#why is someone else answering my texts????

[hsjazebel]

Meant to be

Summary: Y/N never expected a college party to change anything—until she met Harry. What starts as a quiet connection over books and movies slowly turns into something deeper, proving that some things are simply meant to be.

Wordcount: 32k+ (I have been carried away, sorry 😅)

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day! ♡ Here’s a little story about love finding you when you least expect it. Hope you enjoy it! Let me know what you think!

Masterlist

— — —

The party was louder than she expected.

Y/N wasn’t sure why she had let Charlotte convince her to come. Maybe it was the way her roommate had pleaded, eyes wide with excitement, promising it would be “just for an hour.” Or maybe it was the fact that she had spent too many Friday nights curled up in bed while the rest of campus buzzed with energy.

She had thought, just for once, that maybe she should say yes.

But now, standing in the middle of the crowded living room, she regretted it.

The music thumped against the walls, the bass so deep she could feel it in her ribs. Laughter and voices blurred together in an endless hum, broken only by the occasional shout of someone calling out to a friend. The air was thick—too many people, too much perfume, too much heat.

She tugged at the hem of her sweater, suddenly self-conscious. She wasn’t dressed for this, not like the other girls in shimmering tops and short skirts. She had gone for comfort—jeans, a fitted top, her favorite oversized cardigan—but now she felt out of place, like she hadn’t read the unspoken dress code.

Charlotte had disappeared almost immediately, swallowed up by the crowd, probably off to find that guy she’d been texting. Y/N had tried to follow for a bit, but the sea of people made it impossible to keep up.

Now she was alone, pressed against the wall, holding a drink she hadn’t even sipped.

She exhaled, glancing toward the front door. Maybe she could just leave. Charlotte wouldn’t mind—she was too caught up in her own night.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an open door leading to the balcony.

Without thinking, she headed for it, slipping outside and closing the door behind her.

Cool air washed over her, a welcome contrast to the stifling heat inside. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and leaned against the railing, her fingers wrapping around the cold metal. The city stretched out in front of her, distant lights flickering against the night sky. From here, the noise of the party was muffled, just a dull hum beneath the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence settle over her.

And then—

“You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

The voice was smooth, warm. British.

Her eyes snapped open.

Turning slightly, she found herself face to face with someone she recognized immediately.

Harry Styles.

Her breath hitched, just for a second.

She had seen him around before, of course. It was hard not to notice him. He wasn’t the typical loud, overly confident guy that thrived in these kinds of settings, but he had a presence that made people gravitate toward him anyway. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—calm, collected, always with an air of quiet amusement, like he was in on some inside joke no one else knew about.

Now, standing in front of her in the dim balcony light, he looked impossibly at ease.

His dark curls were pushed back messily, a few strands falling over his forehead. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, framing sharp green eyes that studied her with quiet interest. His loose button-up was unbuttoned at the top, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the intricate tattoos winding down his forearms.

He held a drink casually in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket, like he had all the time in the world.

She swallowed.

“I—uh—yeah,” she finally managed. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”

His lips quirked, as if her answer didn’t surprise him at all. “Figured as much.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And how exactly did you figure that?”

He took a slow sip from his drink before answering. “Well, for one, you’ve been out here for at least five minutes and haven’t checked your phone once.” His eyes flickered toward the door. “And two… you look like you’re trying to disappear.”

She huffed out a quiet laugh. “That obvious?”

Harry smirked. “A little.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The city lights flickered in the distance, and the air between them felt charged—not uncomfortable, but something else entirely.

Then, he shifted slightly, turning more toward her.

“I’m Harry, by the way.”

She let out a small breath, amused. As if she didn’t already know.

“I know,” she admitted, then immediately winced. “I mean—everyone knows who you are.”

Harry chuckled, the sound low and warm. “That’s fair.” He tilted his head slightly. “And you are…?”

“Y/N.”

He repeated it, softer this time, like he was testing the way it felt on his tongue. Then, with a small smile, he extended his hand. “Well, Y/N, it’s nice to officially meet you.”

She hesitated for just a second before slipping her hand into his.

His palm was warm, his grip gentle but firm.

“Nice to meet you too, Harry.”

His fingers lingered a second longer than necessary before he let go.

He leaned his elbow against the railing, glancing at her thoughtfully. “So, if parties aren’t your thing… what would you rather be doing right now?”

She bit her lip, thinking. “Watching a movie, probably.”

Harry’s brows lifted slightly. “Anything in particular?”

She hesitated, then decided to be honest. “A romcom.”

His lips curled into a slow smile. “You like romcoms?”

She nodded. “I grew up watching them. Notting Hill, 10 Things I Hate About You, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days… I know they’re cheesy, but I love them.”

He studied her for a second, then let out a soft chuckle. “Cheesy doesn’t mean bad. Those are classics.”

She tilted her head. “Wait… you actually like them too?”

Harry smirked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Course I do. I mean, have you seen When Harry Met Sally? It’s got my name in it. That’s a sign, don’t you think?”

She laughed—really laughed, for the first time that night.

Harry watched her, his expression softer now, like he was pleased to be the reason behind it.

The conversation flowed easier after that. They debated over the best romcom of all time, exchanged favorite scenes, and argued about which movie had the most unrealistic yet satisfying ending. Somewhere in between, Y/N forgot about the party altogether.

But eventually, her phone buzzed in her pocket—Charlotte, probably looking for her.

She sighed, realizing she had to go.

Harry noticed. “Leaving already?”

“Yeah, I think so.” She hesitated, then, feeling unusually bold, added, “But… maybe next time, I’ll skip the party and just watch a romcom instead.”

His smile was slow, almost knowing. “Maybe next time, you won’t have to watch it alone.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

And as she stepped back inside, disappearing into the noise and the crowd, she couldn’t help but hope—just a little—that this was only the beginning.

———

The next morning, Y/N woke up to the sound of Charlotte’s voice.

“Well, well, well,” her roommate drawled, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “Look who’s finally awake.”

Y/N groaned, burying her face into the pillow. “What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” Charlotte said, walking over and flopping down onto the bed beside her. “And you have some explaining to do.”

Y/N peeked at her through one eye. “Explaining?”

Charlotte grinned, far too awake for this early in the morning. “Don’t play innocent with me. You disappeared at the party. And when I finally found you again, you looked… different.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “So spill.”

Y/N sighed, rolling onto her back. “There’s nothing to spill.”

Charlotte gasped dramatically. “Lies! I saw you talking to Harry Styles.” She poked Y/N’s side. “You—quiet, book-loving, avoider of all social gatherings—somehow ended up alone on a balcony with the most intriguing guy on campus.”

Y/N felt her face heat up. “It wasn’t like that,” she muttered.

Charlotte smirked. “Then what was it like?”

Y/N hesitated. The truth was, she wasn’t exactly sure.

“It was… nice,” she admitted after a moment. “We just talked.”

Charlotte studied her, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Talked? That’s it?”

Y/N nodded.

Charlotte huffed, flopping back against the bed. “You’re impossible.”

Y/N smiled, sitting up and stretching. “Did you at least have fun?”

Charlotte let out a dreamy sigh. “Oh, absolutely. And I might have secured myself a coffee date with Mason.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Mason?”

“You know, Harry’s friend? Tall, kind of scruffy, ridiculously charming?” Charlotte waggled her fingers. “I think we have a connection.”

Y/N laughed softly. “I’m happy for you.”

Charlotte sat up again, her expression turning devious. “And speaking of coffee dates…”

Y/N’s stomach fluttered. “No.”

Charlotte pouted. “Come on! I think he likes you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “We talked for, like, twenty minutes.”

Charlotte shrugged. “That’s plenty of time to make an impression. And if he really likes you, you’ll see him again.”

Y/N didn’t answer. Because the thought had already crossed her mind.

Would she see him again?

———

She did.

Three days later.

At the campus café.

Y/N had been curled up in a corner booth, a warm cup of tea beside her as she flipped through a book for class. The café was quiet, filled mostly with students studying or catching up on assignments. The hum of conversation and the occasional clinking of cups created the kind of atmosphere she loved—calm, steady, familiar.

And then, a shadow fell over her table.

“Y/N.”

She looked up.

And there he was.

Harry Styles, standing beside her table, a cup of coffee in one hand and a curious tilt to his head. He wasn’t wearing his glasses today, but she still recognized the quiet amusement in his eyes.

“Hi,” she said, feeling her heart pick up speed.

His lips twitched. “Mind if I sit?”

She hesitated for only a second before shaking her head. “Go ahead.”

Harry slid into the seat across from her, setting his coffee down. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He smirked, leaning forward slightly. “Alright, I might have hoped I would.”

Her stomach did an embarrassing little flip.

“What are you reading?” he asked, nodding toward the book in her hands.

She glanced down, suddenly self-conscious. “Uh, Wuthering Heights.”

His brows lifted, impressed. “Intense choice.”

She shrugged. “It’s for class, but I like it.”

Harry studied her for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, stretching out comfortably. “So, tell me—are you one of those people who think Heathcliff is romantic, or do you see him for the walking red flag that he is?”

Y/N blinked in surprise. “You’ve read it?”

He smirked. “I have.”

She bit her lip, eyeing him. “And?”

Harry sighed dramatically. “Look, I get the passion, the whole ‘soulmate across time and space’ thing, but let’s be honest—if Heathcliff were around today, he’d be sending late-night ‘u up?’ texts and brooding over his ex’s Instagram posts.”

Y/N let out a surprised laugh. “That is… disturbingly accurate.”

Harry grinned. “And you? Are you a Heathcliff apologist?”

She shook her head. “I think he and Cathy deserved each other—because no one else should have to deal with that level of drama.”

Harry chuckled. “Harsh, but fair.”

There was something about the way he looked at her—curious, amused, like he was genuinely interested in what she had to say. It made her stomach twist in a way she wasn’t used to.

A beat of silence stretched between them.

Then—

“So,” Harry said, breaking the moment, “you never told me your verdict.”

Y/N frowned. “My verdict?”

“The best romcom of all time.”

She smiled, relieved by the lighter topic. “That’s impossible to answer.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright. Then let’s make it simpler. What’s your go-to comfort movie?”

She thought for a second. “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.”

His eyes lit up. “Classic.”

She nodded. “It’s just fun, you know? The whole fake dating thing, the ridiculousness of it all. And Kate Hudson? Iconic.”

Harry smirked. “And the ‘You let it die!’ scene? A cinematic masterpiece.”

Y/N laughed. “Exactly.”

Harry studied her for a moment, then said, “I like that.”

Y/N suddenly felt warm under his gaze. She looked down, tracing the rim of her cup. “What about you?”

Harry pretended to think. “Mmm… Notting Hill.”

She grinned. “Oh, come on. You just like it because of the ‘I’m just a girl’ scene.”

He laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe I like the idea that two people from completely different worlds can still find their way to each other.”

Something about the way he said it made her stomach flutter.

The conversation drifted after that—talk of books, movies, little things that made them both feel at home. The more they spoke, the more Y/N felt that strange, unexpected ease settle between them.

And when she finally glanced at the time, she realized an hour had passed without her even noticing.

“I should probably get to class,” she murmured, closing her book.

Harry nodded, but didn’t look particularly eager to leave.

As she stood, sliding her bag over her shoulder, he tapped his fingers against the table. “So…”

She looked at him expectantly.

He smirked. “Movie night?”

Her heart skipped. “Are you asking me out, Harry Styles?”

