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celiastjamesoscar · 11 months

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Wish I Knew You

Pairings: Sam Carpenter x fem!reader, established relationship

Summary: Unofficial meant many things to people, but to college students it meant one thing: party. But unofficial takes a turn when you get into a fight, and Sam has to walk you home.

Warnings: swearing, destruction of property, breaking and entering, light mention of drugs, drinking

AN: based off of an idea I ‘stole’ from @p0rkbun, I love ya!

My Masterlist

Word Count: 3.5K

“I know it’s unofficial, but please, you guys, be safe. Okay?” Sam pleaded as she looked at the group of kids before her. Technically, they weren’t kids, but in her eyes, most of them would still be those kids she used to babysit. Well, all of them but you.

You met Sam through Anika after she moved to New York, and you were instantly in love even though she wouldn’t even spare you a glance most of the time. Those big, brown eyes that held years of pain and agony brought you so much comfort whenever she would look at you. Her lips never smiled, so you made it your life mission to make her smile, even if it was just for a mere moment. And when you did make her smile after you went on a drunken tangent about how Isaac Newton deserved to die a virgin and how Dr. Pepper is the best soda, she knew that she was in too deep.

Dammit to hell with getting accepted into the best universities the country had to offer and all those scholarships you had received that paid for your schooling at Blackmore University. None of those things compared to the feeling you got in your chest when you saw that beautiful smile for the first time. It seemed like your entire world had stopped rotating and began to revolve around the single smile that didn’t last for more than three seconds, but it meant more to you than anything else.

After the night, the two of you grew closer, and after enough dinners together, you two started dating. It took you forever to break down all of Sam’s walls, but when you did, it was the most rewarding thing you had ever done. On late nights after she had worked a double, the only thing Sam wanted to do was come home and sleep. But when she pushed open her apartment door and saw you standing awkwardly in the hallway with a goofy grin on your lips and a bottle of wine, all the stress seemed to leave her body, being replaced with the need to be hold you.

You found it impossible to believe that people hated Sam: she was perfect in your eyes. Her soft, caring nature, whenever it was just the two of you, was something you couldn’t find anywhere else. Yes, Sam can be a bitch sometimes, but behind closed doors, she is putty in your hands. How she would sit next to you on the couch, softly tracing patterns on your thigh with her fingers, would make your chest flutter. When you two were in a group, she would always sit next to you- much to Tara’s disapproval, who is someone who doesn’t like sharing her sister- while placing a protective hand on your thigh.

The thoughts that ran around Sam’s mind were that she wished she knew you when she was young; maybe her life would be completely different. Perhaps she wouldn’t have started using drugs or ran away from home, but that’s all it was: what-ifs that might or might not have changed her life. Even though she wished for things to have been different, that she wished she would have met you at a different time, she was still glad that she had you in her life, and she refused to let you go any time soon.

So now, as you sit next to her sister getting ready to get plastered at frat parties for Halloween, Sam couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling of anxiety crawling through her body.

“Yes, Sam, we promise to be safe. We will call you if you need anything,” Tara stated as she stood up from the couch, “Can we go now?”

With a small sigh, Sam closed her eyes and nodded her head. She just knew that allowing you guys to go out tonight would come back to bite her in the ass. “Please don’t drink too much,” Sam pleaded as she followed the group to the door, looking directly at you while she spoke, “I’m talking to you.”

You scoffed at your girlfriend’s accusation, “How dare you insinuate that I, of all people, would drink the most!”

“Because you will,” Mindy mumbled as she looked between you and Sam, unamused, “You always get out of hand when you drink.”

“No, I do not!” You shot back, but you knew arguing would get you nowhere.

Speaking up for the first time, Chad said, “Don’t worry, Sam. I will make sure that Y/N and Tara don’t drink too much; you have my word,” as he wrapped a loving arm around your shoulder.

With a small sigh, Sam nodded in defeat, “Alright, just be safe tonight, okay? No splitting up.” Before Sam could finish her sentence, Tara had shot up from the couch and left for the door. “Come on, you old people, the party’s not going to wait for us,” she exclaimed while opening the door and leaning against the door frame, tapping her foot with urgency.

The twins were quickly behind Tara, and when you went to follow, Sam grabbed your hand, “Hey, wait a minute.” When Sam spoke, the three noticed the way Sam’s dark eyes were pleading with you, so they decided to step out into the hallway to give the two of you some privacy.

“What’s up?” You asked with the softest smile that always made Sam’s knees weak. “Please, Y/N, be safe tonight. If you need anything, call me, okay?” The Latina asked as she gently placed her hands on your triceps, lovingly running her hands up and down.

“You know I will be, and I promise to call you if anything happens,” you replied while leaning forward, placing a soft kiss on top of Sam’s head, “Just think, this is a night to yourself. When was the last time you had that?”

Sam mumbled something underneath a breath that you missed. “I’m sorry, what was that?” You teased with a smile, watching as Sam rolled her eyes. “I said that I only enjoy my nights to myself when you are around,” the older girl admitted through clenched teeth.

“Damn, Sam. You can at least pretend to like me,” you joked with a small laugh.

“You know that I hate to admit these things, but you still make me do it.”

“You’re right! I love hearing my girlfriend give me constant affirmations about how much she loves me; it's the best!” You happily stated with a smile, and Sam laughed at your response.

“Whatever, just be safe tonight,” she said as her eyes looked you up and down, clearing having a distaste for your costume, “whatever the fuck you are.”

Naturally, you scoffed at her words, “I will have you know that I am one of the best historians out there.”

“Yeah, I doubt that,” Sam replied with a smile. It might not seem like much, but these small banters between the two of you were what she loved the most. She could be herself around you, and you would never judge her for it.

In the mood to be a smartass, you straightened your posture and pulled on your coat. You cleared your throat and began doing an impression of a Bolton accent, “It’s hard to believe I’m walking through the ruins of the first-ever city, because I’m not. That’s in Iraq, which is miles away, and fucking dangerous.”

Sam stared at you blankly for several seconds before she shook her head, “You’re a fucking idiot, and I cannot believe you are going as that lady.”

“Excuse me, ‘that lady’ is Philomena Cunk, who is the best damn historian on this planet,” you defended while making your way to the front door, Sam following behind you, “And my costume is certainly the best.”

Sam hummed as she opened the front door, “Yeah because it's so hard to beat,” she quickly looked at the three standing out in the hallway, “a half-assed pirate, a scarecrow, and Jack Skellington.”

“Hey now, I’m a cowboy, not a scarecrow,” Chad replied with a bit of hurt. “She doesn’t care what you are. Now come on, we have a party to go to,” Mindy sat as she threw an arm around Tara the pirate and started walking down the hallway with Chad several paces behind them.

Before you followed them, you quickly kissed Sam’s lips. “I love you,” you mumbled against them, and Sam kissed your words.

“I love you too,” she replied while pulling away. You blew her kiss as you started to catch up with the group, and Sam felt her heart flutter at the small gesture. Words could not even begin to express the love she had in her heart for you, but she hoped that one day she might be able to tell you. She wanted to tell you how her entire being ached for your touch whenever you were away, and she hated watching you leave. But she simply settled for watching you leave with her younger sister, off to have the fun that was promised when you start college.

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Whenever someone tells you that college is supposed to be the time of your life, they are fucking wrong. Hours and hours of studying material that you must teach yourself because your professors are too incompetent to teach it while you still pay them thousands of dollars is not fun. There is nothing ideal about college, and you hated every single second of it, but the part you loved the most was your friends.

Of course, you had friends in high school, but none meant this much to you. You would readily lay down your life for Tara, just as you would the twins. So, that’s why for the first time since the semester started, you finally felt your shoulders loosen and stress leave your body, just for some dipshit in a mask to ruin it.

It all happened quickly, according to Chad. One minute, you were taking shots with Tara, then the next, you were on top of a random guy, beating him to a pulp. It took Chad and Mindy to pry you off the guy, yet you still fought against them, trying your hardest to get your hands on that fucker.

“I’m good, I’m good,” you slurred after Chad carried you out of the frat house, but as soon as he placed you on the floor, you tried to run back into the house. “Hey! Stop it!” He shouted, quickly grabbing you before you could make it up the front porch steps, “Sit down and breathe.” Your head was spinning, and you could barely stand, but you had to get your hands on that fucker.

Grumbling under your breath, you listened to the man and sat down on the grass as Tara came to sit by you. “What happened?” She asked while picking up your dominant hand, lightly tracing her fingers over your bloodied knuckles.

You didn’t want to worry Tara that the piece of shit man was saying false accusations about Sam; you knew it would ruin her night. So, you decided to lie. “He said that the only correct way to eat cereal is to pour the milk first, then the cereal.”

A small laugh came from Tara’s lips as she let go of your hand and pulled out her phone. “You know, I don’t know what’s worse: how crazy you defend cereal or that you nearly killed a man dressed up as Philomena Cunk.”

You chuckled beside her and sat in silence as you watched her call her sister, asking the older Carpenter to come pick you up. You felt bad for not being the one to call Sam, but you knew that if you called her, she would ask what happened, and you couldn’t lie to that sweet and kind woman. Those soft, dark eyes that smiled for her would break if you ever were to lie to her, and you couldn’t put her through that.

So, you sat in silence with the younger Carpenter as Chad and Mindy went back inside the frat house. Once they were out of earshot, Tara spoke up. “I know you lied to me.”

“About what?” You questioned, but you knew what she was talking about. “Tell me why you beat the shit out of that guy,” Tara pressed.

You shook your head and sucked in a deep breath, debating on if you should tell her or not. With a sigh, you down while speaking, “He was saying some shit about Sam, and I lost my cool. I’m sorry that I ruined your night.”

Several beats of silence passed before Tara grabbed your hand and interlaced her fingers with yours. “You know, When you and Sam first started dating, I was skeptical. You’re one of my closest friends, and Sam is my sister. But oh my god, after seeing how she looks at you, I knew that the two of you were meant to be. I’ve never seen Sam look at anyone the way she does with you and the way she smiles around you, Y/N. It's unbelievable; I’ve never seen her smile that much. What I mean to say is that Sam has a hard time with words, but that woman loves you so much. So thank you for defending her name because I know she would do the same thing for you,” Tara admitted with a soft smile, and before you could respond, the both of you saw a tall figure approaching you.

“What the hell happened?” Sam asked with worry laced in her voice as soon as she got close enough to see your hand. She crouched beside you and took your hand out of Tara’s as she lightly traced her fingers over your knuckles, more worried about you than whoever you beat the shit out of.

“Your sweet, little Y/N who would never do any harm went apeshit on someone. It took both twins to pull her off of the poor guy,” Tara said as she stood from the ground and began walking into the house.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” Sam questioned while eyeing her sister, who didn’t even look behind her as she shouted, “Back to the party!”

You laughed as you watched the younger Carpenter disappear into the house, “she’s a little shit, isn’t she?” You joked as you looked back at Sam, who glared at you, “What?”

You knew it was terrible, but you couldn’t help but find Sam extremely attractive whenever she was angry; it was probably why you liked to piss her off so much.

The older girl huffed as she stood up, pulling you up with her as well. “Don’t ‘what’ me; you know exactly what I’m mad about,” she said as she grabbed one of your arms and threw it over your shoulder. You just shrugged, not wanting to argue with Sam over the reason for your fight.

“I’m not that drunk, Sam. I can walk by myself,” you declared, but once Sam let go of your arm so you could prove your point, gravity seemed to have a vendetta against you, causing you to begin swaying from side to side.

“Mhm, yeah. Come on,” Sam sighed as she grabbed your arm and threw it over her shoulder again.

Naturally, the entire walk back to the apartment, you complained about Sam not needing to carry you, but you would never admit that you enjoyed seeing this softer side of her.

“So,” Sam asked when you two got away from the frat house, “What happened?”

You shrugged as you continued walking, “The guy was saying false information about how to eat cereal properly. That’s all.”

Now, Sam wasn’t an idiot, and she wasn’t born yesterday. She knew when you were lying, and she knew that you were. In your relationship, Sam always knew that you would be truthful, and her heart began to break at the thought of things changing between the two of you. She knew it was stupid, but she couldn’t help the anxiety at the idea of you no longer being honest with her.

As if you could sense her doubt, you spoke, “Sam, you know that I love you, right?” The Carpenter nodded her head, silently ushering you to continue. “Well, then you know that I would do anything to protect you, anything at all,” you proclaimed as you leaned over and placed a loving kiss on her forehead.

Several beats of silence passed as Sam was thinking about what you said. She knew that whatever happened between you and the dickhead was about the online controversies surrounding her, even though you didn’t say anything about it; she just knew.

A part of Sam felt guilty that you had the feeling of constantly needing to defend her name, which got you in a lot of trouble. But she also loved the idea of having someone who loved and cared for her enough to start fights over her, no matter how petty they were.

So, instead of asking you any more questions, Sam simply said, “I love you too,” and pulled you closer to her.

Falling into a comfortable silence, you walked for several minutes before you stopped dead in your tracks. “What the actual fuck is that?” You asked with a slight hint of venom in your voice.

You had stopped just outside a Barnes & Noble, glaring into the store’s display case. In that case, there was a small cardboard cutout of Gale Weathers, and behind her were copies of her notorious book that worsened Sam’s public image.

“You fucking bitch,” you hissed as you unwrapped Sam’s arm from you and walked up the glass window, pushing on it but getting nowhere. “Y/N, come on. It’s closed, and you’re drunk,” Sam said as she gently grabbed your hand, but you shook it off.

Without saying a word, you walked to the side of the store to pick up a brick. Before Sam could stop you, you threw the brick through the window, causing it to shatter into tiny pieces.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Sam whisper-shouted as she tried to stop you from climbing into the store, but you were surprisingly strong in your intoxicated state. Once you entered the display area, you grabbed a signed copy of Gale’s book and ripped out several of the pages. You then began doing that to the rest of the books you could see, and once you were done, you moved to the cutout.

“You fucking bitch,” you hissed as you pushed the cutout, causing it to fall, “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Fucking fuckass loser.”

Now, she knew it was terrible to be imagining this, but Sam couldn’t find it within herself to stop you from destroying Gale’s books. Truth be told, she wanted to join you, but she felt like you deserved to have this moment to yourself.

“I’ll fuck you up, little bitch,” you stated as you picked up the cutout and put it underneath your arm. “What are you doing?” Sam asked with a small laugh as she watched you carry the cardboard Gale Weathers from the store.

“Taking her home,” you slurred once you stepped onto the street, then you began walking toward Sam’s apartment. “Wrong way, dumbass,” Sam stated once you got halfway down the sidewalk.

Without saying a word, you turned on your heels and walked back to Sam. “Thank you,” you replied while the two of you began walking back in the correct direction, still holding Gale.

“Are you taking her home to kill her?” The Latina asked while looking down at the cutout, struggling to keep a straight face with this unusual situation.

“What kind of fucking animal do you take me for? No, I'm not going to kill her!” You exclaimed, “But I am kidding her.”

The sound of Sam’s laughter caused an eruption of butterflies to flutter throughout your chest. Even though you were drunk and probably wouldn’t remember most of this night, hell, there was a good chance you wouldn’t even remember ‘kidnapping’ Gale Weathers, but you knew you would never forget the sound of your woman’s laughter.

“Come on, Y/N. Let’s get you home so you can torture Gale,” Sam joked as she wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you into her side.

She didn’t care that you would be on the news tomorrow morning for the destruction of property; she was just glad you were happy while doing it. It wasn’t every day that Sam got to witness you lose your shit, especially on an inanimate object, but she loved seeing this side of you. She wouldn’t change your relationship for anything, no matter what it was. Sam loved you with her body and soul, and she would never give that up.

The only thing she wished was different was that she knew you when she was young. She would stay up most nights wondering how different her life would have been if she had met you when she was 18, a fresh runaway from home. Before she got into all the hard drugs, she still struggled despite being three years sober. But as she listened to you threaten fake Gale while stating how much you loved the woman you were dating, Sam couldn’t be happier with you.

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Taglist: @elduster @silentwolfsstuff @maskthedwarf @canvascoloredin

#sam carpenter #scream #sam carpenter x reader #sam carpenter x y/n #sam carpenter x you #sam carpenter x fem reader #sam carpenter x female reader #Tara carpenter #melissa barrera #Spotify

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pin-k-ink · 5 months

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Gojo Satoru X Reader (pt. 2/final part)

CW: teacher-student relationship, cunnilingus, creampie, unprotected sex, begging, age gap, character death, angst, angst, angst

pt. 1

a/n: yup

In the days that followed, their interactions took on a new intensity.

