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almondharry · 5 years ago

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the pages of summer

Prompt: Romance 101: Y/N is participating in a study abroad program for school when she meets Harry; who is in the same place writing his new album.

This is prompt 12 of @always-jackedup Sarah’s 25 days of summer challenge. This is my first time writing a y/n blurb! Here is what I came up with! Do give a click to the other prompts done by the talented authors who are apart of this!

word count: 9k

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Studying abroad for a semester was Alice’s idea. She was the loud-mouthed girl who had taken the empty seat beside you in your freshman Intro to Asian Civilization course. You’ve been super glued at the hip for as long as you can remember; she’s the first number on your speed dial, the only one who can make sense of your nervous ramblings. The building blocks of this friendship stacked up one after the other, from stressing over impending midterms to complaining about shitty boys, and of course, empty tequila bottles.

She was the type of girl who thought going to the movies alone was embarrassing, so it wasn’t a surprise when she claimed she needed someone to go halfway across the world with.

“Think of it as a grad trip!” she exclaims with arms thrown in the air, her eyebrows almost touching her hairline.

The carpet on the floor is itchy against your bare thighs from where you’re sitting on her bedroom floor, legs pretzled. Your finger twirls the loose fray of your denim shorts.

Alice has a huge rectangular cardboard display in front of her, the type students used for science fairs, but without the flaps on the right and left. It’s no longer the plain white that you remember it being when she bought it from the dollar store years ago. Instead, it’s full of cut outs in all different shapes and sizes; you particularly like the tiny airplane stickers dotted at the right corner. Your eyes catch a magazine article clipping—Travel on a budget now!—and a picture of some exotic beach; the highly saturated water meant she pulled it off of google images. This moodboard has been a work in process for as long as can be.

Alice started it as a motivator to get her through the times where she desperately wanted to drop out of university. She’d always said that she would reward herself with a trip at the end of her studies.

“We’re not graduating for another semester, Alice.”

“So what? Let’s call it a pre-grad trip! We owe it to ourselves!” She gathers her pin straight hair an inch below the crown of her head before fastening the shiny black strands with an elastic from around her wrist. “You’ll be off to law school and I’ll be starting a full-time job. We can’t really push it to after graduation now, can we?”

A gust of air leaves your lungs in a sigh. She’s right, there is no denying it. Who knows what flexibility your schedules will allow if you delay this into the future. You recall back to the relentless hours you spent in preparations of your LSAT exams. You had deprived yourself from a social life for months, studying for the most important test in your life did take off some years of your life span. Now that your acceptance letter came in you think you can treat yourself to jetting away for a semester with a great friend. You’ve earned it, you tell yourself.

Alice is looking at you with expecting eyes. The anticipation that gleams in her eyes is childlike, the look is enormously similar to a little kid about to open a christmas present they’ve been yearning for.

As a smile slowly crawls on your lips, her eyes double with realization. You agree. The rate at which she jumps up and throws her lanky arms around your neck suggests someone lit a round of firecrackers under her. Her high pitched squeals leave your left ear ringing.

You roll your eyes and laugh into her bony shoulder. “Alright, alright! Let’s bring the globe.”

***

The reason why Alice and you get along so well is because you agree on the same things. You’ve decided to stray away from common study abroad places such as London, New York, Toronto, for your semester. You want to experience life somewhere completely different. Also the fact that those placements have already been snatched up by other students narrows down your pool of options by quite a bit.

You both settle on the city of Tariz. It is a secluded area with a decent population, not large enough to be a well known staple city, but enough to have a bustling sense of community. Their language is a mix of Turkish and broken English.

The brochure you are given and the exploratory google searches here and there only feed your excitement.

Most of the architecture of the city is ancient. High arches and intricate stones decorate multiple streets. The streets are more like tight valleys, the rusted bricked walls of neighboring houses and stores transport you into another time period completely. There is even a dated sculpture planted in the middle of the town circle, it’s details are so well preserved that it seems life like—you’re dying to feel the smooth stone under your fingertips.

Your laptop displays all the potential flight times and costs. With a tap of your finger, the plane ticket is confirmed.

***

The first words you learn are Kirree and Poffasa.

Kirree is local drink of Tariz. It’s a bitter coffee with a splash of milk and two drops of essence that smells like roses. You prefer to sweeten it with honey, rather than sugar. Poffasa translates to please. The combination of these words are used every time you step into the corner shop located on Cardin Street.

The bell clanks above you and signals the worker behind the counter of your arrival. A welcoming grin pulls at his lips, you’ve come in enough times for him to remember your name. He knows to talk to you with more hand gestures and use short words.

You found this family owned cafe on your second week here. It’s situated beside a book store and a florist. There is an open patio outside which you take advantage of every once in a while when the humidity won’t poof up your hair. When the wind blows your way, it carries a strong scent of light florals—it’s quite poetic. It’s also only a ten minute walk from the university you are taking your courses at and two streets down from the apartment Alice and you rent.

“Kirree?” The man behind the counter—Amjad—inquires with a raised brow.

“Poffasa.” You smile.

He taps your order into the system and you drop some copper coins in the cup of his palm. Amjad moves with ease behind the counter, his fancy coffee machine makes a churning sound as he holds the rim of a cup to its long narrow mouth. He stirs milk and essence in a way you’ve seen him do countless times. Although you miss seeing a Starbucks within every ten steps, you’re grateful that you are able to experience a sip of someone else’s culture.

Amjad passes you the drink, it’s a simple latte cup with a bleach white plate at the bottom. Another smile is exchanged between you two, this is usually where the conversation stops.

“Tib tu,” you say. It’s a casual thanks people say to one another, you had picked it up recently.

Amjad’s eyes brighten up instantly. His smile becomes impossibly wide in a way that tells you he’s proud of your slowly developing ability to communicate. You can’t hold a fluent conversation just yet, but enough to keep a casual one going.

“Tib tu!” He laughs and wipes the counter with the rag previously rested on his shoulder.

You are engrossed into your course review settled at a circular table. Your laptop informs you of the requirements for the essay due next week, you crack open the novel and highlight potential quotes to help support your thesis. It is a simple Wednesday afternoon, business is slow, which is ideal because it doesn’t interrupt your concentration.

Hours pass by and you bob your head every once in a while to the soft radio filling the small shop. Neon yellow ink bleeds over a particular line you find interesting when the bells above the door chime and bring in a gust of humid air. Your upper lip curls in disdain momentarily because of the thick sticky air cuts through the coolness of the AC. You lick the pad of your index finger and flip the page.

The steady thump of boots against the floor gets louder as the person nears the counter to your right. Amjad had ducked in the back a moment ago so the customer waits patiently. This would’ve been fine, but then they begin to whistle a tune under their breath. Your focus on the essay in front of you shatters like delicate china.

You look up to see the artist behind this pesky noise. From your position, you are granted the view of his side profile and your eyes widen gradually. Sharp jaw, wavy hair, high cheekbones. He is cute. Something about him screams so familiar; maybe it’s because he has the same build as your ex or maybe the tattoo on his arm is close to the one Alice has. Your brain tells you you’ve seen him before, but you can’t quite put your finger on it.

Amjad comes out from behind swinging doors and your head drops back to your books.

“Zerki! Tim tu ga?”

“I’m sorry—English only.” It’s a British accent, the words are timid and he blends the first two together.

“Ah!” Amjad nods quickly with a wide, understanding smile. You can tell he is excited because this is a new customer. Although this cafe isn’t a tourist location, the university located near it brings in countless study abroad students. You assume he is another student somewhere from Britain.

Amjad swipes a plastic menu from behind him before placing it in front of the customer. You remember him showing you this on your first day here. The descriptions didn’t help much because it wasn’t in English, but the corresponding pictures did clarify some fog.

He puckers his lips and the deep frown between his brows is enough to say he hasn’t been in this city for more than a couple days. His index finger taps a picture and he looks up expectantly to Amjad. You pick up bits and pieces of the conversation. He is trying to ask a question about an ingredient, but Amjad thinks that’s what he wants to order. There is a lot of hand gestures and frowns and crumpled brows as they try to understand each other. This goes on for about five minutes until Amjad looks around the shop with a sigh. His eyes land on you and he instantly brightens up.

He calls your name and your head shoots up. “English? You English speak?”

You remember giving this information when telling Amjad what you’re studying in uni. Your eyes bounce back from the customer to Amjad before slowly nodding. He wants you to briefly translate something for him. The legs of your chair screech against the tiles as you get up and walk towards them.

When you come to stand beside the customer, you can smell the shampoo he uses. The citrus wafts into the air and when mixed with the smell of fresh brew, it is an odd yet pleasant scent. “What are you trying to ask?”

“I just want him to take the sweetener and milk out of this.” He points to the image on the laminated menu.

You raise a brow. “You sure? The Kirree is going to be really bitter, like worse than black coffee.”

“Yeah, that’s what I like.”

You give him an odd look but turn towards Amjad. “Kirree, na sarr, na dou.”

“Ah!” Amjad nods right away, plucking a cup from a tall stack before grabbing a marker. “Nama?”

You meet the green of his eyes. “He’s asking for your name.”

There is a pregnant pause in the air. It lasts long enough for you to second guess if you said your sentence loud enough. Then you see the beginnings of a smile ghosting his lips, the corners are upturned, but barely. Like he knows something you don’t.

He brings his index finger to rub horizontally below his nose. “It’s um, Harry.”

The scratchy sound of Amjad scribbling letters on the cup fills the silence. He turns his back to prepare the drink at the counter.

“Thank you,” Harry says.

“‘Course, it’s no problem.”

You occupy your previous spot and get lost in developing the arguments for your body paragraphs.

***

It’s childish. A part of you prides yourself on the fact that you are a regular at the cafe. You come here so often that you can find your way even if you were left blindfolded on the street. Amjad and you have gotten to know each other so well that he doesn’t have to ask for your order anymore. Hell, the table that you religiously sit at probably has your name neatly engraved on it. It is your quiet cafe.

Then you see Harry. You don’t think much of it when you see him after a week. Then he comes once again, four days later. Then again, two days after that. The days between his visits get shorter and shorter to the point that he is here everyday. You feel the crown that you’ve titled yourself with slowly slipping off your head.

He doesn’t make much noise because he reads—a lot. His designated place is at the table on the other end of the shop, you catch yourself stealing glimpses of him. Sure, it’s attractive that he’s a cute boy who likes to read, but what really gets you are his expressions when he finds a specific line or passage interesting. You’ve seen his brows draw in when he is upset. You know the two deep dimples that poke his cheeks when he finds something witty. You’ve witnessed his lips part slowly when he reads something poetic.

Right now, his chest vibrates and the corner of his eyes crinkle as he shakes his head. He is wearing a plain black sweater. A string of planets coloured in pink, blue and yellow, start from one shoulder and end at the other. You want to drag your finger over the knit material.

It’s slow. The swirls begin in the pit of your stomach and gradually increase in size. The last time you felt something develop this quickly was when you were in grade school, toes hidden in hot playground sand and eyes fixed on to your crush. You could’ve sworn he had an ever present halo hovering above his head. You still have one thing in common with your eight year old self, you both admire from afar and never build up the courage to go after what you really want. One sided pining and yearning is all you know.

Your attention gravitates towards the window when you become numb to the words on your laptop screen. You allow yourself these little breaks to lessen the stabbing strain your eyes develop. You lean back into the chair, from this angle you have a perfect view of the fountain outside. A butterfly flaps its wings insistently to keep its little body afloat, it circles the pointy tip of the structure. The water sparkles under the setting sun, it looks like a picture cut and pasted out of paradise. You wonder what it would be like to thread your fingers in its ripples rather than gripping a pen to your notepad.