His expression was all mischief. “Maybe.”

She bit her lip, pretending to consider. Then, feeling unusually bold, she said, “Okay.”

Harry’s smirk turned into something softer.

“Good,” he said.

And as she walked away, she could feel his eyes on her the whole time.

———

The library was quieter than usual.

Y/N liked it that way. She liked the solitude, the way the world seemed to shrink down to just her and the words on the page. It was calming—predictable.

What she didn’t expect, however, was a voice breaking through the silence.

“Didn’t peg you as the type to hide away in a library for fun.”

She looked up, already knowing who she would see.

Harry stood in front of her table, a familiar smirk on his lips, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He had a notebook tucked under his arm and a coffee in hand, looking completely at ease despite the way his presence sent her heart racing.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully. “And yet, here you are.”

Harry hummed, sliding into the chair across from her. “Touché.”

She watched as he set his coffee down and flipped open his notebook, as if he belonged there—like this was routine.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Are you actually here to study, or are you just bothering me for fun?”

Harry grinned. “Can it be both?”

She huffed, biting back a smile as she returned her gaze to her book. But she could still feel his eyes on her.

A beat passed before he spoke again. “Wuthering Heights, huh? Still brooding over Heathcliff?”

Y/N sighed, looking up. “You do realize I read more than one book, right?”

Harry’s smirk widened. “Do you, now?”

She rolled her eyes and turned the book so he could see the title.

His gaze flickered over the cover before he raised an eyebrow. “White Nights?”

Y/N tilted her head. “Surprised?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, studying her. “A little. Didn’t take you for a Dostoevsky kind of girl.”

“And what kind of girl did you take me for?” she challenged.

He smirked. “Jane Austen, maybe. Brontë sisters, definitely. But Russian literature? That’s a surprise.”

She shrugged. “I like stories about lonely people.”

Something flickered in his expression, but it was gone too fast for her to catch.

“Lonely people,” he repeated. “And here I thought you just liked tragic love stories.”

Y/N hesitated, then said softly, “Aren’t they the same thing?”

Harry studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, in a voice quieter than before, he said, “I guess they are.”

Silence settled between them again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like something had shifted—like she had let him see a part of her she didn’t show to just anyone.

Then, after a moment, Harry’s lips twitched up into a smile. “So, is White Nights a re-read, or am I catching you in the middle of a first-time experience?”

She exhaled, grateful for the change in tone. “Re-read.”

His grin widened. “Interesting. That means you must really like it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Are you about to judge my taste in books?”

Harry smirked. “Not at all. I was actually going to say… maybe I should let you convince me to read it.”

Y/N studied him. “You’ve never read it?”

“Not yet,” he admitted.

A small smile played on her lips. “Maybe you should.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled. “Maybe I will.”

———

That night, her phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number.

Unknown [9:07 PM]: So, lonely people, huh? Convince me why I should read White Nights.

Y/N frowned, staring at the screen. Who the hell—?

Y/N [9:08 PM]: Who is this?

A pause. Then—

Unknown [9:08 PM]: Wow. That hurts.

Her heart skipped.

She squinted at the message, then at the number, but it wasn’t saved in her contacts.

Y/N [9:09 PM]: Seriously. Who is this??

A few seconds passed before a reply popped up.

Unknown [9:09 PM]: It’s Harry.

She blinked.

Then—

Y/N [9:10 PM]: …How did you get my number?

Harry [9:11 PM]: Your lovely roommate gave it to me.

Y/N groaned out loud. “Charlotte!”

Across the room, Charlotte barely glanced up from her laptop. “Hmm?”

Y/N waved her phone in the air. “Did you seriously give Harry my number?”

Charlotte smirked. “Oh. So he finally texted you?”

“Charlotte.”

“What?” she said innocently. “He asked, and I figured it would take you forever to do it yourself.”

Y/N let out a long, dramatic sigh, turning her attention back to the screen.

Y/N [9:12 PM]: I hate you.

Harry [9:12 PM]: No, you don’t.

She rolled her eyes.

Y/N [9:13 PM]: Maybe you should read it and see for yourself.

Harry [9:14 PM]: Bold of you to assume I have time for Russian literature.

Y/N [9:15 PM]: Bold of you to assume I’d let you borrow my copy.

Harry [9:16 PM]: So possessive. I like it.

Y/N [9:17 PM]: You’re impossible.

Harry [9:17 PM]: And yet, here you are, still texting me.

She bit her lip, trying not to smile.

Harry [9:18 PM]: You still good for our not-date movie night?

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

Y/N [9:19 PM]: You mean the highly academic film screening of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days?

Harry [9:20 PM]: Exactly. For research purposes.

She hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen.

Y/N [9:21 PM]: Yeah. I’m still in.

His reply came almost instantly.

Harry [9:21 PM]: Good.

She stared at the word for a long time, ignoring the way her face felt impossibly warm.

———

“You’ve checked your phone three times in the last minute.”

Y/N shot Charlotte a glare from across the room. “I have not.”

Charlotte smirked, finishing the last touches of her makeup. “You so have.”

Y/N huffed, locking her phone and tossing it onto the bed like that would somehow make her friend drop the topic. “I’m just checking the time.”

“Mm-hmm.” Charlotte turned, arms crossed. “Because, of course, it has nothing to do with the fact that Harry is coming over.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her face felt warm. “It’s just a movie night.”

Charlotte grinned. “And yet, you’ve changed your sweater twice.”

Y/N groaned, flopping back onto her pillows. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Charlotte grabbed her bag, checking her reflection in the mirror. “I think it’s cute that you’re all flustered over him.”

“I’m not flustered.”

Charlotte raised a brow. “You are so flustered.”

Y/N groaned again, covering her face with a pillow.

A knock at the door made her sit up way too fast.

Charlotte smirked knowingly. “That’s my cue.”

Y/N watched as Charlotte opened the door, revealing Harry—standing there in his usual effortless way, glasses on, a bag of snacks in one hand.

“Oh, hey, Harry,” Charlotte greeted with a grin, throwing Y/N one last look. “I was just leaving.”

Harry glanced between them, looking mildly amused. “Leaving?”

“Yep.” Charlotte winked at Y/N. “Have fun.”

And before Y/N could even form a reply, she was gone.

Harry stepped inside, brow raised. “Did I just interrupt something?”

Y/N exhaled, shaking her head. “No. She’s just being Charlotte.”

Harry chuckled, setting the snacks down. “That explains a lot.”

Settling onto the couch, Y/N pressed play on 27 Dresses, tucking her legs under her.

Harry sat beside her, stretching his arm along the back of the couch. The space between them was small—too small—and she tried not to focus on the way his knee almost brushed hers.

“Have you seen this before?” he asked.

She scoffed. “Please. At least twenty times.”

Harry smiled. “Figures.”

For the first half hour, they made occasional comments about the movie—Harry teasing her about knowing all the lines, Y/N defending why it was a romcom classic.

But eventually, the room grew quieter. The soft glow of the screen cast shadows across Harry’s face, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the way his glasses slid down his nose.

And Y/N—despite her best efforts to stay focused on the film—felt her eyelids growing heavy.

She shifted slightly, trying to stay awake, but the warmth of the room, the steady sound of the dialogue, and the presence of Harry right beside her made it impossible.

At some point, she leaned just a little too far to the side—

And before she could stop herself, her head landed gently on his shoulder.

For a second, she almost panicked.

But Harry didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

If anything, he relaxed.

She felt him shift slightly, adjusting so that she fit more comfortably against him.

And just like that, sleep took over.

———

The next morning, the first thing Y/N registered was warmth.

A slow, steady warmth surrounding her, lulling her in a sleepy haze.

Then, she felt movement.

Her eyes fluttered open, and it took her a moment to realize:

She was curled into Harry’s side, his arm draped loosely around her shoulders.

The snack bag was on the floor. The TV screen had long since gone black. The early morning light was filtering through the blinds, casting soft shadows across the room.

And Harry—

Was still asleep.

His head rested against the back of the couch, lips slightly parted, curls falling across his forehead. His glasses were slightly askew, one arm still tucked around her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Y/N barely breathed.

She should move. Should sit up, stretch, do anything to break the moment before he woke up.

But before she could, she felt him shift.

A slow inhale. A stretch.

And then, with a small frown, Harry’s eyes blinked open.

For a second, he looked confused. Disoriented.

Then, his gaze landed on her.

They both froze.

Silence.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

And then—

Harry’s lips twitched, still laced with sleep. “Morning.”

Y/N swallowed. “Morning.”

Another pause.

Then, realization dawned in Harry’s sleepy eyes. He glanced down at their position—her body still tucked into his side, his arm still loosely wrapped around her.

And yet—he didn’t move away.

Instead, his mouth curved into something softer.

“Didn’t mean to steal your couch,” he murmured.

Y/N huffed out a quiet laugh. “Didn’t mean to steal your shoulder.”

Harry smiled.

And for a moment, they just… sat there.

Close. Warm. Unmoving.

Y/N was still sitting on the couch, trying to process the fact that she’d just spent the night curled up against Harry Styles, when she heard him stretch beside her.

She glanced over. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, one hand running through his curls, the other adjusting his glasses.

And he looked… way too good for someone who had just woken up.

Before she could stop herself, she spoke.

“Do you—” She cleared her throat, trying to sound casual. “Do you want some coffee?”

Harry turned to her, blinking.

Then, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“Are you offering me coffee, Y/N?”

She rolled her eyes, standing up. “I regret it already.”

Harry chuckled, pushing himself up from the couch. “Too late.”

———

They ended up in the small dorm kitchen, Y/N fumbling with the coffee machine while Harry leaned against the counter, watching her with amusement.

“I didn’t peg you as the type to function without caffeine,” he said.

She scoffed. “Who says I function at all?”

Harry smirked. “Fair point.”

Once the coffee was ready, she handed him a mug, grabbing one for herself before hopping up onto the counter.

Harry took a slow sip, humming in approval. “Not bad.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Not bad?”

“Yeah.” He nudged her knee playfully. “Could be better.”

She gasped in mock offense. “You are such a snob.”

Harry grinned. “I have high standards.”

She shook her head, but she was smiling.

They fell into comfortable conversation, talking about everything from classes to 27 Dresses to how Harry apparently had a very strong opinion about the correct way to make tea.

And Y/N—despite the fact that she had woken up to a situation that should have been extremely awkward—found herself relaxing.

That was, of course, until Charlotte walked in.

She stopped in the doorway, taking in the sight before her—Harry standing in the kitchen, hair still tousled from sleep, drinking coffee from their mugs.

Y/N sitting on the counter, wearing the same clothes from last night.

Charlotte’s eyes widened.

Then, a slow smirk spread across her face.

“Oh,” she said, drawing out the word. “Good morning.”

Y/N groaned. “Charlotte—”

Charlotte ignored her, turning to Harry with an exaggerated expression of surprise. “Wow, Harry. You’re still here?”

Harry, to Y/N’s horror, grinned.

“Apparently, I make decent company, and your couch is not too bad” he said, sipping his coffee.

Charlotte gasped dramatically. “Did Y/N let you sleep on the couch? That is so rude.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Charlotte.”

Charlotte pressed a hand to her heart. “I mean, I was gone all night, you totally could’ve used my bed—”

Y/N almost choked on her coffee. “Oh my God, stop.”

Charlotte just smirked, eyes dancing between them. “I’m just saying…”

Y/N glared. “You’re the worst.”