The air between them crackled with unspoken desire, a palpable tension that threatened to ignite at the slightest touch. During their training sessions, Gojo's gaze lingered on her form, his eyes burning with a hunger that mirrored the one she had glimpsed that fateful night.

Despite the unacknowledged shift in their dynamic, they fell into a new rhythm, a sensual dance that blurred the lines between mentor and student, between restraint and abandon.

She'd never experienced such an overwhelming sensory assault. Even during her most intense training sessions with Gojo, when the very ground beneath her feet would rupture and quake, the earth threatening to swallow her whole, there was always some measure of control.

Now, as he stalked toward her like a panther closing in on its prey, his eyes devoured every inch of her exposed flesh. His hands, rough from years of wielding cursed energy, skimmed along her curves, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake. His mouth, hot and demanding, claimed hers with a fervor that stole the breath from her lungs.

Gojo Satoru was an unparalleled prodigy. And he would have his way with her.

She could not deny him, nor herself.

And so, the cycle would continue.

Each night, she would emerge from the shower, a vision of damp hair and milky skin, wearing nothing but his stolen shirts. The fabric, still warm from his body, would cling to her curves, the hem barely grazing her thighs. He would gather her into his lap, strong arms encircling her waist, as he nuzzled into the crook of her neck. His breath, hot against her skin, would send shivers down her spine as he inhaled the intoxicating scent of her shampoo, a heady mix of vanilla and jasmine.

His fingertips, calloused yet gentle, would tease her inner thighs, tracing patterns on the sensitive skin, inching ever closer to where she craved his touch the most. She would squirm in his embrace, a silent plea for more, as the heat between them built to a fever pitch.

Then, the nightly ritual would begin - a sensual dance that would end the same, regardless of whose bed they were in.

They were well past the point of no return.

Each night, the clothes would come off, and the lessons would begin.

She'd always been an adept student, and Gojo a relentless teacher, demanding complete mastery of her technique. And he would not stop until she had met his exacting standards.

Her training was intense, even brutal at times. He would push her to the brink, testing her limits, both physically and emotionally. But the rewards were more than worth the risk.

For each flawless execution, she would earn a tender kiss, his lips brushing against hers with a gentleness that belied the passion simmering beneath the surface. For each mistake, a playful smack, his hand connecting with her skin, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through her body.

And for her best performances, he'd reward her with a delicious lick, his tongue tracing the contours of her body, tasting the salt on her skin, leaving her trembling and aching for more.

"Good girl," he'd purr, his hot breath ghosting across her bare pussy, his large hands holding her thighs apart. "Such a perfect little cunt."

His fingers would slide inside her, teasing, coaxing her to the precipice. "Tell me what you want, sweetheart," he'd murmur. "Tell me how much you want my cock."

"I need it," she'd plead, grinding against his hand. "Please, Gojo-sensei..."

And then he would stop, leaving her panting and unsatisfied.

"Not good enough, little one," he'd whisper, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Beg for me. Tell me how bad you want me to fuck you."

And the words would tumble from her lips. "Please, Gojo-sensei. Please fuck me. I need your cock. I need you to make me come."

And then, she'd get exactly what she wanted.

"That's it, baby girl," he'd coo as he unbuckled his belt and pulled his pants down. He’d waste no time before he sank into her tight heat with a low, guttural moan. "That's my good girl. You feel so fucking good. Such a perfect little cunt. You were made for me, weren't you, baby?"

He'd fuck her with slow, deliberate strokes, drawing out her pleasure until she was screaming his name. He’d take his time to explore which parts of her made her tighten around him and which parts of her made her squeal.

"That's it, sweetheart. Let me hear you. Let me hear how good my cock makes you feel." She'd lose count of her orgasms, her body trembling from the exertion. But he'd never stop. He'd keep going until she was a quivering mess, her voice hoarse from screaming his name. She was practically folded in half, the bed creaking beneath them as Gojo held her thighs in a bruising grip, fucking her into the mattress.

Then, when she was utterly spent, he'd finally allow himself release, filling her with his seed. She’d berated him the first time he didn’t pull out, and he was only able to console her with the promise of fulfilling her wish next time. It was during the second time that she realized that it was practically impossible to make this man cum anywhere else other than in her pussy.

"That's my good girl," he'd murmur as he held her close, peppering her face with kisses. "My perfect little slut."

In the afterglow, they would lie tangled together, limbs intertwined, hearts racing in unison. His fingers would card through her hair, soothing her as she drifted off to sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would bring new challenges and new rewards.

She would never forget the nights they shared, moments stolen away from the world where she belonged to him completely. In the sanctuary of his embrace, she found a love that consumed her, a connection so profound that it seemed to transcend the very fabric of reality.

Their nights together were a symphony of passion, a dance of tender touches and whispered promises. He worshipped her body with a reverence that left her breathless, his fingertips tracing every curve and contour as if committing her to memory. In those moments, she felt cherished, adored, and utterly alive.

He had a way of looking at her that made her feel like the most beautiful creature in the world, his eyes filled with a depth of emotion that took her breath away. When he held her close, his strong arms wrapped around her, she felt safe, protected, and utterly content.

They would lay together for hours, talking about everything and nothing, sharing their hopes, dreams, and fears. He listened to her with rapt attention, his gaze never wavering, making her feel like the center of his universe. In those quiet moments, she found a connection that went beyond the physical, a meeting of minds and hearts that left her feeling understood and valued in a way she had never experienced before.

Sometimes, they would simply bask in each other's presence, their bodies intertwined as they drifted off to sleep. She loved the way he would pull her closer in his slumber, his breath warm against her neck, a subconscious reminder of his need for her even in his dreams.

In the mornings, he would wake her with soft kisses, his lips trailing along her skin in a gentle caress. They would make love languidly, savoring every touch and sensation, losing themselves in the pleasure of their union. Afterward, they would lay tangled together, his fingers idly playing with her hair as they talked and laughed, relishing the simple joy of being in each other's company.

Those nights were a precious gift, a time when the world outside ceased to exist, and they could simply be two people in love. She cherished every moment, every touch, every whispered endearment. In his arms, she found a happiness she had never known, a sense of belonging that filled her heart to bursting.

She knew that what they had was special, a once-in-a-lifetime connection that defied explanation. With him, she felt complete, whole in a way she had never thought possible. He was her soulmate, her other half, the missing piece that made her feel like she could conquer the world.

Those nights, filled with love, passion, and tender moments, were the ones she would always hold closest to her heart. They were a testament to the depth of their bond, a love that burned bright and fierce, a love that she knew would last a lifetime.

As she lay in his arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart, she knew that no matter what the future held, those nights would always be theirs. A secret world, a cherished memory, a love that would endure, even in the face of the challenges that lay ahead.

On the night before her graduation, she found herself consumed by anxiety. The impending trials weighed heavily on her mind, the culmination of weeks spent pushing herself to the limit. Failure was not an option; her future as a sorcerer depended on her success.

Gojo's absence throughout the day had been a constant distraction, his presence sorely missed as she struggled to focus on her own preparations. When she finally returned to her room that evening, she found him waiting for her.

"You look like hell," he remarked, pulling her into a tight embrace.

She leaned into him, finding solace in his warmth. "You're one to talk. I thought you'd forgotten about me."

"Never," he assured her, his hand gently stroking her back. "How are you feeling about tomorrow?"

"Nervous, but determined," she replied, her voice muffled against his chest. "I've worked too hard to let it all go to waste."

Gojo tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You're a force to be reckoned with. Your power, your dedication—it's unmatched. You've got this, and I'll be right there, waiting to celebrate your victory."

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Thank you, Gojo-sensei. I won't let you down."

Their lips met in a searing kiss, a wordless exchange of passion and reassurance. As they tumbled onto the bed, hands roaming and breath mingling, she allowed herself to be lost in the moment, pushing aside all thoughts of the challenges that lay ahead.

She never got to graduate.

In the dead of night, a call shattered the stillness, summoning Gojo to the school with urgent haste. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greeted him upon his arrival. There, on a cold metal stretcher, lay the lifeless body of his beloved student and lover. The only way he could identify her was by the single white and blue acrylic nail that remained intact, a cruel reminder of the design he had encouraged her to get, so that she would carry a piece of him with her during her trials.

Questions swirled in his mind, tormenting him with possibilities. Did she think of him in her final moments? Did she wait for him to come to her rescue, only to be met with the crushing realization that he would never arrive? Or did she accept her fate, resigned to the knowledge that even he, with all his power, could not save her?

Time seemed to lose all meaning as he stood there, frozen in place, unable to tear his eyes away from her lifeless form. Emotions eluded him, leaving him hollow and numb. He couldn't even muster the strength to cry, his voice reduced to a feeble whisper of her name.

Yaga's condolences fell on deaf ears as he led Gojo out of the blood-scented room. The weight of his loss consumed him, draining him of any desire to linger. He made his way home, seeking solace in the familiarity of his bed, desperate to escape the suffocating reality that threatened to shatter his already fragile heart.

Sleep evaded him, and in the depths of his despair, he longed to reach out to her, knowing that her voice, her touch, could have soothed his aching soul. But she was gone, forever beyond his reach, leaving him with nothing but the agonizing realization that he had failed to protect the one person who mattered most.

In the silence of his room, his gaze fell upon the nightstand drawer, where a velvet box lay hidden, cradling a silver ring that would never find its intended recipient. A symbol of a future stolen, a love left unfulfilled.

And so, he sat there, alone in the darkness, the emptiness consuming him, as the weight of his loss threatened to crush his very existence.

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #gojo smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo x reader smut #gojo x reader #jjk x reader smut

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leavemeslowly · 5 months

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Autobiography of Red

Pairing: Eddie Horniman x Susie Glass

Wordcount: 1,597

Warnings: Explicit, +18, Smut, Masturbation, Emotionally Repressed, Sad Ending, Crying, Possessiveness, Dirty Talk, Did I mention it is sad?

Summary: "I will never know how you see red and you will never know how I see it."* The London Eye stood still at this ungodly hour. Susie was alone in her apartment but hoped she wasn't.

Susie was not an early bird, but she was forced to become one. She would rather nap for a bit longer. Today, she briefly closed her eyes to say goodbye to her nighttime sleep. The last moment of peace was not given because her mind unhelpfully supplied the daily schedule. It included lengthy dealings on the farm at Halstead Manor. They also included a particular ex-military, aristocratic soldier. The thirteenth Duke of Halstead.

She buried herself deeper under the sheets and remembered how they danced in the living room of the manor. The lingering touches, subtle glances and drinking more and more just to loosen up and not bother with the consequences of all the exchanged gestures.

The next day, Eddie asked her what she was still doing there as if he had not led her to a bedroom on the first floor and had not helped her out of her shoes. She remembered the kiss left on her forehead. Remembered how his fingers slipped down her bare arm sticking out from under the sheets.

Susie was on the edge of asking him to stay, rest his head on the other pillow, and embrace her body, before she completely forget what it means to be close to another person. But, she shut her mouth tightly. Her eyes closed and she heard doors closed behind Eddie.

It was time for daydreams to end. Susie stared for a moment at the London Eye, which stood still at this ungodly hour.

Later, she bit her lip, walking in front of her vast closet, and trying to decide what to wear. She thought about a nice three-piece suit in deep navy. On some days, she just needed an extra boost of confidence to cover up her uncertainty and doubts.

The clothes had to speak for her, wordlessly explaining that Susie was qualified to do what she did and that she was an authority in her own right without her dad having the last word. She is not a blind follower of his rules, but she is their maker, too. Susie is writing them in wet ink, and whoever disobeys her ends up with her pen sticking out of his eye.

She smirked, picturing her future enemies punished through that unconventional method. There is always space to refine one's game.

Nevertheless, she moved her sight to the other part of her closet, where various shirts were hung. She has not worn silk for a while now. Her collection was too diverse to let it lie unused.

She took a moment longer to consider her options and switched to choosing a lingerie set. Of course, today, there was no need to fuss with anything too frivolous. One of the white drawers hid her plain but comfortable bras, which she would wear on a daily basis.

A plain Skims set would do the work, but once she had it on, she felt too casual, so mediocre that her skin started to itch as if it wanted to be peeled off. The set blended with her pale skin tone and made her smoother, almost perfect. Only freckles splattered on her legs and arms betrayed an extra layer of material on her body.

Her resourcefulness, more often than not, was a hindrance to fulfilling her own needs.

Susie turned back to the drawers and opened another one. The contests of it, their textures, colours, and variety of patterns differed diametrically. She gently slid her fingers through them and stopped on the dark burgundy set.

Her mind drifted to the day they stole a green Lamborghini, and it almost backfired spectacularly. She also remembered what she wore on that day, a red suit with a belt tightly wrapped around her waist. A few buttons of the shirt were left open to counterbalance the heavy material. Her black hair was falling in curls down her arms. That was one of her most successful outfits to date, but she would never suspect another impact it had.

Eddie had never stared at her this intensely, this darkly. She felt his eyes on her, but he was not persistent in confirming their decision or agreeing on something. On that day, he was sliding his gaze down her arms, cleavage, and thighs. How could he think she did not feel it?

A thrill of excitement ran down her spine whenever she caught him looking everywhere but not directly into her eyes. She was not intimidated, but her light complexion blushed prominently under her makeup. He might be obvious, but she did not have to be.

She took the burgundy set out of the drawer. She slipped out of boring Skims and slowly, savouring this moment, put on thin, heavily laced panties. Then she fastened her balcony bra behind the back and finally clipped the garter belt in its place. Her light skin was picking through meshed insertions. Standing in front of the mirror, Susie slowly, almost teasingly, dragged her hands down to be sure that everything was smoothed out and in place.

She imagined what Eddie's face would look like now. She would mock him: 'How do you like me now? Am I good enough?'

He would not be embarrassed or lost but rather intrigued, silently watching her while leaning back against the doorframe. Susie would present for him, put her hands behind her neck and raise her hair to uncover more of a scandalously white skin. She was anxious to imagine his voice, so he would still be gazing at her reflection in the mirror.

'Come closer, Eddie. Don't be a stranger.'

He would move only with her permission. Before stopping right behind her, he would shed his black jacket and drop it off on the sofa in the middle of the closet. Eddie would gently grab her arms and put them down. His fingers would dig into her arms as if he was ensuring she was real, all his to touch and hold.

'Susan, darling' His deep and rough voice whispered straight to her ear would make her legs tremble, so he had to ground her and embrace her unsteady body. `Do you want me to watch you?'

Susie would shut her eyes, suddenly embarrassed by his hands roaming down her tight stomach.

'Yes, Eddie, if you like it.’ She whispered shyly.

His response was a pained groan and his hands squeezing her ass under the lace. Susie would moan loudly responding to his possessive marking of her body.

`I fucking love it, baby. Show me that you love it, too. I know you want to.' She nodded and rested the back of her head on his chest while her manicured nails skimmed down her stomach and under the lace of her panties. `Tell me how it feels, love. I need to know if you feel good.'

Susie would be pulsing and hot, sweat forming on her hairline. She would open her lips and breathe out shakily, letting out the faintest cries of pleasure. His arms would make her hotter and deliciously restrain her movements. Still, his posture would support her like a wall she could rest against when her body was slipping out of her control.

`Open your eyes, Susie.'

On his request, they snapped wide open. He was there, right behind Susie, with one hand delicately cupping her breast. It felt so right that Susie wanted to cry. Her cheeks were bright red, and her lips were swollen from biting into them. Eddie's dark eyes bore into her while she was slowly touching herself.

`Let me help you, please, allow me.'

He did not wait for her permission this time. His large hand slid under hers and she whined as if it was what she craved all along. Susie's nails would dig into his forearm, feeling his increasing movements, his hardness digging into her back and fingers of his other hand sliding into her mouth. She licked around them, promising him the things she intended to do. She felt that for her it was just a matter of a few more flicks of his fingers.

`Let go for me, Susie.' He was mumbling into her neck now, lips lightly brushing against it. Her reflection in the mirror was dishevelled, her hips bucking into his touch. `Next time, we will do it against this mirror. With London behind our backs. With your tits pressed to the mirror and your lipstick spread across it.'

