You could’ve sworn to have heard some men shouting, yet before you even thought of retreating the other way you had already caught a glimpse of the commotion.

Two men lay sprawled out on the concrete, that half-naked hero and the one with the peach headband, both with a battered face. And if that sight didn’t stop you in your tracks, the familiar man behind the other two standing heroes from the store did.

That same silver-haired teen smirked at the two men equally battered as the ones unconscious on the floor. In spite of the blood trickling down his bruised fists, he kept an unshakeable stance. To say you couldn’t believe what you were seeing was an understatement. Just who the hell is this guy and what was he doing?

Just as he was seemingly about to make a remark towards the two heroes your presence caught him by surprise, which the two used slyly for an attack.

One made what seemed like a small smokescreen and afterwards all that was heard was the sound of the old parts of the building’s walls crumbling down. For a moment you were unsure whether to call someone to help or just back away from the scene altogether, not that it mattered since all you heard was a loud shout before black clouds overcame your vision.

[nostalgiabones]

Fix It to Break It // L.H

So here is the first fic in my new Song Series, to celebrate 11,000 followers! I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who reads any of my fics or blurbs and follows me on here, I appreciate it so much, and I’m so excited to share this series with you! I want everyone to be a part of this too, so if you have any songs you’d like me to write about, let me know!

Song: Fix It to Break It — Clinton Kane. Please listen to the song as you read! It really adds to the overall vibe of the fic, I think it’s such a beautiful song.

Word count: 2,539

“Remember that time I made you laugh?”

The air in the room feels thick and heavy as Luke lifts his head, his narrow eyes on you as you avoid his gaze. Your lounge, a place that was once filled with life and laughter, almost feels unrecognisable. His voice is gravelly, almost a whisper as he speaks, like the light inside of him no longer shines so bright. Your focus is on the ground, your mind silently counting the number of panels across the floor. Anything to distract from the current moment. You don’t want to face Luke. 

Things have changed. 

The house that you once called home feels like an empty shell of what once was there, and all that’s left is you and Luke to pick up the pieces of each other. 

“I would give in to hear that sound again.” He continues. There’s no emotion in his voice, like he has nothing left. There’s so much to say, yet so little - he doesn’t know where to start. Luke can’t bear to think back over the good times through fear of breaking down. It feels like it’s about to come to a head, like he can no longer keep it inside. There’s things that need to be said. 

You were once ‘that couple,’ the one that your friends always knew you’d become; a love so pure that others wanted to feel it. They’d ask you how you do it, but neither you or Luke ever had an answer. It was just easy. It worked. The love you felt for each other overcame everything else, and that’s all there was to it. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Luke.” You admit, still avoiding his eyes. 

You can feel him looking at you. He’s anxiously bouncing his knee, the sight catches your eye, and it’s not an uncommon one. He over thinks a lot. You don’t need to look at him to know how he’s feeling; the cogs are whirring in his head far too quick for even him to understand. 

Luke tries to contain his temper. There’s a lot that he wants you to say, a lot of explanations he feels he deserves. He doesn’t have it in him to get mad at you. It hurts too much. A promise he once made, that nothing is solved by shouting, not after you disclosed your painful childhood to him. As hurt as he is, he isn’t going to break that. There’s only one time he raised his voice at you, and he’ll never forget the pain in your eyes when you recoiled from him. It’s enough to haunt him into never speaking loudly to anyone again. 

He clears his throat.

“Things have changed,” He says, blankly, so matter-of-factly. “We’ve changed. I want you to admit that you feel it too.”

The two of you have been living in denial for too long.

Luke has woken up alone too many times. You’d slip out of bed early, blaming a morning appointment, but wouldn’t return until late afternoon. He can’t remember the last time he held you without you pushing away. There’s always a reason to not be around, always an excuse. He’d spent the whole tour wanting to be back in your arms, to feel his lips against yours. He’s been back for a month, and he still doesn’t feel like he’s home. 

“You were away for a long time, Luke,” You murmur, knowing that it’s going to hit a nerve with him. Tour was always a sensitive topic. You know he won’t get mad at you, though, he never does. It’s one of the things you love about him. “Six months. I got used to being alone. I can’t just go back to normal so quickly.

He pauses for a moment. 

“Did you miss me?” He asks, like he’s nervous to hear the answer.

He doesn’t get a moment to prepare for your response before you reply, “of course I did, Luke. Why would you ask me that?”

Your mind flashes back to when he was away, the late night calls when he needed to hear your voice. He couldn’t sleep without saying good night, despite what time it was where you were. Sometimes you didn’t pick up. Although, what Luke didn’t know, was that you needed to hear him just as much. It just hurt too much sometimes, to know it would be so long before you heard him in person again. 

“We’ve been through tours before,” He reminds you. “It’s never taken this long for us to adjust. You’re usually so excited for me to come home. It didn’t feel like that this time.”

When he’s been touring before, the thought of getting home to you was what kept him going. Whether you managed to make it to the airport or he met you at home, the smile on your lips accompanied with the relief of a “you’re home,” made his heart soar. He’d never felt so loved, so at home — nothing beat the feeling of waking up next to you the morning after getting home. The best sleep he ever had was the night he came home from being away for so long.

It’s a feeling he misses.

He’s been home for a month, and nothing feels the same. There’s been moments where he feels as though he’s been dreaming, whether he’s misremembering your relationship before he went on tour.

He doesn’t understand how things can change so quickly.

From falling asleep with you in his arms, to feeling like you’re miles apart in the bed. Even if you somehow untangled your legs from his own in your sleep, he would search for you, craving your skin to soothe his mind back to sleep. Now, he’s on edge, he lays in the dark staring at the wall until sleep manages to encompass him. He’s lucky if he sleeps through the night. 

There’s times where you sleep in the spare room, claiming you finished work too late, and didn’t want to disturb him. When really, it’s too much to be in the same bed as him, knowing that he’s hurting. You know you’re pushing him away, yet don’t know how to stop it. 

You just wanted to be able to breathe. 

“I just...” You sigh, brushing a hand through your hair as you slump back into the sofa. “I don’t know what to tell you. What do you want me to do?”

Luke wants to scream. He wants to tell you that he loves you, that he wants you to love him too. He knows you used to. He’s not sure you do anymore. He can’t remember the last time you told him sincerely. He still remembers the first time he told you he loved you, how even though it took you a minute to say it back, he knew you meant it. He saw it in your eyes. Now he says “I love you” and you reply “you too” — it doesn’t feel the same. Just like everything else doesn’t. 

It’s the little things he misses the most. He misses talking to you, feeling connected, and just doing nothing together. He likes the reassurance of having someone around. He’s never been one to enjoy his own company, especially not after a tour, even if all you do is sit on your phones in silence. You used to put out his coffee cup in the morning, and he remembers when you stopped. He misses you singing quietly in the shower, when you think he can’t hear you. He can. And it makes his mornings that little bit brighter. He misses the sound of your laugh when you watch a repeat of a sitcom you’ve seen a hundred times.

It’s the little things that make him feel loved. 

“I want you to love me like you say you do,” Luke says, as firmly as he can without his voice breaking. “I don’t want to have to remind you to love me. I shouldn’t have to do that.”

He thinks it’s unfair for you to blame him.

Tears well in your eyes at his words, the pain in his voice like a dagger through your heart as you listen to him speak. “You know that I love you, Luke.”

“No I don’t.” He replies. He’s just being honest. “You used to. I don’t know if-”

“I do.” You cut him off, not wanting to hear the end of the sentence. It makes sense that he doesn’t feel it anymore, as much as you don’t want to admit it. You’ve pushed him away. “You know the moment I fell in love with you. I didn’t lie when I said I’ve never loved someone like I love you. That doesn’t just go away.”

He does know the moment you’re talking about. It was one of the first times he took you home to Australia, to meet his family, when you saw just how loving and gentle he is. The way he loves his family is like nothing you’ve ever seen. He has the biggest heart. He glowed different that weekend; his Mum saw it too, she told you.

Everything felt like it had fallen into place. 

You were in his childhood bedroom, just having a moment to yourselves, when he had kissed you like nothing else mattered, in that moment. You felt immersed by him, like you were meant to be there with him. Where you had murmured the words “You’re a real sweetheart, you know that? I’ve never felt love like this before.” and he swore he’d never love anybody else either. 

Those days feel like a distant memory now. 

“I got too used to you not being here.” You continue to explain. Six months is a long time. You threw yourself into work, into anything but thinking about how much you missed him. Maybe too much, because now you’ve forgotten how things once were. “I’m not blaming this on you, Luke. I know that touring means the world to you. I just had to stop myself from sitting around and waiting for you to come home.” 

It’s not the first relationship Luke’s damaged by being away. It’s a common theme in his life, actually, but he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place. The band comes first. Yet he’s not sure he can do this again. 

“I feel like I’ve lost you.” He admits, and now it’s his turn to tear up. There’s a lump in his throat, you can hear it in his voice. “I wanted to have this conversation for weeks now. I didn’t know if I was just making it up, that things felt so different, but they do. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

You dare to look in his direction. You find his eyes, the usual sparkling blue now dulled by the pain behind them, and it’s then you remember why you were looking away. 

“I think we need to find each other again,” You admit, quietly. Easier said than done. You suddenly feel the desire to get up and sit next to him, to be close to him. It’s like he knows, like he can read your mind, and he shuffles up on the sofa to make space. You sigh heavily, your body feeling like dead weight as your feet carry you across the room. You’re almost nervous to sit next to him. “I don’t know how we do that. But we need to try.”

We. Something Luke feels like you haven’t been for a while. 

“I need more.” Luke tells you. He needs more love, more affection, more conversation… more everything. He wants to feel like he’s in a relationship again. He wants to feel the love you say you have for him. He wants to feel like he’s enough for you. “I can’t go on like this. You’re worth the pain if you want to try and make this work. I just want to feel like we mean something to each other again.”