You entertain this daydream for a moment longer. Then something pricks your skin, like a million tiny thumbtacks. The feeling of being observed passes over you; it’s silent and formless. You tear your eyes away from the scenery and your line of sight reflexively falls on soft green eyes. They are already focused on you, imploring and bated. A jet of warmth shoots down your spine.

You bite the inside of your cheek and deliberate looking away, but there is something magnetic about holding his stare. It’s playful, yet holds a pulling weight. He isn’t giving up either, hasn’t made one effort to try to blink away. It’s like you both hold one end of a rope, challenging tugs are given from each side to see who will break first.

A smile spreads across his lips, it’s slow like dripping molasses, and suddenly the butterfly isn’t circling the peak of the fountain. It has made a home in the pit of your stomach, thrashing wildly against your ribcage.

The bells clank above the door as a new customer walks in, and like a delicate twig under a heavy stomp, the moment is broken. It’s a middle aged woman with a toddler balanced on her hip. You blink away quickly and pretend to type a sentence on your keyboard. An Indian summer heat bites at your cheeks.

The sigh you release is deep rooted in your belly. The moment you shared was like clutching a fistful of sand. The grains quickly slipped from your hold and before you know it, you’re left with dry, empty hands.

***

A bead of sweat drips down the nape of your neck and trickles down your spine. Your cheeks are splotched red and baby hairs are matted to your forehead. The humidity levels are sky high today. The short walk from your lecture to the cafe is equivalent to a small marathon. You take a right at the intersection and the figure walking in front of you looks disgustingly familiar.

It’s Harry, and he is also walking towards the cafe.

He wears a simple black cotton t-shirt which shouldn’t make your heart skip like a stone over water, but it does. His shoulders slope in humble curves, but hold strength. The material moves with each step he takes and clings to his shoulder blades. Your mouth goes dry from the way his muscles flex under the fabric.

Your gaze flickers down to his left arm, it’s covered in detailed ink whereas his right arm is more sparse. A particular floral tattoo grabs your attention, the petals of the expansive rose begging to be traced. In his palm he clutches a worn leather journal, a long tie of the same material wraps around it multiple times. You’ve seen him spend hours with hunched shoulders and a pen pressed tightly to the papers, you wonder what secrets it wraps. In the same hand, he holds some sort of novel, you see a dog ear folded near the first few pages. You don’t have the opportunity to analyze a title because he is pulling the heavy glass door of the cafe.

The door doesn’t open fully, it stops awkwardly at a forty-five degree angle when he catches your image reflected in the glass. You don’t miss the slight jump of his brows when he first notices that it’s you.

He shuffles to the side with his fingers still wrapped around the handle of the door. With his movements, the door opens wider. The crisp, conditioned air flutters from inside the cafe and goosebumps pimple the skin on your forearms. It takes you a second to realize he is holding the door open expectantly.

“You first.” He cocks his head towards the shop.

You press your lips together to hide a budding smile.

It’s just a door, you tell yourself. People hold open doors for others all the time. It’s a common courtesy. Nothing extravagant. As you step in the space, you can’t help the warmth that slowly spreads in your chest—like a drop of watercolour staining a white sheet.

You don’t have time to overthink this simple act of kindness, you take in the shop you notice it is brimming with people. Kids and teens sip colourful refreshers and lemonades and almost everyone has an iced drink to combat the heatwave passing over today. As you notice most of the tables are being taken up, your eyes immediately pull towards your designated table. A relieved breath escapes your lips as you see that it is the only vacant spot. Your feet rush to it in a hurry and you drop your bag on the chair to stake claim.

You make eye contact with Amjad and gives you a nod, as if saying he’s already in the middle of preparing your drink. Harry is the second person in line and browses the pastry options while scratching the scruff on his face. You take this time to get situated by pulling out your agenda, laptop, and a textbook.

You’ve opened up your last draft and skim over some lines to jog your memory of what you left behind. You had grown accustomed to the quietness of the cafe, but today, the lack of it makes it harder for you to focus on the words in front of you.

The wave of light citrus in the air causes you to halt your typing. Your eyes catch the plaid printed trousers that taper in at the ankles from the corner of your eye. You lift your line of sight to see a simple blank shirt tucked in at the waist. Higher are the ringed fingers which grip two plates that are topped with Kirree cups. Finally, you look up to see it’s Harry, a journal and novel is tucked under his armpit.

His eyes are a muted green, framed with thick lashes. Reading glasses are perched on his head, they keep the few disobedient curls from sweeping over his forehead. You know he gets annoyed by them when he reads or writes, especially when they poke his left eye.

He releases his bottom lip from behind his teeth. “Amjad sent this over.” The Kirree in his right arm raises towards you.

You quickly reach forward to take hold of the plate, making extra sure you don’t let the steaming liquid trickle over the rim, or even worse, accidentally brush your skin against his. You’re positive the latter would leave a deeper burn. “Great, thank you. You didn’t have to bring it over.”

“S’alright. I was headed here anyway.”

You tilt your head to one side, silently urging him to continue.

He scratches the back of his neck, the curls at the nape of his neck shift. Harry’s neck cranes as he looks around the shop. His jawline sharpens when he looks completely to the left. Today everything is bustling. A kid pulls the hem of his mother’s dress with a deep frown to get her attention. Two little girls with matching pigtails fight over a specific coloured crayon two tables down from you. A group of students fill up the remaining tables; from their flashcards, it seems as though they’re conducting a study group. The whole town has chosen this cafe to seek refuge from the brutal heat.

The time he takes to analyze the buzzing environment, you press the rim of your drink to your lips.

“The only other empty chair is this one.” His eyes flicker to the simple white plastic from across you. The tips of his ears are impossibly red. “Mind if I sit?”

You almost choke on your sip, but you contain the liquid from spluttering out by downing the scalding gulp. “‘Course.” The urgency behind your immediate reply makes your face hot.

He lifts the chair slightly before pulling it from the table. The small courteous act of avoiding the ugly screech against the floor sends your heart flooring.

You think your heart would tire eventually, but the annoying thing continues to jackrabbit even after a solid ten minutes of him being seated across from you. Your palms are sweaty and your brain is firing up with a thousand different thoughts every second. How long had you wanted him to sit across from you? How long had you wanted him to exchange more than a smile with you? You’re getting words from him. He’s actually talking to you. It’s all a bit overwhelming.

Hours later, you’re fed up with the mundane reading. You had set a goal to read 800 pages, but you can make it barely through the 200 mark. It stares back at you from your laptop screen, challenging and daunting. A deep defeated sigh leaves your lips and your shoulders sink.

“What are you reading?” He asks, his eyes trained on the novel in front of him.

“It’s a reading for my modernism course. I rather individually pluck my eyelashes out.” He purses his lips to suppress a smile; A candlelight flame dances in your chest. You squint at the cover shielded behind his fingers, but you can’t quite make out the picture or title. “You?”

“Bukowski.”

Your lips part slowly. “Oh.” His eyes follow your movements when you raise a hand to gently tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “Sorry.”

“No, no it’s okay—it’s hard to see because the cover is well loved.”

“No, I meant I’m sorry that you have shit taste in books.”

His face is blank for a minute, not giving away anything as he mulls your words over in his head. Then the corners of his lips poke up. When you see the dimple is more prominent on his left cheek, you almost let a strangled, breathless Fuck slip out. “You think so?”

You scrunch your nose and nod.

“You should try something by Murakami.” Multiple titles run through your mind and you purse your lips as you mentally browse which one to offer. Something about recommending a book, a song, or another piece of art, can be so vulnerable because people only like things they can see themselves reflected in. You pray to whatever higher powers that exist that Harry won’t think twice about it. “Have you read Norwegian Wood?”

He wets his lips with his tongue. They become a vivid pink, like fresh peonies or a sickening sweet birthday cake frosting. “I’m afraid I have not.”

Your fingers dip into the slit of your bag and before you can register what is happening. Your copy of the novel is slightly curving at the corners and feels more weighted from when you first bought it. This is because countless sticky notes and page markers you’ve stuffed in between the front and back cover. You can’t believe you’re freely handing over your annotated book, it’s full of all your thoughts and views and it seems intimate to give him access to that. You think to take a moment to rip out all your work, but your arm is already extended and he clutches the other end of the book.

***

“He held a door for you,” Alice notes.

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“He sat with you. For hours.”

“—Because the place was full.”

“You caught him staring at you! This sounds exactly like a dreamy movie!”

“It’s not, it’s just—” Your palm gestures vaguely in the air. You’re at a loss for words because if you’re being honest with yourself, you don’t know what this is. What you do know, is the childlike glee you get around him and the stolen glances you pocket away and the shy smiles you exchange. “—Harry from the coffee shop.”

Alice stresses your name in a pointed tone. “Please.” She drags a tiny brush over the sparse area of her toe nail, the fushia pink compliments her newly tanned skin. The smell of polish and acetone is poignant in the living room. “We both know you’re clueless as can be about these things.”

Your jaw meets the floor as you prop up your weight on the cushion of the sofa. “Am not!”

“Are so!” Alice twists the cap on the nail polish tightly. She flips the small bottle and shakes it to insure it won’t drip. “You need people to literally spell out if they like you or not!”

“Being clear is a good thing!”

“But… where’s the romance in that?” You should’ve known telling Alice about Harry would get twisted into something. Alice is adamant that he has a thing for you, but you can’t connect the dots. You thought asking for an unbiased perspective on this situation would bring some clarity, but all Alice knows are the countless rom coms on Netflix and the wall full of cheesy lovey dovey novels she collects. “From where I see it, you both are longing from a distance. How long has this been going on for?”

“Like almost two months.”

Her eyes double in size. “Jesus!”

“I know, I know.” A palm comes to rub over your face to hide the red colouring your cheeks.

“Before we leave you need to do something about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Find a moment, grab him by the shoulders and lay one on him. It’s not like he’ll see you again.”

You roll your eyes.

***

Harry doesn’t sit alone at his table like he previously used to do. After that day you gave him the novel, he has glued himself to the seat across from yours. It’s nice. You both work in amicable silence together with occasional conversation; you switch between your laptop and novel and he scribbles some words in his journal. It’s not a stream of consistent thought, the words are broken and spaced out and formatted differently. You assume he writes poetry.

It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve both made together. Every week you pick something new off the chalked menu items and alternate buying. Today you pick a slice of carrot cake. You remember him saying in passing that he was fond of it and wondered how different it would be from traditional American or European cake.

The plate sits dead center of the table, a fork at each end. You dig the metal to the pointy end of the cake and cup your palm underneath the utensil when you bring it to your mouth. Harry does the same except he doesn’t use his palm. It’s endearing that a crumb is stuck to the left corner of his top lip. You make deliberate eye contact while you both chew slowly. A rating becomes more clear in your mind as time passes and you see the same behind his eyes.

“Love it,” he concludes.

You continue chewing your bite for a little longer, he’s waiting, expecting to keep this conversation going. Harry scans your features as you derive your final thoughts. He doesn’t realize this, but his eyes have a weighted tenacity that you find yourself squirming under. It’s not uncomfortable, more so intense—He makes you feel like you’re an exceptionally important person. You run a tongue over your teeth before letting yourself speak.

“It’s good.”

“Just good?”

“Good,” you confirm.