Susie nodded, hearing these words. They were vulgar and tempting, and she knew they could not be real. Those were her darkest, deepest fantasies. Eddie's black eyes were staring at her now, and she was on the edge of falling.

`Then, I will do what you want me to. In your bed, I will take care of you, Susie. We will fuck nice and slow. You will fall in love with me and maybe not feel so lonely and pathetic.'

Susie rapidly turned her back to the mirror and fell on the floor. She remained there for several minutes, shaking and breathing hard. Tears were burning her eyes, but Susie could not let them fall. She will not let her stupid dreams and fantasies ruin her picture-perfect image.

Finally, when she calmed down, she raised her head. Just as before, the London Eye was standing still.

Susie stood up and changed into Skims. Then, she put on the first clothes she found in her wardrobe.

On her way out, Susie threw the burgundy set into the bin.

*Quote by Anne Carson. The title is also taken from one of her books.

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anonymouspuzzler · 2 years

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(PSYCHONAUTS 2 SPOILERS IN FIRST IMAGE TEXT ESPECIALLY!!)

oh boy we've hit the point in my Psychonauts art backlog where we get into my OVERLY ELABORATE AUs!! This first one is what I call the "Cally O'Pia AU", which is basically "everything is the same except Cassie stole rescued one very specific weird little boy from a psychic lobotomy, and he grew up raised by her instead. There's a lot more content for this that I'd still like to finish someday, so I'll leave it there for now! There's another AU I've worked on more that you'll be seeing a LOT more of soon, though...

(Alt text/image IDs under the cut!)

[Image 1 ID (PSYCHONAUTS 2 SPOILERS IN DESCRIPTION): A sketchy, colored design for "(Caligosto) Cally O'Pia", an alternate version of Loboto who was raised by Cassie. He is posing with one hand on his hip and the other gesturing outwards; he has both original arms rather than a prosthetic. He has a full head of hair in a sloppy bob with long bangs and a yellow flower tucked behind his ear, wears glasses with green and red lenses instead of the inlaid lenses, and wears several multicolored bracelets and necklaces resembling Cassie's. He is wearing a janitorial staff Psychonauts uniform with the sleeves rolled up, half dark teal-green like an agent uniform and half-lilac purple. Over the uniform, he wears a long handmade-looking light-yellow skirt with pink tassels along the bottom edge, patched with several long patterned scraps of fabric as well as several smaller square patches. He is also wearing blue ribbed socks with light-brown sandals, and two fanny packs on his waist, one purple, one dark blue. There are bullet points about his personality and backstory next to the design, reading: - Picked up by Cassie during a Psychic 7 run on hospitals performing lobotomies (she got a little overzealous seeing a kid on deck and just. took him and ran) - Never met Lucrecia; she'd already left for Grulovia by the time he was adopted - Kept training with the Psychonauts, but became increasingly disillusioned seeing the Psychic 6 fall apart (especially when Cassie retreated to the Gulch) - Extremely powerful psychic, but blows off responsibility to the point he's all but useless as an agent; mostly tends to the aquarium and acts as a handyman - De facto custodian of the Gulch, since he's the only agent who can reliably make it in and out (he's going to check up on his mom) - Openly bisexual; in an on again-off again relationship with Oleander (both would rather it stay on but neither are emotionally mature enough to admit it) - Suspicious about the circumstances behind Maligula's defeat & the "official" Psychonauts founding; took on the moonlighting half from disillusionment, half to secretly investigate without influence (Oleander knew & would occasionally help) - Took the Deluginary job to get info on Maligula, didn't know about the plan with Truman until too late (no hard feelings against the guy himself, y'know?); realized he was in over his head, leaked coordinates to Raz & co. but got threatened into finishing the job regardless - Considered leaving the Psychonauts to be a dentist or marine biologist when he was younger; couldn't bear to abandon Cassie - One of the only agents to still regularly visit Compton in Psychoisolation - Picked up some writing skills from Cassie (he likes freeform poetry) - The socks with sandals are absolutely, specifically to piss off Hollis. Come at him.]

[Image 2 ID: A younger Cally O'Pia. He has messy hair, glasses, a big smile, and is eating a chunk of honeycomb. He is wearing a long tank top resembling Cassie's dress, over pleated pants that reach mid-shin, and sandals.]

[Image 3 ID: Traditional pen sketches of Cally O'Pia. In the left, he is standing with a neutral expression, one hand on his hip and the other holding up a dripping mop; in the other, he is sitting, grinning and using his psychic powers. In the second image he has removed his wrap-skirt to wear it as a shawl around his shoulders instead, revealing the Psychonauts uniform jumpsuit reaches about mid-shin on him.]

[Image 4 ID: A sketchy three-panel comic of Cally and Oleander. In the first, Oleander, wearing boxers and an unbuttoned shirt over a tank top, walks down a hall shouting "Cal??" Cally, standing around the corner wearing sweatpants and a baggy shirt, using telekinesis to bring plates over to him to dry, replies, "Kitchen". Oleander continues, "I can't find my All Paul shirt". The second panel shows Cally shifting his weight onto one leg as he dries the plate with a rag, nonchalantly saying, "Mm. Haven't seen it." Oleander, now looking directly at Cally around the corner, says, "Cal". "Yeah", Cally replies. "You are wearing the shirt", says Oleander. The final panel shows Cally, grinning knowingly and continuing to dry the dish, replying sing-song, "Dunno what you're taaalking abooouuuttt". Oleander, bracing his feet against Cally's lower back and tugging at the hem of the shirt with both hands, screams, "CAL SO HELP ME". Cally simply responds, "I look good though right".]

#anonymous puzzler art #psychonauts 2 #caligosto loboto #psychonauts 2 spoilers #rhombus of ruin spoilers #morceau oleander #cassie o'pia #tw for mention of medical abuse (specifically lobotomies)#one fun bit of trivia that I wrote after that little character bio that i *will* share #I decided Cally also does a ton of writing for true psychic tales under a pseudonym #he mostly sees it as propaganda-y schlock but he's *very* charmed that Raz is such a big fan

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punchdrunkdoc · 1 year

Text

Part 2, Chapter 6

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness?

Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 3 parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action/violence and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3 and Wattpad

Masterlist

Reference pics - *UPDATED*

————–

PART 2

Chapter 6

Calina rubbed the petal between her fingers as she waited for the phone call to go through. The flower Matt had given her had wilted and died after a few days of sitting in a glass of water on her bedside table. All that remained was the single blood red petal she held in her hand.

Matt couldn’t have known that the colour of the flower exactly matched his Daredevil suit - it was purely a coincidence. But during her more fanciful moments, she thought it was more fate than random chance.

The first and only flower she’d ever received was like being gifted a piece of the man himself.

And with his offering and his apology, the wall that he’d erected between them had crumbled. They were closer now than ever before. Falling asleep next to him felt natural. Waking up in his arms, even more so. And Matt no longer seemed embarrassed to find himself wrapped around her in the morning. In fact, touching her seemed second nature to him now; he was always brushing his hand down her arm or grazing her waist when he walked passed her in the apartment…

It felt like they’d entered some new phase of their strange relationship. She should have been excited. She should have been over the moon.

Instead she was feeling anxious and unsettled again.

She hoped the Widows would have news that would ease those feelings.

“Yes? What is it, Calina?” Yelena finally answered after the phone had run a dozen times. She sounded annoyed.

“I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” Calina replied. She couldn’t hide the snark in her voice. “I was calling for an update, seeing as you guys have been radio silent for the last couple of weeks.”

Yelena’s answer was just as snarky. “Well, I’m sorry that we’ve been too busy trying to find info on the man who drugged you to text you all hours of the day.”

“Well has all your busy-ness paid off? Have you found out who he was? Are there more like him out there?”

“Sort of. Yes. And we don’t know.”

Calina mentally matched the brusque answers to her questions. Then sat up straight, the petal falling forgotten to the floor. “Really? You know who he was?”

“Nicolai Aminev. A low level grunt from the research division of the Red Room.”

“Low level?”

“Yeah. Best we figure, he stole some tech during the chaos of the Red Room fall, managed to survive, and tried to make some cash out of selling a Widow.”

“If that’s the case, then there shouldn’t be anyone else after me. If he wasn’t part of some bigger operation-”

“We don’t know that for sure yet. We have a lead on some of his associates that we’re following up on. In fact, we were prepping for a recon mission when you called.”

Calina winced at the not-so-subtle rebuke. “I’m sorry. I know you guys are trying. I’m just feeling…trapped here. And useless.”

“It was your choice to stay.”

“I know. And I don’t regret it. I’m just going a little stir-crazy, Yelena. I can’t stay cooped up in this apartment much longer.” She rose from her chair and stared out of the windows, subconsciously counting down until the moment the billboard outside changed display. She knew the timings and the pattern down to the second. She knew every crack and mark in every window pane. She knew every dent and scratch in the floorboards and every frayed thread in the rug.

She never thought she’d get sick of being in Matt’s apartment, but she was fast approaching that point.

“I hate that they did this to me, again,” she continued, her voice rising with anger as she paced. “I hate that they took away my choices - again. I’m trapped again because of those…those fucking bastards, and I hate it!”

The rage and the frustration and the helplessness that had been simmering inside her for weeks suddenly boiled over, until it had nowhere to go but out. She lashed out and punched the wall between the arched windows. The hard brick scraped her skin, causing it to split.

A warm, strong hand suddenly covered hers. “Don’t do that,” Matt whispered, stroking the damaged skin of her knuckles.

She gazed up at him, surprised. She hadn’t even noticed he’d come home from work.

How much had he heard?

He took the phone from her other hand and put it to his ear. “Yelena? It’s Matt. I’ve got this.”

She could hear Yelena’s tinny reply. “I warned you this would happen.”

“I know. I’ll deal with it.”

He hung up. “Go get changed,” he said to Calina.

“What?”

“Put on some workout clothes. We’re going to the gym.”

———

“She’s going to get angry. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But at some point, she’s going to snap out of her numbness and her fear and she’s going to get really, really angry. And you need to be prepared for that. You need to give her an outlet.”

Matt remembered Yelena’s words vividly. She’d taken him aside as the three Widows were leaving that Friday night weeks ago and issued her warning.

And Matt had been waiting ever since for Calina to snap.

It looked like tonight was the night.

“Are we allowed to be here?” Calina asked, as he ushered her into Fogwell’s with a hand on her back. She sounded curious, but there was still a tension in her voice. The muscles in her back were taut, as if she was wound tight.

“It’s been abandoned for months,” Matt explained. “I come here all the time. It’s fine.”

He dumped his bag on the floor and shrugged out of his jacket and sweatshirt, leaving him in a sleeveless T-shirt. He sat on the bench beside the ring and started wrapping his hands as Calina wandered around the disused gym.

She flipped back the hood she’d worn to disguise herself as they’d left his apartment. The move sent a wave of her scent towards him, clearing the musty smell of the gym from his senses. The dust on the floor swirled about her feet as she inspected the old equipment, and he heard a punching bag swing as she gave it a light tap. The wooden stand by the lockers creaked as she picked up one of the dumbbells resting on it.

“‘No Pain, No Gain’,” she murmured, reciting the mantra painted on the wall. “We have a similar saying in Russia: ‘Without effort, you won’t even pull a fish out of a pond.'”

Matt laughed. “Not quite as catchy.”

That would have made her smile a few days ago. But now there was no response. She just moved on to the Wing Chun dummy in the corner. Before the gym had closed down they’d started hosting Kung Fu classes to try and generate more income. The dummy was a remnant of that failed plan.

He heard a muffled whack as Calina hit one of the wooden slats. Then another. And another, the pace increasing until she was executing a fast series of blocks and strikes against the dummy in a practiced routine.

Matt winced as the force of her hits increased. He could hear her breathing heavily beneath the rhythmic sound of her attack.

“Hey.” He came up behind her and pulled her away from the dummy by her shoulders. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

She shrugged out of his hold and viciously kicked the wooden statue. “No pain, no gain, right?” she sneered.

“I didn’t bring you here to hurt yourself-”

“So why did you?”

“Yelena said you’d need an outlet. This is the one I use.” He handed her some wrap for her hands and a pair of gloves. “I thought it might help.”

“I’m not much of a boxer.”

He remembered the way she’d fought against him before, all balletic grace and lithe deflection. “No. But the gloves and the bag will be less painful than the dummy. Just try it.”

While she prepped her hands, Matt tugged on his own gloves and started hitting one of the bags. By the time he’d slipped into his own rhythmic routine, Calina was next to him, jabbing forcefully at the other bag.

Her form was good. She may not favour the style during a fight, but she was obviously well trained in it. She was light on her feet and swung from the hips, and her gloved hands connected with the swinging bag with satisfying slaps.

Matt tried to concentrate on his own bag - wanting to give Calina the space to process her anger on her own - but after a while it became hard to shut out the signs of her distress. The more she punched, the more erratic and harsh her breathing became. The faster her heart rate. He could taste the salt from her angry tears and her grunts of effort transformed into cries of rage as she pummelled and kicked at the leather target in front of her.

He wanted to pull her away from the bag and into his arms where he could hold her close. But she needed to work through this. She needed to let her anger out. So he continued with his own workout and waited for the moment she exhausted herself.

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long. After one last vicious roundhouse kick, Calina staggered back from the bag and braced herself on her knees, panting. When she straightened up, he finally got the chance to wrap his arms around her. He held her firmly from behind and rested his head against the side of hers.

Her breathing started to slow and sync to his, just like when they would meditate together. Her heart rate levelled out too, and eventually she relaxed back against him.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

She nodded.

“Do you feel better?”

Another nod. “Yes, thank you.” Her voice was hoarse from her cries.

He reluctantly broke the embrace. “I’ll grab you a drink.”

He ripped off his gloves and dug through his gym bag for the water bottles. When he returned to Calina she was studying something on the wall.

And he knew exactly what it was.

“Here,” he said passing her a drink.

“Thanks.” He heard her twist off the cap and gulp down the cool liquid. Then she started played with the half-empty bottle, rolling it around between her palms, making the plastic crinkle. He knew her well enough now to recognise the meaning behind her uncharacteristic fidgeting - she was debating whether to say something.

“You can ask,” he said, gesturing to the poster he knew was on the wall in front of her.

“‘Carl Crusher Creel vs Battlin’ Jack Murdock’,” she read. “That’s your Dad? You said he was a boxer.”

“Yeah. This was his local gym. I practically grew up here. I used to sit on that bench over there and do my homework while he sparred.”

She took a seat on the bench he mentioned and he joined her. His eyes swept around the room, as if he could see its contents. And in a way he could. This vantage point was so familiar to him - it was one of the clearest memories he had from when he still had his sight. He could easily overlay the details he remembered onto the impression his senses gave him of the room - the black shine of the floor; the silver duct tape holding the punching bags together; the beat up looking grey lockers and the rich golden yellow light that would flood the room at dusk.

“Do you want to tell me about him?” Calina asked. “About your Dad?”

Matt sighed and leaned back against the wall behind him. “There’s not much to tell. He died when I was nine.”

“I’m sorry.”

Matt shrugged. “It was just the two of us growing up, and I idolised him - so much. I knew he wasn’t invincible, not like some kids see their dads. I had to stitch him up after enough fights to know that he bled and bruised just like a normal person.” Matt let out a hollow laugh at the memory. “Man, could he take a beating. He could get hit all day long and never got knocked out. That’s how he won his fights - outlasting the other guy. Never giving in.”

Matt could hear his Dad’s voice, clear as day in his head. ‘It ain’t how you hit the floor, Matty. Its how you get up.’

He continued speaking, his voice wistful now. “I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. Even though he hated that idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t want me to be a fighter. He wanted me to get an education and get out of Hell’s Kitchen. He’d be proud of me for being a lawyer. I’m not so sure he’d be proud about the Daredevil thing.”

“But you’re helping people.”

There was that acceptance again, Matt thought, remembering his internal battle the other night during the storm.

But now he was worried that she was a little too accepting. That she’d romanticised what he did and turned it into something more noble than what it was. She’d never seen what he did in the suit, after all. She’d never seen him when he truly became the Devil

“I don’t think he’d see it that way,” Matt tried to explain. “We both have this…thing inside us. This rage and this darkness that’s always trying to claw itself out. ‘Beware those Murdock Boys. They got the Devil in ‘em.’ That’s what my Gran used to say. She saw it in my Grandfather. And in my Dad. During his fights…he would occasionally snap. His eyes would go dark and he’d just start wailing on the other guy. I think Dad would worry that I’m just using the suit as an excuse to let that rage out.”