You feel like you’re lost in a crowd somewhere, or floating in the ocean, drifting further apart. Except maybe now is the time that you find each other again. 

“Look at me, Luke.” You murmur, moving even closer, your hand resting on his shaking thigh to calm him down. You hear him inhale, exhale, and his eyes finally meet yours. Your voice is merely a whisper as you talk to him. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I love you so much that sometimes it hurts.”

Luke feels like he could break down on the spot when he finally looks you in the eye. It takes him back to every moment where he’s felt consumed by you, and for just a moment, he thinks that somehow, things might end up okay. 

“I need to know that you’re in this for the long run.” He tells you, his eyes pleading with you more than his words are. “I’m always going to go on tour. I don’t want to go through this every time I come home. I can’t do this again.”

You nod, and your hand runs up and down his thigh in a soothing gesture. 

“I’m right here,” You reassure him, your hand cupping his cheek as your thumb rubs over his cheekbones. For the first time in weeks, he feels like he can breathe, he feels safer than he thought he could in his house. “I know I haven’t been. And I know I have a lot of making up to do. But I’m going to be around to get us through this.”

Those are the words he’s longed to hear for weeks. You sit in silence for a few moments, just absorbing the conversation - just being in each other’s presence. 

“That’s enough talking for now.” Luke whispers. He lays back against the cushions of the sofa, holding his arm out for you to lay against him. You oblige, sighing as you lay against his chest, the material of his jumper soft against your cheek. It’s like everything has stopped, like everything feels right once again. It feels like he hasn’t done this for months. Silently, he takes one hand to tilt your chin so your face is right in front of his. There’s pain in your eyes too, he can see it. His nose gently taps yours, and you move your face closer, before he’s brushing his lips against yours. 

And then he’s kissing you.

It’s a real kiss, one that has meaning, feelings, more than anything he’s felt in weeks. The only affection he’d had for weeks was a passing kiss in the morning, sometimes before bed, but it didn’t feel like this. Your lips are soft yet slightly chapped; he tries to savour every detail. He just wants to feel close to you. His kisses taper off and he’s sighing contently, unsure where you’re going to go next, but feeling safer than he has for a while. 

“Maybe we just had to break to be fixed.” 

Things are far from perfect. Weeks of pain cannot be solved by one kiss. Yet you’re going to try, and that’s all Luke needs to know. You just need to find each other again.

***

Please please let me know what you think, and if you have any requests for songs you want me to write about! Thanks for reading 🥰

Masterlist

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[woozisnoots]

losing you | yoon jeonghan

° pairing: jeonghan x f!reader, jun x f!reader ° genre: soulmate!au, bittersweet angst ° summary: losing me is better than losing you. ° word count: 1.5k ° warnings: implied death but details aren’t explicit! i promise the fic itself isn’t bad >< ° a/n: TEEHEE @vibecheckvernon​​ SURPRISE I’M UR TCT SECRET SANTA !!!! 😌 posted this a little later for prime angst reading times :D I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT CHRISTMAS!!! p.s. pls don’t sue me i love you <3

inspired by: @95boysbe​ ‘s fic, ‘when you love someone’ (tysm for all of you for helping me find this again! 💓 pls go check out their work as well!) + wonho’s song ‘losing you’

masterlist!

jeonghan has no intentions of going to his family’s christmas party. at least not this early. looking into his appearance in the mirror, he wraps the red checkered scarf around his neck so the ends nicely drape over his white long sleeve shirt tucked under his matching sweater vest. a festive look to hide away his disinterest buried in his “enthusiasm”.

“daddy, are you not coming with us?” jeonghan jolts by the sudden tugging of his sweater from his side, looking over, forcing his eyes to meet with his daughter’s watery orbs.

he crouches down to one knee so he’s completely eye level, tucking in the loose strands of hair behind her ear. “not yet sweetheart. daddy’s gotta pick up a few things for the party.” he opens his arms wide for the tiny human to bury herself in a bear-like embrace. 

“stay by mommy’s side at all times, okay?” the little girl steps back to face her father, her hands gripping onto jeonghan’s index finger. “promise?” he continues to persist until she sniffles a series of nods. a small melancholy smile creeps onto jeonghan’s face as he wiggles himself out of her powerful grasp and cups her cheeks, creating small circles on her soft cheekbones with his thumbs. 

“good girl. i’ll be back before you notice i’m gone.” 

the walk there is shorter than jeonghan was expecting and it almost makes him sick to his stomach. he wants the anticipation to subside by the time he gets there, yet at this rate, he would arrive with nothing but the swell of guilt weighing down inside of him. 

the winter chill makes him shiver, hiding his balled fists in his pockets. the farther he walks, this once familiar street slowly turns into the abyss as the fog erases his footsteps along with the glimmery lights surrounding him. but jeonghan is only focused on the dark pathway ahead of him. weeks after hearing the news, and an additional few months of “recovery”, his imagination has conditioned him for far worser environments than some cold weather. 

the field of clean cut grass beside him is now closed off, barred by a wired fence painted white indicating he was getting close. it was a foolish thing really. this entire time, from the moment jeonghan left the house until now, he’s been trying to find the right words to say to you. what he would say to you if you were willing to hear him out. question he desperately wants answered. jeonghan lowers his head, scoffing under his breath knowing you probably would have. even though he knew himself that he didn’t deserve it. and neither did you. 

he comes to a pause at the entrance, reaching out to maneuver the chains that lock the gateway. taking a slow deep breath in, jeonghan looks up before entering the place of the dead, only to see that you already had company. 

the hint of discomfort causes jeonghan’s body to stiffen - the sight of an tall, unfamiliar man here with you triggering his fight or flight response, his instincts urging for the first rather than late. why would he be at a place like this? and on christmas no doubt.  

jeonghan takes his time walking towards you both, eyeing his physique up and down from afar. as he got closer, he examines the man’s notable facial features. the longer he stares, the more confused jeonghan gets causing him to crease his eyebrows. neither of you know him. jeonghan shakes the thought away- no, he doesn’t know him. maybe within the time you were away, the two might have met. jeonghan keeps his mind neutral, accepting all the possibilities. 

the mysterious man dressed down in this cold december, notices jeonghan walking this way before he could stop in his tracks to presenting himself in front of you. chuckling at the grimace look on jeonghan’s face. 

as respectful as he could possibly mutter, jeonghan opens his mouth to speak, “who-”

“so you must be yoon jeonghan,” he’s quick to cut him off, knowing exactly what might be running through his mind right now. he nods his head towards him, acknowledging the new, delighted presence that fills the air. “my name’s jun.” he watches as the imaginary fumes streaming from the top of jeonghan’s head start to dissipate. “a friend of hers back in america,” he lied, not that jeonghan would ever know anyways. “she talked a lot about you. it almost got annoying. 

just like how jeonghan did, jun studies him in his entirety. a smirk forming on his lips finding that he looked exactly how you described. as well as his own description: a good for nothing low life with faltering loyalty. jun scowls at the ring wrapped around jeonghan’s finger. “talk about that red string of fate, huh,” his words protrude the thick musk that wavers around them, finally breaking jeonghan’s walls. “don’t mind me though. i’m just here to pay my respects as a friend,”jun says, his words laced with sarcasm. 

jeonghan freezes in his spot, feeling only a tingling sensation in his fingers and toes as the flood of memories of the two of you replay in the back of his mind. the entirety of your childhood, including your teenage and what was there for your college years. until the dreaded day you decided to leave. “so, you knew?” he whispers more so for his curiosity rather than looking for an actual answer. 

and from the look on jeonghan’s face, jun could tell. “yeah,” he says just enough for jeonghan to hear. “i knew a lot.” he averts his eyes away from the soft hearted gaze that now appears on jeonghan’s face. 

jun may not have known you the same amount of time as jeonghan did. but the way you wore your heart on your sleeve despite being so vulnerable even after the fact, jun can pluck out things even jeonghan probably never noticed. how jeonghan could ever leave his soulmate for someone else, jun will never fathom at the thought. 

but jun knew your side of the story, how you felt watching your soulmate drew you guys apart. no, he wasn’t your friend per say, not in his official title anyway. when you were admitted into the hospital, jun was only there as a volunteer. he had a responsibility to look after all his assigned patients as comfort companions through their clinical care, including you. 

you were the hospital’s one exception. at the point of your critical condition, doctors truly didn’t know when the time would pass. knowing no one else in the states aside from your family, jun soon became your side by side as hospital bed buddies. and hated every moment of it. 

he hated the way you smiled so brightly for him every day despite how sick you were. but stare blankly at your food whenever it came to you and end up not eating. he hated how you easily created friendships with the nurses and other caretakers at hospital, including himself. but refused to take your medication. he hated how fondly you talked about love when you weren’t feeling it. he hated hearing the sniffles that came from your room every morning after he clocked in. he hated it so much that you still smiled saying your soulmate's name even though he was doing the same thing for someone else. in the end, jun was too late to tell you all that.

fate, being the sick bastard that it is, has jun meeting the one person he actually came to hate. and he’ll do one better. just like how jeonghan never got to know about your true feelings and conditions, jun will never tell him how much he truly cared for you. how he was entirely convinced he, a person who wasn’t even destined to have a soulmate, could fill the void that jeonghan had left. 

the longer jun stands there, the small pit of anger quietly begins to boil and that was his cue to leave. he avoids eye contact as he stirs away from the flowers he left you and tries to make his exits, stopping at his tracks when jeonghan speaks once again.

“then can i ask you something? your opinion as her friend. since you know,” he hiccups, the words coming out a beat too late. his voice also shaky, not knowing if it was due to the cold or the rise of his nerves. 

jun leans on one leg, stuffing his hands in the side pockets of his leathered coat. he almost says no. he wants to say no. “shoot,” sounding unbothered. 