He has gotten a sense of your rating scale without you defining it for him. He remembers the coconut slice was mind blowing. The strawberry was amazing. The peanut butter, nutella and banana was exceptional. He recalls you closing your eyes briefly because they rolled back in bliss. The indulgent moan you let slip through made his brain short circuit. The high points of his cheek were the same colour as the cherry drizzle that topped the rhubarb cake.

He digs his fork once more to grab another bite. You refrain.

A sweet smile dances on your face as you tuck your chin in the palm of you hand, your elbow anchors your weight on the table. You don’t know when to tell him that with each bite he takes, he adds on a couple more crumbs to his face. A part of you doesn’t want to tell him at all because it’s so adorable.

“What?” He prompts when he sees you observing him.

“You’ve...” You trail off, but then roll your eyes last minute, deciding not to let him in on it. It’s a miniscule thing. “Nevermind.”

“Now you’ve got to tell me.”

“It’s fine.”

The sinking feeling in his stomach knots his intestines together. A plunging fear of his identity being revealed is something he doesn’t know that he’s ready for. You had asked him what his name was for Amjad to write on the cup. You clearly didn’t know anything about him. He wanted to see how long the cloak of invisibility spell would last on him. There’s something about meeting someone without them having preconceived notions set about him. It’s rare and refreshing for him and he wants to prolong this with you. He gnaws at his lip momentarily, do you know?

“Did you google something?”

You splutter a confused laugh. “What?”

“It’s—I” He threads his fingers through his hair. A panic bounces in his eye. He knows the inevitable, you will find out sooner or later. Should he just tell you now? “Did you—”

Before he gets a chance to finish his sentence you crumple a napkin in your hand and lean slightly across the table.

He is taken aback by your sudden closeness, but relaxes his tense shoulders when the floral notes of your perfume floats around him.

You drag the napkin at the corner of his mouth and collect the persistent crumbs. You feel his eyes trained on one side of your face. There is a charged intimacy in the air that both of you don’t acknowledge. This innocent act speaks louder than any words between you two could. You tell yourself that maybe this feeling is one sided, a complete travesty, but then you see his adam’s apple rise and fall has he swallows a nervous gulp. It’s enough to let you know he feels it too. To keep yourself from doing something you might regret, you pour all your focus to the task at hand. This moment lasts for a couple seconds at most, but the fervor behind it could outlive even the oldest stars.

“There,” you say, your back meets your chair once again. “That was all.”

***

“How much have you gotten through?”

“I’m at the halfway mark. A few scenes have stuck out to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” Your eyes immediately flick up meet his. Curiosity and anticipation pull at each end of your lips to form a smile. Your wrist finishes jotting down the last of correction on your essay, the red pen in your grasp moves on autopilot because Harry has once again captured all your attention. He’s done it numerous times before, it’s just something he is good at. “Which ones?”

There is a soft grin on his lips. “When Toru lets go of the firefly on the roof.”

“Why did you like it?”

“It was such a simple act, but probably meant so much more.”

“You’re right, it did.” You nod. Red ink strikes out two sentences, but your ears are still perked up. “What else?”

“Naoko’s birthday.”

“Really?” The pitch of this word is higher than your previous ones, you’re surprised. You once had a conversation with someone who passionately claimed the scene should’ve been ripped out Norwegian Wood. You stop writing completely and give him your utmost undivided attention. You elbows press to the surface of the table as you lean it slightly and drop your volume to an octave lower. “Is it because they fucked?”

“Yeah,” he nods after a moment of contemplation. You shoot him a look, not because of his scene choice, but his lack of explanation, and he backtracks immediately. It would be awfully disheartening if that is all he had to say about that. “No, no, no. It’s not what you’re thinking. It was just so sad and lonely and—” He takes a deep breath and his nostrils flare. “I really felt for Naoko. It’s an oddly relatable thing—being in that state of mind, feeling that, all while giving yourself to someone. I don’t know, it’s just—”

His words hang in the air, but from the crumpled look on his face, you know exactly what he wants to communicate. The impervious silence between you two stays for a moment.

Talking about books with him was something you look forward to. He likes when you push him to read certain books. He admits once with a bashful look that he was intimidated by you. Your list of recommended books—it only went up to five, ink scratches on tissue you handed him one night before parting—made you seem very well read in his eyes. You dismissed it quickly with a wave.

A smile quirks your lips. “That was one of my favourites too.”

The praise balloons a feeling in your chest that would only contribute to one-sided feelings. You told him your list is no match to what is really out there; your goal isn’t to be a pretentious well-read girl, but it’s to find more titles that make you feel a spectrum of emotions.

He takes a minute to absorb your words. With an understanding nod he goes back to writing in his journal. You think you pick up on a musical note or chord, but you can’t be sure.

***

The blanket of humidity suffocating the town finally breaks on a Friday. In the wee hours of the early morning, you hear the clap of thunder rip through the clouds and pour down a bucket of water. It transitions into a romantic drizzle as noon rolls around.

It was one of those odd days where you are at the cafe before Harry. Your plain black umbrella sits in his chair, drops of water fall off the pointy tip and splatter against the floor.

“What’s this?” Harry grips the hooked handle of the umbrella as he lifts it up. The folded flaps of the fabric move like the arms of a ceiling fan before hitting against each other. “You’ve replaced me already?”

He has a pleased look on his face, clearly too proud of his joke.

You drop all traces of expression from your face and force your eyebrows to curl in a deep, confused frown. The slight tilt of your head to the left completes the faux look. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

He rolls his eyes, pinching his lips to on side in an effort to subdue the smile you both know is about to flourish. “Funny.”

You laugh under your breath. He wipes away the remaining droplets of water on the chair before taking his seat. Fingers comb back his hair, you notice it is a darker brown, a wet curl curves at the shell of his hair in a perfect swoop.

Like always, hours go by without you noticing. The sun has long bid its farewell. You’ve shared casual conversation, another slice of cake, and another book recommendation.

Amjad begins to flip the stools upside down on their respective table, the sound makes you look up. The lights are toned into a dim buttery yellow rather than the stark white you’re used to. He’s closing up for the night. It’s just you and Harry in the space, both of you begin to collect your belongings. You tuck your laptop into its sleeve before plucking your highlighter and pen into your bag. The novel you used is carefully bookmarked and pressed into your tote bag.

“Shit,” Harry hisses. Through the glass window you see the sky is an angry black, flashes of white remind you of when you had taken your high school graduation pictures. The rain is no longer a shy drizzle, it’s a wrath coming down so hard as though it seeks age old revenge.

You are thankful that you’ve brought your umbrella, but Harry can’t say the same for he is looking at the scene in front of you while scratching the back of his head. As he turns to you, you can see the same thought floating in his head.

“It’s alright, I’ve got one.” You wave the umbrella in your hand as you hike up the straps of your bag to your shoulder.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “We’re headed the same way anyways.” You know your stop comes before Harry’s, it’s only a short walk from the cafe, you plan to pass the umbrella to him so he can continue his path back home.

As you near the door, you call out a farewell to Amjad. “Ta ra!”

“Ta ra!”

The sound of rain drowns out the clanking of the bells as the door shuts behind you. You quickly press a hidden button and the metal arms of the umbrella spread wide open. You shelter yourself under it and shuffle so Harry has enough room under it.

“You’re good at it, you know?” He says as you both begin the trek. The raindrops make a muted pattering against the material of your umbrella.

You face him and raise a brow. “What?”

“Just—living here, communicating, and all that sort. I would’ve never guessed you weren’t from here until I heard you speak English.”

“Yeah?” You breath in the smell of fresh rain, the wind mists some water on your face and a calmness seeps into your bones.

Harry shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his shoulders cave inwards. “Would’ve probably just sat at my table like a fool and wonder why you come here so religiously.”

A smile pulls at your lips. “You would wonder about me?”

“Maybe.”

You laugh at his reluctance to say a proper yes. You know it’s a solid yes. Your eyes focus on the potholes in the sidewalk, rain water creates puddles and you strategically place your steps. “I would too—about you.”

“Now, you’re just saying that.”

“No, I’m serious.”

“Sure,” he hums.

A cool breeze circles the lonely streets, the thin hair on your arms stand up tall. The silence that makes itself prominent is comfortable. You decide this a perfect moment to tell him. You can’t begin to imagine the hurt on his face when he steps foot into the cafe and you’re not there. You’ve been practicing a speech in your bathroom mirror for two weeks now, trying all sorts of combinations to find the right words. Nothing has stuck so you bite the bullet and blurt the first thing that comes to mind.

“I’m going home.” Your heart is in your throat. Your voice is no where near bold and sure as you’d like it to be. It’s a timid whisper and you’re just thankful you haven't stuttered from the bundle of nerves in your gut.

He doesn’t reply immediately, you begin to ponder if the sound of rain submerged your sentence.

“We both are.” He gives you a weird look.

“No—I mean, I’m leaving Tariz. My semester here is ending, for the study abroad thing.”

Though the humidity in the air is long gone, you feel a thick heaviness in it.

“Oh.” The tone of the word suggests that he wasn’t expecting this. Harry scratches the back of his neck looking down at the pavement. “When’s your last day?”

The silence speaks for you.

His eyebrows jump. “Really?”

You roll your lips together before replying. “I’m afraid so.”

“Well, did you like it? The experience.”

You grin. Of course he could ask you this. You haven’t given much thought to this question up until now. You know when you go back home this will be the first thing people ask you, you take the opportunity as a way to practice an answer.

“Loved it,” you say without a shadow of doubt. “It went beyond my expectations.”

Harry gives your hand that fists the umbrella stem a push from below, urging you to raise it slightly higher. When you look up to see him, you realize the material grazes the top of his head. You mumble a quiet sorry before complying, he ignores your apology by prompting another question. “Favourite part?”

“There are loads. But the Kirree, the culture—”you take a brief pause, it builds the anticipation. “Amjad.”

“Amjad?”

“Amjad,” you confirm. It takes so much from you to not laugh at his ridiculous tone. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” The shrug of his shoulders is anything but casual. “I just thought, nevermind.”

You chuckle, shaking your head while trying to keep your smile at bay. “You’re so obvious.”

Wet hair strands glue to your face with the help of the rain. Your fingers peel them from your skin before tucking them behind your ear.

A deep sigh leaves him.

“I am, aren’t I?”

You both stop at the abandoned intersection. A red palm glows from the other side of the road, halting you from taking a step. You both could make a run for it because no cars are zooming the streets at this time, but you don’t. You feel the heat lift off Harry’s shoulder, there is something so intimate about being under the same umbrella on an empty street with him.

A sigh slips through your lips. You’re going to miss him the most. The routine, the secretive smiles, the tension. Alice’s words inject into your skin like a long needle. Do something.

“I liked meeting you too, for the record,” you say after a moment.

“Yeah?” His nose scrunches up as he looks to you. The traffic light above waves from the wind, a colourful glow lights up his profile emphasizing the sharp cut of his cheekbone and jaw. “It was good, seeing you every day at the cafe. Liked it—quite a lot actually.”

The sentence would’ve been fine as is, but the last four words he tacks on the end adds a double meaning. They put a tangible definition to the feeling that you both had been dancing around since day one. A painful silence settles between you two, it’s razor sharp and so prominent. You both know that it’s something you can’t avoid for any longer.

It’s a brush of fingers at first. Innocent enough to be an accident between strangers on the subway or two people walking in opposite directions on the same side walk. Then it happens again. This time his fingers slot between yours. The silver metal of his rings are frigid against your heated skin. You hope the relentless pattering of rain against pavement masks the boistourius thumping of your heart.