“Is that what you believe?”

Matt leaned forward and rested his arms on his legs. He tugged at the fabric wrapping his hands as he debated how honest he should be. “Sometimes. Sometimes I worry that I’m kidding myself that I do this for any other reason than to hurt people.”

“You’re wrong.”

He sighed. “Calina, you can’t say that. You haven’t seen me out there. I-”

“Yes, I have.”

Matt sat up straight and faced her. “What?”

She bit her lip and looked away.

“Calina?” He prompted, starting to get worried. When had she seen him? What had she seen?

“When I first found out about, um, you being Daredevil. I followed you. At night.”

“You followed me?”

“Yes. I was curious. I was trying to reconcile this person that I knew from this tabloid news story character.”

“How often did you follow me?”

“Just a few nights. Four at the most.”

“Jesus.” Matt sprang up from the bench and started pacing. He didn’t know what he most angry about. That she’d kept it a secret from him? That she’d seen what he was like as Daredevil, or that he’d been followed that many times without suspecting a thing.

No, that wasn’t right. He had suspected something. He remembered back to that time period, and the vague sensation he’d had of being watched. But it had gone away after that incident by the docks.

That incident…

“It was you.”

“What?”

“That night, with those kidnappers. It was you, wasn’t it?” She’d been the one who'd taken out the thugs while he was lying incapacitated on the floor.

She tipped her chin up. “Yes.”

Matt raked his hands through his hair as he thought back to that night. And to the next morning, when Calina had come to his door.

She’d been checking up on him. She’d known he’d gotten beaten up, so she’d come to check on him. He’d let her back into his life that morning. Everything that had brought them closer together since had started that day.

And it was all based on a lie.

He’d never suspected that she’d had an ulterior motive that morning. He’d just accepted the care and attention she’d given him while he’d been sick.

God, every time he was reminded of how good a liar she was it hit him like a suckerpunch.

He forced down the betrayal that he felt. They’d both resolved to start fresh and discard the lies that had tainted beginning of their relationship. By introducing themselves to each other after their fight, they’d wiped the slate clean. Then they’d sealed that unspoken deal with a handshake.

He needed to let it go.

So he focussed on something else that he’d been wondering about from that night by the docks. “What did you use? To take those guys down. I remember hearing something odd, like an electronic device…”

“It’s called a Widow’s Bite. It’s an electroshock weapon. Standard kit on a Widow’s suit.”

“Wait, you were suited up? As a Black Widow? Jesus, Calina! Did it ever occur to you that that’s how you were found?”

The stubborn tilt of her chin edged up a notch. “Of course it did. But I don’t regret it. You needed my help. And that little girl needed you. Just like the other people you saved that week. When I followed you, I didn’t see someone revelling in violence and enjoying the pain he was inflicting. I saw someone helping his community. You showed mercy towards the people you stopped, Matt. Not needless cruelty.”

He took a seat beside her again and shook his head. “There’s still something dark inside of me. You need to understand that-”

“We all have that, Matt. Parts of ourselves that we’re not proud of. Dark aspects of our soul.”

It was her turn to sound self-loathing. He rested his hand on top of hers on the bench between them. “Hey. Whatever darkness you think resides in your soul was put there by the people who trained you and controlled you.”

She laughed bitterly. “I’m not the innocent victim you think I am, Matt. I’ve made choices - since I was free of the Red Room - that I’m not proud of.”

“But those choices were informed by the life that they forced you to live. By the person they forced you to become. Could you still say you’d have acted the same if you were allowed to be raised by your family, in a loving home, far away from the Red Room?”

She turned her hand over to grasp his, as if it was her turn to offer comfort. “The same could be said for you, Matt. If you hadn’t had your accident, and lost your Dad, would you still feel the same about the man you are today? We’re all at the mercy of chance. We’re all shaped by our experiences.”

He shook his head. “But that’s what I was saying before, about me, and my Dad. This is nature, not nurture There’s something inside us-”

“No. I don’t believe that. You make it sound like there’s something fundamentally wrong with you-”

He gave a hollow laugh. “Calina I dress up in a devil suit to go beat up criminals at night. That’s hardly the picture of a normal, well-adjusted human being.”

‘“It’s no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a profoundly sick society’,” she quoted.

“What?”

“I moved on to philosophy books this week, and came across that quote from Krishnamurti, an Indian philosopher,” she explained. “I think it means that most people go about their lives not seeing the sickness and corruption in this world, or not caring about it if it doesn’t directly affect them. But people like you - who’ve experienced it, and gained empathy from it - they don’t conform. They fight. They fight to make the world a better place. That’s how I see you, Matt. Not as some rage-filled monster.”

Matt sat in silence for a few moments, humbled by Calina’s opinion of him. He tried to absorb the words, to make them his truth…but he was fighting against thirty-odd years of dogma. Thirty-odd years of believing there was something wrong with him.

It would take more than a few words…but he was still grateful. “Thank you.”

She squeezed his hand in response.

“And thank you, for before,” he continued. “That night with those kidnappers. If you hadn’t been there…you probably saved my life.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “Thank you for saving mine the night with the serum.”

“I didn’t save your life. All I did was hurt you.” He could still hear the crack of her knee impacting the floor. He could still hear the pop of her elbow as it was wrenched out of his socket. He could still feel the heat rising from the bruises littering her skin...

It didn’t feel very heroic.

“You stopped me from having to live that life again, Matt. I consider us more than even.” She stretched her arm out in front of her. “And look, good as new.”

He took hold of her arm and moved it around, feeling the joint as it flexed, wanting to assure himself that she was telling the truth.

And she was. There was no evidence of any lingering damage.

He ran his thumb down the delicate skin of her inner arm, and reluctantly let go when she started talking again. “I think that’s why I’ve been feeling so antsy lately,” she said. “And why it all came to a head tonight. I feel ready to go back to my life, but I’m still at the mercy of whoever’s out there.”

“Did Yelena have any leads on that?” he asked.

Calina explained about the identity of the man who drugged her. “But Yelena’s being cautious - she’s worried there’s more to it than a low-level lackey trying to make some money.”

“What do you think?”

“I think what I’ve always thought - that there’s no danger here. Not anymore.”

“Does that mean…are you going to move back into your place?”

There was a beat of silence. Then another. And he felt like every muscle in his body went tight as he waited for her answer. “Calina?”

“Is that what you want?” she finally said, turning his question back on him.

“No,” he replied.

And it was the truth. He knew she’d have to leave eventually. He just hadn’t let himself think about what that would feel like - watching her walk out of his door. And he didn’t want to think about it now.

He wasn’t…ready.

“You can stay as long as you need, you know that,” he finally said.

“Then I’ll stay a little longer. I, um, think Yelena would feel more comfortable that way.”

Matt smiled, recognising it as an excuse.

She wanted to stay.

With him.

“Then stay.”

————–

Chapter 7

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albatmobile · 2 years

Text

The Art of Rehabilitating Snowbirds Chapter 10

𓅪 After not hearing from Roy or Jason for five years, you suddenly find yourself taking in extra income as a babysitter for Roy and Jason's child.

𓅪 Rated: M | TW: Joker, violence | 6.3k includes: Wayne gala, slow dancing with the batboys (u know we got height difference w dami), wet adventures w jay ;p, finally the backstory about the scar

fem!Reader x Jason Todd x Roy Harper [masterlist]

Chapter Ten: Your Protector | ao3 - wattpad

THEN

True to his word, Jason got you an invite to the annual Wayne Gala.

Your mom only had one nice dress that she’d stolen while in Europe, but it was a perfect outfit for the event, so you stole it from her closet (X). It wasn’t like she'd notice on the off chance she did stop by the apartment.

You’d pinned your hair in a few places to give your locks some dramatic volume to match the elegance of the night. Your light, smokey makeup accentuated the color of the vibrant blue dress and, somehow, ended up matching Damian’s navy suit.

Roy hadn’t been invited, though you already knew his rambunctious behavior would not bode well with an uptight, stuffy environment like this, but you?

You loved this.

Even though you were too shy to mingle and your mother’s dress was definitely made for someone her age and not yours, you were just as glad to follow Damian around as he forced himself to socialize under Bruce's watchful, read: warning, gaze.

He only really stopped to talk to a few people who eyed up your scantily clad body with a certain snobbish glare that only Gotham elitists could manage. You, on the other hand, were just happy to have found any sort of formal outfit. After the fourth grandma gawked at your tits, you asked Damian if he wanted you to leave, but he assured you made the event ‘much more tolerable.’ That was Damian speak for: he’s really glad you came.

It wasn’t until half an hour later that you managed to find the table of Waynes and were truly able to enjoy the gala. Tim and Dick waved you over eagerly, leaving Damian to trudge petulantly behind the slight train of your dress. Dick donned a dark gray, plaid suit complete with his usual messy-on-purpose locks, while Tim wore a plain, burgundy three-piece with an oddly patterned, colorful tie.

“Where’s Jason?” you asked, searching around the sea of well-dressed socialites, but his signature gray streak was nowhere to be found.

“Well, hello to you too,” Dick said. He was already standing when you approached and Tim was quick to do the same. “Nightwing Blue?” He raised a brow at the color of your mother’s dress.

You glanced down at the silky fabric and began to smooth out the nonexistent wrinkles as you inspected the color. “I’d say it’s more of a darker Celtic blue than anything he’s had, but I definitely appreciate that that’s the first thing that came to mind.” You fist-bumped, noticing the glares from an older couple at the table next to you at such informal contact with, god forbid, a Wayne.

You pulled back sheepishly, allowing your hands to return to fiddle with the skirt of your dress.

“Don’t be that blood-orange bitch (X),” Damian snorted as he swatted at your unceasing nervous hands. “It’s fucking blue.”

“You wouldn’t even know that meme if it weren’t for me!” you admonished him. He tutted lightly and checked out of your conversation with his brothers to focus instead on the dancing couples behind you. Your eyes flickered from Dick and Tim to Damian’s, following his line of sight as a new song took over. “Why do you keep acting like you want to dance?” you questioned. “You wouldn’t even dance with me at the party.”

“That god-awful seizure you and Roy had together wasn’t dancing. This,” he gestured to the graceful movements of the socialites right next to you, “is dancing.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that was Damian’s way of asking you to dance. Right, little wing?” You both turned to Dick’s crinkle-eyed smile, startled.

You turned back to Damian and took in his embarrassed state with slight amusement. “You want to dance?” you asked.

He looked at you warily. “You’re asking me?”

“Would you have asked me?” you asked cheekily.

“No.”

You chortled and held out your hand as an open invitation, “Then, that’s why I asked you, twerp.”

“I resent that.” But he took your hand, nonetheless and guided you away from his analytical brothers, who still seemed baffled, if not entirely intrigued, by the interaction.

When you arrived on the floor, he came face to face with you before allowing his guiding hand to drop from your grasp. You’d never had any ballroom dancing experience and felt completely lost. Damian didn't seem to care as he confidently took your hand in his own and firmly placed the other on the small of your waist and drew you closer to him.

“Resent what?” you asked your friend, unwittingly letting out a giggle when he immediately drew you into a spin that had you grasping for his shoulders. You caught your breath as your mirthful eyes peered down into his intense gaze. “The nickname or the fact that I asked you?”

He huffed, looking away from you, “Both.”

You let out a laugh in his arms, but it was cut off when he suddenly tightened his hold around your waist, steadily dipping your taller form languidly toward the polished wood below. His hazel eyes trailed down the exposed curves of your body shamelessly and you let him, relishing in his attention.

The band changed the tempo, starting a slower, sensual rhythm. You watched as the couples around you quickly shifted to an intimate embrace. Damian followed suit and raised you up to nestle you against his chest, adjusting his grip slightly lower on your waist.

With your already standing height difference and no help from your heels, the close position left him face-to-face with your over-spilling corset. You could practically feel the emanating heat of his cheeks against your chest. You startled slightly when his head slowly came to rest against it, but you quickly found your bearings and drew him closer. You laughed lightly as his eyes innocently met yours, knowing that, while he was far from the innocent boy he was portraying, he was still somewhat vulnerable like this.

Hell, if you hadn’t known any better, you’d probably thought he was going to kiss you or something.

A twinkle of hope rang out like ripples across his dark eyes. You couldn’t help the low gasp you produced at the sight.

Was your first kiss going to be with the Wayne heir at the Wayne Gala?

No fucking way.

His poised lips parted and your eyes darted to follow as his tongue peeked out and glided self-consciously across them. A ringing note settled lowly across the crowd, drawing your eyes to his with a silent question. His hands dragging up to rest at the back of your neck was the only response you needed to bend slightly to meet him on an even level.

You allowed your eyelids to flutter shut as you leaned into his constipated thinking face that you’d come to love. You noticed, with a hint of amusement, how he seemed to wait for you to lead with bated breath.

“Damian.”

At Bruce’s urgent voice, you stepped away from him so fast you nearly tripped over your heels and fell into the couple beside you.

When you regained your balance, you hesitantly met Bruce’s all-knowing gaze. With one look, he seemed to take in whatever information he hadn’t already deduced simply based on your shared eye contact. It was slightly invasive and incredibly creepy. Damian, on the other hand, seemed largely unaffected aside from his lingering blush.

Bruce gave Damian an unreadable look that Damian somehow understood in an instant. He then excused himself to follow behind Bruce’s retreating form without a glance your way.

You shook your head, still spinning from the whirlwind of events that occurred in such a short amount of time and made your way over to Tim, who was busy petting an older woman’s crusty white dog. You greeted them both.

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m being stolen away,” Tim said once you arrived, petting the dog a final time before smiling at the woman. “Please continue to enjoy the evening, though! I think there’s an ice luge somewhere you should see.” The woman beamed with a jovial wave to your retreating forms as you made off toward Dick and Barbara at the aforementioned luge.

“Are you sure you don’t want to finish your conversation back there?” You looked back only to see the woman had already moved on to squeeze some poor kid’s cheeks.

He followed your line of sight with an easy laugh. “Trust me, you’re doing me a favor.”

“Alright.”

The four of you messed around with the ice luge until Alfred caught wind of what was happening and came to usher you away. The last thing he needed was for you to get drunk at another manor party or worse- Dick got drunk enough to break out the karaoke machine. Alfred did, however, grant Tim the pleasure of taking a group photo in front of the ice sculpture.

Slightly buzzed and incredibly enraptured with your conversation with Tim, you hadn’t noticed the intensity of the pair of green eyes that rested on you from across the party until Tim’s eyes repeatedly shifted over your shoulder. Finally, you turned around to see just what the fuck he was looking at-

Oh.

There he was, across the room.

You watched, hypnotized, as Jason’s half-lidded emeralds shocked yours through the throng of people between you. He smirked once he realized he had your attention and made a slow show of tugging at his tie until it was sufficiently loosened.

He wasn’t wearing a jacket, you noted as your eyes trailed up his exposed forearms to his rolled-up sleeves.

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to tear your eyes from the steamy show Jason was putting on to nod vacantly at Tim’s hypothesis. You vaguely heard something in his explanation for why the unstable particles were able to comprehend continuous observation, but you could barely contain yourself from looking back at Jason.

“Oh, I never thought about it like that!” you said cheerily after half-paying attention. This only suited to spur on Tim’s enthusiastic babbling, much of which resembled your own usual nerdy ramblings.

The fuel you threw his way allowed you to turn around again and you bit your lip at the sight that met you. It was as if Jason hadn’t even noticed you’d ever looked away because he was still taking each step with a tantalizing carefulness that left you desperately gulping for air.

He reached off a nearby tray and downed a champagne flute before seamlessly placing it on another tray, never faltering in the process. You were left to wonder how could you be so turned on just by the way he walked.

“Do you think?” Tim asked suddenly, effectively stopping you from drooling any further.

“Hmm?” you asked airily, turning back toward Tim only to see him glaring. “What?!”

“Hey,” Jason’s low voice rumbled your name against the roar of the party deliciously. “Wanna dance?”

Tim took in your awed form and huffed to himself, “Of course.”

“What was that, Timbo?”

