#years ago I was in one city off the coast and literally every direction I looked was at least 1-3 men who looked like this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

misskathcake · 3 years ago

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Bunny in Amalfi

Harry Styles had just popped the question about two weeks ago, binding Sophia and him in the first step to a happy holy matrimony. The two had only been together for less than two years, but when asked, they’ll say time before without each other was just merely a simulation and not real life at all. Harry and Sophia had first met in a print photoshoot, the two models first ever nude photoshoot, and that definitely helped start their friendship in a closer ground with literally no barriers to begin with.

Not even a month later, the two got together as a couple and their genuine chemistry during their first ever nude photoshoot was greatly loved by the public with more fashion brands booking them together as a couple for shoots and runway shows. Being jetsetter models together, it certainly allowed them to become closer in all regards of that word real fast, you will certainly learn and know everything about your partner when travelling in foreign countries outside the usual comfort zone of their home country.

With that being said, most people would probably think that they’ve experienced most of everything there is through visiting all these diverse countries and states. Though Sophia and Harry would like to differ, their work as models is not an easy task at all. They might be on the plane to Rio, Brazil in the morning and then Paris, France in the following hours but that doesn’t mean they were doing it for leisure. In fact, the two can barely even use their regular day-off in a foreign country to sight-see after being so tired the previous day from walking and posing in this direction to that.

So when the newly engaged couple decided to have an unconventional engagement-moon, they didn’t even bat an eye at every comment they got from family and friends alike who think the two should just save the funds for their honeymoon after the wedding. Instead, they packed together the largest single luggage they have in their closet filled with thin summer dresses and pollos and a bunch of different colored and patterned bikinis and trunks all perfect for the sunny Italian weather.

The Amalfi Coast is one of the most exquisite places on earth, and Sophia thinks their early alarm was worth it to catch the ferry ride from the port in Sorrento where their accommodation is at, to go to the bustling city of Positano just around the Amalfi Coast itself to spend the day there.

“Why did we opt to stay in Sorrento but mostly enjoy the amenities of Positano? It’s too early for this ferry ride, Sunflower.” Harry groans, dropping his face on her shoulder to block out the noise of other tourists finding seats within the massive ferry.

“Because there’s too many people in Positano and I don’t like too loud surroundings at night. And because you love me, you said yes without any questions. Is that a good answer for your question, my bunny?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I bet you used the same explanation when you tricked me into proposing to you.”

“Hey, that’s mean!” Sophia lightly swats him on his chest, trying to get his head away from its nestled state on her shoulder. “I didn’t trick you to do anything.” she pouts.

Harry just giggles at her disgruntled expression while finding a comfortable position for his head on her shoulder once again. Harry looks at Sophia’s beautiful bare face from underneath his sunglasses, knowing without a doubt that soon her cheeks would be flushed with a rosy hue just from a small exposure of the Italian sun, making her look more gorgeous, healthy and happy than ever. Harry can’t love Italy any more if it makes his Sunflower radiate contentment, damn the early hours and all that.

“You know I’m kidding, my Sunflower.” Harry soothes Sophia’s frown, hand on her thigh affectionately caressing the exposed skin from her jean shorts, “If anything else, you’re the one I tricked into saying yes.”

“Highly unlikely,” Sophia disagrees, smiling at Harry’s frown of confusion for not getting the bait to tease him. “I think I’ve said yes ages ago even before you dropped on one of your knees in our backyard in London.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asks, even more perplexed.

“What I’m saying is that you’ve got me hooked ever since the beginning, specifically, when you sank down on your knees, butt-naked, in front of my own naked body, and you looked at me from underneath as if you wanted to eat me out in front of our co-workers. How can I not say yes when the first time we met you already thought of a way to secure our future together with a new career if this modelling thing didn’t work.”

Harry smirks, “And what would that be, huh?”

Sophia rolls her eyes, giving Harry a dead-pan look, “You tell me, you’re the one who was stealing hungry looks at my vagina.”

“HEYYY!” Harry chastises her in laughter, sparingly smacking her thigh, “That’s so naughty of you, Sunflower! And this early in the morning, really? While we’re in Italy trying to have a wholesome time together as new fiancés in the serene and heavenly Amalfi Coast? You’re quite racy and that’s very naughty of you.”

“I’m not being naughty. Besides, you say that now,” Sophia snickers, interlocking her hand with Harry’s that’s placed on her thigh, “But don’t think I’d let your wandering hands anywhere near my scrumptious body later, and,” she taps his nose that’s nuzzling her neck for emphasis, “let’s see who’s being naughty when I see that lips and tongue of yours trying to find their way on any inch of my sun-kissed skin later.”

Harry giggles, smiling devilishly up at Sophia just like the first time he did on his knees during their first nude photoshoot, “You know how much I like my buns to be toasted.”

“And that’s you being hungry for my bum, you’re the naughty one.”

***

Much to Sophia’s dismay (well, not really), Harry has had his arms, hands, and attention all-over her the minute they stepped down the ferry. Harry is not one to let his fiancé go down those steep stairs of the ferry without any assistance, much accustomed to always having an arm around her whenever she’s wearing high heels for shows or shoots. That natural instinct to be gentlemanly and attentive to her needs and safety never leaves his system even if Sophia had told him she was alright to walk on her own by the time they’ve reached the wooden ground of the port dock in Positano.

“Also, I can carry our beach bag, you know?” Sophia says to a struggling Harry trying to carry their large Christian Dior book tote containing all their beach necessities and his other Gucci duffle bag consisting of his different camera for the trip, since Harry had apparently decided to be a professional photographer for their engagement-moon. The man can barely walk safely without the fear of tripping even without any constraints given to him.

“What kind of a fiancé do you think I am?” Harry responds, reaching for Sophia’s left hand to intertwine with his’ after getting their things together on his broad shoulders, “I’m here on this trip to show you how much of a doting husband I can be once we’re married already.”

“You already do that, though,” Sophia reassures him, smiling a little when Harry quickened his pace to go down the steps of the port dock before her, so he can help her go down with a study but gentle hold on her hand and arm.

“Thank you, kind sir.” Sophia remarks, doing a little curtsey that Harry returns once they’re on the grounds of the Positano beach itself, “As I was saying, you already are a doting husband material to begin with, bunny. You take it upon yourself to do my laundry when I’m tired, or wash the dishes I’ve left in the sink without being prompted to, heck, you even wash my makeup brushes for me cause you’re wary that I might get a rash if I don't clean it myself. No need to prove anything.”

Harry just shrugs, unfazed as he holds Sophia near him once again, the couple leisurely walking their way to confirm their reservation for their beachside seats, “That’s sweet of you, Sunflower. But maybe you can just let me be chivalrous, perhaps more often than regular apparently, just for this trip?”

“How can I deny my fiancé’s sweet requests?” Sophia replies, not really finding it anywhere within herself to deny any of that, “By all means, show me how you’d dote over your future wife.”

Harry’s smile brightens even more, Sophia thinks it might be even brighter than the freaking Italian sun shining on them.

“I hope you won’t regret saying that, Sunflower. Because I’m going to bloody lavish you with so much affection you won’t even recognize your previous domestic boyfriend Harry in London.”

Sophia simply cackles at his words, letting Harry go about his way to enter the building of the coast-side establishment to verify their reservation. Sophia just stands beside her fiancé the entire time he’s conversing with the beach staff to get what they need and all that, replying to any specific questions Harry asks her like what time they’d want to get their lunch served to them in their beach sunbeds, or if she wants extra towels (which she declines, not keen on using publicly shared towels that are meant to be clean but she’s skeptic about it).

Sooner than later, one of the staff led them towards their assigned beach sunbeds, which in Sophia’s opinion is the best one in the house because it’s conveniently at the front of everyone else's with the view of the Amalfi Coast gracing them just a few feet away. Sophia is genuinely ready to shed all other clothes adorning her sweating body and lounge under the morning sun in nothing but her blue Fendi bikini set. She’s about to suggest the same thing to Harry but when she turns back her attention to him after being captivated by their view, she frowns at what she sees.

“Baby, what are you doing?” Sophia asks her fiancé who’s cute little bum still covered with his own jean shorts (which is very unlikely of him in general especially when they’re on the beach, often she reprimands him for being too much of a nudist for a family-friendly beach), trying to move their sunbeds for some reason.

Harry grunts in acknowledgement to her question, walking to the other side to push her chosen sunbed more to the middle, muttering unpleasantly when he forgot to remove the side table in the middle. Sophia can’t help but be endeared even if Harry hasn’t really explained what he’s doing, and cheers along with him when Harry cheers in victory with his arms raised above him in glee for being able to push both their sunbeds in the middle.