“do you think she’d still want to be my soulmate in a different life?” 

jeonghan’s heart churns at his own question, as does jun’s. he could have asked any other question, but out of the hundreds he accumulated in the mile walk here, jeonghan figured this was the one that jun could at least give some thought. 

jun takes a sharp inhale in, his nails forming small crescent moons into his palm. with a heavy sigh, he turns back around and scoffs at the sight of jeonghan tearing up in front of you. and with gritted teeth, he responds.

“of course she would.”

[theclockworkmonk]

Desire and Will

This is the most popular fic in my "Aang/Katara Missing Moments" series on AO3. This is the first time I'm posting it to tumblr.

Summary: With Aang still having trouble letting loose with his firebending, Zuko asks an alarming question:

"Have you ever kissed a girl?"

Words: 3,944

Read on AO3

FF.net

*******

Katara was awoken by what was, to her, the scariest sound in the world: the sound of Aang in pain.

"OW!" she heard him cry out, and she wrenched her eyelids open and rolled to face where his voice was coming from. There, she saw Aang still laying on the ground where he had been sleeping, rubbing his backside like it had been kicked. Towering over him, fists clenched and face scowling...was Zuko.

A jolt a fear cut through Katara's still half-asleep mind as she reached over for her bending skin and flicked it open with her thumb. She was ready to fight, ready to—

"You're burning daylight!" Zuko barked at Aang, "Get up! Twenty hot squats, now!"

Katara's sleep fog finally cleared and she remembered why Zuko was here in their camp. She remembered their whole reluctant arrangement to have Zuko teach Aang firebending, and the nerve-wracking few days they had disappeared together and apparently danced with dragons.

Katara groggily collapsed back onto her pillow, too tired to even growl at Zuko that the rest of them didn't have to train to defeat his evil dad, thankyouverymuch, so maybe bark his orders more quietly at absurd hours in the morning.

Aang seemed to be feeling the same way, because he just moaned in response. Zuko squatted down next to Aang and pointed out into the canyon that contained the Western Air Temple, where the sky was already turning blood red.

"You see that? That's sunrise, Avatar. That's the sign of a firebender's inner strength coming to life with a new day." He grabbed Aang by the shoulder and started shaking him, "Can you feel it, Aang? Can you feel your inner fire starting to reignite?"

"No," grunted Aang plainly.

Katara was remembering more now, and becoming more annoyed. Right, what had Zuko said to her at the north pole? "You rise with the moon, I rise with the sun?" of course it made perfect sense that on top of being cruel, bloodthirsty monsters, firebenders were also something far worse: morning people. Ugh, did this mean that Aang was also going to be a morning person from now on?

"Well we've got to fix that," said Zuko, and he practically dragged Aang to his feet and started pushing him off towards the courtyard that they used to train, that jutted out from underneath the rock overhang so they were actually in the sun. With their sleeping area quiet again, Katara tried to go back to sleep, but now the knowledge that Aang was off with Zuko, alone, at the other end of the temple was nagging at her brain. It wasn't like she thought Zuko would suddenly attack him or something; she had accepted by now that this wasn't some kind of absurdly elaborate plot against them—mainly because she didn't think Zuko was clever enough to pull off something like that. But still, whenever she thought about Aang with no one around him but Zuko, she found that she...didn't like it.

After a few minutes, she accepted that she wasn't getting any more sleep, so she got herself up and started making her way in the same direction Zuko and Aang had gone. As she was rounding the last corner before the courtyard, she started to hear their voices.

"So if my firebending wakes me up with the sun, and my waterbending keeps me up with the moon, when exactly am I supposed to sleep?"

"You slept for a hundred years, isn't that enough?"

Aang laughed, but Katara recognized it as his uncomfortable laugh. Aang never liked being reminded of all that time he wasn't there for the world, which Zuko would know if he wasn't such a heartless jerk and a terrible teacher. The fact that he barely knew Aang and had no way of knowing what he was uncomfortable with was entirely beside the point.

Katara decided to not announce her presence and instead leaned against one of the stone pillars within the shade of the overhang, while they were out in the increasingly bright morning sun. She was far enough away and in enough shade that they were unlikely to notice her, but if they did happen to look her way then she could plausibly deny she was snooping. She didn't like the idea of leaving Aang alone with Zuko, but she still realized hovering would interfere with them. Aang was always trying to impress her and Zuko was still visibly terrified of her ever since she threatened to kill him the day he joined their team (which she definitely didn't take any pride in).

Aang and Zuko finished their warm-ups and faced a target at the far end of the courtyard, a few wooden logs they had haphazardly nailed together in the vague shape of a human.

"Okay, let's see if that trip to almost get eaten by dragons was worth it," said Zuko, "set your stance..."

Aang positioned himself in a sideways battle stance in opposition to the dummy.

"Now, control your breathing…"

Aang drew in a deep breath and slowly released it.

"Now…STRIKE!"

Aang punched his right first towards the dummy, and a single fireball erupted from his knuckles, traveling about 10 yards to the dummy, briefly engulfing it in flames before dissipating. After the fire and smoke had quickly cleared, Katara saw that the dummy was slightly singed, with a few spots glowing orange for a few seconds before cooling down. Katara could feel the heat of the blast from where she was standing.

Zuko, however, didn't look impressed, "Well that was...certainly better, I guess."

"You guess!?" Aang incredulously asked out loud, and Katara incredulously asked in her head at the same time, "Come on, that was the biggest blast I've ever made!"

"Yeah, and if you were any other novice, we'd call that a really promising start. Heck, you might even be called a prodigy. People would be saying you could become a master in just a few years."

Aang's shoulders slumped in disappointment.

"But we don't have a few years, obviously, so sorry, but we need to find a way to fast-track this."

Aang threw his hands in the air, "Well what more can I possibly do!"

Zuko frowned and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Well to be honest, I think you're still being too timid and restrained. You're certainly doing a lot better than before our trip, but I still sense a lot of energy in you that you're not letting out."

Aang looked confused and started to get defensive, "Well of course I'm holding a little back, I'm trying to stay in control! Jong Jong said that firebending requires constant discipline or fire will destroy you. He didn't even let me shoot fire, he had me try to stop a bit of fire from growing, and when I didn't listen to him—" Aang managed to cut off his own rambling and managed to take a deep breath and closed his eyes, "that was when I burned Katara."

Zuko's face cycled through several different expressions as a lot of things suddenly started making sense.

"...Oh," was the only thing he could say.

Aang continued, "I hated that version of myself, even more than when I've gone into the Avatar State. After that, I promised myself I would never firebend at all!"

Katara tried to keep track of all the different emotions she was feeling. She was touched by the fact that Aang cared about her so much that the memory of hurting her still got him to be this upset, annoyed at him for being this worked up over something that happened months ago, she had long since forgiven, and was really not important in the context of their mission, and guilty that her getting hurt and the way she reacted had caused him this much heartache, even while she knew that she hadn't really done anything wrong.

Zuko sighed, raised his hand, and after a few seconds of hesitation, lightly patted Aang's shoulder in the most awkward, panicked "there-there" gesture Katara had ever seen.

"Look Aang," said Zuko, "I can't speak to what this 'Jong Jong' guy taught you. Maybe his way is better, I don't know, but it sounds like it takes a lot longer, and we don't have the luxury of being patient and deliberate about this."

He pulled on Aang's shoulder and turned him around so he would stop looking at his feet in self-pity and look his teacher in the face again, "The people of the world don't need their Avatar to be a wizened sage right now, they need a stick of dynamite."

Zuko took a few steps away and tried his best to pretend to be a wizened sage himself, "I can only teach you how I was taught, and I was taught that even when it's not fuelled by anger and rage, all firebending is still fuelled by strong emotion. When teaching me about the elements, my uncle said—let's see if I can get this right…"

He started rubbing his hand on an invisible large belly, stroking an invisible beard, and speaking in an old man's raspy voice in his best impersonation of his uncle.

"Fire is the element of Power. The people of the Fire Nation have Desire and Will, and the energy and drive to achieve what they want."

Aang chuckled at the impression, his mood clearly improving, while Zuko looked really impressed with himself. Katara wouldn't have been surprised to learn that this was the first time in his life the dour prince had made someone laugh.

"See what I mean? Remember what we learned with the dragons. Fire is Life. And passion for life is what fuels firebending. You need to stop thinking like a monk and use your passion."

Aang didn't look frustrated or dejected anymore, but he did look puzzled.

"Um...okay," Aang said, thoughtfully scratching his head, "How am I supposed to do that?"

Now it was Zuko's turn to get frustrated. He hadn't anticipated one of his jobs as a teacher being having to explain how to feel things to this guy. That was something he was not qualified for.

"I don't know," said Zuko, not hiding the annoyance in his voice, "just think about it. Try to recreate those emotions when you're channeling your energy for your bending, and it might make your firebending more powerful. Hasn't there ever been something you...desired? Coveted, even? Something that you needed to have or to win more than anything?"

Katara almost laughed out loud, boy are you barking up the wrong tree.

Aang spent a few seconds earnestly considering Zuko's question, "I don't think so. My people believed that worldly material possessions were meaningless, and attachment to them was the source of suffering. We didn't really have anything beyond what we needed and a few toys that we shared. I played games with all my friends, but I didn't really care much if I won, I just tried to make sure everybody had fun."

Katara was grinning at what an unbelievable dork the mighty savior of the world was.

Zuko, however, groaned and dragged both hands down his face, "Yeah, of course you did." It seemed to Katara that this was the first time Zuko was having to relate to someone who was actually a good person.

Aang just shrugged at Zuko's exasperation, "Sorry, hotman."

"Stop calling me that!" Zuko thought for several more seconds before his eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers with an idea, but then immediately looked like he regretted having the idea, and started looking deeply uncomfortable.

"Hey...can I ask you a personal question? It's going to sound weird and unrelated, but just trust me, okay?"

Aang raised an eyebrow, "Uh….sure?"

"Have you ever kissed a girl?"

Aang's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, his face turning bright pink, and Katara's heart seemed to stop in its tracks.