“We were just debating Quantum Physics relating to the Zeno Effect and how it could be linked to dark matter,” he said, looking to you for backup, but you were too entranced by Jason’s raw, sexual prowess to respond.

Jason easily noticed your hypnotized state and smirked. “No one cares what dark, kinky shit you’re into, Timmy. Let the woman dance.”

He didn’t wait for a response, though and you put up no protest when he guided your transfixed form away from Tim. You tried to shoot an apologetic glance back at the other raven but were ultimately too enraptured with the weight of Jason’s steady hand resting at the small of your back to do so.

You were surprised he’d even suggested this in the first place, considering how reluctant he’d been to even dance at his own party. You thought back to Damian’s random desire to dance tonight and chalked it up to the most likely cause: dancing-plague-causing fungi.

While Jason easily lost himself in the crowd ahead, you still felt Tim’s watchful gaze on you until you disappeared into the hallway just outside of the ballroom.

A quick movement you'd caught out of the corner of your eyes had you slightly jogging to catch up with Jason’s suited form. You watched as he flitted around the caterers that lingered in the area before finally disappearing behind a corner with a beckoning finger.

A giggle escaped from your lips at the realization he wanted you to chase him.

You couldn’t help but find the entire situation highly amusing. Well, you chasing Jason around a mansion in an evening gown like some princess movie was amusing; you nearly falling face-first to the ground from the overwhelming length of your mom’s dress- not so much.

You flipped him off when he stopped some ways ahead of you to mock your plight. You quickly righted yourself and bunched the length of the satin fabric in your fists.

And, so, the chase continued.

“You’re never gonna catch up to me in those heels, babe,” he said as he jogged backward now, complete with a tipsy, shit-eating grin. You wanted to rip it right off of his dumb, attractive face. “I could do this for hours,” he taunted. You, on the other hand, were already panting lightly, with your ankles ringing out angrily in tandem with each stomp you took. You were sprinting at that point and yet were somehow further away from Jason than you’d ever been. “All that training, what? Three times a week?” His eyes wrinkled with mirth at your over-exerted form. “Damian’s bullshit about finding your anchor or something.”

“Fuck off,” you whined, coming to a stop to lean against the wall of the empty corridor, attempting to catch your breath.

The sounds of the party had long faded. Not even the caterers had a reason to be this deep into the manor; yet, there you were with Jason.

You rubbed lightly at each ankle, rolling them one after the other. It was your second time wearing heels and these were a lot higher than the ones you’d worn to the party by a long shot, so your feet were definitely feeling it.

When you finally looked up, you noticed the hallway was empty. The glass doors at the end of the hall, however, were wide open, beckoning you closer. You limped down the hall before noticing Jason in the garden through one of the windows, waiting with his back turned to you.

“You like the chase or something, freak?” You nudged his shoulder with your own when you finally sidled up beside him.

“You don’t?” he asked with a raised brow sent your way.

It felt like a question you would only truly understand enough to answer if you'd been older, but, for now, you merely shrugged. You were still figuring, well, everything out.

“Why’d we come all the way out here to dance?” you asked instead.

The gardens were done the Wayne way: over the top and absolutely magical. Everything was placed with precise intention that left you feeling like you were right smack in the middle of a fairytale.

You could somewhat hear the music, but it was more like a muted warble that carried throughout the courtyard with a quiet hum. Still, definitely nothing loud enough to truly dance to.

His gaze returned back to the fountain in front of you. “You may be enjoying that shitshow, but this is more my speed.”

You looked around at the quiet that surrounded the two of you, noticing as he shifted beside you to face you.

The water from the extravagant fountain trickled in the silence while the symphonious sounds of the night chirped around you.

“I’m cool with whatever.”

He laughed, genuinely laughed, before extending his pale hand out toward you, “Cool.”

Your eyes crinkled, easily meeting his cold grip with your own. “Cool.”

A brassy tune settled across the garden as Jason walked forward to close the remaining distance between the two of you. His hold was relaxed, more tender than Damian’s rigid form had been. You allowed yourself to melt into his arms.

His feet moved with intention as he managed to avoid every misstep you made and changed direction with ease each time, dragging you lazily with him into a new rhythm. You giggled when he spun you once and roared when he continued to spin you, all while using his free hand to help your skirt lavishly fan out.

“Now I see why Roy calls you what he does.”

You snorted, “Can’t even say the nickname now, even when I’m quite literally a princess at a ball?”

Jason rolled his eyes and finished spinning you before drawing you flush against his sturdy chest. You gulped, allowing your eyes to travel up the careless, wrinkled remains of his suit all the way up to his emerald eyes.

Why was he looking at you like that? You hadn’t actually kissed that one night in the library as far as you knew, but damn, did this seem familiar.

Unlike with Damian, you rested your head on Jason’s chest. Your eyelashes accidentally tickled against his bare skin when they fluttered open to stare at the protruding veins and scattered moles that lay across the expanse of his pale neck.

“You are a princess,” you smiled at his admission, lips lightly brushing against the delicate skin of his neck in the process before you shifted to meet his gaze once again.

As if to prove him wrong, your weakened ankles collapsed from under you. Jason caught you with ease, bending his knees as he helped right you on your feet. It was a wonder you could look as beautiful as the socialites inside and still be as clumsy as you were.

“Maybe just to you and Roy,” you insisted with a gorgeous smile that left Jason visibly affected.

“Maybe,” he said, drawing his face closer to yours with a delicate finger placed under your chin. He dragged you lazily up until your wet lips were practically against his. You waited for him to take charge and just fucking kiss you already, but his mouth merely twisted into a smirk. “You know, babe, I really didn’t think you’d actually go through with all of this.”

What?

You sighed, wishing he would shut up and stop stalling, “Coming to the gala? I mean, you did invite me, Jason.”

“No, not that,” he brushed you off. “I knew you’d come-”

You cut him off, “If you knew I’d come, then why did you ditch me until just now?”

You were still centimeters away from locking lips, but the growing frustration between you was threatening to kill the mood with every passing word he spoke.

“I might’ve had a few.” Jason removed his finger from your chin, quickly sensing the shift. “Didn’t help to see you with the replacement. Maybe I just wanted to see where your loyalty really lies.”

“My loyalty?” You struggled from his grip and stepped away from him, feeling your guard go up immediately. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He sighed, rubbing at his temple, “I just didn’t expect you to follow me ’sall.”

“You…” You couldn’t possibly be hearing him right. Right? Clearly, he’d had too many and lost whatever weak filter he usually had. “Jason, you mean to tell me you invited me out here as a joke?”

“Not a joke,” he reassured you like that was somehow any better.

"A test then?" you rephrased.

“I suppose more like a test than anything, yeah.”

“Jason…” you trailed off, not even recognizing your friend in front of you. “I don’t need to be fucking tested, you cunt.”

The Jason you’d come to know would never have the nerve to say something so casual yet cruel.

He laughed humorlessly as he walked away from you and closer to the fountain, “You did.”

“Fuck you. No, I didn’t. What would even make you say something like that?” you asked angrily, following after him before coming to a stop right next to him.

“Maybe because you’re so god damned annoying and never shut the fuck up,” he uncharacteristically snapped. “Ever thought about that?”

You gasped, feeling your patience slip further and further away with each passing second. “Says the stuck-up, angsty, woe-is-me fucker who has mood swings every two fucking seconds,” you shot him a venomous glare, “and that’s being generous.”

It was then that he got up in your face. You couldn’t help but be startled by his sudden anger.

“Oh yeah?”

You pulled yourself together, steeling yourself for whatever Jason threw your way.

“Yeah, buddy. Two can play this game,” you said indignantly. “And, you know what?”

“I have a feeling you’re gonna tell me anyway, babe,” he drawled tonelessly.

Your face instantly scrunched up in anger. “I am!”

He gestured in a bored manner for you to continue, “Go on then.”

“My loyalty is with myself and only that. Don’t get it fucking twisted,” his breath caught in his throat unexpectedly at your statement. You used this to your advantage, stomping forward to take his face into your hands with a confidence you weren’t used to having. “Where does your loyalty lie, Jason?” his eyes flashed passionately with an intensity you easily met.

Did it still sound like the two of you were about to kiss?

If it had been a movie or one of those steamy romance novels he claimed weren’t his, maybe. But this? This was you and Jason Todd.

You pushed first, knowing it wouldn’t move him at all, but it was the thought that counted.

“Back the fuck up, Todd.”

“Or what?” His eyes were pure electricity, crackling like heat lightening in the sweetness of the intimate night.

“Or find out what I’m about,” you insisted sharply.

"What you’re about?" He firmly poked you in the forehead with a mocking laugh. Your jaw clenched. “Find out what I’m actually about, babe. I taught you everything you know, dumbass, so go ahead. Try it again and see what happens,” he threatened your last name like a curse.

You smiled widely and humorlessly at the challenge, replicating exactly what Damian had told his family. Any time you would argue or spar, without fail, you’d have a creepy smile adorning your face. It was unnerving and you knew this, but you didn’t care if Jason thought you were psycho when you were already .0005 seconds away from pushing his smug ass into the fountain.

“This is so rich.” You gestured wildly between the two of you. “For once, just once,” you reiterated, “I think I finally understand how you actually feel about me, then we go right back to this dumb shit.”

You pushed him harder this time, which he replicated easily with a swift shove back.

Then, you were falling.

You felt the concrete ledge of the fountain hit your calf before you felt the shocking cold of the water as you plunged down into the fountain’s shallow basin. You thought, no knew, that he let you pull him in after you, probably after some guilty conscious thing, or whatever. Probably to protect you from hitting the bruising, stone bottom.

Whatever.

The running water from the fountain, along with the guests out front, were the only noises that stirred across the courtyard when you and Jason resurfaced.

You were both soaked to the bone in the middle of the Wayne Manor Gardens, arguing, poking and pushing at each other while Joker’s goons closed. A low, ominous chuckle reverberated throughout the gardens, though the chilling echo didn’t quite reach either of your ears yet through all the hormonal ruckus and splashing.

Jason pushed you back down into the algae-ridden water each time you tried to get back up, so you returned the favor by kicking the shit out of his ankles in order to get him low enough for you to tackle him back into the water, too.

“You wanna fucking play?” he spat out your name in a low rumble. The noise tickled the tips of your ears as he pulled you into a loose headlock, which… felt good?

You stopped kicking up water, trying to place your confused thoughts while an intense blush steadily crept across your damp cheeks.

Jason, sensing your lack of movement, quickly let go, effectively dropping you on your ass in the fountain one final time. You both cursed at the same time and guiltily glanced at each other. It wasn't long before you were both laughing at the stupidity of the whole fight. Hell, the entire situation.

Jason waded closer to your shaking, wet form with a shit-eating grin and put his arm around your neck again, this time lighter.

“I bet you liked that shit,” he chuckled darkly and secured a slightly tighter grip. Feeling his muscled body flush against yours with his heat seeping through the cold wet of your own body, you couldn’t help the choked moan that escaped your rosy lips. “Oh.” He released you in an instant.

You turned around with your finger pointed, ready to start yelling again out of embarrassment when you heard it. A sound shook you to your core.

Goosebumps subconsciously trailed up your body like splintering ice.

You strained to make sense of the maniacal laughter that appeared seemingly out of nowhere, but Jason seemed to sober up fast enough for the both of you. He slipped out of the fountain at a lightning speed that you’d only ever seen him use during training. Before you could process anything, he grabbed you from around your midsection and hoisted you out of the freezing water.

Your dress was long and now extremely heavy as you tried to maneuver around its incapacitating weight to give you the ability to attack if need be, but it seemed to be in vain. He pulled you into as fast of a run as you could manage with your already strained ankles and added weight.

If earlier in the halls was any indication of how this chase would go, you and Jason both knew it would be over quickly.

Your breath came out in strained pants, unable to focus on the twists and turns as Jason guided you through hall after hall. You were definitely slowing him down and the goons were hot on your trail. You could practically hear their high-pitched, hyena-like cackling as if they were directly next to you.

Their presence was like an overbearing shadow that was threatening to envelop you whole.

At the last moment, Jason doubled back to a dumbwaiter shaft to shove you into the opening. He piled the remaining damp fabric of your dress in with you just as a group of burly men came into sight.

Under your weight, the mechanism dropped out from under you, sending you sprawling down until it smacked the ground hard. Upon impact, the cart jostled, sending shockwaves of pain reverberating across every bone in your body. You heard what sounded like struggles from above the shaft where you’d just come from and quickly realized that if they opened the hatch, they'd be able to aim their guns down and shoot at you.

Based on the howling laughing and gaudy face makeup, you deduced that these were most likely Joker’s men and you knew they wouldn’t mess around. Anyone who came into contact with them would most likely be injured and robbed, if not killed.

You gathered your bearings and heavy dress as you gracelessly fell into what you realized instantly to be the manor kitchen. While you’d only been in here a few times, you felt comfortable enough to know you could probably fit in the ground-level cabinets. After seeing how many cabinets there were in the expansive kitchen, you felt pretty secure in your hiding place.

You evened out your breathing, thinking back to what had just happened.

You now had the burden of time, left to wonder if everyone was okay. It was almost a curse to be here and safe while everyone else was still out there in the chaos. Your pitying, however, only lasted minutes before you heard a barrage of footsteps trampling around the marble tile of the kitchen.

It sure didn’t sound like scared party guests.

“How quaint,” you froze at the chilling voice that scratched at your ears. Joker. “I’m absolutely starving. Someone fetch me something.”

You heard Joker’s goons ripping apart everything in the kitchen and were startled by the banging of cabinets being opened on either side of you. It was only a matter of seconds before you’d be discovered. Your brain was completely shutting down.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” It was a big, bald man who ripped you from your hiding spot, leaving you no time to duck your head. You ended up smacking it against the top of the cabinet as you were aggressively pulled out.

You winced, trying to resort back to your self-defense training, but it was all eluding you as you were pulled tightly against his chest. The man secured both your arms with his own in an unescapable grasp. You were completely immobile, no matter how much you struggled.

Joker’s scarred smile slithered across his grotesque face, leaving you to uselessly pull away from his sudden close proximity. You could only escape so far back, however, before the back of your head hit your captor’s chest.

“My dear, you’re completely missing the party upstairs! Shall we escort you back? You are, after all, the main event.” You didn’t say anything, attempting to avoid eye contact, but he grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks as he did so to force your eyes to peer into his grizzly, yellowed ones. “It’s so rude to ignore someone. You’re amongst civilized people; best to act like a lady,” he emphasized his words with a swift crack of his jester-looking cane against your calf.

You cried out in agony as he replicated the violent movement with a bout of creepy giggles on your other leg. You quickly lost your balance, completely relying on the man restraining you to keep you standing. You uselessly dangled in his arms as your legs were too weak to support themselves anymore.

“What do we do with her boss?” You felt his chest vibrate with every word.

The goons around you eyed you up animalistically. How you wished you could pull up your slipping bodice to regain some sense of modesty in front of these heathens, but it wasn't in the cards.

“Were you not listening, idiot?! Take her to the ballroom. Batman should surely be on his way at this point.” He skipped around excitedly in place. “I love it when a plan comes together!” He glared at the man behind you and hissed. “Why are you not moving, you pillock? TAKE HER- NOW!” he erupted into an abrupt anger that easily silenced all the chuckles in the room.

A heaviness fell across the room as everyone moved in sinister tandem to grapple your injured, sopping form back up to the ballroom. You’d lost sight of the Joker on the way up but quickly found yourself face-to-face with Batman and Robin.

You wanted to laugh.

It'd been your dream to meet the crime-fighting duo for as long as you could remember, but not like this. Not while you were being pushed and pulled around like meat by these goons.

The heroes took you in, ruined makeup and hair, a dress that was barely covering your nipples and your legs that were doing more wobbling than holding you up after Joker's barrage of attacks.

“Let her go.” Batman’s voice was like velvet as it fell unsettlingly across the frenzied room of rich socialites.

Robin, on the other hand, looked absolutely rabid. It was as if he were barely holding himself back from killing the men behind you who stopped pushing you around at the commanding tone. Without their support, you quickly crumpled to the floor like a doll with a gasp of pain that emanated throughout the wooden walls of the ballroom.

Looking deeper into the audience, you saw Jason’s dripping form standing with fists held at his side next to a highly concerned Tim. They noticed your gaze and held it in what was supposed to be comforting, but it only made your stomach churn.

You were in trouble.