You think you’re imagining it all, but then he shifts his body towards you. His towering height looms over you and he leans in slightly. His breath is warm as it puffs on your cheek, a dizzying contrast against the cool drops of water that rest on your skin. Your lips slowly part in awe and his eyes immediately flicker to them.

The sharp tug he gives your hand is enough to pull you in a step closer, chests press against one another. The touch makes you tighten the grip on the handle of your umbrella, your knuckles become a snow white.

“This okay?” He asks softly. It’s a whisper, silvery and light, but flares a torrid heat in the pit of your stomach.

A stated latency is introduced into the wet atmosphere around you, it traps your bodies into a secluded bubble. His thumb brushes a long stroke from the diviot where your thumb and index meet all the way up to the tip of your pointer finger. The slow, tender pace of it almost makes you whimper.

Only when he sees your chin move in a nod does he press the tip of his nose to the skin of your cheek. You almost cry then. It’s a cruel, calculated torture for him to drag his nose from your cheek to your temple. Your fingers slip from his in favour to clutch the fabric of his sweater. You pull the threads closer to you, a silent plea to move his lips near yours. You feel his smile press against your temple. His palm rests on your hip then gradually slides to your lower back. Your lashes flutter momentarily before resting on your flaming cheeks.

His lips brush the smooth, thin skin of your eyelid twice, he plants a gentle kiss at the corner of your eye. He moves down to the apples of your cheek, the cupid bow of his lips lovingly traces the skin there. Your fingers crawl up from his chest and rest where his shoulder and neck meet. As he continues his innocent torment, the pad of your thumb traces the bump of his adam’s apple.

He brings his free hand to tilt your chin up, he aligns his forehead with yours. You both stay there for a moment while taking calming breaths. You notice his skin his warm under your fingertips and the rise and fall of his chest isn’t steady. You never put sugar in your Kirree, it’s always been honey for you. This is because the grains don’t fully dissolve and sit stubbornly at the bottom of your drink. As you crack your eyes slightly open, you see he has something golden on his lips. Shiny, sticky, inviting.

“Please,” you breathe.

His lips are warm, slick, and sweet against yours. You’d seen them quirked up in a smirk, in bashful smiles, in teasing grins. You wonder what they look like pressed so delicately against yours. The pads of his fingers dig into your flesh as he pulls your bottom lip between his teeth. His tongue laps in just the right way—slow, with the tiniest bit of pressure. You cradle his cheek and follow the line of his jaw with your finger.

When you sigh into his mouth, he lets out a tremulous whimper. Harry was like a cup of freshly brewed coffee; scalding hot and tempting. The steam dancing above the rim would blister your mouth, but you took a sip of him anyway. You know when weighed, all the benefits surpass the costs. You’d rather feel him on the roof of your mouth all day than never at all.

His arms snake around your waist and hold you in place. Your lips part for the length of a blink, the glistening of his mouth is mesmerizing under the light of the lamp post hovering above. You can only draw half a breath before he’s leaning in once more. This time his lips are ferocious. The iron grip you have around the nape of his neck pulls tightly at the curls resting there.

Every nerve ending in your body is screaming, ablaze with the same intensity of molten lava. Your mind is swimming with too many emotions, you don’t begin to label what they are, it will be useless in your dazed state. Your palm presses flat against his chest, you feel his heart jackrabbit through his sweater. There is a tingling sensation in your palms that shoots sparks up your arms.

When you both finally pull away, he doesn’t let go of you. He keeps you close to resume his light brushes; his lips against your cheek, chin, temple. It’s when the tip of his nose bristles against the bridge of yours, your shoulders sag with a deep sigh.

“We...” the word wavers when you say it.

“Yeah?”

You gulp. “We missed our walking signal.”

The slow grin that crawls on his face says he is willing to miss a million more.

***

“Aww,” Alice coos towards her laptop screen. A dopey grin splits her face in half. It tells you she’s either looking at the current royal wedding pictures or reading another one of her romance novels. “That’s so cute, she must be so lucky.”

“What are you on about?” You inquire from your position on your bed. Although you had no complains while studying abroad, you firmly believe there is something so delicious about sleep in your own bed.

“I’m reading the Rolling Stone article about Harry Styles’ new album,” she says without turning back. He is her newest celeb obsession, you think it will pass over in a month. Alice has her laptop situated on your work desk that you’ve placed in the corner. From her position, her back hides the screen she is reading. “He said he wrote a song about a girl who he met in Tariz when working on his new album. Isn’t it crazy how small the world is, like we were there just last year.”

“We were,” you agree from behind a parted novel. It’s another Murakami novel. You woke up today and your fingers had a mind of their own when they plucked him off your reading shelf. Something in your bones was begging you to read it. “I’m glad you took me.”

Alice ignores what you say, she’s too busy gushing over the guy on her screen. She is speaking way too fast and going off in a million different tangents all fueled from her excitement. You think you hear her say something about psychedelics and sex. You shoot her a worried look and before you know it, she’s pushing the device onto your lap.

“Here, just look!”

The fans of the laptop start up and blow a gust of heat on your thighs. As you blink to the article pictures in front of you, your heart drops to your stomach.

“Alice,” you say breathlessly as if you’ve just seen a ghost. You blink quickly to help clear the image, maybe you’re seeing things. But the longer you stare at it, you become more and more sure of the face staring back at you.

“What?”

Sharp jaw, wavy hair, high cheekbones.

“Oh my God.” Your mouth is dry. “Oh my God.”

“What! What is it?”

You point an accusatory finger in the direction of the webpage. “It’s him! That’s him!”

Alice’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t follow.”

“The guy I snogged from the cafe in Tariz!”

Her eyes become the size of Saturn. “No...”

“Yes...”

As the confirmation is uttered in the air, a stillness floods in. You both stare at each other, blinking slowly with blank faces. The suspended silence makes it harder for you to draw a breath. You see the gears turning and locking in place behind her eyes as she grasps onto this new piece of information.

The high pitch squeal that comes from her wind pipes can be easily mistaken for a hyena sound effect. “Fuck!”

“I’m—” Your face is burning and your palms have a sheet of sweat, but your neck and chest is like ice. You fan yourself with your palms. “—I think I’m having hot flashes.”

“I would too if I snogged Harry fucking Styles.”

Blood rushes to your face. “I didn’t know!”

“How did you not know?!”

“Because I live under a rock, you know this. I just thought he was another study abroad student like us!”

“This is so fucking funny.” Alice is howling with laughter. She clutches her stomach and leans forward without any shame. You can’t blame her though, if the tables were turned you doubt you’d react differently than her.

“Fuck, he wasn’t writing poetry.” The inside of your palm slaps your forehead. You feel a sharp throbbing pain pulse at your temples, so you clutch your head and clamp your eyes shut. “Those were probably songs, oh my God, I am so stupid!”

“Babes, babes.” Alice drags the pad of her thumb under her eyes to catch fallen tears. “We’re buying tickets.”

The pillow you throw at Alice lands with a loud smack.

“There is no fucking way I’m going to another study abroad thing with you—ever again.” Your arms limply flail about. “Look what this first one made me do.”

Alice scoffs. “You made out with a rockstar.”

The pointed look you shoot has enough strength to bring down civilizations. “Not the point.”

“Well, I wasn’t insinuating buying a ticket to another place.”

Your lips part with confusion. “Then what?”

“We’re going to catch his show.”

————

Don’t ask me where the city of Tariz is in the world, I made it up. Also all of the language is made up. So is the drink. Lol. Can you tell I didn’t want to do research? My mc is dumb, that scene in NW was ass. Anyway, let me know your thoughts?

Thank you for amina @harrysdodgyankles for editing the moodboard

My wonderful betas are the best. Thank you so so so much to @drivingmekiwi @midnightcities @shelvesandwhelves @fireawaynjh

#1dff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles prompt #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #self insert #y/n fic #harry styles writing #one direction fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles #let me know what u think?#summer

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searchforthescars · 5 years ago

Text

Saying Your Names

Emori walks into the bar Murphy manages. Romance ensues. Part of a universe I plan on expanding eventually. Inspired by true events.

Merry Christmas, my dear @maelidpoetree. I love you lots and lots and I’m so glad these crazy kids brought us together.

Title, excerpts from Richard Siken’s Saying Your Names. Also on Ao3.

Imagine a room, a sudden glow. Here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist.

As Emori stands in the center of the room, holding a drink in one hand and a purse that isn’t hers in the other, she renews her commitment to never forgive Raven Reyes for dragging her out of the lab on a Friday night.

Thankfully, it’s only 8:30. The bar is nearly empty; most of its patrons are in the back room playing pool or outside on the patio. No one is drunk enough to be entertaining, and the music playing is a surprisingly eclectic mix of pop hits and soft rock. She hasn’t even seen a bartender, although she knows there must be one since Raven didn’t make her own drink.

Actually, maybe she did. Emori wouldn’t put it past her coworker to shove back behind the bar and do it herself.

“What, you’re not having anything?” the object of her ire asks, coming up behind her and taking both drink and purse in one fell swoop. “Emori, come on.”

“No.” Emori says, firmly. She hears footsteps behind her but doesn’t turn around. “I don’t drink.”

Raven snort, taking a sip of hers. “You do too. I saw you and Monty at Bellamy’s party.”

“That was beer.”

“So get beer. It’s all alcohol. It’ll all get you drunk.”

“Are you trying to get her wasted or get her laid, Reyes?”

Emori turns toward the sound of the voice. He’s standing behind the bar, bracing both hands against the worn wood counter. When his eyes meet hers, they rest there for a moment. Blue, like ice. They calculate something she can’t name. His face, lit up eerily by the neon signs behind him, shifts in recognition. She doesn’t know why. Isn’t sure she wants to

Raven lifts a triumphant middle finger. “She’s new in town, she never goes out and I’m bound by the contract of friendship to make sure she has a good time.”

“Friendship?” He raises an eyebrow at Emori before smirking at Raven. “I thought I was your only friend.”

Emori opens her mouth to answer but a snapCRASH from the back tears her concentration away.

“Excuse me,” the bartender says, half-jogging around the bar. “Reyes, sit down. I’ll be right back.”

He jogs toward the pool hall and Raven magnanimously takes a seat on one of the rickety silver bar stools. Emori reluctantly follows suit, clasping both her hands atop the counter and staring at the red wall ahead of her.

There’s a rather respectable assortment of alcohol displayed there, everything from Jack Daniels to blueberry vodka, which Otan told her is the worst-tasting alcohol out there. Above the tiered bottles are the standard licenses, all haphazardly framed and hung in crooked patterns.

“Cool, aren’t they?”

Emori knows Raven can’t be talking about the licenses. “What?”

“The drawings.” Raven gestures. Emori looks to the side, at the pieces of paper tacked into the flaking plaster, waving in the lazy breeze from the rotating fan.

“Are those bar napkins?”

Raven nods. “Yeah. Sometimes people draw on them. J pins up the good ones.”

“J?”

“John. Everyone calls him Murphy, though.”

“Hmm.” Emori squints at the drawings. Most of them are caricatures of who Emori guesses are bartenders, but there are some perspectives of the bar itself that surprise her. Whoever drew those wasn’t drunk. Either that, or they were too highly-trained for it to matter.

She watches as Raven’s friend – John – rounds the bar. His eyes immediately go to her and, despite her instincts, she stares straight back, gratified when he looks away, a red flush rising to his cheeks.