After what seemed like an eternity, Aang finally found his voice again, but all he could manage was a weak, "Uh...what?"

"Just bear with me for a second," pressed Zuko.

"Um," Aang squeaked, "Yes. Yes I have." and his face moved past pink into deep scarlet.

"Okay," breathed Zuko, "Now, I know I'm sounding like a gossiping school girl, but I promise I'm going somewhere with this. Ugh."

He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose, like this conversation was physically painful. "Tell me about your first kiss," he finished in a too-deep voice, very transparently overcompensating.

Katara was positively screaming inside her own head, No Aang, do not, under ANY circumstances, tell him about your first kiss.

She felt like her heart and stomach had completely removed from her body. She refused to believe that these were the circumstances where The Incident between she and Aang was finally getting verbalized. Aang hadn't even bothered to talk to her about it yet, there was no way he was going to spill it all to Zuko. The fact that the main reason Aang hadn't talked to her about it was the fact that she had been avoiding him non-stop was entirely beside the point.

Katara started running through a hundred scenarios to try to find some way to stop this conversation. Should she rush in and pretend to be sick? Say that they're under attack? Just stay hidden and bloodbend them both unconscious? But before she could decide on one, to her horror, Aang started talking.

"Well," Aang began, his cheeks still red, "it was back at the Southern Air Temple—"

All of Katara's panic seemed to instantly vanish and be replaced with confusion.

Wait, what? Why is he telling him that? Katara thought, We barely knew each other at the Southern Temple….Does he THINK we kissed at the Southern Temple? I guess that would explain a lot. Did he hallucinate or something while in the Avatar State—

"—and she was part of a visiting caravan."

….Oh.

Oh.

"We got along really well while she was there, she was really good at all of my favorite games, and while we were saying goodbye she just kissed me."

OH.

"By the time I realized what was going on, she just giggled and jumped up on her bison."

Katara was simultaneously feeling unbelievable relief that her big secret wasn't being talked about and unbelievable white-hot fury at Aang. She had just spent several weeks believing that her first kiss had also been Aang's, and now she finds out that she's just the latest? Latest of how many? Exactly how friendly had he gotten with those fangirls on Kyoshi Island? She was two years older than him, by all rights she should be on at least equal footing with him in this mess between them, who gave him permission to have more experience with kissing than her? The fact that he had never once told her that he had never kissed a girl before was entirely beside the point.

But Katara cycled through all these thoughts in just a split second before calming herself down and realizing that she had no reason to care about this. What did it matter if Aang had kissed some girl a hundred years ago? It's not like she thought of Aang that way. Aang had clearly just misunderstood her platonic affections. It's not like she had ever seriously thought about kissing him (especially not during some of the more recent times she had kissed him on the cheek). In fact, she doubted that even he had given any serious thought to kissing. He just had a little crush and the intensity of the moment got to his head. So this is fine.

It's fine.

Seriously, it's fine.

It's completely fine. Whatever she was feeling certainly wasn't jeal—

"Wait, she kissed you?" Zuko interrupted Aang's rambling and yanked Katara back to reality, "I asked you if you had ever kissed a girl."

"Well you also asked me to tell you about my first kiss!" Aang yelled with his hands in the air, frustrated again, "Which one is it!" He was clearly angry that in his panic he had revealed an embarrassing story for no reason.

Zuko put his palms up defensively, "Okay, okay, sorry, bad wording on my part. So, to clarify: have you ever kissed someone else? Have you ever been the one to take the initiative?"

Katara's heart started racing again. Why couldn't Zuko get distracted and drop this?

"Um…" Aang's face had been red before, but now all the color seemed to drain from it and he looked like a ghost, "...yes. But I don't think dwelling on that will help fix my problem. In fact, it's kind of a downer, actually."

"Why, was she an airbender too?" Zuko asked. He supposed dwelling on a girl he had feelings for that had been killed a hundred years ago would be counterproductive in fueling Aang's inner fire.

Despite how angry she had gotten at Aang's kissing experience, Katara now found herself hoping this girl was another airbender.

"No," Aang responded, rubbing the back of his neck, "this was after I came out of the ice. Pretty recent, in fact…"

No such luck.

"Okay, so what's the problem?" asked Zuko.

"Well...it didn't exactly work out well for me. She didn't really kiss me back."

Katara scowled, well that's not fair, she thought with more than a little bitterness. It's not like she had a chance to. You're not allowed to act upset if someone doesn't kiss you back when you spring a kiss on them with no warning and then fly away before they even know what's going on. If he hadn't been so dramatic and used his actual words then she would have—

Katara let out a gasp of fear at where her train of thought was leading her. She would have….what, exactly? If she had known the kiss was coming ahead of time, what would she have done? Let him down easy? Told him to focus on the mission? Thrown him into the ocean?...or would she have kissed him back?

No.

Well…

Certainly not.

Maybe?

Perhaps if they tried again wow where did THAT thought come from?

Meanwhile, back in reality, Zuko was waving away Aang's concerns, "That doesn't matter. Don't think about anything that happened afterward. Just bring yourself back to that one moment, where you overcame caution and went after what you wanted. Set your stance."

Aang faced the dummy and resumed his fighting stance.

Katara couldn't help but inch a little closer away from her "hiding" spot. Now that Zuko had stopped pressing Aang for details and was doing his job, she felt like she could observe with a nervous curiosity instead of outright panic.

"Now," instructed Zuko, "take a deep breath, close your eyes, and picture this girl, how she looked in that moment."

Aang's eyes closed and drew in a breath.

Katara swallowed hard. At this moment, there was no more uncertainty about Aang. He was thinking about her, in that way, right now. And that knowledge made her hold her breath and made her face get a little warm.

"Try to remember how you felt immediately beforehand. How she made you feel. Try to recreate how your heartbeat was affected. It's starting to get faster and harder. How your breathing changed—remember, it's your breath that creates energy in the body for firebending. Yours is getting shallower and more intense. Remember how your stomach muscles reacted. They're tensing in anticipation. Now, in your mind's eye, make your move and kiss her, and at the same time….STRIKE!"

Aang punched his right fist towards the dummy, and his hand exploded.

There was no whoosh like with the previous fireball, but a roar as a conical wave of fire erupted from Aang's knuckles, completely enveloping the dummy 10 yards away and continuing onward to blast past the outer railing of the stone courtyard into the vast expanse of the canyon. And to Katara's alarm, it kept going. It wasn't a single blast but a continuous, monstrous stream of fire easily 15 feet wide at its biggest and so hot that Katara had to turn away and shield her eyes.

Several seconds later, the flames finally died down and Aang blinked his eyes open, looking equal parts proud and terrified of himself. The wooden dummy….did not exist anymore. There was no way to tell if Aang had burned it to ashes or simply blasted it backwards into the canyon. The previously white stones that made up the part of the courtyard that had been in front of Aang were now blackened and cracked.

Zuko had reflexively thrown up his arms to shield his face, stumbling backward. He was still sitting on the ground, eyes widened to the size of Appa's, and his mouth hanging open in shock. He sat there for several more silent seconds until Aang gave an awkward cough, then his face split into the biggest grin Katara had ever seen on him and he started cackling with delirious relief and excitement.

"All right!" Zuko exclaimed, jumping to his feet, "Now that's what I'm talking about!" he loudly clapped his hand on Aang's back, who had returned to looking embarrassed.

"No, don't you clam up again," warned Zuko, "hold onto that feeling. Come on, I'll show you how to make a flame whip."

Katara slinked backward away from her pillar and began a very undignified scurry back to their sleeping area. The fire had long since dissipated, but her face still felt hot and flustered, and her stomach felt like it was doing somersaults. Her mind was filled up by the same three words, repeating over and over again:

I did that.

Thinking about her made Aang able to do that. She could no longer simplify things by telling herself that this was just a confusing crush he had let get to his head. For most of the time she had known Aang, the thought that he would have any….desires like that for anyone simply didn't compute for her. He was too selfless, too kind, too pure. He was a monk for crying out loud.

But what she just saw Zuko coax out of her sweet, innocent friend was….not pure. Had he had this inside of him the entire time? And what brought this out of him was thinking about her. Thinking about kissing her. As much as she tried to deny it, when she thought about this power she had over him….she liked it. She was now able to see Aang in a new light, and at least consider the possibility of being more than friends with him.

But she still fought against it, because that realization was absolutely terrifying.

Katara shook her head and splashed some of her bending water on her face. She resolved to keep doing what she had been doing: focusing on their mission. She could sort out all this confusion when the war was over.

Although….

If the goal was to help Aang defeat the Fire Lord and end the war, then naturally they all had an obligation to assist Aang with his bending in any way they could, right? So she supposed it couldn't hurt to give Aang the occasional extra-tight hug now and then. Purely for training purposes, of course.

After all, she thought with a slight smirk as she arrived back at camp, everyone else still sound asleep, what kind of teacher would I be if I didn't give my student the attention he needed?

[ad1thi]

2020 fic recs!! [Part 2]

part 2 of my 2020 fic recs!! as before, ive limited this to five fics per month; and fics are ordered by the month they were published. This spans fandoms and ships, and hopefully you find something you like!! credit for the idea goes to @iam93percentstardust

***

July

this is the start: @capnwinghead

Clark and Bruce continue raising the Wayne children and encounter a number of challenges along the way.

great minds (love alike): @starklysteve

Steve’s eyes flicks down to Tony’s knees on the floor.

“Are you – are you proposing to me with my ring for you?” Steve asks incredulously, eyes wide and confused.

---

Or, Steve finds Tony’s ring for him, Tony finds Steve’s ring for him. Panic happens.

Marvels Unsolved: @iam93percentstardust

Marvels Unsolved was never supposed to be this popular. It started off as a novelty web-series about Tony trying to convince Bucky about the existence of the supernatural—he firmly believed that if science could turn Uncle Steve from an actual shrimp to the god of muscles, then magic had to be out there—and then they’d started talking about an unsolved crime from the early 20th century after filming an episode one day, forgetting that the camera was still rolling, and had ended up with enough footage to make a second episode about real crimes. They had stayed pretty unknown throughout that first season but then true crime podcasts had exploded in popularity and Unsolved along with them.

it’s a small world after all: @maguna-stxrk

“Great speech.”