Big trouble.

The men snicked at your pathetic form as you scrambled to pull up your bodice over your exposed chest. You hoped Batman’s arrival meant that Joker was going to leave you alone, but you doubted it. You were only safe for the time being, though it was merely borrowed time.

You stared up at Batman’s form fearfully. From this angle, he was just as frightening to you as he was to the men behind you. You tore your eyes from his daunting form, searching around the room for some way to escape, but with your busted legs, you knew you wouldn’t be able to get far.

You were helpless.

“This is between me and Joker,” it was a ruthless growl that had you shrinking back along with the goons behind you.

At the resounding silence, Robin let out a frustrated cry.

“COME OUT AND FACE US, YOU COWARD,” Robin snarled, drawing his sword in an instant. You gazed at it in amazement as he unsheathed the impressive weapon and held it with a certain elegance that couldn’t be portrayed in any of the comic books you’d read.

“Haven’t you ever heard of the little old saying, ‘be careful what you wish for?’” Joker drawled as he theatrically circled your form, skipping and hopping once every few steps or so in a jerky, disturbing manner that had you shrinking away. “Oh, no, no, no. That won’t do. You’re the main event, sweetheart!”

You shook your head, closing your eyes as he leaned in close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from his face. You could smell the rancid sourness and gunpowder that emanated from his cackling form. Before you could blink, he battered you with the front, then the back of his hand, forcing your eyes open as he gripped your cheeks in a way that caused your mouth to pout outward comically.

“Look at me, look at me,” he whined in an eerie, childlike voice. “LOOK AT ME,” he growled demonically. Your eyes shot open at the intensity of his voice to face his gritted, yellowed teeth. “Good. Good, girl,” he giggled hauntingly at your terrified form before socking you squarely in the eye.

You cried out at the intense blow that had you falling to the floor from sheer force. Once he was satisfied with your pained state, he turned his attention back to Batman.

You knew you probably had a black eye and bruised cheeks already from the hits, but if the vigilante didn't intervene soon, you knew it was about to get so much worse. Fast.

“See, this is good. We’re all here,” he started jovially. Joker knelt next to you before grabbing your face to haul you back into a kneeling position. You felt like a doll as you allowed him to lead your body where he saw fit. You hated it.

You hated him.

Mostly, you hated yourself for not having the energy to fight back.

He shook your face once more before releasing his clenched grip to stand and walk around whimsically again like he hadn’t just beat the shit out of you. “Celebrating, drinking expensive wine,” he continued on as if he was giving a speech, motioning one of the waiters with a tray filled with champagne flutes forward.

They slowly walked toward him as he continued to beckon them obnoxiously. He smirked as worried murmurs settled across the room before grabbing the one closest to the waiter's body with a slow intensity.

You knew Joker was unpredictable, but this? This was just psychotic.

He held up the glass toward Batman in a calm, silent cheer before taking a sip.

You turned your attention back to Robin, who was busy sneaking toward you at the Joker’s brief lapse in attention, but it wasn't enough time. Joker opened his eyes just in time to see Robin nearly reaching you. The psychotic man didn’t hesitate to throw the filled glass of champagne directly at you. Robin was quick to take the hit as he pulled you into his arms and let his back take the brunt of the assault.

He hadn’t spoken since drawing his sword, but you didn’t have time to wonder why.

"You see," Joker’s henchmen were on you in seconds, savagely swinging haymakers Robin’s way to distract him from you. Meanwhile, Batman had also been swarmed as he tried to advance on Joker, only to be clubbed over the head by multiple henchmen wielding baseball bats. “It’s best I get what I want, Batsy. Or do you really just want to see her struggle as much as I do?”

As soon as he finished speaking, he rushed to your struggling form, producing a wicked-looking knife. You immediately stilled in the sea of your captor’s grasps. Multiple men tugged you back and forth, brushing the sockets of your arms as they caused the Joker’s intentional grip on the blade to slide back and forth against the delicate skin on your neck.

Blood steadily seeped from the stinging wound like a curtain of red. You hoped that, if this light cut into your skin had shed this much blood, that he wouldn’t go any deeper.

“Drop her,” Joker said suddenly and the goons obliged. You wailed in pain as you were dropped into the small pool of your blood that had collected onto the floor below you. He pulled you back up by your hair, causing you to wince at the stinging that spread across your scalp as he brought the knife to its point just below the stinging cut you felt on your throat. “That’s better, now. Isn’t it, sweetie?”

You gulped and instantly regretted it as the blade sunk into the new spot he'd picked on your neck.

“ANSWER ME,” he screeched at the same time he tugged your hair again, forcing your head upward to look at him. You winced as you met his crazed eyes through your exhausted, half-lidded ones. His hits had really taken it out of you. That, coupled with the steady blood loss, you could hardly keep your eyes focused. “Pathetic.” He ran the blade up your throat in a swift, searing act of violence, leaving more blood in its path.

You struggled to take in air, though you knew he’d only grazed your skin. If he cut any deeper, you’d be toast.

He yanked your hair backward harshly, startling you from your brief thoughts, as he used the momentum of the motion to send you sprawling to the hardwood floor. Your body landed with a resounding thump as the back of your head made contact with the brutal surface below.

“Inject her,” Joker said monotonously, waving his henchmen on as if he'd become bored with the whole ordeal. You were swooped up again before you could regain your bearings, watching Robin desperately clawing in your direction, but he had too many men on him to allow him to come to your rescue. You were held in a similar fashion you’d been in the kitchen as a goon stepped forward and held out a briefcase to Joker’s giddy form, who danced at the sight. He unlocked the case to produce a bulky syringe filled with toxic-looking green liquid, “Number one outta mean something good, eh, Bats?”

You struggled at your human restraints while simultaneously looking for Jason and Tim in the crowd, but they’d moved from where you’d last seen them. Your stomach sank. Regardless of the gala guests, you felt completely alone in the crowded ballroom.

Your whole chest and bodice were slick and stained from the waterfall of crimson that steadily gushed from your gashes. You tried not to panic and to stay alert, but your head grew fuzzier with each passing moment.

All your injuries were mounting as your original adrenaline from the kitchen had worn thin, if not vanishing entirely. You braced yourself for what was to come next.

A/N: aint no party like a wayne party, right? oof

[next] || masterlist || pinned || ways to support

#reader x jason todd #damian wayne x reader #reader x roy harper #reader x jason todd x roy harper #my fic: the art of rehabilitating snowbirds #my fic:ars

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carmeliawrites · 4 months

Text

Magnus Silvera #2

Last time I said that I was investigating the dissapearence of my Great Grandmother, and my Father.

That was a lie, kindof.

See the way I got to know about the broadcast was from a diary that I found in the the Curator's Office the other day, Which Apparently belonged to my father.

See my father, he disappeared one day i suppose. took a train to Lahore, and was never heard from again, or that's what my mother says atleast. Either way from the beginning he talks about Augustine, and has notes about her broadcasts. He also transcribed most of the broadcasts that he could get his hands on.

Now what was I doing in the Curator's Office? Which was restricted to everyone except the head curator of the archives... wellll you see i recently got a mail that the Board had chosen me to be the next Head Curator, so I "borrowed" a key from the Curator's assignment, and went in.

It was quite beautiful actually, no ,The Office was incredibly Beautiful. it'd be an understatement to call it an office it was more of a monument.

the ceiling was domed, somehow, considering we have no domes visible from outside in the archival building, and had Muslim Motifs in Navy Blue decorating it all from the bottom of the dome all the way to the top.

The walls, oh the walls, They were so beautifully made, I wasn't sure if it was wallpaper or not but it was achingly beautiful. I'd even call it ghastly. It was a light shade of red, again, with repeating muslim patterns, which kindof reminded me of Samarkand, but that's off the point.

The floor was gorgeous too, made of marble tiles but having inlaid designs from the Quran.

there were a few windows to the outside which were European in design seeing as they had a sharp pointed arch with Christian stained glass which was the only thing that gave away the fact that this was not created by a Muslim ruler. The Whole thing Honestly reeked of Colonialism.

There was a desk in the middle of the room, surrounded by cupboards and almirahs desecrating this great hall, all of them Horrifyingly painful to look at considering the rest of the hall and on it was a book.

I checked the cupboards, the drawers and found them all to be locked. Now I see why the curator let me in, I could go inside but everything inside was locked up so i couldn't really find much, except for the book, a perfectly ordinary book with no distinguishing features except that it was a book. In a highly secured room. In which everything was locked.

He wanted me to find it didn't he.

I opened the book, and on the first page it said, "Journal of Michael Silvera", Oh fuck this guy.

Michael Silvera was my father. Frankly disgraceful to call him father, a world class bitch would be more fitting. he was a shitty father, who I knew barely about, he spent his last, and my first years spent and tied up in work, and then saunters off to fucking Lahore. and then proceeds to dissapear without a trace, or a call, or any belongings left to my mother. Leaving her to fend for herself.

But bring the total badass that she is she continued on, getting me an education and then I grew up and stuff.

But I stole it anyway, I wanted to know what the fuck was going through my father's brain when he was disregarding his family. I went back to my apartment, and began reading.

--x--

#desi writing #writer on tumblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #writing prompts #writing #magnus silvera #augustine silvera #michael silvera #searching for augustine #carmeliawrites

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hcmmersnstrings · 4 months

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[ dylan o'brien, cis-male, he/him ] — whoa! DAKOTA LOVE just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for TWO YEARS, working as a/an ELECTRICIAN AND PART TIME BARTENDER. that can’t be easy, especially at only 31 YEARS OLD. some people say they can be a little bit APATHETIC and TEMPERMENTAL , but i know them to be CALM and NON-JUDGEMENTAL. whatever. i guess i’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to LOWER MANHATTAN! — (binx, 30, mst, she/her, n/a)

vibes and wanted plots

Name: Dakota Love Nicknames: None Age: Thirty One Date of birth: March 21 1993 Birth place: Stearns, KY Occupation: Electrician and part time bartender Romantic/sexual orientation: heterosexual // heteroromantic

ABOUT.

Aesthetics: the cherry of a cigarette burning against a dark night sky, palm calluses, guitar string scars, smoky bar rooms, low lit rooms, steady heartbeat, tattered jeans, honey thick drawls, the pain of wasted potential, the promise that the sun will rise again

HISTORY:

tw: drugs/drug use cw, prison sentence mention, poverty

Poor boy from a poor family in a poor town, there weren't a lot of options for Dakota to succeed. His mother was a young, single mom with a string of partners that filtered in and out of his life from a young age.

One of these suitors stuck and when he was still relatively little his mother moved them across state lines to West Virginia to be with this man. He worked in the mines so he wasn't around a lot, but when he was he was a musician.

Dakota was happy to be taught different instruments, playing along while his mother harmonized. It fostered his love for the arts. But the happiness was short lived as it always was, and eventually his mother split from this man and moved them into another town.

He would be hardpressed to remember a time his mother was sober. Especially after the move she worked multiple jobs and found multiple ways to just "take the edge off". This often left Dakota to the wayside and to fend for himself.

As he got older and realized his mother was unreliable, he took up his own odd jobs to bring money back into the house, often squirreling it away where his mother couldn't find it. Eventually, he dropped out his freshman year of high school so he could work full time as a mechanic.

They eventually moved back to Kentucky and he found work and so did she and she was sober for a bit but true to the pattern it didn't last. Trailer park to trailer park or run down apartment to rundown apartment, Dakota was still a teen and like all teens you can't stop curiosity from blossoming. Girls and late nights and smoking in the back of his pick up and drinking and being places he had no business going, there was no conductor for this train and it was off the rails.

Despite his wishes for his future, he fell down the same path as his mother and it happened before he could even realize it. At first it was just teenage experimenting. Dakota is trustworthy and this much is evident in the way he interacts with people. The folks he worked with asked him to help sell and in turn he got to take home a cut and some of his own supply. It was all an escape from the reality that was his life and the shitshow that waited for him at home. Whether it was his mother being erratic or the men he brought home picking fights with him, for a little bit, he didn't have to deal with it all. And the money was good. And the excitement of being somewhere new, of doing something dangerous was even better.

A whirlwind of years and youth lost he landed himself in prison with multiple charges including arson. He'll be the first to tell you that sure, it sucked ratting out people he thought were his friends, and sure it sucked realizing it was just more of his life lost, but what really sucked? What really made him go crazy? The withdrawal. It was hell. Worse than hell. Clarity eventually came and he settled into his new life, counting down the days until his releaes.

Dakota has never been a bad kid, just an angry one. With good behavior, he was allowed to take vocational classes and classes to get his GED. He was also allowed to join an arts group and play his music or sing in the choir. All these points earned him an early release.

He had no fucking clue what to do when he got out. Sure, he had training, but no one wanted to hire him. And all the people he knew in Kentucky still had the same problems. A brief relapse, a call from an old friend he'd met years prior brought him to New York. She let him crash on her couch and watch her apartment while she traveled for work. She put him in touch with unions and eventually all these efforts landed him a new job. A new career. A new start.

He lives in Lower Manhattan, his friend spends most of her time away so she just let him take over the second bedroom and he just pays her a portion of rent that goes towards her mortgage. Dakota toes a thin line with his drug and alcohol use, never quite falling off the edge but having a habit of dipping his toe into the water and seeing how long he can hold it.

FAST FACTS:

He still sings and plays guitar, fiddle, piano, and the banjo.

Was incarcerated when he was twenty one and released when he was twenty seven. He likes to spend his time trying to catch up on all the events he missed. He has a list of movies he's currently trying to work through.

A handyman at heart, Dakota picked up a lot of skills working from such a young age. If you need something fixed, he can probably figure it out for you.

Loves to cook but cannot bake to save his life. He will not make you breakfast in bed as he would probably burn it.

Is allergic to cats but loves them.

Hasn't spoken to his mother in years.

#boroughs.intro #just kinda tagging everything to be safe!!#drug use cw #drug use mention #tw drug use #tw incarceration #tw prison #tw addiction #addiction mention #tw alcohol

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princeescaluswords · 2 years

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I suspect they like Stiles because he understands and appreciates Derek’s many good qualities, such as when he lied to Scott about his phone so the Argents would murder Derek for them / Why do you keep lying Escalus? Stiles explicitly told Scott "you probably lost it while you two were fighting". Either you are as dumb as Scott or you are purposely twisting canon to prop Scott up at Stiles and Derek's expense and to bash the neurodivergent hero you obsessively hate out of jealousy

I love it when you show your complete ignorance of the television show we are trying to discuss. As a source for those trying to follow along, I point out this script for Formality (1x11).

Now, in Act 2, Scott is tearing apart his room trying to find his phone. Stiles is watching him do so and they have this dialogue.

Scott: Not if Peter's going after Allison to find Derek! I can't protect her on my own. Which means we either find Derek first - just - just help me! Stiles: You know, you probably lost it when you two were fighting. You remember that, when he was trying to kill you, after you interrupted him trying to kill Jackson? Are you starting to see a pattern of violent behavior here?

Scott: He wasn't going to kill anyone. And I'm not letting him die. Stiles: Could you at least think about letting him die? For me? What?

That's the full dialogue. Stiles does indeed say what you quoted, but he also accompanies that with some very negative things to say about Derek. Bear that in mind, for what you failed to remember (or you didn't even try) is that this isn't the only time the topic of Scott's phone comes up. We move down to Act 6 of the same episode, with Peter confronting Stiles over Lydia's savaged body.

Peter: Tell me how to find Derek Hale. Stiles: I don't know that. How would I know that? Peter: Because you're the clever one, aren't you? And because deception has a particularly acrid scent, Stiles. Tell me the truth - Or I will rip her apart. Stiles: Look - Look, I don't know, okay? I sw - I swear to god, I have no idea. Peter: Tell me! Stiles: Okay, okay, okay, look, I - I think he knew - Peter: Knew what? Stiles: Derek, I think he - I think he knew he was gonna be caught. Peter: By the Argents? Stiles: Yeah. Peter: And? Stiles: When they were shot, he and Scott - I think he took Scott's phone. Peter: Why? Stiles: They all have GPS now. So if he still has it and if it's still on - you can find him.

So if you think that Stiles wasn't lying to Scott during Act 2, tell me when Stiles got new information during Acts 3, 4, or 5 that could have led Stiles to believe Derek stole Scott's phone. Tell me when Stiles had time during Acts 3, 4, or 5 -- the Winter Formal -- to figure out that Derek must have stolen Scott's phone or why he would even be thinking of what exactly happened to Scott's phone.