Harry chuckled, setting down his mug. “I should probably get going before Mason starts wondering where I am.”

He turned to Y/N then, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “Yeah. Anytime.”

Charlotte wiggled her eyebrows.

Y/N shot her a warning look.

Harry—completely amused—grabbed his bag and made his way to the door.

“See you later, Y/N.”

And with that, he was gone.

Y/N barely had time to let out a breath before Charlotte pounced.

“So.”

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t.”

Charlotte ignored her, flopping onto the couch with a wicked grin. “You slept together.”

“Oh my God—”

“Not like that,” Charlotte amended. “But still. You slept together.”

Y/N groaned. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Charlotte scoffed. “Oh, honey. It so was.”

———

Y/N had spent the entire morning convincing herself that nothing had changed.

That waking up next to Harry hadn’t felt different.

That the way he had smiled at her over coffee hadn’t made her stomach flip.

That she wasn’t replaying every second of their time together like some lovesick idiot.

But she was failing—miserably.

And Charlotte wasn’t helping.

“So,” her roommate drawled, flipping through a magazine on her bed, “are we just gonna pretend that last night never happened?”

Y/N, sitting at her desk, sighed. “Nothing happened.”

Charlotte scoffed. “You cuddled on the couch, made him coffee in the morning, and practically gazed at each other the whole time. That’s something.”

Y/N turned to glare at her. “I wasn’t gazing.”

Charlotte smirked. “Oh, honey. You were gazing.”

Y/N groaned, dropping her head onto her desk.

Charlotte laughed, tossing the magazine aside. “Look, all I’m saying is—he’s different, isn’t he?”

Y/N frowned. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I mean, I’ve never seen you act like this over a guy. You usually keep your distance, but with Harry… I don’t know. You let him in.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest—but nothing came out.

Because, as much as she hated to admit it, Charlotte wasn’t wrong.

Harry was different.

And that was what scared her the most.

———

That afternoon, she tried to focus on studying.

Tried being the keyword.

She was in the library, sitting at her usual spot by the window, but the words on the page blurred together.

Her phone buzzed.

She glanced at it, already knowing who it was.

Harry [3:27 PM]: You’re not skipping the library today, are you?

Y/N [3:28 PM]: I’m literally here right now.

Harry [3:29 PM]: Good. Would’ve had to question your commitment to academia otherwise.

She rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips.

A minute later, she heard a chair scrape against the floor.

She looked up.

Harry slid into the seat across from her, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“Hi,” he said, smiling.

Y/N tried to ignore the way her heartbeat definitely sped up. “Hi.”

He set down his bag and pulled out a book. “What are we studying today?”

Y/N sighed. “I’m trying to get through this reading, but it’s not working.”

Harry leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Do you want me to quiz you?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You just got here.”

He smirked. “And?”

She shook her head, amused. “Fine.”

And so, they studied. Or at least, they tried.

Every time Harry read a passage aloud, he did it with exaggerated dramatics, making Y/N laugh.

Whenever she got an answer right, he’d tap his fingers against the table like a drumroll.

At some point, he reached for her book, fingers grazing hers—and neither of them pulled away.

The touch was brief, but her skin tingled where it had been.

Harry didn’t say anything, but his gaze flickered to hers, something unspoken lingering between them.

For the first time, Y/N felt like she was on the edge of something.

And she didn’t know whether to step forward—or run.

———

An hour later, Y/N packed up her things.

“I should go,” she murmured.

Harry nodded, but there was something unreadable in his eyes. “Alright.”

She hesitated before speaking. “Thanks for—y’know. Keeping me sane.”

Harry’s lips quirked. “Anytime.”

As she turned to leave, he called after her

“Oh, Y/N?”

She glanced over her shoulder. “Yeah?”

Harry reached into his bag, pulling out a book.

She frowned as he held it out to her.

“The Symposium?” she read aloud, eyebrows raised.

Harry smirked. “Figured you might like it.”

She stared at him. “Harry, this is your copy.”

He shrugged. “So?”

“So, I know you annotate all your books.” She flipped through the pages, confirming her suspicions—his familiar, neat handwriting filled the margins. “I can’t take this.”

“You can,” he said simply. “And you will.”

She glanced up at him, confused. “But… why?”

Harry held her gaze for a moment, then leaned in slightly.

“Because I think you’ll understand it,” he murmured.

Y/N’s breath caught.

Because there was weight behind his words—something deeper than just a casual book recommendation.

She swallowed, gripping the book a little tighter.

“…Thank you,” she said softly.

Harry smiled. “See you later, Y/N.”

And as she walked away, The Symposium pressed against her chest, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted.

That, maybe, she had just crossed a line she could never go back from.

———

The night wrapped around them like a quiet secret. The streets were nearly empty, the world softened by the golden glow of streetlamps.

Y/N and Harry walked side by side, their steps unhurried, as if neither of them wanted the night to end just yet.

She wasn’t sure how they ended up here—how a simple goodnight after studying turned into do you want to take a walk? But she didn’t regret saying yes.

It had been a week since that night at her apartment, since they’d woken up together on the couch, and things between them had shifted. Not in an obvious way—there were no declarations, no grand confessions—but something had changed.

Harry had always looked at her like he was intrigued. But now?

Now, he looked at her like he knew. Like he was just waiting for her to admit it, too.

“You’re quiet,” Harry murmured beside her.

She glanced at him. “So are you.”

He smiled, a little crooked. “Guess I don’t always have something to say.”

“Impossible.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Harsh.”

They walked a little further before she spoke again, a quiet admission in the stillness of the night.

“I read your notes.”

Harry turned his head slightly. “My notes?”

“In The Symposium.”

Realization flickered in his expression. “Right.”

She hesitated. “There was one part that stuck with me.”

His gaze softened. “Which one?”

Y/N swallowed.

“The part where you wrote that love is about recognizing something familiar in someone else.”

Harry didn’t speak right away.

Then, quietly, he said, “That’s my favorite part.”

Y/N stopped walking.

So did he.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with something.

She could feel her pulse thrumming in her wrists, in her throat, in the space between them that was growing smaller by the second.

Harry took a step closer. Slowly. Like he was giving her time to stop him.

She didn’t.

His gaze flickered to her lips, just for a second, before meeting her eyes again.

His voice was softer when he spoke next. “You realize I like you, don’t you?”

Y/N felt something tighten in her chest.

Because, of course, she did.

But hearing it—feeling it—was different.

She exhaled, barely a whisper. “I think I do now.”

Harry tilted his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good.”

He didn’t move right away.

He just looked at her, taking her in, like he was memorizing the moment.

Then, so softly it was almost imperceptible, his fingers brushed against hers.

Y/N inhaled sharply.

And that was all it took.

Before she could second-guess it, before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them.

She barely had time to process the warmth of his skin, the steady rise and fall of his breath, before his hand came up, fingers grazing her jaw as he leaned in—slow, careful, waiting.

And then—

Then, he kissed her.

It was soft at first. Just a whisper of a touch, a silent question against her lips.

But the moment she kissed him back, the moment her fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, it changed.

It deepened.

Harry let out a quiet sound—like he had been waiting for this longer than he cared to admit—and then his hands were on her waist, pulling her closer, closer, like the space between them was unbearable.

Her heart was racing.

She could feel the warmth of his palms, the faint scrape of his stubble against her skin, the way he kissed her like he was learning her—like he wanted to know exactly how she fit against him.

And she let him.

By the time they pulled apart, her head was spinning, her breath uneven.

Harry’s forehead rested against hers, and he let out a quiet laugh.

“What?” she asked, still breathless.

He shook his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just… glad I finally did that.”

She bit her lip, trying—and failing—not to smile.

“Me too.”

Harry’s thumb brushed against her waist absentmindedly.

“Can I walk you home?” he asked.

Y/N nodded.

But neither of them moved.

Not right away.

And when they finally started walking again, Harry’s fingers found hers, intertwining them effortlessly—like they had been waiting to do that, too.

———

It had only been a couple of weeks since that night—their first kiss under the dim glow of the streetlights—but things between them had changed so much.

Not in an overwhelming way. Not in a way that made Y/N feel rushed or pressured.

But in a way that made her soften.

In a way that made it impossible to ignore how utterly smitten Harry was.

It was in the way he always found a reason to touch her, even in the smallest ways—fingertips brushing against hers when they walked, absentmindedly tucking her hair behind her ear when she was focused on something, resting his chin on her shoulder just because he could.

It was in the way he remembered things, like how she liked her coffee and how she hated the sound of loud chewing. In the way he always waited for her outside class even when they had different schedules. In the way he looked at her, like he was always choosing to.

Like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Today was no different.

Y/N sat curled up on the library couch, actually trying to get some work done, while Harry sat beside her, flipping through a book he had absolutely no interest in.

At least, that’s what she assumed—because instead of reading, he was staring at her.

She sighed, setting her pen down. “Harry.”

“Hm?” He looked unbothered, too comfortable as he rested his head against the back of the couch.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

She shot him a pointed look.

He smirked, unfazed. “Looking at my girlfriend?”

Her stomach flipped.

Even after two weeks, the word still did something to her.

She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks were warm, and Harry knew it.

With a quiet chuckle, he reached for her hand and intertwined their fingers, absentmindedly running his thumb across the back of her palm.

“Should I be studying?” he murmured, lips twitching.

She nodded. “Yes.”

Harry pretended to consider it. Then, with zero hesitation, he squeezed her hand and dragged it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against her knuckles.

“Too bad,” he murmured against her skin.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

This boy.

She was so doomed.

———

Y/N had tried to keep things subtle.

Not because she wanted to hide it, but because Charlotte was the biggest menace when it came to teasing her, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that just yet.

Too bad Charlotte noticed everything.

Like the way Y/N smiled at her phone when she thought no one was looking. The way she suspiciously left the dorm at night with an “I’ll be back later.” The way she got flustered when Harry’s name came up in conversation.

She had her suspicions, but she didn’t have proof.

Until now.

Because today, as Charlotte was walking toward the dorm, she saw them.

Saw Harry pressing a lingering kiss to Y/N’s forehead. Saw the way she leaned into him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And that was all she needed.

“I KNEW IT!”

Y/N jumped, turning to find Charlotte standing a few feet away with the biggest, most victorious grin on her face.

“Oh my God,” Y/N muttered.

Harry—who clearly wasn’t fazed at all—simply raised an eyebrow. “Did you, though?”

Charlotte turned to him, still grinning. “YES. I just didn’t have evidence.” She turned back to Y/N, wiggling her eyebrows. “But now I do.”

Y/N groaned, covering her face with her hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Charlotte sing-songed.

Harry chuckled, amused, before leaning down and whispering into Y/N’s ear, “I’ll leave you to it, sweetheart.”

She sighed dramatically. “Coward.”

He smirked, kissed the side of her head one last time, and walked away, leaving her to deal with Charlotte’s relentless interrogation.

Y/N was so in trouble.

———

After an hour of being mercilessly teased, Y/N flopped onto her bed, groaning in frustration.

Charlotte smirked from across the room. “Oh, come on, you love me.”

“Debatable,” Y/N muttered, reaching for her phone.

She scrolled through her messages before typing.

Y/N [10:08 PM]: I officially hate you.

Harry [10:09 PM]: That’s unfortunate.

Y/N [10:09 PM]: Charlotte won’t stop teasing me. This is your fault.