Smiling at the compliment, Tony turns around. “Thank y—”

And nearly drops his champagne flute.

His world comes to a stop.

They had only spent a night together, but Tony would recognize those baby blues anywhere.

It’s Steve.

Steve from Tony’s London business trip. Or, as Rhodey has become accustomed to calling him—The Soulmate That Got Away.

you’re in my blood, you’re in my veins: @nethandrake

Tony always figured that if they ever were to break up, it would be like a blaze. Scorching and hot and all-too blinding. Intense like the two of them have always been.

Instead, they break up on a Tuesday, with the rain pelting the windowpane and the midnight silence stifling.

August

Five Times Danny said he’d marry Steve (plus one): @five-wow

Danny humphs. “Look, all I’m saying is, I think I’d probably have married you by now.”

“I’d marry you, too,” Steve says.

Or: An experiment in how many times you can say something before you have to put your money where your mouth is.

Family (You’ve Always Had It): @/SunnyQueen

A black Camaro and a scowling blond was not what Junior had been expecting.

“Hi, sir. You didn’t have to pick me up.”

The blond looked up from the screen on his phone and groaned, completely ignoring Junior's statement. “You are right, I didn't have to."

Ode To Yoga Pants: @riotfalling

OR the continued terrible mating dance of Bucky and Tony, AKA when betting on your friends stops being fun

Through The Years: @hawkbucks

Tony brings home Natasha one day, proclaiming her to be his new sister.

Natasha takes this all in stride.

The broken road that led me home to you: @just-fandomthings

A documented list of conversations between Steve and Danny via text and phone call following the events of 10x22 "Aloha." (Where, even thousands of miles apart, Steve and Danny can't go without talking to each other.)

September

someday, we’ll pass it on to you: @starklysteve

Steve smiles.

Reaching up, he flattens his hand against his son’s far smaller one, curling gently around it. “You wanna be like him?”

“Da!” Peter agrees again.

One year old, and you already know who’s the best of us, Steve pauses to reflect, all his fears chased away by a fierce pride. “Your Dad’s coming home real soon,” he promises, “you should tell him that.”

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

Or, five times Peter did the repulsor pose as a toddler

+ one time he used the repulsors as an adult

Classic Sci Fi: @notdoingsohot

Bucky wakes up to Steve telling him he's lost his memory, but not to panic, it'll only last a few days. Easier said than done when the last thing Bucky remembers is fighting Hydra with the Howlies in WWII.

He tries to make the most of it however, and there's this guy... Tony Stark. It's pretty clear the guy hates Bucky's guts, which is unfortunate because god damn is he a sight.

He tries to figure out what he did to wrong Stark, but everyone just tells him he doesn't want to know.

They were right.

Blooms in Frost: @/Diomedes

Tony coughs up his first petal on the sixth of July. He has been married to the love of his life for two years.

Bury a Hanahaki corpse in earth and it will beget the most beautiful garden. All that love, it is said, must go somewhere.

Hanahaki AU: Established relationship

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

A Single Thread of Gold: @lovelyirony

Rhodey doesn't believe in love at first sight or any of that cheesy shit. He just wants someone who is nice, dependable, and safe.

Tony Stark is Housing Service's little problem for the school year, and now he's stuck in Rhodey's room because he's exploded the last two dorm rooms he's been in and won't live off-campus.

high roller, place your bet: @machi-kun

“Would you kiss Stark for a hundred bucks?”

“I would pay a hundred bucks to kiss him.”

October

press my luck: @omg-just-peachy

But... Steve is almost ten years his junior, and he could be with just about anyone, looking and acting like he does. And then there’s the not so small fact of Tony’s name and net worth and the fact that, okay, Tony had paid for Steve’s grad school tuition, and now he’s worried Steve feels obligated to stay. Or something.

Or, Tony is a billionaire, Steve is a grad student, and they learn to let themselves be taken care of.

see it with the lights out: @starklysteve

Tony goes on a business trip, and he does not - not at all - get jealous of Dodger hogging his husband's chest, a territory otherwise known as Tony's pillow.

(or, Steve goes on an Instagram spree and Tony misses home)

adulthood is looking both ways before you cross the street and getting hit by an airplane: @starkslovemail

It was a perfect plan, if Peter did say so himself.

The Buy In: @dracusfyre

For the ImagineTonyandBucky prompt: Mafia AU with Tony as the Boss (except he's a really good one, making the streets safe, keeping drugs away from kids etc) and Bucky as the detective sent to go undercover to catch him out but ends up realizing he's actually doing more good than harm and they end up falling in love

trinkets of your affection: @starklysteve

Kissed him once for every year I loved him, Steve had written.

By that count, Steve owes him five more kisses now.

Tony traces the words, hands trembling, and tips back a shot of Howard's ancient whiskey. None of it burns anymore.

One day, he'll have lived more days without Steve than there are words in the diary.

For the first time since he'd woken with shrapnel in his chest, Tony fears the future.

----------

Or, five things Tony keeps to remember Steve by, and one thing Steve gives him to remember.

November

“Hey Tony”: @riotfalling

Steve points out that Bucky never calls Tony by his actual name. Bucky doesn’t believe him, until he does.

Remembering You is Hard to Do: @lovelyirony

“The future’s crazy, honey-bear.”

Jim looks up.

“Why do you call me that?”

“Call you what?”

“Honey-bear. It’s weird.”

“Inside joke we have,” Tony says, chest tightening. “We thought those couples that have the lovey-dovey nicknames were ridiculous.”

overheard your heartbeat (calling me yours): @starklysteve

"Tony - "

"I wish I could promise to come home this time," he feels the armor crawl back down his arm, continuing unnoticed over Steve's red gloves, then up the blue uniform as Tony fights to keep Steve's gaze firmly fixed on him.

The last eyes Tony might get to see, and he wants to be lost in them.

In the end, his entire life boils down a few simple things: "JARVIS, take care of him for me."

----------

Or, Tony overhears a phonecall where Steve proposes, a battle happens, and a paper ring settles some misunderstandings.

i (really, really, really, really, really, really) like you.: @nethandrake

For as long as Steve can remember, he's been crushing on Tony Stark. The thing is, he's pretty sure Tony doesn't know Steve exists. And how could he? Steve's scrawny and little. He's a nobody compared to Tony who's Mr Popular and the son of a billionaire.

Or at least he thought so until Tony swings by the bakery Steve's mother happens to own to enlist Steve's help in finding the perfect Valentine's Day card.

The perfect Valentine's Day card for someone who isn't Steve.

One Song (My Heart Keeps Singing): @iam93percentstardust

When Thor is old enough to understand what a Heartsong is, he goes to his mother to ask her why he can’t understand the language his is in. He listens as she tells him about the first soulmates who couldn't understand their Heartsong until the day they meet, excited by the thought of a grand adventure, one that will take him across the cosmos in search of his One.

He’ll search all the Nine Realms if he has to.

December

Swiping Right: @s-horne

“Ouch. Definitely a hard pass for that one?”

Steve startled at the sudden comment from the row of chairs behind him and turned around. He’d been passing the time in the airport lounge by swiping through Tinder and had gotten lost in his own world. It was almost jarring to be pulled away from the screen of hot men and back into reality where the PA was screeching and there was noise everywhere.

Adjusting to the difference, Steve frowned. Wait, he knew that face. Oh, shit… he knew that face.

“No, no, it’s fine,” the man said before Steve could get out anything other than an embarrassed sort of yelp. Waving his hand through the air, the stranger smiled ruefully. “I get it. It’s the beard, isn’t it? True be told, it was a weird winter choice that year and I knew it would come back to hurt me.”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He knew it must have shown on his face and could feel himself flushing, panicked and embarrassed all at once. What were the odds of swiping left on someone literally sat behind him?

set your flight path home (to me): @starklysteve 

Tony puts down his welding torch. “I’m building you a plane.”

Stepping carefully over the gears and tools scattered about, Rhodey slowly makes his way to him.

“And when did you become an expert on how to build a plane?”

“Last night,” Tony grins.

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

Tony builds a plane, and Rhodey teaches Tony how to fly it. Or he would be teaching Tony, if Tony didn't distract him so much.

I Want A Man With A Slow Hand: @thefourofswords

“Can I ask you a question?” he asked on their way to a crime scene, because no time like the present, and Danny believed in ripping off band-aids.

“Why not?” Steve replied, eyes on the road. “You’re gonna even if I say no.”

“What do you like in bed?”

*

Danny undertakes a very important mission to get Steve laid. For his health. Ahem.

same time next year: @omg-just-peachy

“I forgot to ask. When’s your flight home?” Steve asks, draping his arm over Tony’s shoulder and settling in against him.

Tony ignores the knot that forms in his chest at the idea of it, leaving Steve again for his own impersonal apartment, his piles of books and projects and the nights without sleep.

“Day after tomorrow.”

Steve huffs a little sigh, then brings his lips to Tony’s neck. “Well, we’ll have to make the most of it, won’t we?”

Or, four (4) Christmases with two (2) idiots who can't admit they're in love.

rearrange my heart (to fit your smile): @starklysteve

"You dare," Howard's chair makes an ugly noise as it scrapes against the stone floors, the chatter of the room shifting into hushed whispers and stolen glances. "I am your father and your King!"

"My King is my husband," Tony tips his chin up, defiant. "And I refuse to hear you suggest that my husband has been anything other than good to me."

Next to him, he feels Steve's shoulders stiffen in surprise.

Howard's fist slams loud on the table. "Your husband does not even love you!"

Tony jerks back, burned. He knows that. Knows that Steve did not marry him for love – does not need any reminder of the cold truth, of what he desperately yearns for and can't even hope to have – but the harshness of Howard's words was scalding, and Tony can't afford for this to go any further.