Without saying anything, he grabs a glass and fills it with ice, then water. “Here,” he says, sliding it to Emori. “If you work with Raven, you probably never eat or drink anything that isn’t absurdly unhealthy.”

He’s not wrong. “Thanks.”

He looks disarmed all of a sudden, as if unfamiliar with the concept of gratitude. “For what?”

“For the water.”

He blinks, slowly. “It- no problem.” A frown creases the skin between his brows, but he doesn’t say anything, just crosses to Raven’s other side and leans his forearms on the bar. “What’s up with you, Reyes?”

Raven launches into a rant about people and things Emori doesn’t know but John clearly does. In the absence of anything else with which to entertain herself, Emori does what she does best: waits and watches and studies.

John’s profile is sharp, all angles and corners, a defined jaw and delicate mouth, strong nose and long eyelashes. When he smiles, it’s sharp and sudden like a knife, slashing across his face for a moment and vanishing the next. He laughs, once, when Raven recounts something Bellamy did, and it sounds sarcastic and doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

She doesn’t know why, but she wants to touch some part of him under all that gruffness. He keeps cutting his eyes over to her and she keeps looking away. He keeps talking to Raven and she keeps listening to the room around her while staring straight at his face.

Emori’s water is half gone when the front door creaks open and Raven hops to her feet. “Is that Lexa?” she asks, half teasing. “At a bar? Who knew?”

“Fuck off,” Lexa grumbles, adjusting her blazer, her shoes tapping on the floor as she sidesteps Raven and heads straight for the pool hall. “I’m going to hit on the hottie playing pool back there.”

“That’s your wife!” Raven yells, at the same time another unfamiliar voice shouts, “Don’t objectify me, woman!”

Lexa vanishes and Raven follows, seemingly unaware that there are people in the back she might know. Emori can’t help but laugh as she goes. When she turns around, John is smiling.

“Something funny, John?”

He frowns again, that same soft crease in his brow. Emori frowns too, reflexively. “No,” he says, and she doesn’t believe him. “Raven’s just…. Raven. I’ve known her long enough to find it all funny.”

“How long have you known her?”

John sighs, thinking. “Since fourth grade, I think. We both had shit moms and no dads. I’d bring her food and she’d help me with my homework.”

Something in Emori’s chest shivers. “That’s... I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, lean shoulders working under his worn grey shirt. “I’m guessing you had the same time of it that I did.”

Emori frowns, tilting her head. “Why?”

He taps his cheekbone where the thick knife scar peeks through her makeup. Then he taps the spot where her tattoo arches above her eyebrow. “No one gets a tattoo like that for fun.”

She doesn’t want to fight with Raven’s friend, so she doesn’t get defensive, even though every fiber of her being begs her to. But she’s trying to be different. Not necessarily better. But different.

“No,” she agrees softly. “I didn’t.”

They regard each other for a quiet moment. His eyes go soft, then hard, then soft again. “Where did you come from?”

“Baltimore.”

His mouth twists with the hint of a smile. “How the hell’d you end up in Virginia?”

“I drove.”

He does smile at that. “I mean, why here?”

“There wasn’t anywhere else to go.”

She could’ve gone into detail. There’s a story there, one about her high-achieving roommate at MIT, every bit the scholarship kid Emori wished she was, and how said roommate inherited a mechanical engineering lab somehow and begged Emori to come work with her.

“You can get your masters online,” Raven had said, propping herself up on one elbow, resting her head on Emori’s shoulder. They were reclining on Emori’s narrow bed in her even narrower studio apartment that felt like a converted alleyway with how little space there was to move. But it was cheap. “You’re super qualified even now with all your experience-”

“Criminal acts-”

“Experience, and no one has to know about your-

“Criminal record-”

“Past indiscretions, so will you please shut up and take the job?”

Obviously, she did take it. A few years later, but she took it nonetheless. But that’s not a story she thinks John wants to hear.

John is watching her expression. He hikes himself up to sit atop the row of coolers behind him and braces his hands on his thighs. “Do you like it here?”

Emori looks around. Shrugs. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

“This town is boring as shit,” says the guy sitting down the bar from her. “You’re from a big city; you should know.”

“You’re welcome to fuck right back off to Richmond, Miller,” John says easily, rolling his eyes conspiratorially at Emori.

“Richmond isn’t even a big city,” Raven says, effortlessly reinserting herself into the conversation. Her long hair swings against Emori’s arm when she settles in. “Go to Philly. That’s a big city.”

Miller says something derisive into his beer. Raven cracks a smile and switches to Emori’s other side so she can rib him some more. Emori used to be good at that: talking to people, making them like her and trust her, only so she could use them later.

She doesn’t want to use people anymore, and she doesn’t trust that those old habits have died completely, so she stays in her seat and watches John move about the bar.

“Do you- sorry- do you have any more quarters?” a slim woman with wild dark hair and big brown eyes asks, sliding in next to Emori and leaning across the counter. “Lexa’s bill got stuck in the change machine again.”

John nods, popping over the cash register. “I keep trying to get that thing serviced, but…”

“That’s what he said!” Raven calls, making Miller cackle. The woman beside Emori rolls her eyes. John hands her the quarters with a flourish. Their skin - his light, hers dark and smooth - contrast beautifully.

“Don’t spend it all in one place,” he says cheekily. The woman makes a motion with her hand and fingers, elegant and fast. “Hey!” he squawks. “Did she just tell me to fuck off?”

“I think so,” Emori says, laughing a little. “My ASL is rusty but…”

John shakes his head ruefully. “The number of languages I’ve been cursed out in is growing.”

“Maybe don’t be such a caberon,” Raven says smoothly.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“Yeah, this time.”

John turns his back on Raven, fixing those strange blue eyes on hers. “Will you come back here, do you think?” He sounds like a hopeful child, looks about the same, too.

Emori shrugs. “Maybe. Bars aren’t really my scene.”

John nods, slow. “Fair. But you’re nice to talk to. I could use the company.”

Raven reaches over to pluck John’s cell phone from his shirt pocket. “She’ll call you,” she tells John, typing in what Emori assumes is her number. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I will text him,” Emori gripes, slapping Raven’s arm, “and only if I feel like it.”

“Text, call, whatever,” John says. Raven replaces his phone. “I’d like that.”

The woman who asked John for quarters earlier comes back up, squeezing in beside Raven. Raven overbalances on her bad leg, trying to brace herself between the counter and the stool, and falls forward onto Emori, ripping the wrap from Emori’s left hand in the process.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” Raven grabs the cloth from the floor and hands it to Emori. The woman behind Raven is also apologizing, but Raven waves her off. “You okay?”

Emori balls up the cloth in her hand. “Fine.” John is watching her. Great.

“Where’ve you been hiding that?” he asks, voice all boyish admiration and respect. “Damn, you could take out a guy with that. Might wanna make you a bouncer here.”

Emori smiles a little at that, at the impressed way he’s staring at her hand, so different from the awkward half-stares she usually gets. “I normally don’t cover it up anymore. But I didn’t want to embarrass Raven, so-”

“You don’t embarrass me,” Raven snaps, flicking Emori’s ear. Down the bar, someone signals. As soon as John turns his back, Raven leans forward. “Emori!”

“What?”

“You like him!”

“I don’t know him.”

Raven shrugs. “You still like him. There’s no harm in getting to know him.”

“Raven.”

Raven’s eyes go soft. They glitter in the faint neon lights. “Look. I know you’ve been hurt. I know you’re trying to put down roots. You deserve to love and be loved back. You deserve to give yourself a chance. So give yourself, and Murphy, a shot.”

“But-”

“I’M NOT ABOVE SHOUTING OVER YOU!”

Emori laughs. “Damn, okay!”

------

Say hallelujah, say goodnight, say it over the canned music and your feet won’t stumble, his face getting larger, the rest blurring on every side.

It’s not pretty when John bleeds.

Emori enters the bar to absolute chaos. In addition to the usual Friday night crowd, there also appears to be a fight going on between John and a patron, one the door guards are unsuccessfully trying to break up.

So Emori tries, with middling results. She takes the woman’s elbow to the cheek and someone’s shoulder to the jaw, but manages to haul John outside by his shirt and deposit him rather aggressively on the curb, where she stands over him and watches unapologetically while he spits out blood.

“What the fuck?” She still sounds breathless despite the minimal physical exertion on her part. “John, dammit, what were you thinking? Actually, no, don’t answer that.”

He blinks up at her, the blood on his pale face standing out like a scar. “I got carried away?” Emori snorts. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I just get...too angry sometimes.”

“Murphy!” Harper sticks her head out the door. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Don’t you have barbacking to do?” he snaps back, absent any real heat. Harper rolls her eyes in Emori’s direction and disappears. John heaves a sigh and hangs his head. “I fucked up.”

“At least you won’t get fired,” Emori says, dry. “Being the owner and all.”

“Small mercy.” He lifts his head again. “Don’t tell Raven.”

Not like it would do any good. “Okay. Sure. But if she asks, I’m not gonna lie.”

“Fair.” He hikes himself to his feet. “Sorry you had to see that. And jump in.”

Emori feels her cheek throb. “It’s okay. I’m good at breaking up fights. Better at being in them. I brawled in alleys a lot as a kid.”

“You- What?” There’s a laugh in his voice that catches. “I can’t picture that at all.”

Emori only realizes how close she is to him when the air of his words skates over her flushed cheeks. “Ask Raven. I’m a fighter.”

“I don’t doubt it.” It sounds like his mouth, as well as his tone, is dry. “It’s a little scary, come to think of it.”

“Guess you’re going to have to keep an eye on me then.”

His eyes drop to her mouth. She steps back. A cool wind blows, taking music from the outside patio with it. Emori hasn’t been drinking but her vision still swims.

“I should get the blood off my face,” he says softly, turning halfway towards the door. “Don’t want to scare the children.”

“If there are kids in the bar, you have a whole other set of problems.” John laughs. Emori follows him inside.

As soon as she enters the pool hall, she’s accosted by Lexa, collar askew and hair a mess. “What the fuck happened in there?”

Emori waves it off. “Nothing. John just lost his cool.”

“I’ll say. He’s lucky that bitch didn’t want to press charges.” Lexa adjusts her shirt cuffs. Her wife, Costia, appears behind her and fixes her collar. “I helped throw her out.”

“You seriously don’t know who that was?” asks a third woman, tall and imposing, lounging in a corner booth and nursing a Long Island iced tea. “That was Ontari.”

“Who?” Emori asks at the same time Costia winces and Lexa snarls, “the fuck is she doing here?”

“Lexa, shush. Ontari is Murphy’s ex.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Echo, you too. Hush.”

Echo takes a sip. “Sorry, Cos.”

“She was awful to Murphy and none of us have really forgiven her for it.”

Now Emori wishes she would’ve done some damage. “He didn’t say anything.”

Costia smiles. “He wouldn’t. I didn’t even hear the fight until it was over.”

Lexa passes her a pool cue. “That’s because you turn your hearing aid off when you shoot pool.”

“It helps me concentrate,” Costia snaps without any heat. She turns to the table and Emori turns to Echo.

“Why did she come here? Do you know?”

Echo stares at Emori for a long moment before she answers. “Ontari doesn’t do well with the word ‘no.’ Or with anything requiring consent or boundaries.”

Emori feels nauseous. “Oh.”

From the arch of Echo’s brow, Emori can tell she knows Emori understands. “He’ll tell you if it matters. But I wouldn’t ask.”