“What do you think?” Harry asks, eyebrows raising up and down comically arms outstretched to showcase his invention.

“Beautiful, really.” Sophia indulges him, jokingly inspecting his work, “You pushed our sunbeds together in the middle?”

Harry drops his arms to his sides, squinting his eyes at her hidden from his sunglasses, “I made a single sunbed for the two of us? So we can be together, and beside each other for our entire stay here this afternoon.”

Chuckles take flight out of Sophia’s lips, always charmed at Harry’s sweet but weird antics. She can’t really completely comprehend Harry’s fascination with wanting to always be attached at the hip with her. Harry consistently found ways to have their makeup chairs to be beside each other during shoots, guiding her to sit on his lap during private jet rides, and even purchased them a baby pink tandem bicycle that Sophia’s not proud to admit how much she had enjoyed her time using it (not that she’d admit it to her fiancé verbally) when Harry had forced her to take it for a ride with him in a nearby park at their London home.

Sophia closes the distance between them, locking her arm around Harry’s neck as the latter wraps his own on her body in a compressed hug. She kisses his pouting lips, their sunglasses covered eyes hitting each other making them giggle at the clanking noise it produces.

“Thank you, bunny, for making us a single sunbed to enjoy. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to undress and enjoy this Italian summer heat in just my bikinis.” Sophia takes Harry’s arms away from her body and gently pushes on his shoulder for him to fall on the sunbed.

Harry whistles suggestively, arms raising above his head watching Sophia unbutton her white linen top, “Ohhh, front row seat for this exquisite Amalfi Coast scenery, and for a live strip show of world renowned supermodel, Sophia Styles? Fucking sign me up for that!”

“Shut up!” Sophia cackles along with Harry, throwing her now unbuttoned shirt to him who squeals in delight like some sort of fanboy that got to catch their idols used bottled water, “And who are you calling ‘Styles’? I ain’t one yet, babe.”

Harry rolls his eyes at her, “fiancé, wife, spouse, semantics! Now would you please continue your undressing performance? I was quite enjoying it.”

“Wow, thanks for even saying please, you cheeky bunny. And FYI, if this was a performance, I’d be charging you heavily.” Sophia wiggles her arse out her skintight denim shorts, the act earning embarrassingly loud ‘whoops’ and cheers from her crazy fiancé.

“HARRY!” Sophia quietly screeches, jumping beside him on the sunbed when she sees and feels other guests looking at their direction. “Don’t do that! You’re seriously embarrassing, people are lookin at us!”

Harry just raises an eyebrow at her, “I don’t know if you forgot, but we’re models who practically get our living out of people ogling at us.” Sophia was about to rebuttal but Harry silences her by placing his index finger directly on her lips.

“Shush, don’t want to hear any complaints from your precious little mouth. Now, rest your cute little bum on that sunbed and enjoy watching me give you a personal undressing performance. Not even going to charge you anything, cause lucky you, I’m your spouse.”

Sophia tries to speak despite Harry’s annoying massive finger in the way, “Not ye-”

“Shut it!” Harry reprimands without any real heat in his tone, squeezing her pouty lips on his finger, “I don’t understand why you’re complaining when I know for a fact you’ve been eyeing my delectable body since we’ve arrived here, waiting for me to shed my clothes off.”

Sophia also doesn’t know why she’s protesting, so he lets his crazy little arse do its thing and welcomes his now bare chest and itty bitty blue trunks back to her arms on their conjoined sunbed. Even in the warmth of their current destination, Harry and Sophia remain to be cuddled-up together relaxing and just lounging about despite the sweat being produced by their slick barely dressed bodies. At some point, one of them would take a dip at the very blue Italian ocean just at their lucky disposal, while the other would continue sunbathing on their sunbed waiting with a fresh towel on their lap.

When lunch time comes around, Harry has just returned from a dip, shaking his wet curl like an excited puppy as Sophia giggly makes him stop while drying him off with his towel. “Can we please have lunch now?” she asks.

Harry plops his wet bum on his seat, hands brushing his springy curls away from his face, “No need to ask twice, I’m positively famished.”

“Good, chop-chop then!” Sophia claps her hands in enthusiasm, laughter spewing from Harry’s lips, “Come on, hop those cute little bunny legs of yours to fetch the waiter.”

“Well aren’t you a bossy little Sunflower?”

Harry follows her fiancé's orders nonetheless, asking one of the nearby staff to kindly call a waiter who can get their orders. The waiter arrives shortly after, standing at the bottom of their sunbed while Harry and Sophia are snuggled nicely on their seats looking at the menu to pick their chosen dishes. At first, Sophia thinks maybe the waiter has recognized who they are as she feels her eyes constantly looking back and forth at the two of them. But then when Harry starts nosing at her cheek and pulling her barely covered body closer to his, big ring-less hands softly caressing her tummy (that were maybe just placed little bit lower than publicly acceptable), when the waitress quickly averts his eyes away from them but quickly looks back like a moth to a flame and then look away again.

Sophia finds that odd, especially when Harry starts to say their orders to her and Sophia begins to affectionately rubs her cheek that’s resting on Harry’s chest, her lips puckering to drop featherlight kisses on the bare skin of his sexy swallow bird tattoo, and their waiter begins to stutter upon repeating their orders to them.

“Sunflower, I think she was uncomfortable from our PDA.” Harry observes, right after their waiter has left.

“What PDA?” Sophia answers, confused but not bothered as she continues to now nip on Harry’s collarbone and broad shoulder.

“This, whatever you’re doing now and a while ago.” Harry explains, his right hand coming up to Sophia’s wet blonde hair to massage her scalp.

“I didn’t see you stopping me now and a while ago when she was here.”

Harry snorts, “Don’t you know me? I’m the affection-starved in this relationship, why will I deny such kind blessings being presented my way?”

“Good, keep being that way and ignore others; it’s not like we were having public sex or something.” Sophia mutters.

“Is that an invitation I hear?”

Sophia laughs at the apparent hopeful expression on Harry’s face, she taps his chest instead as an answer, “Nah, I’d rather receive pleasure through you feeding me with our lunch.”

Harry pinches the little pudge that he loves so much on her stomach, “How kinky of you?”

***

For their second day in their engagement-moon, Harry and Sophia had mutually agreed that maybe they shouldn’t follow through with their initial plan of constantly waking-up early every morning just to catch the ferry going to Positano and the other cities around the Amalfi Coast. Clearly, they had underestimated the wonders that the Italian summer weather may cause to their languid bodies and in addition, the amazing Italian foods have been nothing short but heavenly has only made the couple want to slow down and just laze about while hand-feeding each other with some freshly baked focaccia with a plate of fresh burrata and cherry tomatoes just by their reach. Harry had also impulsively booked them a little luxury yacht complete with amendments for an afternoon sail around the Amalfi Coast.

“I can’t believe I let you do this,” Sophia says to her fiancé who’s also changing beside her to his swimming trunks in the little bedroom inside the yacht. “This must have been so expensive, H. Have you seen the complementary Versace robes and Gucci slides in the living room? Our yacht captain said it's for us to take home, like it’s ours after we use it today.”

Harry looks at her with clear amusement in his features while helping her tie little knots on the strings of her bikini bottom, “I would be surprised if I didn’t know about it since I’m the one who booked and paid for this. Besides, we work for those brands on a daily basis. What's so new about using designer stuff?”

Harry has a valid point, but Sophia’s not here to admit that to him and make him smug. So she just narrows her eyes at him in dissatisfaction and walks back to the living area of the yacht with Harry hot on her trail.

“I do wear designer stuff a lot of the times, thanks to our careers,” Sophia agrees, easily lifting her arms to put inside the said Versace robe that Harry’s holding open for her to wear, “but that doesn't mean I’m going to buy some on my own will without a proper thought over if I really need it or not.”

Harry must have caught-on to what this conversation is going to lead to based on Sophia’s tone, his shoulders now comfortably wrapped with the luxurious material of the robe, deflates. Harry begins to give Sophia an apologetic look, the latter just looking at him knowingly.

Sophia knows they’re not on this trip to argue, but she has to say this regardless of their celebration trip, “I think that it’s just not wise to buy expensive things without thinking twice about it. We’re getting married really soon, bunny. And even though we’re much more well-off than others because of our modelling jobs, it would be really good if we start saving and spending our money in a much smarter and efficient way. You want our future kids to not be burdened by financial challenges while they’re growing-up right?”

Harry’s pouting now, his head still nodding in agreement regardless if he’s being told-off. Harry reaches for Sophia’s hand and gently cradles it on his own. “You’re right, Sunflower. I’m sorry that I didn’t think twice or consult you before booking this luxurious thing.”