----------

Or, King Steven marries Prince Tony, Tony is pretty sure he shouldn't panic when he falls in love with his own husband, and Steve tries his very best not to cause diplomatic crises.

Keyword: try

[bopbopstyles]

1. December 26th, 2016

SERIES RATING: M (sex)

CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 6.4k

MASTERLIST | INSPO TAG | ASK

Y/N promised herself she would never date a musician. It was her one rule–her only rule, actually–when it came to dating. But then, Harry Styles rolled into her life and asked her to break it, just this once. And this is what happened.

A/N: welcome to chapter one of THE ONLY EXCEPTION! i’m so flipping excited i could scream!!!!!! this fic is going to be a long boi so buckle up. also thank you to @meetmeinfleetwood​ for supporting this fic from the start ilysm!!!! xoxo, willa

pls reblog to spread the word about only exception! 🥰

Y/N’s dad had been having these Christmas parties for the past five years or so, each time on the 26th of December, each time packed with music industry people and lots of bottles of tequila and red wine. Her first time had been two years ago, and she had found it surprisingly enjoyable—she had expected it to be boring and to want to leave after the first hour. Instead, it was full of people she had known since she was a kid, musicians and producers and her dad’s old A&R guys who she had grown up hanging out with in recording studios and backstage at her dad’s shows. They had come to family dinners before and after her parents’ divorce, and so when she ran into them at the parties it was easy to catch them up on her life and suddenly it was after midnight and the party was emptying out. 

This year she had volunteered to help set up. Her dad had rented a massive house out in the hills and it came already decorated, but it was on Y/N to make sure there were chairs set up for the music circle, a massive bar laid out and plenty of glasses ready. Her dad’s friend was making the food, eager to use the opportunity to promote the new restaurant he was opening, so when Y/N opened the door it already smelled like garlic and olive oil, her favorite scents on earth. 

“Karl!” She called through the house, shutting the heavy oak door behind her. Her arms were laden with boxes of plastic glasses—her dad was too scared of the guests breaking glass ones—and she wandered into the kitchen. The tall ceilings of the entryway where a massive Christmas tree sat adorned with ornaments gave way to a modern, sleek kitchen. Karl twirled around to greet her, a grin on his face. “Smells delicious in here.”

He set down his spatula and came over, grabbing a box and giving her a kiss on each cheek. “Hello, darling. Are there more in the car?” 

She shook her head, unwinding her scarf from her neck and placing it on the counter. Karl had been her father’s college roommate and somehow they’d stayed close over the years, every one of Y/N’s birthdays spent at one of Karl’s restaurants with all of her favorite dishes made special, a birthday cannoli with a candle in it for her to blow out. “This is all of the glasses. Dad told me to get the bar ready—he’s bringing the booze in a bit.”

“Hope there’s a glass of wine in there for the chef,” Karl said and Y/N chuckled—there always was a bottle of Karl’s favorite expensive wine set aside when he did one of these things and he knew it. It was part of the pay, her father always said. “Want to taste test?”

“Always.” Y/N joined Karl at the stove, eagerly tasting the sauce he was cooking. It was a simple sage butter sauce, but Karl always excelled at the most simple dishes. “Delicious, as usual,” she said. 

Karl jabbered her ear off about the updates on the restaurant—they’d run into problems finding a good sous chef and he was about to do the job himself if he didn’t find someone soon—while Y/N decided where to set up the bar. Finally, she settled on a high table against the glass wall in the wide hallway between the kitchen and the sprawling dining room, which opened up onto the patio. She tugged open the accordion glass doors and breathed in the cool Los Angeles air, thankful for a relatively cold evening, since she always got overheated at parties like this, where people were crammed into every corner. Her dad seemed to know more people every year. Satisfied with the position of the table, she set out the glasses and paper napkins, before asking Karl if he had an extra cooler he’d brought with. She’d forgotten to ask her dad for one before she had left. She filled it with ice and set it next to the table with a scoop, and grabbed the special shot glasses her father had told her to bring, placing them on the table next to a bouquet of flowers. 

Her job done, she wandered through the rest of the house. It was gorgeous—she wondered how her father had found it. If she remembered correctly, he had said something about it being an official venue for music and parties, he’d done a private gig here a few years back and the owners had loved him enough to offer it for this party. It’s not like anyone really had gigs on December 26th anyway. She closed all the doors to the back bedrooms, remembering her father’s request, and set up a coat closet of sorts out of the bedroom closest to the front, before heading to change into her outfit for the evening. 

“Y/N!” She was securing her favorite pair of earrings in her ears when she heard her father’s voice through the halls of the house. “Where ya at, sweetheart?”

“One sec, Dad!” She grabbed the hanger she had kept her top on and shoved it into her massive purse, settling it into the back corner of the room for safety. Her father was waiting for her in the kitchen with Karl, also getting a sample of the sauce she had tried earlier. 

“Hi you,” her father said when she came in. His salt and pepper hair was balding a bit, but his bright smile was what drew people in, olive skin that tanned easily in the California sun. Y/N had selected his suit for the evening, a maroon red and a black tie, something a bit out of the ordinary for him, but Y/N loved it. “Look gorgeous.”

She hugged her father tightly. She had spent Christmas with her mother, as usual, so this was the first time she’d seen her dad during the holidays. “Not too bad yourself, captain.”

“Ha!” Her father pinched her cheek softly, just as he had when she was a child. “I’ve got your present in the car, come grab it with me?”

“Sure.” They had decided to exchange gifts at the party and Y/N had hers tucked in the back pocket of her jeans—dinner on her at Karl’s new restaurant, something she’d discussed with the owner a few weeks ago. Her father’s car sat in the driveway, trunk open where boxes of alcohol laid waiting to be carried inside. “That my gift?”

“You wish,” her dad answered, and Y/N gave him a pouty look that he just shook his head at. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out an envelope. Y/N couldn’t help but hope it was cash—she needed a new computer and was running a bit short. She knew her dad would help if she asked, but she hated asking him for money. 

She took the envelope and opened it, a sheet of paper and something thicker hiding between its folds. She opened the letter and found a homemade coupon of sorts, just as she had done for him. 

TWO TICKETS TO ANY SHOW IN LA - NON-REFUNDABLE, FUN REQUIRED!

“Papa,” she said, giving him a beaming smile. “My favorite!” She threw her arms around his neck and he chuckled, hugging her right back. 

“Just give me a few weeks heads up, okay?”

Y/N nodded, and looked back down at the letter, eyes running over her dad’s sweet words of love and pride. It was their thing—homemade cards always, never store bought, despite that neither of them could draw. “Thank you.” 

“Welcome, sweetheart.”

“Now yours!” She reached into her pocket and pulled out his envelope, aptly addressed, Dad, and handed it over. Her father read her card as well, and chuckled at her drawing of them at dinner together. 

He kissed her forehead gently. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said, squeezing his side. “Now let’s get all this booze out of your car before I drive away with it!” Her dad laughed and followed her to the back of the car, them each grabbing a carton of wine. There had to be enough for over a hundred people, Y/N thought to herself. Who would be new this year?

The party was in full swing, her dad’s favorite music playing softly through the speaker system, people littered all over the house with the alcohol flowing. Karl was cooking up a storm in the kitchen, his food a massive hit, and Y/N couldn’t have been happier for him. She’d caught up with her dad’s friends and people who were essentially her godparents, sharing how her job was going (fine) and her relationship prospects (non-existent), sipping tequila and red wine on rotation. 

Y/N leaned against the patio railing overlooking the hills, a glass of tequila on the rocks settled in between her palms. She could hear her father’s voice in the distance calling people to come and start the music, the scrape of chairs and strumming of guitars. It was about time for her to go in, but she lingered, relishing the quiet of the night and the biting air wrapping around her. Since she didn’t play an instrument, despite her father’s attempts, this part of the evening was the part where she just sat back and observed. And also usually got quite drunk since all she had to do was drink and sing along. 

“Y/N, right?” She turned around, eyes focusing on the person standing a few feet away. “I’m Harry.”

Harry Styles. How had he ended up here, and how had she not seen him yet? “Nice to meet you,” she answered, standing up straight and taking a sip of her drink. “Not going in to play?”

He shook his head. “Bit nervous, if I’m honest. Lot of talent in that room.”

She cocked her head to the side as he joined her at the railing. “You’re plenty talented,” she told him. It was true. She was a huge fan of his, had been for a while, following his work in One Direction since its inception, and now in the solo career her dad had mentioned. He was recording with some guys out at The Village a few months ago and called her at the end of the day, saying he ran into Harry Styles in the middle of a session doing some solo stuff. Said it sounded good, which she wasn’t surprised by in the slightest. 

But Harry just chuckled. “Nah, those people are legends,” he said. She knew who he was talking about, too. One of the Dixie Chicks was there, some guys who had written with John Mayer and Kanye West, a dozen other Grammy-nominated musicians, some record label execs who had practically formed the industry as they knew it today, the A&R people who had found them. It was intimidating, definitely, but for Harry she didn’t think it would be. 

“Just people.” She sipped on her drink, studying him. He was in a long black coat, a loose black v-neck silk shirt and red and white plaid pants that tapered at the leg, his cropped curls falling into his face slightly. He also had a tequila on the rocks gripped in his hand, rings adorning every one of his fingers. A skull, a red stone, a silver band, amongst them. “Having fun?”

He smiles at her, thankful for the change of topic. “Loads. Haven’t been at a party like this in a while.”

“What do you mean?”

The breeze passed between them, ruffling his hair a bit. “I don’t know. Just, people who didn’t really give a shit about me, if you know what I mean? Holidays can be a bit much sometimes.”

She nodded as if she understood what it felt like to be a popstar of his fame, which she didn’t, but she could imagine. “Didn’t go home?”

“My mum and sister came here, actually,” he said. “They were craving a respite from the cold English winters.”