“I won’t.”

It’s a little awkward, standing there, cheeks still hot, Echo is sizing her up, face unreadable. “You’re Raven’s friend.”

“Yes.”

“She speaks highly of you.”

“I’m...glad.” It sounds like a question. The corner of Echo’s mouth twitches.

“Quit giving her a hard time,” Raven says, rounding the corner aggressively and plopping down near Echo. “Emori, J wants to see you up front.”

Grateful for the escape from Echo’s prying eyes, Emori weaves toward the bar. It’s calmed down notably since the fight; John has wiped the blood from his face and is jittering around near the end of the bar.

“Go out with me,” he says in a rush as soon as she gets close enough to hear him. “Please?”

She wants to pretend she couldn’t hear him over the loud music, but she did. She wants to pretend she has a reason to say no, but she wants to say yes.

She nods. “Okay.”

He smiles, sharp and quick, disbelieving. “Really?”

She nods again. “Yeah.”

His smile widens. Before she can think twice, she gets up on her toes to kiss his cheek. John groans when Raven starts cheering obnoxiously from the doorway to the pool hall. Emori hides a smile against his shoulder.

----

Here are the illuminated cities at the center of me, and here is the center of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we can drink from, but I can’t go through with it.

He shows her the rooftop above the bar, a tiny balcony with a door that leads back to his apartment above the establishment. She figures it’s a special place to him, somehow; he talks about it quietly and tells her she’s one of three people who has seen it. But that’s all he says as they regard the expanse of homes, dark in the 3 a.m. quiet.

“It’s nice.” He hums. “Peaceful.”

“I didn’t know you were a criminal,” John says suddenly.

“What?”

“Someone was talking shit at the bar.” He’s not looking at her. “But I looked it up and it’s true.”

Emori’s heart sinks to her feet. “John, I-”

“I don’t care,” he interrupts. “But why wouldn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t realize you were entitled to my past.”

“Isn’t that something you tell the person you’re dating?”

Emori laughs. “That’s rich coming from the guy who won’t call me his girlfriend.”

“You know-”

“I know you’re good at loving me when we’re alone, but not when anyone else could see us, let alone call you on it.”

Her bitter words just hang there. They stare at each other, chests heaving, the humid air heavy in their lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, soft. “I had no right to-”

“It’s okay.” Emori’s never been good with apologies. “I’m sorry too.”

He shakes his head. “You’re right. I’m just scared.”

“Of me?”

“No. Of- People look out for me here. It’s weird, but they do. And I don’t want them to come after you if this doesn’t work.”

“Do you think it won’t?”

She tries to convince herself his answer doesn’t matter. But when he shakes his head, relief floods into her bones. “I really like you, Emori.”

She smiles. “Me too.”

He takes her hand, the big one. “Would you let me kiss you someday?”

Emori laughs a little, low in her throat. “Let you?”

“Hey, I’m a classy guy. I always get permission.” He says it with that boyish smile Emori adores, and it’s enough to prompt her rising up and pressing her lips to his.

“Oh,” he breathes when they break apart. “Okay.”

Emori laughs out loud, the light and joyous sound ringing over the streets below. “That bad, huh?”

He catches at her waist to pull her closer. “The opposite,” he murmurs, mouth brushing hers. She closes the gap, pressing her tongue to his lower lip, hand tightening on his shoulder when he lets out a soft sound.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she breathes when they break apart, resting her forehead against his. “I wasn’t supposed to get attached.”

He kisses her nose. “Is it so bad?”

A humid wind whips her hair. “I guess not.”

John kisses her again. “Good.” Another kiss. “Be a shame if you regretted-” Another kiss- “All this.”

Emori leans into him, pinning him to the wall near the door. “Nope,” she breathes. “No regrets. Not even one.”

#saying your names #memori fanfiction #memori fanfic #maelidpoetree #merry heckin christmas Liz I kept the angst to a minimum for you <3333

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alitheamateur · 6 years ago

Text

Pleasure for Pain

Characters: Tommy Conlon/Reader

Warnings: Mild pain kink. Mild sexual language. Mild sexual content. Mentions of injury. Fluff.

Word Count: 2,331

Summary: You decide to accompany Tommy for the morning jog he’s been hounding you about, but the plan backfires. You’re left in pain, and unable to finish the run, but the way Tommy tends to you is well worth the pain.

Tommy had begged that you finally join him for a morning jog through the hazy, day-breaking streets of the city. He wasn’t currently training for a specific match, but of course keeping his fitness in ample condition was a necessity in the profession of fighting. The May temperature had finally been inclining to the warmth you were fonder of, so you decided firmly you’d oblige your gym-rat husband, and join him for his daily run. He never tried to push the strict diet on you when he was trying to maintain weight, and you were never frowned upon for your very minimal amounts of exercise, so Tommy genuinely only wanted you to come with him solely for the extra quality time it meant with you.

Your kind gesture had so brutally backlashed on you however, and here you were, currently being piggy-backed up the front stoop of your shared, brick townhouse. A mile or so into the mapped-out route Tommy had specially scoped out for you so it would be a safer part of town, your natural-born, clumsy nature reared its ugly head. The toe of your gray sneakers caught a crumbled chunk of concrete on the sidewalk, causing your weak ankle to curl painfully. Thank the Holy Heavens you were able to save yourself from weightlessly tumbling face first into the asphalt, but the throbbing, instant swelling of your foot was enough to have you yelping.

Tommy insisted on carrying you the entire way back toward the direction of home, but you incessantly refused, and flagged down a taxi instead. However flattered you were by the man’s desire to always portray the role of your knight in rusty armor, you knew without question his shoulder couldn’t handle the 125 pound pressure of your weightless body for a distance such as that.

The cabby dropped the two of you off after a literal 3-minute lift to your street, and Tommy paid him with the fee, and a ‘thanks’. You carried you untied shoe, and sweating sock in one hand, and tossed both arms around those bullish, broad shoulders to brace yourself for the jarring up the brick steps.

“I’m gonna head upstairs, babe. You can put me down here. I wanna soak it in some Epsom salt so the swelling will go down.” You winced into the ear of his that was level with my mouth.

You had expected him to gently ease me from his back to the floor, but he instead began his march towards the upstairs bathtub with you strapped to him like a fleshy backpack. You tried earnestly to squirm from the clutch he had around your thighs locked around his lower abdomen, but his vice-like grip was impossible to escape.

“I don’t think so, Y/N. You ain’t puttin’ weight on that ankle for at least 24-hours. So, don’t even try t’ fight me on it, baby. Y’know you won’t win that argument.” Tommy sternly spoke, but you knew whole-heartedly he was only looking out for the woman he loved so fiercely.

He entered the dark doorway of the bathroom, flipping the switch for the light, and the ceiling heat you always turned on whenever you took your nightly bath. Your mate knew you were like a cat to heat source, and always promised one day the two of you would pack up and move away from the stark winters of Pittsburgh.

Tommy turned his back to the vanity, so your bottom was even with the cool countertop by the sink and you sat down, unlatching yourself from around his tattooed upper body. His profile revealed a crooked, toothless smile after you kissed the back of his neck before parting. A silent, admiring gesture of appreciation for taking such good care of you. Tommy never treated you as a lesser, or a helpless little bird by any matter. But, when he vowed to protect you til’ death do you part, the man meant it with every haunting fiber in his body.

He pulled your other shoe from the back of your heel and tossed it into the hallway near the mate you had dropped there, then stepped over to unleash a steaming spout of the water into the wide bathtub. Without explanation he exited, but you knew he was retrieving the jug of medicinal salt from the hall linen closet. What you weren’t expecting, was for him to return missing the dri-fit white tee he was wearing when he’d left your sight just seconds ago.

“Well, get those sweaty clothes off, baby. I don’t know how ya’ expect me t’ give ya’ a hot bath wearin’ those.”

Tommy sprinkled a considerable amount of the lavender scented contents into the filling tub, and turned to see you trying to wiggle from the confines of your running shorts without putting weight on the injured limb. Your tongue was stuck from the corner of your lips in concentration, and he quickly jumped to your side offering the steady space of his broad chest to help keep your balance.

“Tom, I’ve been sweating, and I don’t want you this close after my deodorant has definitely worn off,” you uselessly protested.

Not that you didn’t feel one-million percent secure in your relationship with the devilishly handsome individual, but the two of you were only newly-weds of 7 months, and an official couple of 2 years. You didn’t want to ruin this foolish vision he had that you were flawlessly beautiful in every way just yet.

“Y/N, I think I’ve been on toppa you under much sweatier circumstances. I can handle it.” He winked, then effortlessly swooped you into his cradling arms so he could submerse your naked body in the perfectly heated water.

You shifted your long ponytail into a bun so your hair wouldn’t get wet just yet, and Tommy folded a towel to cover the coolness of the tile tub behind your back. His bulky body was knelt on the plush shower mat covering the floor, and you relaxed back to drink in the way this brooding, masculine male was practically worshipping at your feet. A hum of pleasure rolled from inside your chest as he squeezed the aromatic water from a washcloth over your chest. Tommy’s eyes attentively followed the pathway of the erratic droplets sliding down your breasts and puddling into your navel.

“How’s ‘at, hm? Feel good, Y/N?” Your spouse turned apparently part-time servant cooed, brushing a stray line of hair away from the perspiration collecting on your cheek due the sauna-like bathroom.

The painful shocks from your ankle were shooting up your leg like an electric surge, but you wouldn’t dare hinder the sensual relaxation of this perfect moment. You kept a watchful gaze on Tommy as he leaned to pick up the bottle of soap standing on a shelf in the shower, squeezing a heavy amount into the opened cloth in his thick palm.

“I can do that, silly. Just sit with me until I’m done, and I’ll be perfectly happy, ok?” You shifted to raise, offering he hand over the bodywash.

“Ah, ah, ah. I’m the doc, and you’re the patient. I know what’s best, girl.”

He was getting off on this little role play, and who were you to stifle his fun. So, you returned to your original half-laying position and did as you were told. Tommy lathered the contents of his hands, and easily grabbed your arm resting on the tubs side, to begin lightly cleansing your limb. You closed your eyes, relishing in the concoction of the warm water, the velvety bubbling soap, and his firm, calloused hands attending to your entire body. Your nipples grew to a slight point under his touch, and he gave a hearty squeeze to both your breasts as he washed.

“C’mon, gorgeous. Gimme that foot, n’ I promise to go easy,” Tommy coddled, insisting you let him take on your bruising ankle next.

The water sloshed and waved as you lifted your leg from under the water, and Tommy made a foamy path from your hip, down your thigh, then to your foot, holding the weight of your leg for you. He kissed the bone of your ankle with featherlike lips before cautiously washing it. His hair had begun to dampen and drip with heat, so he pushed the strands from his eyes, and you felt an overwhelming tense between your legs.

Your lids had once again closed over your green eyes in shameless enjoyment, so Tommy new he had the element of surprise on his side. The feminine shape of your thick thighs were slightly gaped, allowing him to slide to your opening with little struggle, and you instantly shook from your lax state to find him biting back a smile between his teeth.

“Gotta make sure we get ya’ allllll clean, baby. Can’t leave anythin’ out.” He whispered wantonly as he began tickling the tiny bulb above your entrance.