Sophia squeezes his hand, feeling the sincerity in his voice, “I know you are, and I forgive you easily. It’s our engagement-moon, so I understand where this want to celebrate and spend is coming from. Let’s just tone it down a bit from here on out on this trip, yeah?. You know that I’d still feel cherished and happy if you decide to take me on a walk around town and act as my tourist guide since you love and know so much more about Italy than I do, my adorable Italian-like bunny.”

Harry giggles, a small smile now gracing his lips replacing his earlier pout, “Alright, I’ll keep that in mind. And I’m sorry again, I promise no more spending a lot after this. I’m sorry for dampening our mood on just our second day.”

Sophia begins to frown now, “Hey, no more sorrys, okay? And you didn’t dampen any mood, I’m not extremely mad or disappointed.”

“But you are, lovie. At least a little bit disappointed in me, and I’m sorry for causing that. I’ll do better, I promise.”

Sophia does not at all like the saddened expression on Harry’s face, no matter how determined he looks at proving himself on committing better choices next time. To soothe his emotions and take his mind away from this instance, Sophia sweetly requests for Harry to apply her sunblock for her out in the deck of the yacht. She knows her fiancé, knows how to use her body (when really needed) as a distraction.

She feels Harry’s aura instantly lift and brighten once again as she’s lying on her front in the wide deck bed of the yacht with Harry sitting on her thighs while his hands apply and massage the sunscreen to Sophia’s skin. Sophia lets him take his time, genuinely enjoying Harry’s relaxing and comforting touch, finding her eyes to naturally close in bliss. It opens wide though when she feels something oddly familiar between her thighs.

“Harry..” Sophia exhales, “What is that I feel on the back of my thighs? Please tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

Without even seeing Harry’s face, Sophia knows there’s an evident smirk on his cherubic face, “Sunflower, I don’t know what you want me to tell you..” and he even makes it a point to press said ‘thing’ further into the skin of her thigh.

And yup, that ‘thing’ is definitely the thing Sophia was afraid of. Especially when she feels that it was oddly hard.

Sophia groans, hiding her face on her folded arms, “Bunny, thank you for your honesty. But may you please tell me, why are you aroused in the middle of the afternoon as we’re innocently cruising around the Amalfi Coast?”

Gone is Harry’s earlier saddened and dejected baby demeanor, now replaced with a promiscuous bunny behavior with his hands continuously caressing her skin regardless that the sunscreen has been fully absorbed by her skin already. Actually, Harry even becomes more brave with his actions and takes it a step further by simultaneously sliding his hands down to her side-boobs as he pushes his groin area on the plump flesh of her bikini bottom covered arse.

“Are we talking about my hard cock?” Harry’s tone laced with downright cheek, gentle wide hands trying to squeeze his hands between the deck bed to cup Sophia’s breasts.

Sophia cackles at the unexpected action, bum raising up in initial shock connecting even more with Harry’s situation earning a squeak from her and a groan from Harry.

“Bunny! Stop!” Sophia squirms from his weight on top of her, successfully positioning herself in a sitting position with her own hands cupping her breasts, eyes narrowing at Harry’s disgruntled and flush look, trying to keep in her giggles at how ridiculous this whole thing is.

But Sophia fails nonetheless, peals of laughter coming out from her in no time, “Did you seriously just get hard from applying sunscreen on my body? Are you a teenager or what?”

Harry raises his arms in surrender, earnestly replying, “I can’t help it. Like, have you seen your body? Anyone from the age of 13 to 100 would get the same reaction, no doubt.”

“Eww..” Sophia’s nose scrunches at the unwanted mental image that gave her, “I don’t want to think about that, nor for people to think and see me like that to get that kind of reaction. Now can you please hand me my bikini top right there beside you so we can prevent that from happening?”

Sophia notices it the moment that something clicks within Harry, like some sort of light bulb turned on in his wits and Sophia can only begin to look in slight horror as the mischievous smile begins to form on Harry’s lips. It’s enough to signal Sophia of his next actions and she quickly tries to reach with one of her short arms her bikini top.

“I don’t think so!” Harry quickly sprang into action and snatched Sophia’s bikini top on his grasp, using his long arm to block her way.

“Bunny! What the heck, give it to me!” Sophia screeches, tightening her crossed arms across her naked chest as he tries to chase around a running Harry who’s laughingly flailing her white bikini top on top of his head like some sort of victory flag, “What are you even doing? Stop being ridiculous!”

“Am I being ridiculous?” Harry stops on his run, arm still raised above out of Sophia’s reach, “You’re the one who’s not wearing a top, so who’s more ridiculous, really? Me, the virtuous one wholly covered in my robe, or the insane lady trying to chase me around with her bouncing tits barely being covered by her scrawny arms?”

Alright, that’s a direct hit on her now, Sophia thinks as determination begins to flow on her veins, “Did you just call my arms scrawny? Like a synonym for skinny?”

Sophia laughs evilly in her head as the ever-present smug smile on Harry’s features doesn’t seem so present anymore upon seeing a change in her air. But her fiancé is nothing but a banter-loving and a self-proclaimed menace from birth till death. So it doesn’t surprise her when his smile returns, delinquent tones in ten folds.

Bravely, Harry replies, “I did. What are you going to do about it? Gonna hit me with your skinny and weak arms?”

Sophia basks in the witch-like cackle that she lets out, arms covering her breasts dropping to her sides in an instant. Her smugness gains in momentum as Harry’s eyes follow the now revealed clear skin of her breasts, dark rosy nipples his definite kryptonite.

“Yeah, I think that’s exactly what you want me to do.”

And then they’re having a full-on chase around the entire mini yacht, Sophia no longer giving a fuck if their captain or the godforsaken creepy paparazzi get a handful look of her tits as long as she gets to keep hearing Harry’s loud, dulcet laugh ringing in her ears forever. There’s nothing sweeter than hearing the tangible laughter of your lover’s happiness, one that you’re even the reason behind.

***

The couple made sure that their time in the luxury yacht will be one of the bestest and finest experiences they’ve had in Italy. Sophia thinks it’s only justifiable to ask their captain to slow down or sail back again to a specific spot in the vast clear blue sea of the Amalfi Coast for her to find the perfect background of the beautiful scattered Italian homes and buildings situated on the hillsides to take pictures of, and as her personal background as Harry directs her to pose this way and that; it’s justifiable because it was bloody expensive and Sophia will damn make sure these pictures are worth printing and putting up in their home. Besides, when the sun began to set and lights from from the quaint Italian homes begin to brighten the darkening orange sky, Harry had delicately pulled her body to his, suddenly kissing her pleasantly without any prompt as Sophia heard the unmistakable click of a self-timed shutter in one of Harry’s fancy digital cameras. That one for sure, Harry would get printed once they’ve landed back in London.

Though all those lovely moments are now kept stored in Sophia’s Harry=Happiness memory bank, their third day in Italy is now her main priority. True to Harry’s predictions, Sophia has been thoroughly tan already this early on in their trip to the point that too much exposure to the sun kind of hurts unpleasantly already, Harry not faring any better. So as they took turns applying cool aloe vera gel in their heated skins last night, the couple had discussed to veer away from the sea and the beaches for their third day, and instead have planned to have a stroll around the less-crowded streets of Sorrento and to shop smartly at the local stores and markets.

That’s their current agenda in this moment, Sophia contently swinging Harry and hers clasped hands between them as they leisurely walk and sightsee the warm toned sceneries offered by Sorrento. Sophia giggles for the nth time this early in the morning when Harry once again whispers in her ears how effortlessly graceful and lovely she looks in her short yellow slip dress with hot pink flowers scattered around it.

“And, I think it was a prime decision to use this hot pink Prada re-edition 2000 nylon mini bag.” Harry adds, dropping a little kiss on her temple.

Sophia quirks her eyebrow at him, “You’re just saying that cause you’re the one who suggested it.”

“Okay, but it was done out of a reasonable explanation beca-”

“Because it perfectly matches the shade of pink of the flowers in your/my dress.” Sophia cuts in and joins Harry to mutter the exact same sentence he had said ever since the instant that she’d dressed comfortably in his presence earlier this morning.

“I see, you’re learning.” Harry jests, nosing at her cheek endearingly, “Now, I think I’m seeing a ceramic store just a few feet away from us. Let’s check it out so I can teach you this time the different kinds of plates and dishware and their specific usages.

Sophia doesn’t want to ruin his merry parade by saying there’s no need nor space in her brain to retain that kind of information, and instead allows Harry to guide her to cross the street and enter the local ceramic shop with the ever gentleman her bunny is opening the door for her.