Harry [10:10 PM]: Guess I’ll just have to make it up to you, won’t I?

Y/N froze, rereading the message at least three times.

Before she could even think of a response, there was a quiet knock on the door.

Charlotte and Y/N shared a look.

Y/N opened it—and there he was.

Harry stood there, a lazy smirk on his lips, holding a small pastry in a white paper bag.

“Hey,” he murmured.

Y/N blinked.

Charlotte—who was watching the whole thing unfold—snorted. “Oh, my God. You are so whipped.”

Harry didn’t even deny it.

He just shrugged, handed Y/N the bag, and kissed her temple like it was the most normal thing in the world.

When she looked inside, she found her favorite pastry, the one from the café across campus.

She looked back up at him, eyes soft. “You went all the way to—“

Harry simply shrugged. “Felt like it”

Y/N pressed her lips together, trying not to melt right then and there.

Charlotte, however, had no such restraint. “You two are disgusting”, she muttered, rolling her eyes before dramatically throwing a pillow over her head.

Harry chuckled, then leaned down and whispered against Y/N’s skin, “Worth it.”

And just like that, Y/N knew—

She was so, so screwed.

[overadores]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁only star ✮ manon bannerman

She may be the reason I survive

pairing.ᐟ actress!manon bannerman x reader

about.ᐟ when actress Manon Bannerman walks into your record store searching for a rare vinyl, she doesn’t expect you to be clueless about her fame. the brief encounter turns intriguing when a fan outs Manon’s identity, leading you to chase after her and get her number, but the connection is quickly tested—paparazzi ambush the both of you, forcing an escape to your apartment, where you bond in private. As you get a glimpse of Manon’s chaotic world, the reality of dating someone famous becomes overwhelming and just when things start to feel real, Manon’s girlfriend returns from L.A., ready to reclaim her place.

genre.ᐟ fluff, kind of angsty

wc.ᐟ 1094 words

a/n.ᐟ the song isn't really necessary, but i just want to appreciate this song cuz it just make me feel something, also i might not post or i'll try to post another angst today (thesis been biting me in the fuckin ass). anyways, happy valentines, my lovely peepz!

The why and wherefore I'm alive

The bell above the door chimed as Manon Bannerman stepped into the vinyl shop, the scent of old records and dust filling her senses. She wasn’t sure why she chose this particular store—maybe it was instinct, or just blind luck—but she was searching for something rare. Something special.

Rows upon rows of vinyl stretched before her, a collector’s dream. As she made her way to the rare collections section, she was greeted by the shop’s owner, a charming individual with a welcoming smile.

“Looking for something special?” a warm voice called out.

She looked up to see the owner behind the counter. You had an easy confidence about you, a quiet charm. Not someone who immediately recognized her, and that was refreshing.

“Yes, actually,” Manon replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you happen to have The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, signed by all four Beatles?”

You frowned, tapping your fingers against the counter. “That’s a deep cut. Let me check.”

As you sifted through your catalog, Manon watched you. There was something about the way you moved—calm, deliberate, unaffected. She could tell you weren’t used to dealing with celebrities, and for some reason, she liked that.

“No luck,” you finally said, glancing up. “But I can put out feelers.”

Her lips twitched in amusement. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

You shrugged. “Should I?”

Before she could respond, a high-pitched squeal rang through the shop. “Oh my God, Manon Bannerman?” A young woman clutching a stack of records gawked at her. “I love Uncharted! Your performance was unreal!”

Manon stiffened slightly, her expression flickering between amusement and frustration. That was when it hit you—she was famous. Like, really famous.

A beat of silence stretched between you before she sighed, muttering, “Well, that answers that.” Then, with an apologetic half-smile, she turned and slipped out the door

You hesitated only a second before following. “Hey, Manon!” you called, jogging after her.

She glanced back, surprised.

“At least let me get your number for when I find that record.”

She studied you, lips quirking. Then, as if making a decision, she plucked the pen from behind your ear, grabbed your wrist, and scrawled a number across your skin.

“Good luck,” she said before disappearing into the city.

A week later, you were sitting in your apartment, sipping whiskey with Manon while hiding from a pack of paparazzi who had caught you outside a café. What started as a casual text about the record had spiraled into something else entirely.

She sat cross-legged on your worn-out couch, flipping through your vinyl collection with a lazy smile. “You really don’t care about all this, do you?”

“The flashing cameras? The tabloid buzz?” you mused. “Not really. I mean, it’s a little surreal, but you’re just… you.”

She exhaled, relaxing. “I like that.”

And for a while, it was good. Until reality crept in.

So it went, an unusual romance blooming between a quiet vinyl shop owner and a Hollywood star, but dating someone famous wasn’t all stolen moments and whispered secrets. It was dodging paparazzi in alleyways, waking up to your face in gossip columns, strangers dissecting your relationship online.

Just last night, you had booked a secluded part of a restaurant—minimal windows, barely any people. Yet somehow, the paparazzi still got in and if that wasn’t enough, a waiter had kept pestering Manon for a picture, completely ignoring the fact that you were trying to have a normal evening.

The night was ruined.

Afterward, you hadn’t spoken much. She tried to explain, insisting this was inevitable, that she couldn’t escape the spotlight.

“I just want a goddamn normal life and a non-showbiz girlfriend,” you had snapped in frustration.

Her face fell, the words cutting deeper than you had intended. Without another word, she walked out, leaving you alone with your regret.

The next day, armed with a bouquet, you knocked on her hotel door, ready to apologize. But instead of Manon, another woman answered—wearing Manon’s shirt.

Your heart clenched. “Hi, is Manon here?”

Before the woman could respond, Manon appeared, eyes widening when she saw you. She quickly pulled the other woman back inside and stepped into the hallway with you.

“Who the hell was that?” you demanded.

She hesitated. “That was my ex. She showed up causing a scene, and I let her in to calm her down.”

You didn’t believe it. “Really? Wearing your shirt?”

She sighed, exasperated. “It’s not what you think.”

You exhaled sharply and shoved the bouquet into her hands. “You know what? I give up.”

“No!” She grabbed your wrist. “Please, can we just talk?”

You contemplated, then shook your head. “I need to think this through. Can we take a break?”

She swallowed hard but nodded, stepping back into her room.

That night, you found yourself at your sister’s house, breaking down in her arms.

“Oh, darling, everything’s going to be fine,” she soothed.

You sniffled. “It doesn’t feel fine.”

She sighed. “You either accept her for who she is or find someone who fits your idea of normal.”

The words lingered in your mind.

The next day, you dragged yourself to work. It was quiet, save for the occasional customer. As you searched for Manon’s record, someone cleared their throat.

Looking up, you found her standing there—natural hair, no makeup, a soft, hopeful smile.

“Hi,” she said. “Can we talk?”

You led her to the back office.

“So, how was your weekend?” you asked lightly.

“Spent it in my hotel,” she admitted. “Thinking about how I messed up.”

Silence stretched between you before she continued, “I’m leaving today, but I wanted to see you—maybe to remind you that I still like you. A lot.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “Manon…”

She bit her lip. “I know I come with baggage, but I don’t want to lose you. Maybe we can find a way to make this work?”

You hesitated, but then you thought of her smile, her laugh, the way she felt like home despite the chaos. Maybe your sister was right—you either accept someone for who they are or you walk away.

You reached into the drawer, pulling out a package. “I found something.”

Her brows lifted as she unwrapped it—The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, not signed, but still pristine.

She laughed, teary-eyed. “It’s perfect.”

You grinned. “So, should we give this another shot?”

She nodded, stepping closer. “Yeah. Let’s try.”

And as she kissed you, soft and slow, you knew—you were all in.

[missgryffin]

from the vault

This was supposed to be a one-shot in 2023, but the outline ballooned into something looking like a multi chap or a very, very long one-shot, so it's just been hanging out in my WIP folder, getting opened every so often 🥲 It's a no-Voldemort, friends-to-lovers, Quidditch!Jily AU, and I love this first part I've had written, so I figured I might as well share it! ☺️ Especially since it's on theme 💘

February, 1980

“Remind me again,” Mary says idly, flipping the page on the latest Witch Weekly, “why you haven’t asked him out.”

Lily leans against the doorframe and briefly pulls her toothbrush from her mouth just long enough to ask a thick, frowning, “’Oo?”

Mary, dear friend of over a decade that she is, has no issues with interpretation. 

“James,” she answers simply. 

Lily splutters, cupping a hand below her mouth to catch her dripping toothpaste, and manages to choke out a feeble protest of, “Ee’s m’ fwen—”

“You kissed,” Mary counters, as plainly as if she were stating what was for dinner, as if those words are no different than other words, as if the sheer combination of them, what they meant, didn’t still shift the floor beneath her feet.

They had kissed, once, in May of their seventh year. Gryffindor had won the Quidditch House Cup, and in the aftermath of celebrations, the common room had turned into a communal fever dream. Confetti, raining from the sky. Kegs, overfilling the cups being passed around. Hearth, blazing and welcome after playing the championship match through a late spring gale that would have rivaled a small hurricane. Bodies, pressing in on all sides, buffeting her through crowds, hugging her, congratulating her. Everything was hazy, warm, ecstatic. And somewhere in the haziness, she’d ended up in the alcove behind the staircases with James.

Much of it is still fuzzy. She doesn’t know who was there first, or who initiated it, or even how it ended, though she had woken up in her own bed the next morning, head throbbing and body still fully dressed in the prior night’s clothes. But she does remember the good bits: his front pressed against hers, his mouth hot and wanting, his sweaty, grimy hair thick and messy in her fingers. It was sloppy and desperate—probably pathetically so, to any unfortunate souls who may have witnessed it—and somehow it was still the hottest snog she’s ever had. (Owing, no doubt, to the fact that she’d harbored a secret crush on him that whole year.)

Her cheeks heat at the memory, and Lily ducks back into the loo, where she can hide her face in the sink and try to get a handle on herself as she rinses her mouth. 

Unfortunately, one can’t brush their teeth forever, and Lily eventually resigns herself to patting her mouth dry with a towel as she musters the courage (and some sanity) to face her closest girlfriend and tell her, in no uncertain terms, all the reasons Lily’s accumulated over the years (and catalogued, rather masochistically, into some kind of depressing mental encyclopedia) for why she and James Potter are only, and will ever only be, friends.

But when she reenters her bedroom, arms crossed over her chest, Mary, who’s been lounging atop Lily’s bed, simply flips around the magazine she’s holding so that Lily’s forced to see an internal spread. 

Her heart lurches ominously, a stupid swooning sensation trickling down her spine. For fuck’s sake. 

She forces herself to hold Mary’s gaze and not stare at the spread Mary’s taunting her with. (Which, frankly, she’s already burned into her brain from how much she’s stared at it in private.) 

“What?” God, her voice sounds pinched even to her. 

A sly smile creeps over Mary’s face, and she tilts the magazine for a closer look at a block of text. “Says right here he doesn’t have a Valentine yet.” (Mary waggles her eyebrows briefly.) “And his favorite kind of date is something low-key. Hmm, sounds like someone else I know.”

“Mare—”

Her friend ignores her and instead reads, “‘I’m not really into fancy for the sake of fancy,’ Potter says. ‘I find dates more fun when we can both relax and just be ourselves.’” 