After turning the bottle of soap upside down into his hand once more, Tommy indeed began washing the half-shaved area at the center of your body. The raw, intimate moment ensuing erased momentarily the hurt from your injury, and you let his motions take you over fully. His strong middle finger entered you as he came closer to kiss your panting lips. He breathed in the hotness of your breath for a brief second before massaging over your tongue with his own. He knew how to make this last, and draw out your release, and he knew exactly how to touch you and send you over the edge in an embarrassing, short number of minutes. Tommy knew your body, as he knew his own. And you could tell by his touch, along with the curling stretch of his finger prodding at that tucked away spot inside you, that it would not be long.

You shook and writhed in the water causing puddles to splash onto the bathroom floor, and no doubt all over Tommy. A mess you were making regretfully for him to have to mop up considering your wounded state, but you couldn’t control your twitching reaction from his intense onslaught. He slid an open palm over the womanly length of your neck as your head tilted in desire, and traced downward to your collarbone, and the peak of your pink, aroused nipples.

“Tommy, more. Please, finish me. I’m so… I can feel it. It’s so close.” The way he could use his bedroom talents to transform you into a begging slag was an enigma you’d yet to solve, and you had no desire to even try.

His veined forearm was no doubt bleeding from your trimmed nails latching onto him, in an attempt to still the contorted flails of your approaching release. But you knew there’d be no complaints on his end, due to the slight kink he had for a little pain here and there when it came to your sexual endeavors together.

“Mmmmm… Baby girl wants to come, does she? I think I got just what she’s lookin’ for then.” The grunts vibrating from his chest, along with you own squeaks of approval filled the room with an X-rated soundtrack that you’d play on repeat in your head when Tommy was gone for a fight that work just wouldn’t let you away for.

When he added his thumb to the attack, you sensed his closing move approaching so you opened your eyes to meet his shadow-blue ones staring back at you, under brows furrowing with passion. Tommy had made it very clear early on that he wanted to look you square in the eyes as he made you come, so he could watch the orgasm pulse through your dilated pupils. And from that conversation on, you had done just that for him. Obliging to his particular desires was the least you could do, considering the plethora of ways he had to satisfy you.

With a wave of warmth raging in your gut, and the growing sensitivity of your clit under the pad of his circling thumb, a scream of his name crawled from the back of your throat. His motions strategically slowed, careful not to deprive you of a single millisecond of orgasmic release, and you lazily gathered your composure.

“How��s ‘at ankle now?” He smiled crudely, dabbing the splashed bath water from his chest with the towel he had waiting by the sink.

“At this very second? I don’t feel a thing.” You moaned with choppy, uneasy breaths.

You were carelessly sailing on such a wave of adrenaline and oxytocin that the lingering sprain of your ankle was wholly absent in that moment. Although you instantly began to dread to commute from the bathroom to the bedroom, knowing the pain would only come rushing back like a mighty hurricane.

“Happy to oblige, baby. Let’s jus’ hope these pain meds do the job as well as I did then.”

He cradled you under the armpits as you lifted from the cooling water and draped the fuzzy bath towel around your shivering shoulders. Your hair had mistakenly gone unwashed in the exchange, but you’d take care of that particular matter later.

Tommy made sure your feet never even touched the ground the remainder of the evening. Settling you back into bed even though it was barely noon-time, he taped an ice-pack to your foot then left your side only to take a shower of his own before joining you for a lazy, Summer Saturday. He elevated your leg to minimalize the swelling, and then wrapped you with a cloth bandage. Thankfully, he was well-equipped to take care of matters as such, due to nursing many of his own ailments caused in the cage. He waited on you hand-and-foot unreservedly, even stuffing his healthy-toned body with some of your favorite ice cream he had treated you to.

“From ‘ere on out, maybe we should keep your workouts in the bedroom, baby. Leave the jogging to me, ay’?”

TAGS: @eap1935

#tommy conlon #tomhardy #tommy conlon fanfic #fanfic #tomhardyfan #tommy riordan #oneshot #tom hardy #original #anrm1 #tomhardyfanfic #tomhardyfanfiction

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yoursatanboyfriend · 8 years ago

Text

The Ninth Paradigm: chap 3.

Title: The Ninth Paradigm (X) Rating: M Warnings: Heavy themes such as: Non-con/dub-con, PTSD, Manipulation, Child Abuse, Gang Violence, references to depression and self-harm. Summary: ‘Those to whom evil is done do evil in return’ is a specious statement under certain circumstances- specifically ones involving Bill Cipher.

“So, what’re you wearing, Ford?”

“I’m always watching you.”

- Gaspard Giodarno.

Sixteen. The number of times Ford began punching the police department’s number only to end up chickening out at the very end, every single time. A comprehensible story was hard to formulate; for starters, what would he even tell them? Talking about Bill would inevitably bring to light the circumstances under which he’d been hired; the police would go digging and if they’d found out about Ford’s previous dealings with Gaspard Giordano, it would be over for him. Plenty of the police were under Gaspard’s thumb and if the impression he’d ratted the man out was given, he would be killed. He knew how this sort of thing played out. One of the few times fiction accurately portrayed reality.

And now it was already Thursday night, and as promised, Stanford’s phone finally rang. On the other end could only be Bill Cipher for Stanford rarely received phone calls anymore on account of the reclusive lifestyle he’d adopted since his split from Fiddleford. Not that he’d been particular social before that; he’d always been a bit of loner, with his youth primarily spent in the company of his pet dog, Stanley. Those were content days for him but that was such a long time ago.

Who cared about the past, anyway?

Apparently Stanford Pines did.

On the third ring and after rushed attempts at mental preparation, Ford took the call. Even with preventive measures, his hand still shook as it grasped the receiver.

“Hiya Fordster. Did you miss me? Of course you did!” Bill’s voice is clear on the other end and ripe with enthusiasm. Discomfort immediately set in and Ford’s thoughts could only go back to their last encounter, which still left the sticky residue of anxiety all over him.

“Hello Bill. Let’s just get straight to business.” Ford said, very eager to be done with this and found himself surprised at how confident his voice came out.

“Whoa, not even a bit of foreplay? Suit yourself, pal. So gonna assume you want me to give you the dirty details on what I was paid to do?”

“You said you had to tell me something. I can only assume that is what you meant.”

“Alright alright. It’s after-hours, my tie’s off, I can get a little wild with it. Ask questions, and I’ll deliver answers to your heart’s content.”

“Why did Fiddleford hire you?”

“Ah, right to the main course. Okay then. Your little country boytoy is sick with fear about your safety and what have you. Wants to know you’re safe but can’t meet up with you and no talkie walkies. He’s gotta avoid sharing any kind of personal information with you.”

“Why?” Ford had an idea behind his past assistant’s actions but the more he had considered it, the more farfetched it seemed. All this appeared too elaborate.

“You know why.”

“If I knew why I wouldn’t be asking! If this is—I don’t know what he told you about why we separated but, but it’s been enough time. I doubt anything’s going to happen. Especially now of all times.”

“Riiight, by ‘now of all times’, you’ve confirmed my suspicions that for a smart guy, you aren’t very smart. I’m revoking that nickname—and it’s gone, the nickname is gone.”

Getting impatient, Ford sought to realign the conversation at hand. “Elaborate, enough cryptic ciphers.”

“HA! Good one! No really, I really liked that one. A little word play on my name there. So, you know about that little deal you and Fiddleford got offered by the big kahuna?”

“So, you know about that.”

“Yeah, of course! He had to tell me so I’d know what I was getting myself into. Anyway, looks like you don’t know but he’s dead.”

“…What?!” Ford is not sure whether he’s relieved and happy, or even more scared than before. Monsters killing monsters meant monsters remained, regardless of the outcome.

“Oh, so you really didn’t know? Yikes. Entire family—or, most of his family—dead. Some weird freak house fire accident. Don’t really know the details—wait, don’t think it was a house fire. It was a fire something. A few folks who’d been affiliated with him ended up going missing too. All on the hush hush you see, gang crime top news never really…makes the news. Money makes people shut up.”

“…so he thinks whoever was responsible is going to come after us? But we aren’t affiliated with him at all!”

“Yeah well, it’s not like they care. They just know you dealt with the guy and had something he wanted. Also, going into hiding entails years, Stanford. Not 3 months. You need years to fall off the radar and disappear. Years. It’s only a matter of time before they do find you. In fact, I bet they have and are probably waiting to grab Fiddleford first.”

“If we are truly in danger, why does Fiddleford not want to meet up? We’d be safer and stronger together—he should, he should contact me, he should’ve been the one to tell me this. He should’ve—”

“Not so fast there, wise guy. You two staying separate is crucial to your safety. If the big bad guy catches you and tortures Fiddledork’s information out of you, then what? And vice versa. Besides, you two being both potential targets, being together is a bad idea, take it from me.”

“So, what now? I’m meant to just sit here?! I’m a sitting duck at this rate.” Ford frowned, his mind sorting and filing through both the information he’d been given and what he already knew. If they knew where he was, what could he really do? What was the point of Bill being here? What was one man to an organization of immoral men?

“Keep a low profile, just like you do now, and let me do my job, and all’s well, that ends well.” After Bill finished talking, a loud crunching sound broke Ford’s concentration; his nose scrunched up in response to the unexpected sound. “Are you eating chips?”

“Yeah.”

“I won’t tell you what to do but that’s rather rude.”

“It’s after-hours and I am under no obligation to be nice to you and you bet your ass I will take advantage of that. Anyway, something’s been on my mind and I wanna hear your side of the story. Why’d you say no? To the deal.”

Ford had already previously contemplated whether it was a good idea to tell Bill or not and concluded that if Fiddleford had entrusted this obscure man with the truth then Ford would, too. Even if the man was utterly despicable, the least he could do was show some respect for Fiddleford’s decisions. “We—I– wanted to say yes. And Fiddleford was against it. Eventually, we mutually decided to deny it. Science should not be at the exploitation and suffering of others.”

Bill laughed. “Everything is built of the ‘suffering and exploitation of others’, Ford, come on. How dense are you? Science the only thing you know anything about? Besides, scientists test on live subjects all the time. Helpless, defenceless animals, like come on, that moral bullshit you’re spewing is so lame. Not to mention tediously cliché. Why’d you really say no?”

Ford thought once more about it, and really, he’d said no because of Fiddleford. Sure, Ford thought himself a good man, but you had to make sacrifices in the name of science and he wasn’t one to be bound to a code of honour which existed only to stifle his growth and hinder his potential. He had been willing, more than willing, to wet his feet in the filth. Fiddleford, however, had not.

“I—I just, no you’re right. I claimed to have taken the moral high ground but I really…Fiddleford’s my assistant, I value his opinion. I said no out of respect for him.”

“That really worked out for you, huh? Whatever. I’m surprised you had trouble getting funding for your little projects. Aren’t you like a celebrity? With all these Ph.D.’s and the like.”

“Unorthodox projects are less likely able to gain and sustain funding regardless of the one behind them.” It had been a humiliating experience for him, the denial of his request for funding despite his tenacity. But he didn’t want to think about that right now.

“Aww, poor you. Hey, what was he like? The big guy.”

Ford thought for a second, and then assumed Bill was talking about Gaspard Giordano, the man in question who had offered the deal and was now dead.

“He was…polite, well-spoken, terrifying. Meeting him felt like…there was this whole world I knew nothing about. A world…some feared and avoided while others sought to gain entry. I could’ve gone my entire life never knowing anything about him and his organization. Is organization the right word? It was…it was just… something like out of a dream. You see it in movies, read it in books but when it happens to you, it’s just—just so surreal. I was so ignorant, so ignorant.”