The minute the couple has made it inside, Harry takes it upon himself to tour her around the shop and point and hold for her the specific dishware he’s describing (which she quickly intercepts and holds the fragile ceramics, knowing how clumsy her fiancé is), quite impressing Sophia by the abundant knowledge he has about bloody plates and bowls. Harry was probably talking too loudly, like every time he gets excited and passionate about something (like green drinks and rings) because the store owner approaches them and begins to speak in Italian.

Since Sophia only knows the most basic (if any at all, to be blatantly honest) of Italian, she lets Harry take the reins for this conversation as she nods and shakes her head in what she assumes is the appropriate time for it, picking the pieces that catch her fancy. Since they’ve agreed to spend wisely, after Harry’s chat with the kind store owner who had recommended the best of his works to them, Harry and Sophia are now in the till getting their chosen ceramics wrapped and paid shortly after.

“Why did you get two salad bowls?” Harry asks upon seeing it getting wrapped, “I think we already have a bunch at home.”

Sophia shrugs her shoulders, “I couldn’t pick which design I wanted the most. Like I love the vibrant yellow tones of the intricate lemon patterns on one of them, and then I also adore the detailed lemon tree on the other. Couldn’t just buy one and leave the other on the shelf.”

“Well did you not learn anything about the specific functions various dishware can be used for? Like, don’t you think we can make more use of mugs than salad bowls since we already have so much of them in our cupboards?”

Sophia smiles, cupping Harry’s left cheek and tapping it lightly, “Bunny, I’m buying them for their looks, not their functions. And please, you can’t fool me into buying more mugs for your mug collection in our cupboard. I’m not the only one who likes to hoard specific ceramics.”

Harry laughs loudly at being caught, dimples popping easily creating picturesque craters on his adorable cheeks, “Alright, looks like I’m marrying a salad bowl hoarder. How lucky of me.”

Sophia reaches up on her tip-toes to press a kiss on his smiling lips, “And I’m also lucky for getting the chance to marry a mug hoarder. I love you.”

“I love you too, my Sunflower.”

Their time in the ceramic shop ends after that, the two finding themselves in the narrow streets of Sorrento where some of the market stalls are located. Once again, Harry takes the lead of conversing with the local sellers to find the best deals and varieties of the goods they’re selling. At the moment, they’re stopped at a stall selling locally planted and harvested goods from the owner's private farm here in Sorrento. Harry has about tasted every variety of their homemade cheese, has bought a carton of their farm-grown chicken eggs, has chosen the basket of tomatoes of his liking, and is currently taste testing different lemons, which in Sophia’s honest opinion, isn’t even necessary, how different can each slice be when a lemon is simply just a lemon?

Nonetheless, Sophia lets Harry be, content in looking around her lively surroundings with her thumb clicking pictures away from her phone of anything that captures her attention in this quaint Italian market. Everything was going dandy, until Sophia notices that the stall owner that Harry has been conversing with, leaves to attend to another customer who seems to be a local and a regular based on the rapt attention the owner gives. Replacing his spot is a woman who she assumes is his daughter based on their distinct physical similarities, who eagerly attends to Sophia’s finances like a schoolgirl trying to do everything in her ability to please her crush.

Sophia might not be knowledgeable in Italian, but she is fully adept and a master of the language of flirting. Just one look at the woman’s pink cheeks, and eyelashes fluttering so much and so fast like she has some sort of a blinking disorder, Sophia already knows this woman is up to no good.

Because of the nature of their job, both Sophia and Harry are quite familiar and relaxed with the attention they receive from others, despite the fact that they’re souls are pretty much entwined for life and suggestive looks and advances from others are some of the things they’d like to receive much less of. Thankfully, their very affectionate nature translates greatly to the public, and actual flirting and suggestive advances have been very minimal. But of course, there’s just some special incidents that they’re present, like this instant.

Sophia’s not a jealous person, not at her core. However, there’s a new sense of possessiveness that seems to have been newly ingrained within her ever since Harry asked for her hand in marriage. She doesn’t know what it is, but every time she looks at her left ring finger and sees that glimmering rock safely and tightly nestled there, makes her feel extremely jovial with an added mixture of feeling powerful, like she now has the official rights to everything she desires, especially Harry’s love and devotion.

With narrowed eyes, Sophia’s determined to show this Italian woman who Harry belongs to. No matter how harmless her flirting might seem, Sophia does not take it lightly when she sees the woman had the audacity to hand-feed Harry with the sliced lemons. The uncomfortable look on her fiancé's face when her fingers forcefully prodded at his lips to open up, makes irritation crawl at Sophia’s skin.

Nobody gets to fucking do that, except for me, Sophia thinks as she unclenches her balled-up fists and finally strides to Harry’s personal space to save him.

“Bunny,” Sophia drawls much loudly than necessary based on their already too close proximity, “May I please have a taste of the lemons?” she asks prettily, the same tone she uses whenever she wants Harry’s undivided attention but is too shy to ask for it directly. Also, remembering to use proper grammar (‘May, lovie, not can!’ As Harry had expressed every time she kindly asks him to turn the lights off in their room, Sophia not giving a single shit to her grammar when all she wants to do is sleep) knowing how weirdly endeared Harry gets when she does it.

The tone always makes Harry so soft for her, never one to hide his naturally excessive affection and attention towards her especially when Sophia’s asking for it.

The same thing happens here wherein Harry’s lips instantly quirk up, aura instantly pliant, answering her willingly, “Of course, my Sunflower, anything you want you may get from how polite you are. Here you go,”

Harry tries to reach for a slice of lemon arranged on the plate the now frowning Italian woman is holding, however, Sophia quickly cups his cheek to turn towards her face, making sure that her engagement ring is directly facing the Italian flirt. Raising to her tip-toes, Sophia captures Harry’s unknowing full lips in a passionate kiss that their mothers would probably call them out for if they were here, saying that it was definitely too much and borderline rude for public viewing.

But Sophia doesn’t give a fuck, clearly bustling in her skin upon seeing the shock look of affront on the Italian flirt’s face from her peripheral vision. Harry’s perplexed expression greets her triumphed face after she releases his lips with a deep bite on his bottom lip.

Before Harry can verbalize his confusion, Sophia starts to perform the real art of flirting (she thinks this can also help the Italian woman if she wants to flirt more successfully with other innocent Brits on their engagement-moons, she’d accept the thanks later).

Sophia tones down her smile of victory to something more bashful, widening her big blue eyes just enough to achieve that innocent bambi eyes effect. She begins to flutter her eyelashes in no way near the speed that woman was doing earlier, batting it slowly and moderately as she looks underneath her long lashes at Harry. The final killing shot as Sophia likes to call it, is the calculated move of her lips, jutting out at just the perfect angle of a tiny pout. It’s not a sad pout, a mad pout, or an annoyed pout, it’s simply the enchanting flirting pout.

With Sophia’s left hand blatantly showcasing her ring still resenting on Harry’s cheek, she starts to rhythmically caress the slightly stubbled skin of his round cheek, speaking in faint boyishness.

“Thought it would be good to have a little bit of the sweetness of your taste to cut the tanginess of the lemon, you know how much I don’t like sour things, right bunny?”

And it works.

Harry’s earlier confusion is replaced by an intense dazed stare, as if he’s completely under whatever flirting spell Sophia has placed on him. He even nods his head, his own hand rising to clutch her hand that’s on his cheek as if to ground him and prevent him from floating away in her love charm.

“Yeah?” Harry replies just as softly in his slow, deep drawl, “Was the taste of my lips sweet enough to lessen the sourness of the lemon?”

Sophia grins, “Totally. It’s sweet enough that I might consider you buying some of these lemons and making us that lemon tart. Remember, bunny? The one we had right after you proposed to me?”

Harry just nods eagerly like the completely love-dazed bunny that he is, “The one I specifically made with the fresh lemons we bought that day in the farmers market in Hampstead? You know, I made sure to get the less sour ones for you, my love, because I wanted you to remember forever the dessert I made for you after I proposed and asked you to be my wife. You’d let me make us another one? Are you sure, sunflower? Don’t wanna make something that you don’t like that much.”

Sophia coos, Harry’s adorable rambling is utterly charming, “I’m sure, bunny. I’d eat anything you make because I love my fiancé a bunch. Besides, I think this kind lady selling you lemons will highly appreciate you purchasing some, yeah?”

The couple turn their attention to the Italian woman after being submerged in their own flirting world, this is the first time Sophia actually gets a good look at the woman after she had started her conniving ways to show the Italian flirt that Harry’s very much taken care of already. And boy, is Sophia having a hard time to control the smug expression trying to emerge on her features as the Italian woman is positively seething and red-flushed in her rooted position with the plate of lemons still on her raised hold.