Lily, who’s been on the receiving end of Rita Skeeter’s Quick Quotes Quill more than once, has been wondering how much of this interview James actually said. He’s always been more private where his dating life’s concerned, so she can’t really see him talking this openly about qualities he looks for in a witch, but then, he agreed to be featured in Witch Weekly’s round-up of Britain’s Most Eligible Wizards for its Valentine's issue, so he had to have known what he was getting himself into. 

“Potter’s no stranger to clamoring attention, and it’s clear from his (some would say overly) confident demeanor that he knows exactly how in-demand he is—especially with the ladies. Yet when I ask him who, if he could pick anyone, he’d like to take on a Valentine’s date, the Quidditch heartthrob breaks into a charmingly shy blush—” 

Lily’s gaze sticks on the open spread—on the moving, grinning image of James Potter—as Mary reads. He has a new pair of glasses that make him look older than he has in recent years, though the shadow filling in more fully around his jaw no doubt contributes to that, too. Hazel eyes, coming across more as the color of dripping caramel under the photoshoot’s light, wink at the camera; an easy, almost flirty grin dimples one cheek.

“—‘I’m going to keep that answer to myself,’ he deflects.” 

Her insides lurch, already knowing what comes next. 

“Could it be Lily Evans, the Holyhead Harpies’ break-out star Seeker with whom he played for years at Hogwarts and has been photographed on numerous occasions? ‘She’s an old friend,’ he says.” 

Mary pauses to give her a signature arched-brow Look.

“Loyal readers will know this author believes there is far more to that story than he’s saying. After all, it was just a couple short months ago that they were photographed slow dancing at the British and Irish Quidditch League’s annual Yuletide Gala, convincing this author they were back on yet again before he subsequently confirmed his bachelorhood by agreeing to be in this very issue.”

Lily rolls her eyes, familiar anger starting to boil in her chest over Rita’s blatant obsession with making her and James an item for tabloid fodder.

“Despite the heartbreak he’s endured of late,” Mary continues reading dramatically, “it’s clear that James Potter is ready to put romantic woes behind him and find romance with one of you lovely witches instead. ‘I’m single,’ he confirms to me.” 

“Are you done?” Lily sasses her, hand on her hip. 

“Prying about you and James?” Mary sasses back. “Never.” 

She sighs in exasperation. “I’ve told you a million times: there’s really nothing—” 

“And I hate to say it, Lil, but I’m kind of with Rita on this one—”

“Wha—” she splutters on air. “But you know nothing’s happened! All the lies she’s published—”

“Yes, yes.” Mary bats her hand, waving off Lily’s protest. “She’s made up loads of stuff, I know. But the whole ‘I’m going to keep that one to myself’ thing? She’s onto something. I’d bet my Galleons he was thinking about you when he said that.” 

Lily gapes, both out of genuine shock and because she’s torn between protesting even harder and prying for more information on that. 

“But—” she starts feebly, no actual sentence in sight. 

“But what?”

Her brain switches on, and she rummages around her desk for the letter she’s looking for so she can shove it in Mary’s face. 

“But this.” 

Mary takes the parchment curiously, muttering the words that Lily’s practically memorized by this point. 

Hey, Lily. Skeeter’s at it again, I’m afraid. Caradoc told her when they were negotiating the Witch Weekly bit that I wouldn’t be talking about any exes by name (of which she’s convinced you are one, apparently) and they also agreed that no woman’s name would be included at all, like speculatively. It was supposed to be one of those cut-and-dry “first date on the beach or in the mountains” type of things. Obviously she didn’t hold to that.  Doc’s livid. I’m annoyed I let him talk me into doing it at all, but he insisted it’s a rite of passage for high-profile players to be featured. I’m really sorry. I know this affects you worse than me because of how she spins it, and I fucking hate that. We really did think we preempted her bullshit. If you get any more hate mail, have Emma work with Doc to keep legal on her arse.  I would say play lights-out Quidditch to shut her and her fellow haters up, but you’re too close to us in the standings for my liking ;) If you could stop fucking killing it this season so we could get more of a buffer on points, I’d be much obliged. — xx James 

“See?” Lily says, triumphant but also oddly disappointed about being so. “Completely platonic.” 

“’S’not what I would call it,” Mary grumbles. 

Lily ignores this. “He’s one of my best friends.” 

“Well, so am I, but I didn’t send you a basket of your favorite Honeydukes sweets that was so big three owls had to carry it all the way to fucking Wales.”

Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. “He lives in Hogsmeade,” she rationalizes. “He probably gifts Honeydukes baskets to everybody.” 

“Unbelievable,” Mary mutters.

“Besides,” Lily rambles, hoping she sounds casual even though she feels anything but about this particular piece of gossip, “I heard he’s started talking to some girl Sirius knows. From London.” 

Mary’s eyes soften with something atrociously like sympathy. “Well,” her friend says evenly, “that doesn’t mean he can’t still hold a torch for you, because I’m convinced he does.” 

Lily flops atop her bed. “So you’ve said. Many times.” 

“Do you believe me yet?” 

She ignores this too. “We’re just friends, Mare. That’s all we’ve ever been, and all we’ll ever be.”  

After all, their past is more than enough proof of that.

----

A/N: the cut in my draft is literally the heading, "A Brief History of the Past in Question" followed by scene cards for 10 scenes help 😭😭

[byhawthorne]

Valentine's Day.

– Grayson Hawthorne x fem!xreader : she receives flowers for valentine's day but with a little puzzle

an : hi! This is my attempt writing a valentine's day special. it was supposed to be something short but i wanted to add a little something that would happen in the books and it ended up being 80% solving the puzzle. it's definitely not my best work, sorry!

Her first Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend… and she couldn’t even see him. At least, not for most of the day.

It felt like the universe had conspired to make it impossible for her to see Grayson that day. Even when she had stopped by the foundation, he wasn’t there. Sometimes, she just wanted to force him to take a break.

"Excuse me."

She turned at the sound of a voice behind her just as she was about to leave. A girl she didn’t recognize stood in front of her.

"Are you Grayson Hawthorne’s girlfriend?"

She felt like she could throw up right there and there, but she just nodded. She would never get used to it—to being called his girlfriend. It had taken her so long to open up to someone again, and he had been the only person who had managed to do it.

"There’s something for you."

She frowned in confusion and waited. Maybe an envelope, a folder she had forgotten. She glanced at the papers in her hands, but she was pretty sure she had everything.

A guy approached and placed something in the girl’s arms. A bouquet of her favorite flowers was in her hands seconds later. She looked at the girl, bewildered, but the huge smile on her face made her wonder if this was just some elaborate joke she was in on.

"It's from your boyfriend," the girl explained. She said something else, but the moment those four words left her lips, her ears stopped registering anything else.

Had Grayson left the flowers there? Had he sent someone? Called a place? How had he managed to do this so quickly?

She reached for the small note nestled among the flowers, noticing the florist’s logo. For a second, it seemed familiar. But when she opened the tiny card, something inside her sank.

It was blank. There was nothing written.

She sighed before turning around and heading toward the car that was waiting for her. That strange feeling in her chest lingered. She couldn’t believe they had forgotten to write a message. Maybe he hadn’t sent anything written, and the florist had made a mistake. Maybe…

The man holding the car door open for her frowned when she didn’t step inside. She just stood there, frozen, staring at the card in her hand.

Grayson Hawthorne would never send a blank card to her. There was something more.

It was the small, unusual glimmer before getting into the car that revealed the truth—it was invisible ink.

She hated invisible ink. Avery had used it for her last invitation to some kind of dinner she had organized. Why couldn’t the Hawthornes just use regular ink? Or a simple text message would work just as well.

The tip of her shoe tapped against the ground impatiently the entire way back to her apartment. The car dropped her off at the building’s entrance. She thanked the driver, and practically ran to the elevator. A mix of desperation and adrenaline rushed through her veins—she needed to confirm if she was right.

Ignoring her cat’s meowing was difficult, but she rushed to her room and started rummaging through her drawers, hoping to find a small ultraviolet light she had stored somewhere. She huffed when she didn’t find it and scooped up her cat.

“Luka, do you remember where I left the UV light?” she murmured, though she obviously didn’t expect an answer. She stroked the cat’s head while her eyes scanned the room. Until her eyes fell on a specific drawer.

The one Grayson had nicknamed the disaster drawer.

She set Luka down and walked over, making an even bigger mess as she searched through it. The ultraviolet light appeared in front of her seconds later. Letting out a victorious gasp, she hurried back to the living room, where she had left the flowers and the card.

Turning on the UV light, she held it over the card to reveal… nothing. Her brow furrowed, and disappointment flooded her chest.

Nothing.

Why wasn’t there anything? It had to be invisible ink. If it wasn’t…

She looked around, searching for something else to focus on. That’s when her eyes landed on the small lamp by the couch.

Her mother hated that lamp. She had told her to get rid of it because she always forgot to turn it off, and the bulb overheated too much. She had even recommended the ones that didn’t emit so much heat.

She looked at the card again. Then at the lamp.

Setting the UV light down on the counter, she walked over to the small side table, took a seat, and placed the card directly under the lamp.

She waited one second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

She waited.

She waited.

She waited.

The message slowly began to appear.

A smile stretched across her face as excitement bubbled up inside her. It wasn’t UV light—it was heat.

And the message was much longer than she had expected.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to read it carefully, without rushing. Maybe this was just another clue and not the final answer.

"I still remember the night of August 9th. 9 centimeters of distance, 6 seconds and more than 20 reasons to do it. Another 20 seconds that felt like an eternity, more than 19 thoughts in my mind, 19 wishes and 19 breaths. 11 seconds later and 5 wishes hoping you felt the same. 18 seconds later you said it and you were mine."

Her mind went blank.

She was trying to think at full speed, but at the same time, she felt overwhelmed and confused. It didn’t make sense… Her eyes scanned the card again, searching for something different.

Too many numbers.

Too many numbers.

She reached for a pen and some paper, but when she couldn’t find any, she simply began writing the numbers on her leg.

8, 9, 9, 6, 20, 20, 19, 19, 19, 11, 5, 18.

She stared at them. Over and over again.

They didn’t look like coordinates, a phone number, or a date.

She hesitated, wondering if she should include the eight or if that would ruin the puzzle. August was mentioned, and August was the eighth month of the year. In her mind, it made sense—it could either break the entire code or help her solve it. She’d find out in the end.

She bit the tip of the pen as the tip of her shoe tapped against the floor, trying to think. Her brain refused to turn its gears.

If it wasn’t coordinates, a date, or a phone number, then it could only be…

Something clicked. The gears in her mind finally started turning when she realized it.

It wasn’t coordinates. It wasn’t a phone number. It wasn’t a date.

It was a numeric cipher.

Five minutes later, with a little help of the internet, she had deciphered each letter:

H, I, I, F, T, G, S, S, S, K, E, R.

Now she had a new problem. The letters were scrambled.

She huffed, letting herself fall onto her bed while staring at the jumbled letters she had written down.

She had tried to put them in order, but there were too many possible combinations—and it was already getting late.

Valentine’s Day was about to end, and if she ruined whatever Grayson had planned just because she couldn’t arrange a few stupid letters…

Her eyes drifted back to the card. Every detail.

The barely visible letters.

The letters she had written.

The texture of the card…

The logo of the flower shop.

When she first received the flowers, it had felt familiar. And only now did her brain finally piece it together.

The night of their last date before they became a couple.

The flower shop they had stopped at.

The moment she told Grayson what her favorite flowers were. Then, he had joked that he should give her flowers on every special occasion—though not necessarily from that shop.