“Well, this is definitely a respite,” Y/N said, and Harry chuckled.

Silence stretched between them and Y/N tapped her fingernails against her cup. Maybe it was time to go inside, she thought. “So, Y/N, what do you do?”

His question pulled her out of her head easily. “Brand strategy,” she answered, thankful for a comfortable topic. “I work mostly with fashion and product companies, preferably sustainable ones.”

“You like it?”

“Love it.” She did. She loved her work—she’d gone to school for it and thrown herself into it after school, loving pitching projects for clients and helping them understand their core purpose and how they could grow and evolve  most authentically. “It was that or books, but I decided this was a bit more profitable. Also wasn’t too keen on living in New York.”

Harry nodded, twirling his glass in his hands. She took the opportunity to run her eyes across his face—he was gorgeous in this way that you weren’t sure was real. It was interesting to see how much he’d grown up. At 22, his cheekbones were cut and his jaw defined, his former long locks he had recently cut and Y/N liked these more, she decided. “What are your favorite writers?” He asked, pulling Y/N back into the conversation. 

“That’s like asking which one of your children is your favorite,” she joked, and he chuckled, the sound music to Y/N’s ears. “Dunno, really. I read so much it’s hard to choose, you know? Reading a Louise Erdrich book right now that’s absolutely stellar. The Round House—you should give it a go if you’ve got the time.”

He pulled out his phone and she watched him type in the name to his Notes app, the action making her smile. “Been looking for a new book,” he said. “Just been reading The New Yorker and my mum about took my head off for not reading enough.” They both laughed, the sound filling the night air. 

“Harry!” A man was standing in the doorway to the patio, a guitar in hand. “Come sing, mate.”

Harry glanced back at Y/N. “Coming?”

Y/N nodded and followed him inside, refilling her glass on the way. Harry handed her his, and she did the same, giving them both another glass of tequila to sip on while they listened to the circle of musicians. Someone had decided to do some Christmas tunes she Y/N smiled when she heard her father’s voice—he’d made it a bit country, just like he loved to do with popular songs. He’d grown up on a steady diet of folk music and country, just as Y/N had, and he always joked it was in his blood. Harry took a seat next to his friend who Y/N didn’t recognize—probably some producer her dad had met recently, maybe one of the guys from The Village if that was how they’d connected, and Y/N grabbed the seat her dad had saved for her next to him. 

She joined in immediately, knowing this rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy” by heart, since it was the same one he had made up when Y/N was eight or nine. Karl was in the circle too, a plate of food in his hands and his bottle of red wine on the ground, and he gave her a warm smile. This was her favorite part of the night—feeling a part of something her father loved so dearly. When he gave her a kiss to her temple and introduced her to the group, she couldn’t help but find Harry’s eyes, his irises twinkling back at her under the lights. 

At one o’clock, people finally began filtering out of the party, and Harry decided it was probably time for him to head. Jeff, who had invited him to come with, had already left, exhausted from the holidays with family, but Harry had stayed, hoping to talk to Y/N for a little while longer. He had unfortunately failed to catch her, though, the music running long and after it had wrapped up people had tugged her in for hugs and conversation. Despite knowing who she was through her father, he was still in awe of how intimately she knew all of these people. He overheard snippets of her conversations, asking about children and partners, parents who had cancer and career-defining moments she’d missed out on because of work. Harry was in this world too, but many of the people at this party were a bit older than his usual set—they belonged to the group of his heroes, rather than necessarily people he felt were his peers. He was still getting his solo career together, still only a boyband member in their eyes. He tried not to feel less than, but sometimes it was hard when you were sat next to Natalie Maines of the Dixie Chicks with utterly nothing to say but awe-inspired ramblings. 

Finally, Y/N was alone, the older couple she was talking to having left for the door, and Harry seized the opportunity. “Y/N,” he said, and her head popped up from her phone to look at him. Her dark brown hair was soft against her skin, and he eagerly wondered what it felt like against his skin, brown eyes that searched his soul. “I loved talking to you earlier.”

She smiled and Harry loved it when she did. Lit up the whole room, just about. “Me too. Glad you came—with Jeff, yeah?”

He nodded. “He introduced me to your dad when we were at The Village.” Y/N nodded as well, obviously having figured out the story. “I—I was wondering, would you want to grab coffee sometime? I’d love to chat more, get to know you.” He restrained the urge to bounce on his heels, nervous in front of her. He felt like a kid asking out his crush, but that’s what this was, a crush. Even if it came to nothing, she was kind, interesting, and fit into the world he revolved in. It wasn’t the most important thing, but he appreciated it all the same. 

“Oh,” she said, tone somber. “Sorry, Harry, but I don’t date musicians. Get home safe, yeah?” She turned away from him, feet carrying her back into the living room, presumably finding her father.

What? She didn’t date musicians? “I’m sorry—what?”

Y/N turned back to look at him. “I just don’t. Bit of a rule.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Don’t feel the need to explain it. Bye, Harry.” Then, she walked away and Harry was left in shock. The abrupt change in tone was like whiplash—she had seemed so interested, involved in their conversation, only to tell him she didn’t date musicians? What the fuck kind of rule was that? 

He huffed and tugged out his phone to tell his driver he was ready, and went outside, leaving behind Y/N and her confusing rule. But this wouldn’t be the last time he saw her, he decided. He wanted to know why she had this rule, this stupid rule that was stopping her from getting to know him. It wasn’t like he even asked her to date him, just to get coffee for Pete’s sake. Harry sat down in the car and pulled out his phone, composing a text to Jeff. 

Could I write with Peter? Seemed like a great guy, really talented. Maybe if she got to Y/N’s dad, he could earn some brownie points. Maybe then she’d bend her rules for him, because despite their short conversation, Harry was intrigued. 

Definitely, Jeff replied. I’ll text him tomorrow.

Harry closed his phone and smiled. Hopefully this worked, because Harry was dying to know more about this rule of hers. 

Y/N’s eyes narrowed when she pulled into her dad’s driveway. There was another car sat in the drive, a black 4-door SUV she’d never seen before, the windows tinted so she couldn’t see in. It reminded her of those cars the FBI drives in crime dramas, which obviously led her to a part of her brain that was not necessarily a hopeful place. She scrambled to grab her bag from work and her keys, launching herself from her car and towards her dad’s door. 

“Dad!” She called into the house, slamming the door shut behind her. “Whose car is in the drive? Didn’t tell me we’d be having company!” Gripping the wall for balance she toed off her shoes and set her bag on the floor next to the door, shrugging off her coat and setting it on a hook. “Dad?”

“He’s in the toilet.”

Her head whipped around and found Harry Styles standing in her hallway, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. As much as she had planned to forget about him after the party, never really expecting to see him again, she hadn’t been able to. And now he was in her house, hair pushed back from his face, a grin painted on his lips. It was irritating how gorgeous he was. “The fuck are you doing here?”

A hand went up to scratch the back of his neck and for a second Y/N regretted being quite so aggressive. “‘M writing with your dad,” he explained. “Guess he didn’t tell you.”

“No,” she answered. She brushed past him into the living room where, as Harry had said, it was obvious they had been writing. Her dad’s treasured old Gibson guitar leaning against his favorite armchair where he’d set it, computers out with GarageBand up for recording demos, papers with scribbles strewn across the coffee table. “Good session?” She decided that there was no way he was here just to pursue her—he was there for professional reasons, after all. Her dad and Harry must’ve hit it off at the party last week. There was also the fact that her dad was a really fucking good songwriter, so of course Harry would want to work with him. Ever since he’d stopped touring, her dad had started doing mainly writing, his songs appearing on records from everyone from up-and-coming artists the label found him to John Legend. 

Harry just nodded. Her eyes drifted to his own guitar, a soft brown wood that had obviously seen some heavy use and travel. She recognized it from her dad’s own guitars that he used to take on the road with him, the nicks and faded wood at the base of the bridge. 

“Y/N!” Her dad’s voice fell through the silence of the room as he re-entered. He was wearing his favorite old UCLA shirt, where she’d just graduated from not too long ago. “Home earlier than usual. Was going to give you a heads up about this one,” he pointed to Harry then, “but I see you’ve already found out.”

Her eyes drifted to Harry, who stood awkwardly next to the couch, unsure if he should sit or stand. “Finished my projects early and didn’t have any meetings, so thought I’d get out early and surprise you.”

“Well,” her father said, giving her a quick hug, “glad you did. I’m getting hungry, how about you?” She nodded, she was always ravenous after work. “Harry, would you want to stay for dinner?”

No, she thought. The last thing she wanted was to sit at a table with a guy she’d rejected and her father and eat an awkward dinner on a Friday night. She just wanted a massive glass of red wine, her delicious romance novel from her bedside table, and maybe lighting a fire in the pit in the backyard. 

Instead, Harry said, “Sure. Don’t want to impose though.”

“Nonsense! Y/N why don’t you go change and Harry and I can tidy up from working. We were about done anyway.” Her dad kissed the top of her head sweetly and she just did as he said, Harry a forgotten thought behind her as she went to her room upstairs. 

It was her childhood bedroom which she had been residing in for a month now. How her landlord could put her out for this long was beyond her, but she hadn’t had the energy to fight it—plus, it was an opportunity to spend some quality time with her workaholic father. So she was spending her evenings in her light blue colored room, sleeping between her soft pink sheets, and picking her work clothes that butted up against remnants from high school she’d left behind as memories. Y/N pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt that probably belonged to an ex-fling from college—Daniel maybe? Y/N couldn’t remember. Slipping on a pair of socks to keep her feet warm from the tile floors of the kitchen, she left her room, tugging her door shut so if Harry went exploring he wouldn’t stumble into her room. 

Downstairs, Harry was sat at the kitchen island with a glass of wine and a smile on his face, deep in conversation with her dad about Fleetwood Mac’s chord progressions. A glass of red was waiting for her on the counter and she picked it up, wandering over to where her dad was cooking

“Whatcha making?” She asked, peeking into the pot. 