The woman begins to speak in Italian very quickly to Sophia’s amusement and lack of understanding a single thing that left her lips. She thinks she doesn’t mind it though because it seemed to quicken their time spent here as whatever the woman said prompted Harry to finally choose the lemons he wants and to pay for the other things he had picked earlier. The next thing Sophia knows, the Italian flirt huffs indignantly at the two of them right after Harry has said his thanks and held her hand securely with his free one.

***

So, Sophia might have not taken into consideration the consequences of her art of flirting and possessive display of affection at Harry earlier. She doesn't know how it slipped her mind that Harry gets extremely turned-on whenever she overtly acts minx like.

The sexual tensions radiating out of her bunny was quite palpable the moment they made their way back to their rented Italian villa, the lovely and jittery Harry expressing quite simply that he wants to just go back at their place when Sophia had asked him where they should go next in the town of Sorrento.

It hits her why he wants that when Harry all-out attacks her with his skin-burning and soul-tingling kisses when they’ve finally arrived at the confines of their villa, pushing her back right against the closed front door, his own body pressed firmly against hers.

Their passionate kissing halts as simultaneous moans of pleasure escape their bitten-red lips when Harry’s tenting shorts rub against Sophia’s pulsing hot heat underneath her dress.

“Fuck,” Harry rubs against her again more purposely, the two moaning in unison, “Feel what you do to me, sunflower? You got me fucking rock hard from your little possessive stint there at the market earlier. Don’t even know why you got jealous, but shit, my fiancé’s hot when she’s jealous.

Sophia clings to Harry’s body even more, rutting up against him eagerly in the little rhythm they’ve started, “I honestly don’t know either, but the moment she started her horrible flirting on you, I just badly wanted to show her you’re mine. Fuck, oh bunny, keep going that’s so good.”

Sophia does not even care anymore if all they do is rut up against each other, fully clothed like teenagers sneaking around and trying to literally keep it in their clothes while still wanting to get each other off. It’s honestly surprising to Sophia that Harry’s will power seems to be much stronger than she initially thought with his extremely love-dazed loopiness from earlier. A shocked loud moan erupts from her when Harry picks her up all of a sudden, her legs and arms wrapping tightly around Harry in instinct as he carries her to somewhere she doesn’t know and mind at all as long as kissing and the caress of Harry’s lips on her heated skin never stops.

With her eyes closed, she gasps in surprise as the distinctly familiar Italian summer breeze hit her physique, knowing well enough now that Harry has definitely brought them outside their private veranda overlooking the surrounding nature and the roofs of the other villas who also had their own verandas that are slightly in-view of theirs.

Harry places her back on the ground, gently yet expertly maneuvering her body around with lips sucking bruises on the back of her neck as he guides Sophia on the railing of their veranda, her hands finding purchase on the cold metal with her bum slightly raised due to Harry’s clever hands holding them up in place, and he resumes grinding his crotch to hers in this new position with Harry on her back in full-control.

“Yes, fuck..” Sophia moans when Harry wraps an arm around her waist to keep her body up-right with her back pressed tightly on his heaving front. “More, bunny. Give me more.”

Sophia feels the smirk on Harry’s lips at the side of her neck, probably finding it amusing when she tries to move her lower body to chase the friction of their privates rubbing together that Harry has momentarily slowed down.

“Look at you, so eager..” Harry grants her one rough grind of his extremely hard cock, making sure to add the most pressure on her covered sensitive bud, the loud moan Sophia exhales quickly turns into an agitated whine when Harry withdraws any friction yet remains in contact with her pulsing cunt.

“Sunflower, you might want to slow down and keep it quiet, yeah? We don’t want you starting another scene if the other patrons in their villas hear you.” Harry whispers teasingly in her ear, his broad wet tongue salaciously licks her lobe.

Sophia grunts, tries to wiggle her bum to get the friction back. Harry’s strong hold around her waist prevents her from succeeding. “I don’t fucking care, bunny! Let them hear me getting fucked so good, that way they know I’m appreciating what’s mine cause my bunny is only mine to get fucked on.”

“Hmm, you’re the only one who I get to fuck and who gets to love me and praise me for it, is that right, lovie?” Harry hums, his left hand slowly making its way underneath her dress to which Sophia wishes lands on the place she wants his touch the most.

“Yes, yes.” Sophia nods wantonly, “You’re the only one, bunny. My only fiancé that gets my body feeling so good I can’t stop screaming how good you are, always gets me so fucking speechless-dumb from how good you give it to me, bunny.”

Harry chuckles darkly, left hand swiftly sliding down Sophia’s small little panties, cupping her already slick-leaking pussy which elicits a loud pleased moan out of her.

“You really know how to use your sweet words against me,” Harry remarks, middle and ring finger parting her lips to rub slow yet firm circles on her highly sensitive clit. “Guess I’m not the only one who gets stupidly love-charmed, huh? You’re gonna take everything I’ll give you and be my best girl by screaming your little lungs out to show how much you love it?”

“Ohh fuck, oh my god..” Sophia moans in instant pleasure not only due to Harry’s nimble fingers toying with her sensitive nub, but his salacious words don’t help either in slowing down the steady stream of her wetness ruining her designer underwear.

“I haven’t even started my special moves on your body yet, and you're already lost for words like I’d already performed my highly acclaimed fuckery skills.”

Sophia knows she shouldn’t, but she can’t help the loud laugh that erupts from her still aroused body at what Harry had just said. She’s not sure what’s she’s done in the past to be so lucky to have a boy that’s both lewd and ridiculously weird when it comes to sex.

“Special moves, and highly acclaimed fuckery skills?” Sophia quotes back, now thankfully reduced to giggles instead of howling laughter, “Are shitting you me, H? Why would you say that at this specific moment we’re having? With your hand literally on my cunt?”

Harry to his credit, chuckles with her and not at all offended at her reaction, “Just wanted to hear your melodious laughter before I ruin you to well pleased tears.”

Sophia was probably busy laughing her head off from Harry’s earlier statement because she genuinely did not feel nor hear him remove any of his clothes and yet his left hand had suddenly disappeared from inside her panties and is now slipping the crotch to the side, with the head of his cock pressing the surface of her folds.

Sophia moans in actual, unadulterated surprise, “Fuck! You’re magic, ohhh god more.”

Harry chuckles at her surprise reaction, though moans in pleasure just the same as he continues to rub his pre-come leaking cock on her pussy lips without breaching inside her warmth yet.

“See, I told you I have renowned fuckery skills.”

Sophia grins despite Harry not being able to see her with his face squished at the side of her neck leaving kisses, kitten licks, and sharp quick nips with his teeth.

“Fucking put your prick inside me already and I might just agree wholeheartedly with you.”

Harry groans in rapture, sucking a surely big and deep bruise on her neck, distracting Sophia for a second to what she had wanted. And when Harry suddenly plunges his prick inside her, it surprises Sophia so much that she jumps a little from the intrusion with her upper body falling forward and her hands finding purchase on the railings of the veranda. Thankfully Harry’s arms around her prevented her from face-falling to the ground, the latter hoisting her body upwards again as he thrusts his cock deeply inside her.

“Can’t go anywhere, sunflower.” Harry moans to her ears, enthusiastically pounding into her sweltering hot cunt, Sophia keening in pleasure as every time Harry thrust out before deeply thrusting back in, she feels her own juices flowing down to her thighs. The squeaky, wet noise of their bodies gyrating and thumping roughly together, added with the obscene sounds of the skin of Harry’s balls slapping the glistening hood of her clit, is everything that Sophia can hear in her lust-blown state.

“Not going anywhere, don’t wanna fucking go anywhere, ahhh shitt that’s so good oh my god, keep fucking that prick into me!”

Sophia’s ardent shrieks of pleasure probably affects Harry’s similar burning state of desire, his hips increasing its pounding speeds and hitting her pussy walls even deeper to the point that the couple abruptly stops in surprise when they feel his dick pressing all the way in Sophia’s stomach.

“Oh my god, you’re in my stomach, jesus fucking christ that’s deep,” Sophia mewls loudly when Harry resumes his movement with an experimental thrust, likely trying to make sure that it doesn’t hurt for her when he pounds this deep up to her stomach.

“You like that? Feeling my dick in your belly?” Harry the smug fuck that he is, even places a hand underneath Sophia’s bunched up dress to press his bulging dick on the skin of her stomach, Sophia screaming in utter euphoria. “I know sunflower, I know. It’s so fucking good that you can’t even say anything coherent anymore, huh? God, I can feel your pussy squeezing me and fuck me, your leaking wet cunt makes me just want to devour you after this.”