That date, that night.

The night of their first kiss.

11 seconds later and 5 wishes hoping you felt the same.

18 seconds later you said it and you were mine.

It wasn’t random.

Her hands trembled as she grabbed the pen again, rearranging the letters she had found. Her heart pounded in her chest, hoping with everything she had that she wasn’t wrong.

And when the words finally came together—perfectly—she felt like jumping with joy.

She had solved it.

THE FIRST KISS.

"A numeric cipher?"

The silence was broken by her voice. Grayson turned around—he hadn’t heard her arrive, but she was there. She had figured it out.

"You solved it."

"The flower shop clue was too easy."

She smiled as she walked toward him.

The place of their first kiss had been the answer, and she had found it.

She had already noticed the soft glow of the candles on the table where he had set up dinner for the two of them. She didn’t even bother asking when he had found the time to prepare everything. All she could think about was how perfect it looked…

Their first kiss.

If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the nervous excitement of that day.

"I knew you could unscramble the letters on your own, but I thought I’d give you a little help—otherwise, dinner would get cold." She let out a soft laugh as she finally closed the remaining distance between them.

"I thought you had work," she murmured.

"Well, there’s this girl who keeps telling me to take a break, so I figured I’d listen to her for once." She felt Grayson’s hands on her waist, pulling her closer and closing the last few centimeters between them.

"Happy first Valentine's Day," she murmured. She could feel his breath, so close to her.

Just like their first kiss. Grayson's fingers caressed her cheek softly. He was so close to her, until… his lips finally touched hers. She could feel her heart beating hard, Grayson's soft lips moved against hers slowly and gently, enjoying the closeness, the kiss.

Their first Valentine's kiss.

[stanliestduo]

I saw that ask you got and i just wanted to say that it's so funny to me when people are like "why would you ship stancest ew" acting like they didn't sail off into the sunset together after DECADES of Stan openly pining for Ford. If they weren't written as siblings they would hands down be the most popular ship of the show

There's a long answer, and then there's the tldr at the bottom marked in red text. Long answer: If they weren't siblings, you literally wouldn't be able to escape this ship. It would have been THE ship of tumblr after the finale had aired, considered the "healthy" ship and the good ending, would be considered canon even if they didn't kiss, and it would be the standard by which all the other ships are judged. You would have people writing essays about how they literally took off on a ship, guys! It's so obvious and a metaphor for marriage and and- But here's where I can extend a bit of empathy that perhaps they wouldn't give me, as well as look at things from the perspective as someone who has seen shipping culture their entire lives. First off- most people don't want to fuck their siblings. I know, shocker. Most people who ship Stancest probably do not want to fuck their siblings, but people who don't CERTAINLY do not want to. It's the most repulsive thought in the world to them. There is such thing as being in such a close platonic relationship that it's an impossible thought. I think a lot of people who want Stancest shippers to die or whatever find that kind of desire utterly repulsive, that and let's be real, 1nc3st in real life is rife with abuse. It isn't a healthy thought to get those wires crossed. People who do not like this ship are empathizing with either of the brothers and projecting their own repulsion onto them. But here's the other bit. I'm not shipping Stan and Ford because they're siblings. Most of my ships are not 1nc3stuous. I don't find that element hot or cute, and while I'm not here to harsh anyone's vibe, if that's the only reason you ship Stancest I really don't want to talk with you about these characters. People see ships as inherently sexual, as inherently sexualizing, as "you must only ship this because you want to see the characters fuck". And mind you, with Stancest I don't see it as a bad thing at all to draw them doing things or being attractive together, etc etc. Not at all, and I'd be a hypocrite for saying otherwise. My point is, that's where people's minds go, that's the assumption that they make. They find 1nc3st repulsive, and clearly the ONLY reason I would ship it is because I like sexualizing that and only that aspect about it. Basically, they assume I must LOVE 1nc3st in and of itself, because otherwise why would I ship brothers? Now here's where I go back to the first statement, because most people I've seen don't just ship them for that reason.

You ever seen that meme about "if they have chemistry, I can't make them NOT have chemistry"? That's why I'm here. EVERYTHING about how Stan and Ford are written is tailor made to be SHIPPED. Aside from literally bounding away on a ship, they have a closeness and codependency that most brothers in fiction do not. Alex himself has said they need each other, Ford in the third journal said he was going to spend the rest of his days making up to Stanley. Stanley has spent his entire life wanting NOTHING but his family, his brother by his side. He seems more bonded to his brother than to any one he's ever tried to date, and Ford likewise. I'm sorry, but these two are not getting a "healthy" ending. They aren't going to be with anyone else. There's no version of them in which they find separate partners after having a little adventure around the world for a year or two then just go off in separate ways. This is the most "childhood friends to lovers" story I've ever seen. These two are NOT healthy to begin with, why would anyone expect them to start when they're that old and that hurt by everything in their pasts? I don't believe it inherently has to be sexually 1nc3stuous, but it could be. Wires are already being crossed. It's rare for anyone to be loyal for 30 years to one person when they aren't in love, and Stan wanted to get his brother back so badly that he forgot his own goals and even threw away his own identity to get him back. His entire life was for Ford, and after Journal 3, it should be obvious that Ford's entire life is for Stan now, too. What I'm trying to say is, while this ship isn't the healthy ending, it is the BEST ending for either of them. I think people who wanted Stan to be able to deny going with Ford don't understand him or his character, or what his character NEEDS, same as Ford. And I think people who try to separate the bros for shipping purposes or who don't want to do 1nc3st or accidental emotional 1nc3st are not fully reading the same things, watching the same things that we are. If they weren't brothers, everyone else would see exactly what we're seeing. They would see this as the love story it is. TLDR: I understand why people won't ship this ship, and I try to be empathetic, but these two have been given the kind of story that would ping the lovers radar to anyone if they weren't brothers and I'm not going to ignore that just because they are.

[king-candybug-backup]

What’s your favorite scene so far? Like not just to write but just in general.

Sad, happy, funny whatever, what’s your all time favorite? :D

OOOOHHHHH MAN. I HAVE AN EXACT SCENE IN MIND, BUT CAN’T SHARE IT YET BECAUSE IT’S IN ONE OF THE LAST CHAPTERS. 😂 I’ll give a very brief overview of what it entails, because I feel like the fact that it happens isn’t exactly a spoiler since it’s kind of inevitable given all of Candybug’s general assholery, though I’ll put it in small text in case people want to gloss over it, but basically *cough cough* Vanellope flips her goddamn lid at King Candy (long overdue and well-deserved ofc lmao) and I just can’t wait to get to that part, she tells him off VERY HARD. My favourite scene for sure. :3 (tbh there’s a lot of emotionally painful shit that comes up in that particular set of chapters that I’m just so unhinged and not normal about lmfao CAN’T WAIT TO HURT YOU GUYS MORE <333)

AS FOR SCENES OF THE ALREADY-COMPLETED CHAPTERS THOUGH, MAN, THAT’S ALSO TOUGH TO DECIDE TBH 😂 Chapter 3 and Chapter 8 have been my favourites overall of the published chapters so far, and a couple of my fave moments from those ones was a) Ralph finding out that Candybug’s still alive and the general fallout from that, and b) Candybug reminiscing to Felix and Vanny that he went through Ralph’s mud pile on purpose before coming inside the penthouse specifically to annoy Gene ghfdsgxdhcfgvhbjnkvgf

I also like these two a lot, idk exactly how to explain why I like the second one tbh, but the first one I just find fun and silly lol: 

“Alright, pipsqueak, what exactly did you mean by Cy-bug-related–” She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the beastly hybrid in front of her.  “Hello there!” King Candy chipperly greeted her, adding on a friendly wave. “Why, aren’t you looking lovely today! Is that a new hairstyle? It suits your character model wonderfully.” “Layin’ it on a little too thick, there.” Vanellope whispered to him, an anxious grin plastered across her face. “Hmm, you think so?” He tapped his chin with one claw, eventually nodding in agreement. “Perhaps the hair comment was a tad much.”

I just like the whole vibe of like…

Vanellope: For the love of mod, please be nice.

Vanellope two minutes later: NOT THAT NICE.

Oh, KCB and his fake-ass bitch energy. 😂

And then this one:

For the longest time, it had been so hard to look at him and see anything aside from Turbo, the monster. The arcade’s personal boogeyman. The bitter, vile, heartless fiend that gleefully stole the lives away from so many people, herself included. But, with each passing day, it was becoming easier and easier to see him as Turbo, the person. Someone with feelings and interests and problems… Oh, so many problems. But still a person, like anybody else in the arcade. If she were being truly honest with herself, she hated it. She hated the dichotomy that came with seeing him in this light. She hated the ways in which she could find sympathy for him despite knowing just how undeserving he was of it. Knowing full well all the wrongs he’s done.  All of it rooted in that one particular wrong so many years ago. That one choice that she had never been able to wrap her head around, no matter how many times she’d heard the story. Now, it was time for her to understand. 

BUT HONESTLY I JUST LOVE THE WHOLE ROADBLASTERS CONFRONTATION IN GENERAL AGHSFDGJVBJNK, I LIKE DOING “NARC CRASH” STUFF WITH KING CANDY, IT MAKES MY BRAIN GO BRRRRRRRRRR

There’s also some fun Calhoun + Candybug interactions coming up eventually, and even though they don’t interact a whole lot as compared to the other characters, I love their stupid dynamic and I’m gonna share this one scene from one of the later chapters of Calhoun completely trolling him because it makes me giggle 😂

They sat in silence for a minute or two longer, Calhoun’s head tilted slightly to the side as she watched the Cy-bug eat. One more question had popped into her mind, and though she already knew the answer, she wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to have a little fun at this bastard’s expense. “So… Haven’t laid any eggs, have you?” King Candy immediately choked on his food, hacking and coughing while he tried, unsuccessfully, to regain whatever sense of composure he had five seconds ago. Turning away to jot something into her notebook (and hide the smirk on her face), she commented, “I’ll take that as a ‘not yet’.” “What do you mean ‘yet’?!” Candy’s distraught voice sputtered back, Calhoun trying very hard to muffle her snickering.

I JUST THINK THE FACT THAT SHE KNOWS WAY MORE ABOUT CY-BUGS THAN THE ACTUAL CY-BUG COULD MAKE FOR SOME VERY SILLY TROLLING SHENANIGANS. 😂

[joaosnovia]

❦ - one wrong digit.

summary:: joao wanted to call his ex, instead slipping up a digit leading to you. but was it really just a slip up?

warnings:: none! y/n mentioned tho

writers note:: RIGHT THIS IS MY RANG SPOT. how am i flopping this hard? excuse me. i’m lowkey gonna crash out i’ve fallen off and i haven’t even reached the height of my career yet?? also why is all of joaos delicious photos gotta be monotone bro step up! lmk if you want a part two of this.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; lmk if u wanna be added!

you’re halfway through making a cup of tea when your phone rings. the number flashing on the screen isn’t saved in your contacts, but curiosity gets the best of you, and you swipe to answer.

‘hello?’

silence. then, a hesitant voice. ‘uh… hello?’

you frown. the guy on the other end sounds confused, almost unsure if he meant to call. ‘who’s this?’ you ask.

a pause. ‘i… uh… i was trying to call someone else.’

you let out a small laugh. ‘clearly.’

normally, you’d hang up. wrong numbers happen all the time. but something about his voice makes you linger, it’s deep yet soft, carrying a weight you can’t quite place.