“Pasta,” he replied. “Now stop being a nosy Nelly and talk to our guest while I try to focus on not burning the pasta.”

“Dad you haven’t even put it in yet.”

Her dad shooed her from the stove and she chuckled, backing away. “Get out of here, ya pest.”

She turned to Harry, realizing her dad was actively trying to get them to hang out. He was so annoying sometimes. “How do you feel about a fire?”

“Positively,” he answered and she led him outside into her backyard. 

It was chilly out, but nothing too bad. She set her glass on the table and went over to the stack of wood her dad kept against the fence, picking up some logs and carrying them over to the fire pit they’d had for years. At first it was so Y/N could roast marshmallows at home, her father trying to do anything to get her to come over to his house more after the divorce, and as time had gone on it had become her favorite place in the whole house. When her dad was out of town and she came over to check up on the house in high school, she’d bring her weed and smoke out here under the stars. 

Harry sidled up next to her and picked up a few logs, following her to the fire pit. “This is cool,” he said, words breaking their silence. 

Y/N dropped the logs into the fire and looked up at him. “Favorite part of the whole house.” A box of matches sat next to the door and she grabbed them, as well as some kindling, and brought it over to the logs, setting the kindling under the logs before lighting them. The fire leaped up, the wood nice and dry from the lack of rain recently. “So, who got in touch with who?”

Harry looked at her in confusion. “Huh?”

She settled into one of the chairs set by the fire, wine tucked between her fingers. “The writing. You or my dad?”

“Oh,” he answered, joining her in the chair next to her. “Me, actually. Through Jeff.”

As expected. “And?”

“He’s really good,” Harry said, to which Y/N chuckled. 

“That he is.”

“What was it like growing up with him as your dad?” He asked, breaking the silence between them.

Y/N shifted in her chair. She’d been asked this question so many times over the years, but it still was hard to answer. “Hard, if I’m being honest,” she told him, truth surprising her. But she had a feeling Harry would get it to a certain extent. He was a hugely popular star, after all. She’d heard rumors that he was a part of a movie coming out this year, something historical. “Like, my parents are divorced, which I assume you know.” He nodded,  probably having figured it out by now. “And with my dad’s tour schedule when I was in school, I didn’t see him all that much, especially in elementary and middle school. He was gone all the time, even missed my birthday a couple times because of tour dates, so I just didn’t really know him that well, I guess. Fuck, sorry, this is a lot,” she breathed out, realizing she was rambling. Harry was just surprisingly easy to talk to, his eyes steady on her, intently listening to her every word. Boys didn’t usually listen to her like this.

“S’fine,” he replied. “When did it change, if you don’t mind me asking? Seem so close now.”

The fire, having grown by now, crackled in front of them. “Late high school, but mainly when I was in college. My mom moved to San Francisco for a job and I went to UCLA, so my dad was closest. Came over to do my laundry sometimes, have a home cooked meal, he’d take me to dinner, that stuff. Came to football games with me, sometimes, which he always tried to be interested in but never succeeded.” Harry chuckled at that and Y/N smiled at the sound. Harry was obnoxiously pretty. Like, impossibly pretty in this way where you couldn’t help but look at him again to make sure that yes, he was a real person. And it was really fucking distracting. “His touring kind of stopped when I went into college too,” she added, trying to refocus on the conversation. “Started writing mainly, putting out music only when it suited him. He’s a lot happier now, I think.”

“That’s good,” he said, taking a sip of wine. “I’m glad you guys were able to have that kind of relationship, even if it was later.”

Y/N blinked at him, his words so kind and honest. “Me too.”

“Always been one of my fears, if I’m being honest,” he said, words soft in the cool night air. Sun was starting to set and it was getting dark around them, the light of the fire putting an orange ember to his face. “About having kids with my career, you know? I want to be a dad, but it’s like…how do I do that while being gone all the time?” His honesty shocked her, but then again Harry Styles seemed to be excelling at that in every regard. “Sorry, that’s a lot to unload on you.”

“No it isn’t,” she reassured him. “Just told you about all my daddy issues, yeah?” He chuckled, and it lightened the mood just enough. “You’ll figure it out.”

Harry nodded, taking another sip of his wine and she did the same. It was her favorite, the one her dad bought multiple of whenever she came to stay. Even though they’d gotten closer over the years, his desire to make his house perfect for her never seemed to fade. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Shoot.”

“The rule—I—why is that?”

Well, fuck. This was the exact conversation she didn’t want to have, the one she was hoping he wouldn’t bring up. “It’s actually related to what you were just saying,” she said slowly. He’d get it after everything she’d explained and the fears he shared, right? “I don’t date musicians because they’re always gone.”

Harry was quiet, absorbing her answer. It was true, they always were gone—she had every right to her rule, she told herself. She didn’t want a repeat of what her parents had experienced, what she’d experienced. Her dad’s job had ruined everything in their family, ripping her parents apart, keeping him away from her for more of the year than he was home. She didn’t want the same thing for her kids. “That’s a pretty broad stroke, isn’t it?” Harry said though, pushing back against her. “Like all musicians. Kinda a generalization ‘bout us.”

“You said it yourself,” she said, leaning forward in her chair and resting her elbows on her thighs. “You’re gone all the time. How do you build a life with someone who isn’t there half the time?”

“Devil’s advocate,” Harry said, setting his wine on the arm of his chair, “but hypothetically you’re dating someone who tours all the time. But they make you a priority, coming home and seeing you, putting your relationship first. That wouldn’t matter? You wouldn’t even take the chance that it could work out okay?”

This time it was Y/N who was quiet. “I mean, musicians only have so much control over their schedules,” she said, remembering the excuses her dad used to tell her. “Plus, it’s not the relationship that’s the problem. It’s the part when you get to marriage and kids.”

“…So it’s better to just avoid the whole thing entirely?”

Y/N nodded, her logic laid out in front of her. She’d never had to do this before—most times, guys just took her at her word and dropped it all together. Harry pushed though, wanting to understand in a way the others didn’t care enough to do. “It’s safer.”

“But then you miss out on the opportunity to fall in love with someone,” Harry says, his words like rocks in her stomach. “And what if that person was a musician?”

Y/N had a feeling they were no longer talking in hypotheticals. “We can fall in love with tons of different people.”

“No soulmates and shit for you, then?” She shook her head. She didn’t believe in all that crap, never had. Relationships were about work, effort, time. The person was important, but the life that person led mattered more to her. How much they’d prioritize the relationship, the kind of life they wanted to build. “That’s kind of depressing,” Harry said. 

The fire crackled and popped. “I don’t think so. It’s…practical.”

“Love isn’t supposed to be practical, Y/N.”

Y/N found herself speechless. She didn’t have an answer for him. She’d never been in love before, that was for sure. Hadn’t found that kind of love that people like Harry write songs about and she’d often found herself wondering when it was going to happen for her. There just hadn’t been any guys that were right for her yet. 

“Y/N! Harry!” She turned and her dad was in the doorway, pasta sauce splattered on his shirt. He’d always been a messy cook. “Dinner’s ready.”

Y/N took one last look at Harry before grabbing her wine and heading inside, Harry following at her heels. 

After dinner, Harry decided this was his last chance at Y/N. He couldn’t exactly use the same excuse twice and after understanding her rule, he was determined to be the exception. He helped Y/N clear the plates while her dad settled in at the TV in the other room, telling them it was his time to watch the nightly news and they could clean up since he had cooked. Harry had missed being in a home like this, the kind where he got told to clean up from dinner and there was calm and normal conversation at the table, Y/N talking about her day at work and Harry sharing about his activities from his mum’s visit. It brought him a kind of peace he didn’t know he needed. 

The plate clattered on the counter as he set it down, Y/N turning, her hands soapy with the water from the dishes. “Gonna break our dishes,” she said with a snort. “Be careful, please.”

“Sorry,” Harry said sheepishly. He’d cleared the table, so he grabbed a dish rag from the peg and joined Y/N at the sink, taking the clean dishes from the rack and drying them, stacking them on the counter since he didn’t know where they belonged in the cabinets. 

They worked in silence, the only sound her dad’s TV from the other room. He could hear Rachel Maddow’s show on NBC, the same one he liked to watch, learning from her commentary on American politics that he was still trying to wrap his brain around. 

“Y/N,” he said when they’d finished the dishes. “I promise I heard everything you said earlier.” She looked at him with curiosity in her eyes, trying to figure out where he was going with this. Harry tried to pick his words delicately, wanting to make sure she knew he did hear her, he was just entranced by her and couldn’t give her up. “But what is the likelihood you would be willing to give it a shot? With me?”

She took the dish towel from his hands and dried her own, considering his words. The waiting was killing him, but he didn’t want to rush her. He knew what her worries were and he was asking her to put them aside. 

“We’ll take it slow,” he told her, stumbling over the words. “Promise. You set the pace, you decide about commitments. I just…” Can’t stop thinking about you.

But then Y/N surprised him by saying, “I know. I feel that way too.” His eyes widened, not believing the words from her mouth. “I’ll give it a shot,” she said slowly. “Better make the date good.”

“You sure?”

“I wouldn’t ask again unless you’d like me to change my mind.”

“Can I get your number then?” She nodded and read it off, Harry typing the numbers into his phone next to her name. Then Harry shut up and just smiled at her, following her like a puppy dog into the other room where her dad sat watching TV. She curled up on the couch, pulling the blanket her dad had so it would cover part of her and his heart softened at how sweet she looked. He loved seeing her like this, at home, comfortable in her space. “I’m going to head out,” he said. “Thank you so much for dinner, Peter.”

Y/N’s dad turned from the TV and gave him a wide smile. “Of course, Harry. You’re welcome anytime—wouldn’t want you to get lonely out here!”

His eyes drifted to Y/N and he knew that with her around, there was never anyway he could be lonely.

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NEXT CHAPTER COMING JULY 4TH @ NOON CST