Sophia begins to return Harry’s thorough, rapid impaling of his dick on her positively pulsing vagina from his pistoning position from behind her, moaning and whimpering incessantly as she tries to find some simple words to say, “Uhh..nrgghh..noo, keep fucking, ohhh come please.”

“Come? You wanna come?” Harry parrots back, Sophia nodding vigorously with non-coherent pleads leaving her kissed-bruised lips, her body bouncing frantically to Harry’s rabid thrusting inside her, all thoughts laser focused on chasing her high.

Harry’s left hand returns to toy on her clit, rubbing furiously in time with his pounding, Sophia involuntarily shuddering at the intense sensations, “You can fucking come on my prick, yeah? My sunflower is so lovely and so good that she can release her cum anytime she wants. You gonna come, sunflower?”

Sophia feels overwhelmed, her gut clenching to the familiar feeling of her near release, “Yes, so good, bunny’s so good.” she babbles without thought, making Harry chuckle despite their fanatical fucking.

“Thank you sunflower, I know you're good too cause you’re going to come for me, huh? You’re going to come cause I make you feel so fucking good.”

If it’s even possible, Harry really starts fucking Sophia like a bunny in heat that not even a minute later, Sophia’s screaming in exultation as she finally comes.

“YES! BUNNY, YES!” Sophia allows her body to release every jubilation she currently feels; might it be in the form of her unrelenting screams and whimpers, the slow stream of highly satisfied tears wetting her cheeks, or the hot, sticky cum gushing down from inside her cunt, down to her dainty ankles. Everything intensifies again when Sophia feels Harry’s dick begin to twitch inside her, pumping his warm cum within her.

“Holy shit.” Sophia tiredly exhales, hearing Harry hiss from behind her as he disconnects his now soft cock away from her vagina, said vagina now begins to excrete Harry’s cum mixing with her own release in a white and viscous liquid slowly trickling down her legs.

“There’s no way that’s only the amount of load I deposited in you,” Harry suddenly says in a tone of incredulity, eyes looking down at the mess on Sophia’s legs.

Sophia snorts in reply, rolling her eyes at his questioning, “Why do you have to ask that? You sound like a total idiot.”

Harry wiggles his eyebrows playfully, “An idiot who gave you a huge amount of cum, now squeeze that beautiful cunt of yours to push-out anymore of my semen that’s still in your tummy cause I don’t want you to get any UTI.”

Sophia feels endeared despite his manner of questioning from earlier, obediently squeezing out more of Harry’s ejaculation resulting the latter to dip a finger on the bubbling white substance on her inner thighs and making a show of sucking his mixed-cum covered finger in front of her.

“Harry,” Sophia widens her eyes at him, “We’re not going again, not gonna happen.”

Harry pouts his now white stained lips, “But I said that I wanted to eat you out earlier. Come on, sunflower. We still have a lot of time left before we go out for dinner. What can we possibly do instead of me having a go with you again? With my mouth this time, though.”

“I don’t know? Maybe we can go to the nearest jewelry shop here to get a ring on that left finger of yours so no other Italian flirt can even think about trying to seduce you again?”

“And lessen the chances of getting to fuck like rabbits again? I don’t think so. In fact, I think we can add possessive/jealous fucking to my list of kinks.

***

Their fourth day in Italy is hot beyond belief.

Not in the ‘hot’ way with Harry following his desires from yesterday of eating Sophia out, but ‘hot’ in the literal sense of the burning temperature.

Despite sleeping in the nude last night, Harry and Sophia had woken-up tangled together from head to toe, the duvet of theirs had seemingly found solace on the floor of their bed if their sweat-glistening skin are any indication that it must have been a literal steamy night. Ever since they’ve woken-up and gotten their bearings, the couple had forgone wearing anything beside Harry in his yellow trunks, and Sophia in her matching yellow bikini set. It was also probably the constant sweltering heat that had affected their lazy mood of the day as moving too much resulted in exerting more energy, which led to letting out more sweat.

So for their fourth day, Harry and Sophia had comfortably settled in the confines of their Italian villa, mostly residing in the comfortable, decent sized living area, or when it’s really too hot inside, the two lounge around the open-area of their veranda in one of the two lounge beds located there. Much to Sophia’s dismay, her evidently sweaty skin does not scare Harry away from finally settling down on his own lounge bed. No matter the amount of pleading and whining Sophia performs just to persuade him to stop crowding her already warm personal space, Harry had been keen in staying glued to her side by bringing out a book to read for him and her. Knowing Harry though, he can’t sit still for the life of him especially when he’s chilling time has been reduced to reading which normally, the boy does not do unless it’s late at night and he can’t sleep.

Luckily for Sophia, Harry does end up being restless when after their delivered lunch of fresh margarita pizza and too many different kinds of Italian bread that Harry had stupidly ordered because he apparently, ‘loves bread so much he just had to taste every single one of them’ then proceeds to the bathroom after taking a huge bite of the sixth kind, saying he needed a wee. We all know that’s not the case, and the disturbing wrenching sounds Sophia has overheard when she had passed the bathroom area is enough proof of that. So, a now extremely bread-full Harry does not have it in his sanity to lay back down beside Sophia on the lounge bed no matter how much he had gushed to her the intriguing plot of the roman novel he was reading earlier.

Instead, he leaves a secretly pleased-to-be-finally-alone Sophia with a sweet kiss on her lips as he fetches his expensive camera equipment in their room, presumably to take pictures of her or their current surroundings. Sophia doesn’t mind one bit, content in flipping page after page of the mystery novel she’s reading while sipping on the green juice that Harry had happily made for her after she requested for some afternoon refreshments. The only time her attention was veered away from her book is when Harry calls for her much later in the day.

“Sunflower, look!” Harry excitedly says, he’s standing below one of the large trees that's rooted just outside the veranda of their villa, four round lemons on his hold.

“What?” Sophia asks, lowering the perch of her sunnies on her nose bridge to have a better look at her fiancé.

“It’s a lemon tree!” Harry answers in the same overly enthusiastic manner, “If I had known there’s a literal lemon tree just outside our villa where we can just get lemons for free, I wouldn’t have bought some in the market yesterday so you also wouldn’t have been so threatened by that kind woman.”

“Oh shut-up!” Sophia rolls her eyes at his obvious teasing, his merry laughter leaving no room for her to be actually mad at him.

“What did you call her again? You had a specific name for her.”

“What else, she’s the Italian flirt.” Sophia says in a ‘duh’ tone, “And by the way, I wasn’t threatened by her, like at all.”

Harry’s laughter should really be annoying, especially when the volume increases and the boy even had the audacity to laugh so hard his thumping his own thighs with his big hands, letting the lemons he was holding fall on the ground. He didn’t even give a fuck when they all rolled to the side of the veranda and fell on the holes of the metal railing.

“Why is that her nickname?” Harry begins to speak, visibly trying his hardest to control the giggles from coming out, “Does that mean if I had met her back at home, you would have called her the London flirt? Sunflower, I’m sorry to say but your nicknaming skills lack some creativity.”

“You’re one to talk,” Sophia guffaws, “you named your cat Dusty because you said she still looked ‘dusty’ after you had bathed her for the first time. You’re just as bad at nicknames like me.”

“Now don’t drag my poor innocent cat into the conversation,” Harry chastises Sophia, beaming brightly at her nonetheless.

“Our cat, Mr. Styles. I think marrying means merging assets which includes house pets.”

Similarly to what Sophia had done earlier, Harry slides down his sunnies in the lower part of his nose bridge, then proceeds to give Sophia a deadpan look with a complete one hand resting on his hip like the complete diva that he can be. “Are you kidding me right now? You’re the one who told me I can’t call you by my surname yet cause we aren’t technically married yet.”

Sophia throws him a cheeky smile in return, shrugging her shoulders in a cool as a cucumber expression, “Baby, I didn’t see that stopping you from calling me your spouse for the rest of the day, did it? And if I remember correctly, you booked this villa we’re staying at with the establishment thinking we’re newly weds. Don’t think I forgot the fucking mess those rose petals were!”

Both Harry and Sophia laugh in remembrance of their first day upon arriving in Sorrento. From any of their past holidays together, Sophia was always the one booking their accommodations while he left Harry to plan their itinerary. Except for this engagement-moon, Sophia got super busy with a campaign in New York for the summer jewelry collection of Tiffany & Co. and had no wits left to find and book them a place. Then steps in Harry, the self-proclaimed Italian-expert-I’m-Basically-Half-Italian-At-This-Point and had willingly taken the task to find them a place. The boy had even sent her New York hotel room a goodie basket filled with Italian treats as some sort of preamble to their trip all the way from London.