‘who am i talking to?’ he asks, still hesitant.

‘you called me.’ you tease. ‘but since you’re curious, i’m y/n, and you?’

he hesitates, like he’s debating whether to tell you. ‘joão.’

‘nice to meet you, joão,’ you say, settling onto your couch. ‘you okay? you sounded kind of… off when you called.’

he exhales, the sound crackling slightly through the speaker. ‘yeah. just… long day.’

‘i get that.’ you shift, making yourself comfortable. ‘want to talk about it?’

he chuckles softly, but there’s something tired in it. ‘you don’t even know me.’

‘sometimes that makes it easier,’ you reply. ‘no pressure, though.’

for a moment, you think he’s going to brush it off. but then, to your surprise, he starts talking. not in long, drawn out sentences, but in small admissions, about football, about expectations, about the kind of loneliness that lingers even when you’re surrounded by people.

and you listen. not because he’s famous (though his name does sound vaguely familiar), but because he sounds like he needs it.

‘sounds like a lot,’ you say when he finishes.

‘yeah.’ his voice is quieter now. ‘sorry. you didn’t sign up for all that.’

‘i mean, i was about to watch a movie, but this is much more interesting,’ you joke.

that earns a soft chuckle from him. ‘what were you gonna watch?’

‘a classic,’ you say. ‘ever seen 10 things i hate about you?’

there’s a brief silence. then, ‘can’t say i have.’

you gasp dramatically. ‘that’s unacceptable. you have to watch it.’

he chuckles. ‘that good?’

‘it’s life changing.’

you hear a faint shuffling sound, like he’s moving on his end. ‘maybe i should.’

‘good,’ you say. ‘that way, next time you accidentally call me, we can discuss it.’

another pause. ‘next time?’

you laugh. ‘unless you’re planning on deleting my number after this.’

there’s something light in his voice when he replies. ‘no. i think i’ll keep it.’

you don’t expect it to turn into anything. but over the next few weeks, joão keeps texting you, sometimes after matches, sometimes just because. the conversations come easily, and soon, it’s not weird at all that a wrong number has somehow turned into a late night talking habit.

[lair-of-the-white-worm]

Dear Alf... [art by @this-game-has-themes, text by me, oc Lenny belongs to me]

I wanna know somethin'...

Why do ya only kiss me when you're drunk?

I do my job. Every day. Always have. I don’t ask questions. I don’t make a fuss. I ain't never had a life outside a' the freight yard. That’s the way it is. That’s the way it’s always been. For all my life. For all your life. It's the only life we know. We ain’t supposed to get distracted. We ain't supposed to deviate from that, it's what we do. We ain’t supposed to feel like nobody.

Not when we could start the next day dead, crushed or ground into somethin' unrecognizable, and no one would stop to ask what our names were. Wouldn't even be called a poor bastard, 'cuz it just happens every day.

That’s why I don’t let myself want things no more. Not a full night’s sleep. Not a day without aching bones. Not the softness of a paw that don't pull away. Not you. And yet, when ya lean in close enough that I can smell the Brew on your nasty breath, wrap your arm around my shoulder and break that gap between us, I let you. Because when you’re sober, ya don’t look at me like that. Ya punch my arm and ya crack jokes. Ya call me a schmuck like it’s some kind of endearment. Ya slouch beside me like I’m nothing more than air, and I let you.

Because what else am I supposed to do?

I don’t ask questions, I don’t make a fuss. That’s the way it is. That’s the way it’s always been. But sometimes, when the machines are too loud and the smoke clogs my throat, I think about the way you look at her.

You called her eyes pretty. Did you know you’ve seen them before? Did you know you’ve stared right into them for as long as we've known each other? The same eyes you share a bottle with, a laugh with, a joke with? The same eyes you looked into before you pulled away and pretended you forgot?

Do ya drink to forget, or to remember? I dunno. I don’t know which answer would be worse.

I tell myself I don’t want to know. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I tell myself we aren’t supposed to feel like someone. I ain't no pretty girl. I couldn't be, I wouldn't be. We can't be nothin'. But then I'm sittin' with you again. And I look at ya. And suddenly, I wish we could be.

I could run. I could grab your wrist and bolt onto the train. I'd take ya and we'd jump off somewhere. Anywhere. We could disappear into whatever's beyond the tracks, beyond the factories, beyond the machines. We could find somewhere quiet, somewhere the sky is more than just smog. I know it's out there. I've seen it.

But workers don’t run. Workers work. And I am a worker. That’s all I am. That's all you are. That’s all we're meant to be. So I let the thought die before it takes shape. I crush it down, deep, an' I don't make a fuss over it. like every other Oddamn thing I’ve ever wanted.

I think about her. How you talk about her, how your voice gets all loose and easy when you bring up her name.

She’s pretty, you say. She’s confident, you say. She’s out there. Everything I’m not. You like her. I know ya do. And I wanna hate her for it. I wanna hate the way she gets to be loud, how she gets to be wanted, how she doesn’t have to curl in on herself every fuckin' night because she’s ashamed to exist. I wanna hate that I made her because I was too much of a coward to be her. I wanna hate that you see her, but you never see me.

Unless you can blame the brew for your hands on my waist, for the heat of your breath against my skin, for the way your face lingers so close like maybe—maybe—you wanna stay there this time.

But then I see ya again, and it’s like it never happened. An' just like everything else, I gotta carry it alone.

But I was hatched to carry things. That’s what I do. I lift, I load, I haul, I sweat an' I keep goin' 'till I bleed. An' I don’t complain, because what’s the point? A worker’s worth is only in the weight he can carry. You know that, don't ya? That’s what they tell us. That’s what I tell myself.

So I let it sit heavy in my chest, let it pile on top of everything else. Because I was made to carry things.

Even this. Even you.

Fuck you, mud. I fuckin' love you.

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

art by @this-game-has-themes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Text by me OC Lenny also by me

[sparrowrye]

The Archivist's Oath || Chapter 12: deep, dark, and desirable

Synopsis: Vox makes an interesting proposal

Master List

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The temperature in the room dropped. "So," Vox's voice was smooth but with an edge to it, "tell me about your bunker? Is it the exact same as our old Archivist?" He guided—pushed—me to the desk filled with loose metals and strange objects I didn't understand.

"I wouldn't know," I answered calmly. "I've never seen another bunker. Just mine."

He lifted his eyebrows. "Really? Then how'd you become an Archivist?" He leaned his hip against the counter and cross his arms over his chest.

My words were careful and deliberate. "I was raised as one. I grew up reciting my oath."

"How many people were in the bunker? Rumors say it could sustain ten people."

"Maybe once upon a time, but not anymore. All the technology died well before."

He hummed in response with a nod of his head, then stared off into the distance to think about his next question. It gave me time to look around the little room. I could see old batteries, fans, wires, and even computers that were working. This guy...he was an inventor.

"Al said he found you alone." Vox pulled my attention back to him. The use of his nickname wasn't lost on me. "Must've been a tough life. Spending your existence with dusty old books, preserving ancient knowledge for a future you can't even imagine...seems rather lonely. No one to share those heavy secrets with?"

I knew the coming implication. "It's my family's legacy. I wasn't very keen on sharing it."

Vox chuckled and leaned a hand on the counter. "And now here you are, sharing it. With Alastor no less. How's he been handling things with you? Everyone knows he's not the patient type."

I swallowed, reading well into what he was trying to learn. "He...has his ways. But...I think he understands why I need to take things slow." Despite Alastor's transgressions towards me, I wasn't keen on painting a bad picture of him, especially considering the warning he gave me beforehand.

"Taking it slow..." Vox repeated. He straightened up and brushed a blue claw along my hair. "You must be the first person to ever slow him down. Impressive, really. But I wonder what else you're good at...influencing."

I stepped back, eyes falling to the floor. "I-It's just the nature of the work. Texts get old and worn out. They have to be handled carefully and translating an Old World language is really complex. It's just more—"

"Of course—" he cut me off, "—I can't help but wonder if there's something else to it. Al is a determined man, but is it the work that's slowing him down or is he...distracted." He touched the edge of my jaw and pulled it up. It was then I realized his blue claws were actually metal.

Every single muscle in my body turned to stone as he leaned in close to my ear. "It's quite a feat to have a man, such as Alastor, so wrapped around your pretty finger. But you're not here because Al couldn't find someone to guard you. You're here because of your lack of progress."

He pulled away to look at my stunned expression. His smile wasn't as sharp as Alastor's but it made my skin crawl nonetheless. "...What?"

"Oh, he hasn't told you?" He stepped backwards and sat on a stool by his desk, resting his chin in his hand.

"Told me what?"

"I originally asked to have you in my district. I've got all kinds of Old World tech that just needs quick translations. Tech that could make life easier and more comfortable for the people of Pentagram city. And tech that could actually save it."

I waited for him to go on. The puzzle pieces were on the table and now I was putting them together.

"But everyone believed that Al, of all people, could break an Archivst the fastest." Vox tilted his head further and looked me up and down. "Until he failed to produce results."

I shifted my weight between my feet. My legs were on the verge of visibly shaking.

Vox's smile widened. "For someone who grew up reading Old World language, you're really bad at it."

"My pacing is the same as when I was in the bunker." I hated the way my voice began to shake. "It's very hard to read it and translate it into our language. There's so many factors at play, not to mention some pages are really worn and I have to—"

"Al may be willing to give you time," he interrupted again, "but I am far too excited to have so many of my questions finally answered. And...well...I prefer a more hands on approach." He tapped his claws on the counter to enunciate his point.

He suddenly stood and fixed his shirt. "We've only got a few a days together. And I'm sure you know this will go by much faster and smoother if you cooperate. For now, I'll show you where you'll be staying."

I followed him down the short hallway to an empty room. It had a small bed, a moldy desk, and a closet that looked like it was falling apart.

"I'll be back to take you to dinner. You can start your work tonight."

Then he shut and locked the door.

~*~

I found myself having less of a moral and ethical debate regarding the translations Vox asked of me. They were simple objects with directions on the back that posed no real threat to Humanity's future. At least, I thought so.

Some of the objects were things like a mechanical box to reheat food, a charger cable, a speaker, and a thermal scope among other things. I took my time on each, writing on the small pieces of paper he gave me and pretending it was difficult to read some of it. Vox liked to ask similar questions as Alastor did about the art of translating. I was grateful translating languages wasn't a widely known skill because I was able to convince them it was far more difficult than in actuality.

Vox sat next to me tinkering on a device while I translated a manual. He had a magnifying glass on a movable stand to help him see the smaller things, such as wires and tiny screws. He was picking apart a solar panel from a solar powered lantern. He was deathly quiet but obviously watching me whenever he took a break.

I, on the other hand, was having a much harder time with the manual he had given me. The cover showed two little mechanical orbs on the front. The title said "Airpods" and the first few pages told me they were wireless headphones.

The problem, however, were the immense amount of words I didn't understand. I usually had a dictionary with me but I wondered if these obviously coined terms would be in it. It made the translation a challenge to decipher and I didn't bother to write any of it down yet, trying to read through it to get a better grasp on how it worked. It would also allow me to gauge what I should and shouldn't translate.

"You've been quiet, Archivist," Vox broke the silence. "Very focused. Maybe something Alastor would find interesting that you don't want to tell him?"