There isn't. I think it is very reasonable to say that Stiles suspects that Derek took Scott's phone in that first scene, but because he wanted Scott to be safe, he withheld that information, which is a lie of omission. He only admits his suspicion when Peter uses a threat to Lydia to force him to do so.

The anons twisted interpretations come from a premise with a fundamental flaw -- that the true conflict in Teen Wolf was between Scott and the Hales, with Stiles in the middle. But Stiles was never in the middle -- he was always on Scott's side.

#scott mccall #stiles stilinski #teen wolf fandom problems #scott mccall defense squad #asshole anon

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rafescoke · 3 years

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i’m sooo obsessed with your entire page holy moly. if you’re taking requests can i get kinda an angst one where the reader is with jj and finds out him and kie have been doing stuff behind her back, and the rest of the group knew the whole time? so she ends up getting close to rafe and hanging out with his friends so it eventually ends up with rafe x reader??? sorry that’s so long lol pls never stop writing, i love your fics too much <3

All I Ask ; Rafe Cameron

masterlist

#Part 1

#Part 2

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader x JJ Maybank

Summary: Reader finds herself in the arms of her best friend’s brother after finding her boyfriend cheating on her

Warnings: Cheating, substance, mentions of sex, jealous Rafe, JJ & Kie being an asshole

A/N: Thank you so much for the amount of love I received from my last two works! It has been so overwhelming and I love each one of you with all my heart <3

p.s, my request box is always open! Send random ideas and I’ll turn them into a fic <33

p.p.s, so sorry if this isn’t my best work :(

“Come on, (Y/N), don’t be a party pooper!”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes as she pulled her best friend aside from all the commotion, “Sarah. I’m serious. I feel like he’s cheating on me.”

“He’s not!” Sarah groaned, and when (Y/N) gave her a look, she sighed. “I’m serious. He loves you too much, okay? Look, tomorrow’s your birthday, right? I’m sure JJ’s just ignoring you as a part of your birthday surprise.”

(Y/N) wanted to believe her so bad, but she couldn’t deny the strong feeling growing inside her. Ever since a month ago, JJ wasn’t there for her like always. When she tried to hold him in the van or at the Chateau, he would flinch and scoot away from her. She didn’t know what to do anymore.

“Look-” Sarah cupped her face, her eyes boring into hers. “I promise that he’s not cheating on you. Can you please let this go? How about you go and find him, have a smoke, and then come back to me with the verdict?”

(Y/N) hummed back in response, thinking about what Sarah had just told her. When she first moved to Obx from the city 4 years ago, she had been spending most of her time with the other kooks. When she bumped onto JJ one particular evening while he was too busy mowing down her lawn, that was when most of her happiest days started.

(Y/N) made her way towards the far end of the beach where JJ and the other pogues were hanging out, her feet lightly patting against the hot sand. (Y/N) took a deep breath when she saw the love of her life laughing on a log, and quickly walked towards him.

“Hey,” she started, sitting on the empty space beside him. JJ shifted, giving her more space, and muttered a quick ‘hi’ back. He offered her a beer, to which she shook her head to, and he shrugged before downing the whole content.

“You’ve got some beer here,” (Y/N) said, leaning forward to wipe the tiny droplet on his chin. JJ hurtled backwards as if on cue, and quickly wiped the stain with the back of his hand. (Y/N) stared at him, being caught off guard, but decided to not create any drama.

“You really don’t have to do that,” (Y/N) muttered, wrapping her cardigan over her tighter. The cold night air swept over her, causing her hair to fall over her shoulders. She didn’t bother to fix it as she watched JJ scoffed, the fire in front of them reflecting on the surface of his blue eyes.

“Do what? Wipe my mouth? Come on, (Y/N), it’s really not that big of a deal,” JJ sighed. He didn’t even bother to hold her hand, to reassure her that it’s really okay, and instead he continued his conversation with John B about some kind of a movie. She noticed Pope looking at their way, but he quickly turned to look at the waves when she returned his gaze.

“Do you want to smoke?” she tried again, this time with her hands on his lap. He didn’t move, and (Y/N) took this as a good sign, her heart fluttering happily.

It’s progress.

“You sure?” he asked, fumbling with his back pocket to reach for his extra blunt. When he grasped the rolled up herbs between his fingers, he handed it to her, smiling when she scooted closer. He lighted it for her, watching her took a deep huff before blowing the smoke.

“That’s good?” he asked before taking a blow for himself. He felt his heavy mind getting lighter, the weight he has been holding since forever slowly lifting into the air. He laughed, and turned to look at the state of the girl beside him.

“Thank you, baby,” (Y/N) smiled, this time with her head on his shoulder. She saw Pope looking at them with some kind of a heavy look again, but just like before, he turned away before she could ask him anything.

“Pope?”

Pope’s attention from the crashing waves turned completely to (Y/N), his eyes wide and his mind panicking. His eyes glanced to the blonde boy beside her for a second, but it settled back to her. “Yes?”

“You’re okay? You keep looking at me. Is there anything that you want to tell me?”

“Me?” he pointed to his chest, and when he saw the look on JJ’s face, he laughed, making an action of swatting his hands against the air. “Oh no. I was just thinking about something else. I guess I involuntarily looked at you.”

(Y/N) laughed with him, her head still on JJ’s shoulder, her eyes slowly squinting against the glowing fire that seemed to be too bright. She turned to whisper to JJ, “Can we go home?”

“Tonight? But It’s Bonfire night. We can’t leave yet,” he protested, glancing at both of his friends for help. Pope, not wanting to spend anymore time with them anymore, quickly stood up from his seat and walked towards the main space of the party.

“I’m gonna go with Pope, okay? Find Sarah. Go and talk to her? I’ll call you later,” JJ quickly added, standing up from his seat, stirring (Y/N) from her previous position. She sighed, her head still woozy, but she didn’t want to think about the possibility of him cheating on her.

He wanted her first, it’s just not possible for him to suddenly lose feelings for her. The countless times he would tell her that he loves her, that she’s the only girl he will ever mark as his, and now nothing?

She groaned, kicking the sand, all while the muffled music thrumming against her eardrums. She turned to look at John B, the only guy left with her, and opened her mouth to say something.

“Do you see the problem, John B?” she asked, her voice slow. When he didn’t reply, she sighed again, this time standing up from her seat to return to the ongoing party. “This is exactly the fucking problem.”

She didn’t understand; why is everyone treating her differently? What did she do? She sacrificed almost everything to be apart of their group, including her relationship with her kook friends. At that moment, she longed for her bedroom, where she knew she will be totally safe, all cuddled up with Netflix to enjoy.

“If it isn’t the princess,” a voice said from behind her back, and (Y/N) rolled her eyes before turning to look at the source. The tall figure of Rafe Cameron loomed over her, and (Y/N) tried to block his scent of cigarette and expensive cologne. She never really stopped liking his smell.

The Camerons and her family are business partners, and that was the core reason for her family to move to Obx in the middle of July 4 years ago. Meeting Sarah and her siblings for the first time, she couldn’t deny the strong attraction she felt towards the oldest sibling, but she had thought of it as nothing more than a silly crush and tried to focus more on her relationship with a certain blonde boy living on the other side of the island.

“You can take a picture, it’ll last longer that way,” he smiled, and (Y/N) groaned when she could hear the amused tone lacing in his gruff voice. She made to walk away, but was halted by Rafe’s fingers around her wrist.

“Come on, I was just playing. That’s not the way to treat an old friend,” he laughed, letting go of her. He looked around her, noticing her odd behaviour, and suppressed his smile. “Where’s the boyfriend?”

“I don’t know,” she finally replied, and returned the gesture of looking around him. “Where’s the girlfriend?”

Rafe laughed, throwing his head back as his hair messily slicked to the back. “Girlfriend? I don’t do girlfriends. Come on, (Y/N), you know that.”

“Not a surprise,” she said in a singing tone, giving her attention towards the dancing bodies next to the speaker. “Look, Rafe, just say whatever you want to say to me, okay? I’m tired of trying to figure out what people wanted to say to me.”

“I just want to make a conversation,” he shrugged, chugging down his beer before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His actions reminded her of JJ, and she quickly looked away when she felt a pang of hurt across her heart.

“Uh-oh, I know that look,” Rafe said, tugging her chin to force her to look at him. (Y/N) grunted, feeling his cold skin against hers, but she let him stare into her eyes before quickly pulling away. “Yeah. It’s that look you’ll put when you’re worried about something. What’s up?”

“Rafe, it’s really nothing,” she sighed, scooting away from the boy. She looked around again, and her eyes landed on a certain blonde boy, and she could feel her heart soaring up again. Rafe’s eyes followed her gaze, and when he saw JJ, he turned to look away.

“I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Rafe replied, already making his way towards the keg station. (Y/N) noticed the change in his behaviour, seeing how cold he turned, but decided not to mention it. She was being cold towards him first, so she guessed it was fair for him to be acting that way.

Rafe didn’t understand how blind she could be. Couldn’t she notice the pattern of the girls he fucked? How they all looked so similar to her?

He scoffed, sipping from his red cup as he watched her walk towards the boy that stole her from him. Everything was going perfect; they were hanging out almost every day; just her and Rafe, either it was in his swimming pool or (Y/N)’s hot tub. When her father had hired JJ Maybank to mower his lawn, that was when everything went downhill.

“Cameron,” a voice greeted from beside him, and when he turned to look at the figure, he expressed a sly smirk.

One more person that looked like her.

. . .

JJ’s phone was beside her.

She kept telling herself no, that she should trust him since they are in a relationship, but her brain was yelling for her to go through his phone.

He’s cheating on you.

She groaned, unable to contain herself anymore as she grabbed his phone, looking around briefly before typing his passcode.

The phone vibrated in her hands as she failed to guess his passcode, and she frowned before the screen. It had been her birthday’s date, so why wouldn’t it open? She tried again with their anniversary date, and again, was met with the same fate.

“What the fuck?” she said to no one in particular, and sighed before trying out random numbers. Lastly, she pressed all 1, not thinking much of it and already accepting her defeat. She exclaimed in happiness when his home screen appeared with his background a picture of a dog.

(Y/N) frowned again, remembering how it used to be a picture of them, but decided to not question it as their picture had been replaced by a dog instead of something else. She went through his Instagram, scroling down the many direct messages, through his Imessages; where he texts the pogues a lot and through his Snapchat, only finding their private pictures in his ‘my eyes only’.

She released the breath she didn’t realise she was holding, shutting the phone off and letting it lay in its previous position. She smiled, secretly cursing at herself for ever doubting JJ. He must’ve been busy with his life, just-

Ding!

Involuntarily, (Y/N) picked up the phone and watched as Kie’s name appeared. She typed in his passcode quickly, trying to see what she needs so that she could try and help her with anything in case if it’s urgent. Her heart stopped for a minute when she saw her text.

Kie: You’re sleeping with her tonight?

Why would she even text him that?

(Y/N) sat up straighter, her fingers gliding across the screen in a swift motion.

wdym?

She watched as the typing signal appeared, biting the insides of her cheeks. She looked at the direction of the toilet again, hearing the blonde boy humming to a Nirvana song. She looked at the screen again.

Kie: You promised me you would be with me tonight

Kie: Just us two

Oh my god.

She could feel the hot tears coming in, but her bathroom door creaked open, so she threw the phone back to its initial position and cleared her throat, looking to the ceiling and randomly muttering words to herself.

“Huh?” JJ asked, looking at the direction she pointed. He saw nothing, and looked back to her.

“I said white’s not the color anymore. I think I’m changing it to grey. What do you think?” She asked, feeling her throat hurting. She cleared her throat again as JJ stared at the ceiling one more time, his face all scrunched up.

“I think grey’s okay?” He said, but it was more to a question. He took his phone and sat beside her, shielding his screen from her. She watched him from the corners of her eyes, silently interpreting his strange demeanor.

She cursed when it finally hit her; she hadn’t delete her text to Kie.

She bit her lips, curling her toes and randomly tracing circles on her lap. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t see clearly, she couldn’t think.

How could she forgot to delete that one, single text?

“I have to go,” JJ stood up, slipping his phone into his pocket. (Y/N) looked at him, ready to ask if she could follow, but halted her action when he put a hand up.

“I’m seeing John B. Something about, um, Sarah stuff. Just me and Pope. The boys,” he muttered, clearly trying to tell her that he wouldn’t be bringing her to the Chateau. (Y/N) nodded, feeling her heart sank, because she finally understood everything;

The glances he would give to Kie in the HMS Pogue, the brief moments where he would put his hands around Kie’s waist when he tries to slip in between her and someone, the flirtatious laugh he’ll emit when she makes a joke - it all made sense.

(Y/N) used to think that it was all just friendly behaviour and how he had known her longer hence it must’ve been normal for best friends to do that. One thing that (Y/N) likes about herself is how she’s able to guess things correctly -

But she had never wanted to be so wrong about something before.

“You’re okay by yourself tonight?”

“Huh?” She finally looked up to him, seeing his blue eyes staring straight into her boring ones. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” he smiled, proceeding towards the open window to exit her bedroom. (Y/N) ‘s father would never give his blessings towards this relationship, so he had to enter and exit his girlfriend’s room through the window.

He hesitated before reaching the seating girl, placing a soft but immediate kiss on her cheeks. (Y/N) smiled weakly in return, not trusting herself to say anything.

How could he?

Ten minutes after his departure, (Y/N) quickly grabbed her father’s car keys before fleeing after a particular black motorcycle. She didn’t even think about turning the car radio on, and her mind was set on only one thing; JJ and Kie.

When she arrived at the Chateau, her fingers trembling and her hair all over the place from the wind while she was driving down the road, forgetting to close the window, she quickly made her way to their usual hanging out place.

Before she could enter the room, Pope’s voice interrupted her actions.

“(Y/N)? What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, his eyes widening. He looked at her palm around the doorknob, and let out a nervous laugh. “You’re looking for JJ? He’s not here.”

She gets it now.

“Pope, I know,” was all she said before opening the door.

She felt her world shattering right after she was greeted with the sight of Kie on JJ’s lap, running her fingers through his blonde locks while she kissed him tenderly like (Y/N) always did. John B and Sarah were right next to him, cheering him on, but stopped when they finally looked up to the looming figure.

“Oh my god,” Kie exclaimed, pushing herself off JJ and fixing her hair. (Y/N) made a look, disgust filling every inch of her body as she quickly walked away from the scene, not wanting to hear any apologies or explanation.

None of that mattered to her; she just wanted to go home.

“(Y/N)!” she heard him yell, but she exited the Chateau as fast as her feet could take her, not stopping to look at him. She cursed when she couldn’t find the right key to open her door, her fingernails clanking against the metal.

“It was a dare!” JJ said, right after he reached her. He watched as she didn’t pay any attention towards him, still fumbling for her keys. “I swear! The kiss was just a dare!”

“Was the text a dare as well?” she asked, finally putting the right key into the keyhole and stepping into the car. JJ cursed and stepped aside, feeling drained and tired from the screaming.

Of course he didn’t send the ‘wdym’. He never like short forms, only using them when he is in the toilet and typing with his left hand. Why didn’t he realised this sooner?

“I’m sorry,” he said, but before he could say anything else, the girl drove straight towards the exit, away from him.

The worst part of all wasn’t about not having a chance to explain himself to get out of the mess he made, but it was when he saw the pained look on her face.

“Fuck!” he yelled, kicking a stone and making his way back towards the Chateau.

(Y/N) fingers scrolled down the many contacts in her phone as she tried to focus on the road simultaneously, and finally stopping when she reached the letter ‘R’ contacts.

She tapped on the first name under the R letter, putting the phone call on speaker and placing her phone on her lap. She shuddered, suddenly remembering the way she had found JJ and Kie in, but shook her head when his voice filled the atmosphere.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Rafe.”

add yourself to the taglist!

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagines #rafe x reader #rafe cameron smuts #drew starkey #drew starkey x reader #outerbanks #outer banks #outerbanks imagines #outerbanks x reader #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank imagines

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angelisverba · 4 years

Text

thinkin’ bout you

in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and he’s too shy to ask for her number)

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...

author’s note: i’ve been working on this forever. not to pick fav’s but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, you’ll see!!