Everything thus far in their trip had been normal when they had taken their flight from Heathrow to the Naples airport and then their rented car ride from Naples to Sorrento. Sophia’s wariness only kicked-in upon arriving at the reception area of their place in Sorrento, the lady at the front desk instantly referring to them as Mr. & Mrs. Styles despite their lack of wedding. Although, Sophia had thought at that time that maybe the lady had seen their engagement announcement on their respective social media accounts, with Harry literally captioning his ‘The Styles, 2021’ like all the vows and rings have been exchanged already.

Obviously, the main tell of what Harry had apparently done is the bloody amount of rose petals scattered in their villa upon their arrival, with a bunch of lighted candles completing the romantic atmosphere. Sophia had been shocked at the atrocity of the heart shaped rose petals dispersed on their bed with two swan-folded towels at the side of a bucket of ice and champagne, the assorted box of chocolates was also properly present in the selection.

Just like that same day, Harry’s giving Sophia a sheepish look right now, returning her unconcerned shrug of a shoulder, “The honeymoon package was much cheaper than booking us the presidential villa. I think you should even be thanking me right now, sunflower. Since we are starting to save more for our future mini Harrys and mini Sophias.”

The mention of children has always made Harry beam in unbridled happiness, though the mention of their children, makes him shine like the fucking sun. It’s highly endearing and heart-melting for Sophia to see her bunny so excited about building this life together with her, quite literally in some aspects since they are technically going to build life for them to have children.

“Well thank you for that, lovie.” Sophia relents with a grin, “Now may you please tell me why you called my name in the first place?”

“Oh!” Harry exclaims in recollection, “I saw the lemon tree and plucked out some of them so I can teach you how to juggle.”

How odd yet lovable can this man-child be, Sophia thinks, “And why do you plan to teach me juggling, bunny?”

“Sunflower, I’m going to teach you to be a master juggler like myself so that during our wedding reception, our first dance as the newlyweds won’t be boring.”

“What do you mean it won’t be boring?” Sophia asked, absolutely confused at what he had just said.

Harry looks at her with this look that he can’t understand why she doesn’t get it yet, making his way to the lounge bed with four new lemons on his hands, “I don’t think I’ve seen a couple do their first dance and then surprise their guests with a juggle break, so, us Styles are going to be the first one in wedding history to juggle during our dance.”

Sophia squawks an absolutely surprised laugh, “You want us to juggle during our first dance? Are you crazy, H? I think why you haven’t seen any other newly weds do such acts it’s because the idea’s bloody demented.”

“Heyyy..” Harry pouts in a whine, “Don’t go shutting down my idea without having a go at it.”

Sophia just snorts and welcomes Harry to her side as he plops his slightly sweaty body beside her on the lounge bed. Harry slots himself under Sophia’s arm and props his face on her chest to give her collarbones a few affectionate pecks, Sophia’s hand ruffling the messy angelic curls atop his head.

“I’m down to learn juggling,” Sophia remarks, “but I’m not sure if it’s a wise decision to mix it in our wedding planning, like I don’t want to hit anyone in the eye if I fail to catch one, heck who am I kidding? I’d probably not catch any of them with how bad my eye and hand coordination can get.”

Harry’s giggles vibrate from Sophia’s chest, “Yeah, I think I get your point. I’d rather not have to remember my wedding as the day my own wife had injured my nan with a flying beanbag that I had to go and take her to A&E.”

“Heyyy, now you’re just taking the piss.”

The couple’s afternoon had moved along from there on. Sophia genuinely allowed Harry to teach her some juggling techniques, which only lasted for a good 15 minutes before Harry had reached the point of having enough body pain for Sophia’s every uncaught lemon hitting him. Though Harry can’t really complain if it got him his fiancé’s delicate and gentle hands rubbing aloe vera gel on every sore area on his body.

When the sky had turned an ombré orange with a tint of pink swirls mingled in the perfect picture of the Italian sunset, Sophia has been charmed by her bunny to stay-in for dinner again, although this time, the two of them will cook their dinner with the array of produced they got in the market yesterday.

In all honesty, Sophia does not like to cook. She won’t proclaim that she’s an absolute shit cook when she’s still able to make a mean cheese toastie and Harry and her favorite soft-centered chocolate chip cookies. Her always on the go lifestyle has also contributed to her lack of time to explore cooking, and if she does have some free time, she’d rather make sure whatever she’s eating would be edible. Harry on the other hand, is kind of on the same boat as she is when it comes to the field of cooking, it’s just that her bunny thinks he has an innate inner culinary genius within himself that he’s yet to properly unleash. So between the two of them, Harry’s definitely the one who subjects himself to overly seasoned or burnt dishes due to his inspiring cooking attempts. Tonight however, would be the first time they will attempt to cook something from scratch together.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sophia muses as she watches Harry arrange their ingredients in the kitchen countertop.

Harry dismisses her sentiments with a scoff, “What do you mean it’s not a good idea? This is a proper domestic activity that we can use as a practice ground from when we’re married and sharing a house and everything that’s entailed in being spouses.”

“Bunny, we’ve been sharing the same house after four months of knowing each other and I didn’t see you making me any pasta from scratch. I think we’re way past domestic cooking practice, spouses or not. Let’s just accept that we’re two idiots in the kitchen.”

Harry gives her a ‘tsk’ sound, seemingly unaffected by her negative outlook as he proceeds to place an apron on her bikini-covered body, going behind her back to tie the knot. Harry then wraps his arms around her waist with his bare chest flushed against her back, “Baby, will you please stop being so negative and humor me for tonight? We can end up making the most abominable pasta dish and I’d still have the time of my life creating it with you. So don’t worry your pretty little head into anything.”

Sophia sighs in resignation, knowing Harry’s absolutely correct that knowing them, whatever they end up doing, as long as they're together doing the activity, everything will still be fine and dandy. “Well who’s going to have to eat raw pasta noodles with the awfully seasoned marinara sauce?”

“You, obviously.” Harry pinches her bare tummy making Sophia squeak in surprise, “Look how skinny your model body is in that bikini. I say you need more food in you.”

Sophia backs away from Harry’s hug, crossing her arms on her lemon printed apron as she watches Harry put on his matching one, “I mean, we still have that tremendous amount of bread from your little stint earlier so maybe it won’t be that bad if I just stuff my face with more gluten to mask the awful taste.”

“Will you look at that!” Harry claps his soapy hands in glee as he’s so keen on getting the cooking started that he’s began washing his hands, “My sunflower being more positive of the situation already, keep it up buttercup!” and he lands a swat on the bare cheek of Sophia’s bum while it was the latter’s turn to innocently wash her hands after him.

“Bunny! Keep your hands to yourself, mister.”

“Or else we might not get any cooking cause you’d rather I keep the spanking in our bedroom?” Harry wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, one hand leaning on the kitchen counter highlighting his bulging biceps.

“No,” Sophia passes by him to get his Ipad where the recipe of their dish is located, “it’s or else I’d make you use your hands to knead the pasta dough all by yourself.”

“Psh,” Harry flicks his right hand like that’s no big deal, “I’d probably do a better job at it by just doing it all myself.”

“Now’s not the time to get too cocky,” Sophia amusedly inquires, reading the pasta dough recipe on the screen with Harry’s chin perched on top of her shoulder to read along, “this seems quite easy, but there’s surely a catch here somewhere.”

“Don’t get all bloody detective-like on a pasta dough recipe, sunflower. This isn’t a mystery case trying to be solved like the books you love to read.” Harry says, while Sophia laughs along with Harry’s accurate observation.

The two go on with actual cooking instead of just discussing and bickering like the old married couples they’re truly destined to be. Harry places the flour, eggs, olive oil, and salt in front of the two of them, beginning to pour the flour on the kitchen surface to create their flour wall.

After he’s done that, Sophia leaves him for a second to get a bowl where they can crack and beat their eggs on. When she returns, it’s to the scene of Harry attempting to crack an egg to place it directly on the hollow center of their flour wall.

“What are you doing?!” Sophia asks horrified, quickly crossing the distance between them, halting Harry from his action in surprise, “I just got the bowl for our eggs, why are you putting it directly on the flour?”

Harry frowns at her in return, “Because that’s how it’s supposed to be?”

“But I didn’t see that specific instruction on the website we’re reading the recipe at.”

“Well that’s what I’ve seen Gordon Ramsay do in that one Master Chef episode we watched,”

Sophia narrows her eyes at Harry, “So you’d rather trust Gordon Ramsay than the woman you’re about to marry?”