I ignored the jibe, looking at him with a neutral, rather bored expression. I had learned rather quickly that Vox enjoyed drawing out my emotions, whether that be scared, frustrated, or even curious.

"It's nothing Alastor would care about," I said with a sigh, turning the page. "It's just a user guide. It doesn't talk about the mechanics of it at all."

"I'm surprised you're still reading it, then." He went back to his solar panel. There had been numerous guides and manuals Vox had provided that were practically useless to him, so he didn't ask me to translate them.

"It just...amazes me that our ancestors were able to create such incredible objects, but they weren't able to create anything on a large enough scale to save them. But then again," I flipped past two worn out pages, "the damage had already been done generations before."

"What do you mean?"

Something pleasant flickered in my chest. "Well, it wasn't just one big catastrophic event. The world had been slowly dying and society was just...a mess. No technological advancement could save a race that couldn't even come together to save itself. Their sense of community...it just wasn't there."

Vox was quiet for a moment. He had stopped working to look at me but my eyes were on the manual. It seemed his usual air of smugness and authority were amiss today. "I wasn't expecting an Archivist to have that spark. A spark like mine about...fixing the world."

I looked up, meeting his gaze that wasn't sharp or invasive, and saw an opportunity. "You mentioned before that you just started tinkering with Old World tech. What got you into it? Was it plain curiosity or something more?"

Vox saw right through my guise but, not to my surprise, went along with it. "Curiosity, sure. I mean you have to have it if you're going to spend hours in a metal box trying to fix broken things. But...it has always been something more."

I was silent so he would continue. I didn't even close the manual for fear of drawing his attention away from the memory.

"I lived on the outskirts of the community here. Back when it wasn't a city. I was...well, I didn't always get along with everyone. I tried but...I just wasn't interested in the things everyone else liked. I was always bored. Once I found Old World objects, not even tech necessarily, but just objects. Once I found those and started piecing Humanity's past together, nothing could interest me.

"And then...one day..." He took a breath and looked down at his device. "One day a storm caused a landslide. I don't remember why I wasn't at home but...my parents were. And they didn't make it."

The silence hung thickly in the air. I saw the way his fingers dug into his sleeve. Carefully, I said softly, "That must've been awful to experience."

"Yeah well...most people lose a parent or two when they're young. My neighbors took me in and tried to get me to eat but nothing worked. Then," he laughed to himself, "fucking Alastor came by with a radio. He said he found it and thought it might interest me. I hadn't found anything new in the past month so it was like candy. I started eating again and obsessed over that thing."

"So then...you're the inventor of the radio."

"Eh," he bobbed his hand in the air, "I didn't invent the thing but I did fix it. I learned about electricity and power but the thing was just static. A horrible constant noise of nothing. I thought I had botched it. But then...Alastor had gone out on one of his expeditions and said a community was using radios to talk to another community. It was the first one we absorbed since Lucifer came into power. I learned how the radios worked from those communities and we started building the radio towers.

"Alastor...he uh...well, he supported me," Vox continued. "He convinced Lucifer to let him build towers in regions we hadn't absorbed communities yet. He spread it so far out and...well, you know the rest." He began poking at the small wires again.

"So...Alastor saved you in a way."

Vox shrugged. "Eh. The radio was my first big project and I felt like I was actually contributing to the community again. He was there to convince Lucifer to start building the Technology District and...one thing led to another."

I was piecing bits of their history together in my big puzzle. "This whole district...you built it from the ground up?"

He casted a smile my way. "Quite literally. The communities we absorbed had their own little secrets that we learned. I learned how to mine for resources and how to melt them into something useful. It always amazed me what knowledge Humanity has managed to hold onto."

This city was fairly new, that much I had gathered, but it seemed like the kind that should've existed for generations. Somehow they had managed to do it in less than the span of my lifetime. And it all came from curiosity and survival. They had taken the information from smaller communities and put it to use for a greater good.

But no. I had seen glances of the workers in Vox's district. They were just that: workers. They didn't live or enjoy life. They were there as physical labor and I had a feeling that's where most communities ended up.

"Sounds like you and Alastor were close," I broached the topic carefully, "but not so much anymore."

He gave a dry chuckle. "I suppose you could say that. We were just two lost souls trying to make a difference in a world that didn't give a damn. But things changed. They always do. And this Old World tech? It never does. Everything's consistent and you just have to be willing to go the distance to piece it together."

"What uh...what happened between you two?"

Just like that, the walls went back up. He lolled his head to the side with a smile and said, "That's not a story for you, Archivist. Some things are better left buried."

Sensing the closed door, I decided not to push. I went back to the manual and flipped the page. "Thanks for telling me. About your parents and everything. I know...that it's difficult to keep living without them."

Silence hung over our heads, his eyes not yet leaving me. It felt like he was searching for something, or maybe for something else to say. In the end, he turned back to the solar panel with a simple, "You're welcome."

~*~

I wondered when Alastor would return. I was feeling a strange mix of emotions about it. On one hand, I hated being kept in a dark, damp place with no access to sunlight; and Vox made me feel on edge most of the time. On the other hand, I was nervous to go back to that stuffy attic and forced to play Alastor's mind games.

However, I still had at least a day left to prod Vox for information. He had given me far more information that Alastor ever let slip. Not to mention, translating the simple direction tags on old tech wasn't complex or unethical. He seemed pleased with my progress whereas Alastor was never satisfied.

He had explained that his stronghold was held within an Old World cargo ship. It instantly made sense how he came across so many random items and so much technology. At one point he let me wander around for awhile. I let my hands glide over the walls as I pictured men and women walking around to complete their tasks. To think we had once been able to sail huge bodies of water in metal boats.

"So, do you mind if I ask a question?" Vox asked at breakfast. We were sitting at an old table in a very old, metal room.

The fact that he asked me for permission made me wary, but curious. "Sure," I answered, not looking up from my plate. We were sitting in the kitchen and dining quarters of the ship. Eggs, bread, and cheese were the staple breakfast food in all districts. The leather of the comfy seat sank and tore at random places to reveal the ancient cushion that didn't quite work anymore.

"Alastor never struck me as the type to be kind to strangers. And yet rumor around the city is that you two shared a moment at your old bunker."

My hand stilled and I glanced up to meet his penetrating stare. It was rare for him to bring up Alastor directly, especially in a context that wasn't revolving around their hatred or competition for one another. It brought up the several moments Al and I had shared, but I stuffed those down. "He was different. Less of the Radio Demon, I suppose."

His lips curled into a smile as if I had confirmed something for him. "Really? More uh...more human maybe?"

I took a bite of eggs to push silence. Where was he trying to go with this? "Yeah. He was less intimidating because he was bleeding all over my floor."

He chuckled and leaned forward on the table. "It seems the time spent away from his radio and fans allowed him to drop his mask for once. You must've pulled out a side of him that very few actually get to see."

The eggs felt chewy in my mouth. There was something in the way Vox spoke that hinted at an ulterior motive. He was tricky, like Alastor, but a little more obvious about it. And yet, I still couldn't figure out what he was trying to get at.

"I don't really think that was another side of him. I think that was just a man who was a victim to circumstance. He nearly died, was sick because of it, and bored out of his mind."

"I don't think you give yourself enough credit, dear Archivist. Alastor has hit his lows before but he's never revealed a softer side. His walls are impenetrable. And yet...you managed to break through them."

I sighed and leaned back, placing my fork down. "What are you getting at, Vox?"

"You clearly have a talent for more than just books. You can soften even the hardest hearts and make them...connect with you through vulnerability."

I was growing more concerned with every word. He made it sound like I had manipulated Alastor, not the other way around; as if I was stringing him along with some hidden agenda.

"But Al refuses to see that," Vox went on. "He keeps burying those feelings and pushing you to the brink of insanity to prove you're nothing more than a pawn in his game."

My stared hardened. "What is your point?"

"My point—" he stood from his side of the table and sat right beside me, "—is that your worth is seen here. You've made incredible progress and answered so many of my dying questions. And I've seen the way you appreciate the Old World. So many people laugh at it and even pretend it didn't happen. But you..."

He placed his hand on top of mine and it took everything in me not to pull it free. "You appreciate it. Not just your books and their knowledge, but the things they've created. You appreciate my work, even if you don't want to admit it."

My throat was uncomfortably dry. My feet were rooted to the floor but my torso was leaning away from him. It was hard to hear his words over the sound of my heart drumming.

"You think you don't have a choice over your life, and Alastor has done well to make you think that, but...you do. You can choose to stay here. To work alongside me. The things you would translate...you would make this city come alive and pull the people out of poverty. And..."

His eyes went to our hands. He slowly moved up my arm, light as a feather, until he reached my shoulder, briefly removing it so he could tuck my hair behind my ear. I felt unnaturally hot.

"You could stay with someone who values your independence. Someone who could give you access to all the Old World information we've been collecting for years. Someone...who may feel just as lonely as you."

My mouth hung open, unable to form words. My limbs felt heavy and stuck in place. He was offering something dangerously close to freedom. I could play into it. The more I cooperated with him, the more freedom I would have. The more freedom I had, the easier it would be to make my escape. Maybe even with my archive.

And yet...there was a feeling I couldn't describe. A feeling that this...just wasn't right. A feeling that said I was being lured straight into a trap all decorated in gold and empty promises.

"Think about it," Vox said, as his hand trailed down my shoulder. He stood and left the room without another word.

I stared at the empty space where he had been. My heart wasn't slowing down. My blood felt cold and my skin scalding hot. I thought I was breaking out in hives from where he had touched me.

I fisted my shirt as I fought the rising panic. I pressed the pads of my fingers into the cold table and counted my breaths, goosebumps running along my arms.

This was bad. This was very bad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

Happy birthday Demi Demons! I wonder what's in store for us next time 😏

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist:

@sirens-and-moonflowers @papas-ghoulette @eris-norwega

[pheyphem]

ignoring the obvious. is anyone else really fucking intrigued/confused by this room

it is so STARKLY different from the rest of the phouse like it has fuzzy padded brown walls?? like they have a reason for every design choice in the phouse so why did they go with fuzzy brown walls in here and here only (it seems)??/?

drop your ideas below

[peridots-pixiwolf]

sketches from @mipexch 's whiteboard a couple days ago!!

also feat. a very small reference to @onlineviolence :]

[loverboybrightsideghost]

"reblog for something lgbt to happen to you" at this point i'd be grateful if something straight happened to me

[heyitslapis]

I don't have time for people who don't have time for me

I don't have time for people who don't have time for me

I don't have time for people who don't have time for me

[inkedlove]

so frustrating when you wanna be someone's friend and they just are not cooperating. I'M INTERESTED IN YOU AS A PERSON. PLEASE INTERACT WITH ME.

[theood]

Getting really tired how every time I mention talking to someone new my mom's like "omg lol! Move in with them! Lol! Have you thought about moving in with them? Lol? Will they take you? Lol. We're so tired of you complaining lol can you just move in with them? Lol!"

Like. Wow! I never fucking thought of that one! Damn mom! Wow!!!! Revolutionary.

It's so fucking annoying because if I COULD actually move out don't you think I would have done it now? Hell. I'd be towns away if I could. Anything to get out of this fucking house. Away from your parents. Away from the constant walking on eggshells I'm doing. Away from feeling like the only way I'll be safe is by ripping myself open until I'm raw and used. But I CAN'T.

And every fucking time like clockwork it's "oh move in with x lol!"