So ignorant…

“Huh. Hey, some more Q and A. So, back then at the office, when I did the whole ‘alleged attempted rape’ thing, why didn’t you fight back?”

“You had a gun, Bill.”

“Well yeah, I had a gun but you could’ve pushed me off, made a run for it, called the cops and boom. Safety.”

“I don’t know. I was…afraid.” Ford had spent a lot of time reflecting on that…incident, while being torn between embarrassment and anger.

“So, no fight or flight for you huh? You just freeze up?”

“I had my reasons, Bill.”

“Time for me to hear them then, kid.”

Silence came between them for a few seconds, now only breathing being exchanged through the receivers. Finally, Ford speaks. “It’s such a little insignificant thing but seems to have imbedded itself within my mind. The tattoos—your tattoos. And, a few minor things, it just came together in my mind and I panicked.”

“My tattoos? Why did they freak you out?” Bill nearly sounds offended.

“Your tattoos…just reminded me a little of his—of Gaspard’s. “

“Oh I see.” A quick-passing silence intercepts the conversation. “What kind did he have?”

“I didn’t get a very clear look but they were intricate and covered his entire hand—even the palms, I think. I recall Fiddleford mentioning they were significant but I couldn’t for the life of me think why. Anyone can get tattoos.”

Shuffling caused by skittish movement could be heard on the other end and when Bill spoke, he sounded more excited than usual. “Time for a little lesson in history, kid. Some cultures, can’t name any off the top of my head, place lots of value on tattoos. They can hold lots of connotations and only certain few may be allowed to receive specific designs. Bringing this on back to the topic at the hand, in the Giordano family, those tattoos are pretty important. They mark one of the Giordano family, serving as an identity card, sort of. Like, you got your credit cards and shit, right? Well a Giordano would just show their tattoos instead. Like maybe a guy will go buy a shirt. He takes the shirt, flashes his hands, and they put it on the Giordano tab.”

“That sort of thing actually happens?” Ford was astonished that something like that actually occurred in reality. The very concept seemed like something you’d pull out of a crime novel.

“Yeah. They have their muddy claws in the roots of this place, Ford. You’ve been living under a rock.”

“But anyone can get tattoos. It’s a lous—”

“No, I told you. Those are special. Anyone caught imitating them gets punished, the 40 lashes kind. I’ve heard some sick stories but I can’t say what’s real. I just know no one’s stupid enough to try and steal a Giordano’s identity. Besides, there are not that many of them at a given time. Like, you’d have 2 sons, or a son and a daughter and whatever so the people will already have an idea of what to expect.”

“And yours, you haven’t gotten—you’ve never gotten in trouble for them? You know, with…with Gaspard?” Ford said.

“Maybe that’s why I wear gloves all the time. They really gotta learn they don’t have a patent on designs. I’ve been in New York for the past 5 years, I get back and people freak out over my cool new trendy finger tattoos.” An edge of annoyance coated Bill’s words, and it’s the first time he’s revealed personal information about himself. New York…

“I’ll show you my tattoos up close sometime. But since you’re sooo scared of me—”

The strange accent Ford heard slip through occasionally was a New York one then? Did Bill have family in New York? A likely possibility, he did say he left town the weekends. Perhaps he returned home? Ford put his thoughts on hold and mentally returned to the conversation at hand.

“I think your company is not, well, it’s not half bad when you’re not attempting to assert your pseudo dominance.”

“I guess I’m better when I’m not threatening you with a gun huh?”

“That’s hardly funny.”

“Wasn’t joking, Fordsy. And what happened to your ‘YOU TRIED TO RAPE ME’ spiel?”

“I’m not excusing your actions and frankly, I’d rather not be alone with you in the future.”

“I was going to stop. You must think highly of yourself if you think you can drive me to some mindless lust. I don’t like men in their sixties. God, you’re pretty old, aren’t you?”

“Did you miss my earlier statement about your poor attempts at asserting your dominance? The dominance part is important, don’t overlook it.”

“Poor huh? They seemed to be working. But get a load of you, in all your little bravado glory. It’s only ‘cause I’m not there in person, right?” Bill’s voice took on a challenging tone, and once again, Ford felt like he was being threatened.

“You know Stanford, if the bad guys do catch you, they’re going to do something similar what I did. Gang life isn’t what most people think it is. It isn’t like what you see in your 80’s Italian mob movies. I mean, sure, maybe in some places you’ll see that, but really, it’s a lot more…gritty, and with more dicks. Lotta dicks.” Bill spoke with conviction that slowly faded into the ghost of reminiscence.

“I really just wanted to see how you tested under pressure. I’m telling you, Ford…wait, I got a story for you. I knew a guy, let’s call him Ron, okay? So, Ron tells me he’s gotten an invitation to join this gang. I’m not going to give you Ron’s life details but it’s a step up from his current life. So, Ron is chipper, he’s happy, he accepts. So, he goes over to the meeting where they discuss his initiation. And guess what initiation he gets? Gang bang. I’m not fucking kidding you. The guy died 2 weeks later his internal organs so fucked, they couldn’t do anything for him. Looking back on it now, I don’t think they intended to let him join at all. They just wanted to fuck some poor guy to death for the hell of it.”

Whether Bill was attempting to justify and excuse his actions with this story, or whether he’s truly concerned for Ford’s safety didn’t matter. The story, whether it was real or not, was vile. Partially irrelevant, Ford thought. It seemed like a scare tactic. He had no intention of joining a gang, so why the story?

“They fuck you, Ford. When you’re new, when you’re low rank, as punishment, as reward, just for the hell of it. You’re a piece of meat until you get at the top. You’re just a dog who gets ordered around and fucked.”

Ford understood why now, the implication clear—it’s a potential outcome for Fiddleford and himself. Never would he ever have thought he’d one day be faced with threats of sexual violence of this nature. Insane, it seemed so utterly insane.

“You speak as though you have experience.” Ford said quietly. The shift in Bill’s voice did not go unnoticed by him, but dare he strike the bee’s hive?

“Ha. I’ve had enough people close to me fall victim to them. Let’s just say my life hasn’t been all roses, ice-cream and Kumbayah’s around the camp fire.”

Ford rethinks what he knows about Bill Cipher.

Then Bill added, in a tone Ford might’ve considered as frightened. “These people make me sick.” The words appeared to hold such sincerity, that for a second, Bill appeared vulnerable to Ford.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky with the next accident and be finally done with that family.” Bill continued.

“Would it fall apart then? Without Gaspard, surely there should be struggling, and fighting over who gets to be the new leader?”

“Without Gaspard? Gaspard isn’t dead.”

“What? You just said– you’ve just been telling me he died!”

“Oooh boy. You really know nothing, do you? I’m gonna need a drink because I’m about to lay on you life lessons. I’m going to fetch me a drink, don’t go anywhere.”

A series of noises passed through Ford’s receiver and finally Bill returned. “Now, let’s start from the beginning. Okay no, just the important stuff—okay wait. Let’s start with Gaspard Giordano.”

“Are you drinking alcohol?”

“No. Who drinks pure alcohol, Ford?”

“Is there a percentage of alcohol in the beverage you are about to consume.”

“It may have some alcohol content, yes.”

Ford rolled his eyes and removed his glasses, the frames now feeling heavy on his nose bridge. “Just get on with the story.”

“Okay so if you do a background check on Gaspard Giordano, you’ll find it’s a man in his hundreds. Gaspard Giordano has been alive for generations—the name. See, when the boss position is inherited, the inheritee—is that a word? It is now– takes the name Gaspard Giordano, the identity, everything. Their original identity is then erased—scrapped– and then business resumes as usual. So, Gaspard Giordano is always the person in charge, but it’s not always the same person. Cousins, brothers, sisters, daughters, wives, a whole damn farm has passed through the name Gaspard Giordano. I really feel for the women who got stuck with that name. Really, they could’ve picked a more unisex name. Moral of the story: everything started with Gaspard Giordano, and it will end with him, too.”

“So, who inherited the position?”

“His son.”

“So…his son is the one who’s after us?”

“Probably.”

“Why didn’t you say this in the beginning? You made it sound as if you had no idea who was behind this.” Ford said, suddenly suspicious of Bill. “You withheld information from me.” Bill was young, conveniently had hand tattoos, knew of Fiddleford and Ford’s deal and history with Gaspard Giordano—more and more, scepticism grew in Ford.

“I had to wait for the right time to reveal that juicy bit of information.”

“You’re treating this as more of a game. One would expect you to be upfront and straight-forward regarding matters that apparently affect your safety.”

“Apparently?” Bill asked, seemingly taken aback.

“I’d appreciate a more serious attitude from you in the future, regarding this.” Ford said, deciding not to voice his new found sudden distrust of Bill Cipher. He barely trusted the man before but now, more and more, the possibility of Bill being Gaspard’s son appeared highly plausible. Tattoos, friends in high places, a tendency towards violence and a sense of entitlement were good enough evidence. Not to mention the man was lying about his age, that was certain, and the fact he’d suddenly appeared after the supposed death of the ‘former’ Gaspard Giordano meant that Bill could be seeking to rectify a mistake his father had left behind.

Gaspard and Bill, however, looked absolutely nothing alike. Genetics weren’t necessarily ones to be trusted though, and Ford chose to let his suspicion rest but not die.

“I’ll give it a shot. So, in conclusion, we’re all in this together. I might get killed for having tattoos and you two might get killed because you once upon a time denied ‘Gaspard Giordano’ and he’s a fickle man who changes his feelings at a moment’s notice, if you catch my drift. We all lay low for a little while until we get a good look at what options we actually have.”

“Do you really think they’re after me?” Ford suddenly asked, wanting Bill’s opinion. The man couldn’t have such a devil-may-care attitude without reasoning—even he wasn’t that reckless and foolish.

“Nah. I think this drama is hilarious. Your buddy is damn paranoid. You’d be dead if they wanted you dead. Personally, I think you have nothing to worry about, but this is my job so I gotta ham this up as much as I can to ensure Fidd’s keeps paying me.” Bill’s honesty nearly elicited a smile from Ford, but he attributed it more to the reassurance of Bill’s words- be they true or not. This entire thing did seem messy, as though Bill could never get his story straight; him deceiving Fiddleford, to an extent, now made sense. Money.

“I’m surprised you answered that truthfully.”

“What makes you think I was being honest? Not every day you get to play a part in some conspiracy mafia cat and mouse. But really, play it safe anyway, Ford. Just like I am.”

Bill’s lack of professionalism stuck out; at 31, he should’ve been slightly more seasoned and less inclined to such immature antics. Another flag that Bill was lying; either about his age or his occupation.

“I’m going to bed now, Bill. Thank you for the call.” Ford hung up quickly before the other man could even manage a word of protest.

He had a lot of information to digest.

Bill frowned, dropping the receiver carelessly with the dial tone still blaring through it.

Well, that was rude.

Ford's little playing-hard-to-get act was fun though. Not to mention exciting, risque, dangerous–

And wow, when was the last time he showed someone his tattoos only for flat-out rejection to follow? Even if Ford didn't know...

He still liked the thought of having been denied. A little edging was nice on occasion.

It made the climax that much more intense.

Speaking of climax...Bill suddenly wonders what Ford's face would look like when he came. (he feels like he already knows?)

#billford #bill cipher #stanford pines #gravity falls #mystuff #guys there were so many bad typos and shit in prev chapters how did anyone get through it #I DONT WANT TO CHANGE IT TOO MUCH BC...I AM WEAK #the ninth paradigm #TNP chapters

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