* * * * * *

When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nan’s house, he would often pick the latter.

He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat.

So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harry’s tastes weren’t what could be considered ‘average’ or ‘normal’ or ‘straight’ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society.

Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful ‘joking’ comments on how ‘peculiar’ his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room.

Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldn’t judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck.

Long ago, he’d stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin.

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit.

Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harry’s taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisse’s Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.

Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadn’t been in so long. Harry’s imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips.

The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had.

He changed them the week after that.

On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldn’t leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didn’t matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didn’t feed him more mango.

The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion). The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didn’t mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere.

For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mum’s cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didn’t mind it.

He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of H’s Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. ‘My wife just had our son, want to see a picture?’ or ‘my boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturday’ and even ‘my sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says ‘congrats you look like Kim Kardashain now’ how ‘bout it?’

Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didn’t like customers that gave flowers as a ‘fuck you’. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadn’t been enough.

However, Harry couldn’t deny that he didn’t love his job, because he did.

When he turned 16, he’d determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldn’t bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a momma’s boy. Harry loved his mother.

Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat.

On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door.

Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be.

And he wasn’t lonely anymore.

Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled ‘single’, but his heart couldn’t be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company.

She was the complete opposite of every girl he’d ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didn’t judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had… slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants, and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest.

She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, “it smells lovely in here!”

Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a lover’s caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupid’s-bow-struck fool replied with, “thank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything you’d like,” and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel.

But even then, it wouldn’t matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldn’t care because he was half gone for her already.

“In that case,” she smiled, and Harry’s heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. “I just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.”

He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a ‘blush’, but he didn’t know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from it’s bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.

But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because he’d stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, “there’s nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?”

He hoped that the meaning of his words wasn’t caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and ‘loser’-like.

When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy.

Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadn’t wet his wick in so long, and the interaction he’d had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didn’t even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation.

Right?

Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of baby’s breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasn’t the last one. He’s been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadn’t remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy.

Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupid’s arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet he’d made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table.

*********

A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so… struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in it’s purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon.

Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants.

Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harry’s passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harry’s favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny.

He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldn’t have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didn’t even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could.

The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he must’ve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again.

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

Harry donned his favorite pair of flared trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin.

He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.

A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class.

He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ‘nice boy’ along with ‘when are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?’. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go.

In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of ‘welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment!’, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince.

It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didn’t know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, ‘is she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.’ His second thought, however, was ‘how could someone be that beautiful?’. The third was something along the lines of ‘all my yoga has gone to shit, and I’m okay with that’.

He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, love!” His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasn’t sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence.

The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said.

“What was that?” He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement.

“The girl. You like her?” She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Don’t lie to me, I recognize that look. I’ve given and received that look many times throughout my life.”

The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible.

“I’ve got no idea what y’talking about,” he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didn’t hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked.

“Next time I come in,” Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, “I hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Don’t let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.” Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didn’t.

“Take care, Edna. And don’t forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,” he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited.

There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t! He didn’t want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible.

“Hello,” he wanted so badly to add ‘love’ at the end of his greeting. “Are y’finding everything a’right?” He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another.

At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harry’s husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that it’s just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart.

“M’s sorry,” he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, “didn’t mean to scare y’love.” This time he can’t restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent.

“It’s okay,” she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. “I want to buy these flowers.”

God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy.

She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, “Do you sell vases by any chance?” The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, “I had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.”

Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. He’s quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. She’s looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, “I’m rambling aren’t I?” she murmurs bashfully.

“No, no it’s a’right. I can look in the back for something if y’like?” He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the ‘back’ he mentioned. “Did y’want anything in particular?”

“Oh, I don’t wanna be a troubling customer!” She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didn’t want to be.

“Y’not a bother, love. M’promise. I’ll go look f’you. What color did y’have in mind?” He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her.

His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer.

“Something pink, please. If you have it.” That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didn’t owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning.

Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so… so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him.

But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked.

“‘Course,” he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. “Be righ’ back.”

Harry stalked off to ‘the back of the store’. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home.

His home.

Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of ‘saw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy it’, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didn’t help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture).

The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasn’t quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too.

A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didn’t think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didn’t want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did.

He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number.

Listen, I really like y’and would like to have y’number?”

Do y’wanna have my number so we can go out sometime if y’feel like it?”

“Is it alright if I get y’number so we can go out sometime?”

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

Nothing’s making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasn’t a ‘good time’. This was… a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room.

Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didn’t want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didn’t make much noise.

The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her.

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, “I’ve got the last one,” he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her.

“Oh my god!” She said, “It's so pretty!” The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harry’s presented her with. She’s got a smile on her face, and he can’t help but think, ‘wow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lily’.

There’s a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a ‘flower language chart’ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads ‘my love is pure’.

She asked him if it wasn’t too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added “I’ve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get here” just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry can’t keep his eyes locked on hers because she’s staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm. The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and he’s tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow.

“I guess I was right in waiting then,” she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up.

His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didn’t? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldn’t stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.

Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, “What d’you mean, love?”

“I was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,” the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf.

“Why would y’get in y’own head about coming to m’flower shop, hmm? It’s hardly that intimidating,” he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, “I don’t bite, either.”

And he hopes that his wistfulness isn’t meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. “I know! I know, it’s just that I can’t help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.”

Harry could coo at her right now. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, “That I get, too. But y’doing just fine with me, love.”

Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, it’s impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three.

“I thought I had cash on me today,” something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harry’s become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. “I guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,” she said.

“It is pretty easy to get lost in there, isn’t it?” He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.

Y/n.

Y/n, y/n, y/n.

This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret that’s worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harry’s heart is soaring with a closure he didn’t know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person ‘you know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessica’, because their looks and style just didn’t match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harry’s brain was thinking. The name was her.

“What?” Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“No! No, no.” Harry’s careful beam simmered down from it’s previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. “I just think y’name is pretty thas’ all.”

He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck. Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements.

Like dropping her card when she piped up again.

Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?” Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that she’d bury her fingernails into her palm.

“I think y’very pretty.” He whispered back. He can’t even bear to look at her in fear that he’s totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy they’re buying flowers that they’re pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses “the way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventies”? Jesus, fuck. He must’ve looked ridiculous.

Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, “welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who… was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that. Now please say it again’? Was he… dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-

“Thank you... what’s your name?” Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harry’s. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a bird’s wing.

“Harry. M’name’s Harry.” This time, he didn’t hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”

She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram.

Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,” she added.

He’s cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadn’t scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he can’t say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didn’t have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasn’t sullied with bouts of bad timing, “thank y’love. I like yours, too. You’ll have t’come over sometime and paint mine, yeah?”

Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been too bold, “I’d love too!” With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, “I don’t want to hold you back from a customer for so long. I’ll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.”

The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to ‘closed’ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma.

But he knows that’s unrealistic, and settles with, “it was my pleasure, y/n,” a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), “I’ll be waiting f’your next visit.” His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasn’t receiving back-handed compliments all the time.

He wasn’t superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates.

What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, she’d been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Don’t even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasn’t thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat.

It wasn’t until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store.

***

Harry was having a shitty morning.

Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldn’t make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should.

His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a lover’s caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage.

It almost made him wish that he’d opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead.

He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But… he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance.

He thinks he might know why he’s feeling this way.

While he’s stirring his scrambled eggs, he’s wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people ‘aren’t hungry’ in the mornings, though that’s only because they’ve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isn’t the case with y/n, and that she’s eating the proper three meals a day every day.

And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when he’d woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if she’d ever eaten strawberries like that.

It’s been a week and a half, he still hasn’t seen her, and his heart is yearning.

Harry knows he’s not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides it’s best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldn’t open that day because he didn’t want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says ‘H’s Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!’ followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart.

Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harry’s hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when it’s over, Harry’s sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down.

Cleaning wouldn’t help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.

There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read ‘women are smarter’ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesn’t get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product that’s supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because he’s being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content.

He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owen’s habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. He’s shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but he’d rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that he’s scared y/n off. There’s a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about ‘I've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?’ and it’s not helping his case at all.

It’s no use.

There’s a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isn’t always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isn’t true.

Harry is very… well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never ‘I really like you we should go out sometime’. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when he’d take them to his apartment they’d ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friend’s palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldn’t be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be.

Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didn’t get out of this apartment he’s going to breakdown and cry and there’s no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. They’ve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where… where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didn’t understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him.

A walk, he decided, would help him… air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier.

He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin.

There’s a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesn’t turn back because it’s the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible.

Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. He’s not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, you’ll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then he’ll actually be happy.

Right?

Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. It’s only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasn’t in a shitty mood already. He’s so out of it, that he nearly yells ‘get your hands off my windows!’. He doesn’t though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear ‘they’re closed, darling, let’s go somewhere else’ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips.

That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from it’s place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay.

Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. There’s no intended destination, he’s just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasn’t. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but then…what kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day?

He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeff’s Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. There’s so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look.

“Back again so soon, H?”

Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him ‘H’ in silent homage to his flower shop.

“Y’know I can’t stay away,” Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, “plus, I think I needed s’more of the peppermint essential oils f’my diffuser.”

“‘Course ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!” Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kid’s section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. “Go on and look around then, I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He said.

Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. Macramé potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal.

Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be ‘100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with ‘healing power of crystals’, two of them ‘citrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining ‘garnet guava’. The brand name is something in Italian that he can’t read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and-

“Harry?”

A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart.

His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, “Harry, is that you?”

Is this really happening right now? He’s embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he can’t put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isn’t perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off.

Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove.

“Y/n…” He’s breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, “hi.”

She’s wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. It’s pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.

Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, “f-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.”

It’s quiet again, and they’re both fidgeting. Y/n’s knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that aren’t there. She’s staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he can’t think of anything to say because he’s so paralyzed by the fact that she’s actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence?

While she’s hiking up the ends of her sweater so that they’re situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Aren’t y’cold?”

Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, “a little bit.”

Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isn’t that what he was doing now?

“D’you need a ride home?” He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, “t-that is if y’walking, I wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything like that. S’bit chilly out today.”

Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, “thank you, for the offer, but uhm… it’s my friend’s baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because she’s crazy about the whole ‘no preservatives’ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so I…I’m rambling again.” She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out.

Harry smirked at her antics, but it’s more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle.

“S’alright, love.” He’s still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture that’s collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. “Y’wearing pink. I take it y’want the baby to be a girl?”

“Actually, I know it’s a girl. She told me,” y/n pips, shrugging smugly.

Harry laughs at her this time, “Did you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up f’you.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-”

He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice.

“Y/n, it’s fine. D’ya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if you’d like.” Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door.

“Uh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,” she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesn’t mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like.

He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. “A’right. I’ll wait f’you in the front, then. Take y’time, love.”

“‘Kay,” she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before there’s a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants.

At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance.

“A little love-struck, mate?” He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought.

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.”

Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).

“Yup. I knew it. Have y’asked her out yet?” Niall doesn’t stop to let Harry refute his question, “y’know she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.”

Harry’s head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.

“What? Are you fuckin’ with me right now?” He doesn’t mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is… well, it’s thrilling.

Alarmed, Niall’s hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, “no, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.”

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, “I’m all finished.”

“Already, babe? I’ll rig ya up, then!”

He’s quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niall’s gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to ‘aid with goodnight night’s sleep’, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles.

Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesn’t say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, “there yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!”

Harry’s eyes widen at Niall’s last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.

Y/n, however, quips back with “I’ll be nice only if you’re nice,” and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry who’s smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all.

He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else.

When they’ve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time,

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-”

Harry and y/n giggle at each other,

“You go first.”

“Y’speak first.”

And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, “I’ll drop this off in my friend’s car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.”

Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driver’s side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they can’t mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands.

“I’m sorry about Charlotte,” she said when she got back, “she doesn’t know how to mind her own.”

“A bit like Niall, it seems.” Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. They’re so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. It’s cold, and she’s still this warm?

“Maybe,” her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, “they should meet.”

“Tha’s exactly what I was thinkin’!” His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose.

As they get closer, to H’s Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldn’t have to stand in the cold for so long. He didn’t want her to get sick.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,” she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. “It’s your day off, and I’m bugging you.”

They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her.

He sucked on his teeth, “oh, love, please worryin’ about it. Don’t wanna see that frown on y’pretty face anymore okay?” His confidence was slowly coming back, “s’not my day off, I just didn’t feel like speaking to customers today.”

Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured ‘oh, okay’, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didn’t anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum.

Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from it’s slot, the amount of force in Harry’s push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face.

However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body.

This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything.

He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and it’s almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harry’s semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because he’s being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if she’s okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers.

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and she’s beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes.

He clears his throat (something he’s doing a lot around her) and asks if she’s okay.

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. This was on the floor,” she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?

It’s a notice from the delivery men that said, ‘sorry! We missed you!’ with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning.

Cursing, he takes it from her, “t-thank you. Now how ‘bout those flowers?”

It’s awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harry’s still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesn’t add any fuel to the fire because there’s more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet she’s ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and he’s suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole.

Harry asks her questions on what flowers she’d like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and baby’s breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahlia’s stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesn’t say anything. Not even a nod or a hum.

Eventually, he decides he’s had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention.

“Love, I’m sorry about what happened,” he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, “I know it probably made y’uncomfortable, and I didn’t do much to make the situation better, but I just didn’t wanna see y’fall.”

Y/n’s head is already dipped, so he can’t see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows he’s utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the baby’s breath he’s holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didn’t want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.

He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, “y/n, what’s wrong?”

She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, “you probably think I’m weird now or something after that.”

“No!” Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if he’d been struck, and her words practically had. He can’t believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didn’t even know her that well, yet. “No, no. I don’t think that. Y’tripped, that’s all. Happens to everyone. If anythin’ I’m the weirdo for grabbin’ y’the way I did, and I’m really sorry about it.”

Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, “that was so embarrassing, I should’ve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-”

Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that mean…

His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, “y’think I’m cute?”

She stills with awareness of what she’s just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about ‘don’t rub y’eyes anymore, love, y’gonna hurt’ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists.

There’s a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, “I mean- I- I-”

Harry decides that it’s now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, “can I have y’number?”

A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didn’t start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, “okay.”

He’s elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesn’t waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They don’t share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry can’t believe that he’s finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning.

When she’s finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while he’s tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. He’s fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching.

“Will you text me?” She asked him.

He’s careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick ‘Hi. It’s Harry :)’. He hits send, “until you’re sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She shakes her head, and Harry’s reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while she’s in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. “How much do I owe you?”

Harry waves her off, “it’s on the house.” She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, “y’better go or you’ll be late, love.” He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of baby’s breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center.

She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, “fine, but you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

“Of course,” he smirks, “with dinner, maybe?”

They’re both gleaming at each other now, “okay.” Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, “bye, Harry.”

His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesn’t recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent.

She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling.

Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men.

********

Harry can’t stop thinking.

Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasn’t? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning.

This?

This was different.

As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didn’t stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom.

Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.

His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. That’s how gone he was. That’s how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and they’d been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him.

Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldn’t take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds.

He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface.

The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldn’t wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. It’s so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button.

There’s a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this hard over a girl before, and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, he’s thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If she’s that soft on an external part of her body that’s used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like.

Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When he’s completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut.

He hikes up his knees so that they’re resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images he’s picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/n’s. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock.

Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but what’s turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her.

He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself.

The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be ‘well-endowed’ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after he’d bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harry’s this broken over just the thought of her, then he’s sure he’s going to lose himself beyond recognition after he’s buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm.

Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harry’s pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge.

His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base.

For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/n’s nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. She’d whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, ‘please, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, please’, and he’d speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, ‘c’mon, darling. Give m’another then. Y’want it so bad, yeah? Give me a’fucking ‘nother’, and she’d release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. She’d squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum.

The water in Harry’s tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that he’s closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he can’t contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because he’s right on the edge. He’s about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/n’s face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, ‘please let me cum, Harry. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please let me cum.

He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out.

With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water that’s still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again.

Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, “fuck me,” at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body.

Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...

It’s her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads:

y/n <3 : so… dinner?

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though he’s just completely physically spent himself, there’s something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name.

He couldn’t be happier.

* * * * * *

and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! i’d love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, don’t be afraid to press that reblog button <3333

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