“Obviously.” Harry answers straight away making Sophia laugh at his honesty, “You might be the top paid supermodel around the world, but you ain’t the culinary god that Chef Ramsay is. I still love you though and will continue to marry you.”

“Nice save,” Sophia giggles, pecking Harry’s pouting lips waiting for a kiss. “I guess you’re right; I’d rather we blame Gordon Ramsay when this ends up going to shit than myself.”

“That’s the spirit!” Harry chuckles, raising his hand for a high-five which Sophia gladly returns. “Now I’d crack the eggs, add the olive oil plus salt, and then I’ll give you the honors to knead it first?”

Sophia agrees for Harry to go ahead, watching his slow and cautious movement of performing his task. It’s probably not Harry and Sophia’s finest idea to cook their dinner together in just their swimwear because they’re just in step one and Sophia’s already getting transfixed on Harry’s tattoos like it’s the first time she’s seeing it again. Harry’s naked body is enough distraction when she’s doing the thing she knows the most, which is modeling. Getting distracted by Harry’s bareness while doing something she hardly knows any shit about, is probably beyond dangerous than she thinks. Just imagining her bunny looking this hot, bare chested with nothing but his boxers and an apron on while cooking breakfast in their London home for her and by then pregnant belly, she’s unsure if she can go on with her pregnancy if her ovaries already want to explode in that divine moment.

“Done,” Harry says, removing Sophia away from her rather intense imagination, “you should knead it already, sunflower. Before the eggs and oil go everywhere.”

Sophia sees the fragile looking pile of the flour and the liquid of the egg and the oil nestled in its little crater, “Don’t you think we should whisk it first?”

“Yeah, I think that’s the right step to do first,” Harry agrees thoughtfully, handing Sophia the metal whisk for her to use.

Sophia, thankfully knows how to whisk with all the cookie baking she does sometimes without any electronic mixer. Her confidence level was definitely high when she started whisking the eggs and oil together, thinking that it’s only step two and nothing can really go wrong yet. Except it does. Just a few whisks in, their flour wall seems to not be so sturdy and it can’t absorb all the liquids making the slippery substance start to flow on the kitchen countertop instead of staying in the flour like it’s supposed to. Harry and Sophia look at each other in panic.

“What do I do?!” Sophia exclaims in a frenzy upon more liquid escaping their flour wall.

“Start kneading it already so the liquid ingredients get incorporated with the flour!” Harry replies in the same panicked nature as he watches the slight horror unfold.

“Alright, alright!” Sophia acknowledges hurriedly, ready to get the business done with her hands except that she catches a glimpse of her shining engagement ring and she just can’t knead a wet and slippery pasta dough with that majestic thing getting contaminated.

“Lovie, can you please take off my ring?” Sophia requests holding out her left hand to a confused and frowning Harry.”

“Why would I do that?!” He asks in disbelief, “You never take off your ring wherever you go. Heck, you’ve never taken it off since I placed it there!”

“Bunny!” Sophia groans thinking that it’s really not the time for his drama, “I don’t have the time to listen to your dramatic monologue, I need this ring off so it doesn't get doughy-wet and oily. Will you please just remove it before we have no pasta dough left to knead?”

“But,” Harry looks conflicted at her urgent request, “But that ring’s super special! That’s like the embodiment of my undying love for you and how that will never leave, and then you’re just going to want me to take it off of you? Sunflower, that’s like sacrilegious in my books becau-”

“HARRY! JUST TAKE THE BLOODY RING OFF FOR FUCK’S SAKE!”

The yelling seems to do the trick, Harry following her order just like the obedient husband that he aspires to be. Though some petulant looks were still thrown Sophia’s way as both of them started to knead the thankfully, the now tangible pasta dough. Harry’s pouting definitely diminished by the time they were able to successfully portion the pasta dough equally, letting it rest for thirty minutes as they now shift their attention to the Italian marinara sauce.

“Do you think we’re pros now?” Harry asks Sophia as they take turns washing their messy hands, “Like should we start calling our managers to book us some guestings for cooking reality tv shows so we can show those arrogant chefs that gorgeous models like us can cook too.”

Sophia chuckles in reply, gladly letting Harry dry her hands with the same dish towel he used to dry his, “It seems to me you’re just as arrogant as them if you think making pasta dough without even turning it to pasta yet makes us an instant pro at the kitchen.”

“Well maybe it is,” Harry supposes, “but I’m pretty sure I’d make a more exceptional marinara sauce than those guys.”

Sophia provides a non-verbal response in the form of a hum. Harry might not have made her any pasta from scratch in the past, but he has helped his mother countless times in making this Italian marinara recipe that they’re going to be using tonight every time Anne has invited them over at her place to feed them with homely and hearty meals that they’re missing in their own flat. Though Harry has yet to make it all by himself, Sophia knows it’s still worth something that he already took part in the making of it, which raises the chances of it being edible which really, is the only thing they’re hoping for.

Because Harry has usually done the prepping of the ingredients before, he delegates that task to Sophia as he takes the reins of cooking it on the stove. Chopping a huge amount of tomatoes is a task Sophia would rather have than anything relating to a heat source which has the tendency for her to burn something. With that being said, let’s not forget her awful hand and eye coordination at the earlier juggling escapade, a knife replacing the position of a lemon should certainly frighten her and Harry.

“Chop slowly,” Harry instructs her for the nth time, his regular slow deep drawl that usually calms Sophia down is starting to irk her right now.

“Yes, I know, bunny. You’ve just told me a million times in the past ten seconds.” Sophia replies, right hand raised with her palm upwards waiting for Harry to hand her the knife cause she’s apparently some child who can’t be trusted with sharp objects.

“I’m just making sure, baby. Don’t want you getting any scratches or god forbid, cuts on your fingers. That just won’t do.”

“I know, and I love you for caring so much about me, now can you please hand me over the knife?”

Harry still has a hesitant look on his face, “You promise you’re going to call for my help if there’s anything you don’t know how to chop?”

Sophia nods her head, smiling sincerely at her fiancé who’s overbearing protectiveness that as much as she would like to get irritated with, she can’t with how adorable he is. “I promise, bunny. I’m going to drop the knife on the chopping board and ask for your help when I need to.”

That seems to appease Harry’s worries, albeit only slightly, knowing him and his instinctive papa bear tendencies are always going to be there. So he hands the knife carefully to Sophia’s waiting hand before making the short walk to the stovetop.

“Oh, by the way,” Sophia chirps as she starts to make an assembly line of the tomatoes, “I also promise to take great care that none of my fingers are going to make it at our marinara pasta.”

“SUNFLOWER!” Harry shrieks in horror as he wipes his entire body to her direction after facing her backwards tending to the stovetop, “Don’t joke about those things, my love!”

Sophia giggles like the naughty minx that she is amidst the genuine frown on Harry’s face. When the latter seems to second guess his earlier granting of knife access to Sophia, he makes a show of walking back to her to supposedly take it from her. So Sophia, out of pure panic that Harry would take away this chance of her to sharpen her knife skills, raises the knife and points it to a nearing Harry in warning.

“SUNFLOWER!” Harry screams again in terror, arms instinctively raising up in surrender like the sort of thing one does whenever a deadly weapon is thrusted to them in caution. “Please slowly put the knife back down on the counter top.”

Harry’s reaction is what prompts Sophia to realize what she’s done and how possibly dangerous this situation can be. She squeaks in surprise and drops the knife to the floor, the loud clattering sound makes both Harry and Sophia jump in surprise.

“Fuck!” Harry curses, right hand coming to rest on his probably rapidly beating heart if he’s in the same situation as Sophia is (which he should be the one feeling like that since he’s the one that got pointed the knife). “I said slowly, sunflower.”

“Sorry,” Sophia responds apologetically, “Can’t expect me to react otherwise after I’ve realized what I was doing.”

“What? That you just got your fiancé at knifepoint?”

“Bunny,” Sophia whines in embarrassment at Harry’s attempt to exploit her mistake, “I said I’m sorry, please don’t start teasing me right now.”

Harry chuckles as he bends down to pick the discarded knife on the floor, “I think that just serves you right for teasing me first, sunflower. In fact, I think it’s the wise decision to never leave you unattended with extremely sharp objects that can potentially turn an aspiring romantic story of fiancés having their engagement-moon in the Amalfi Coast before they officially tie the knot, turn into a murder mystery of the engaged woman accidentally killing her fiancé while they’re just attempting to make their bloody dinner from scratch.”

Sophia grins in interest, “Wouldn’t that story be a New York’s Time Best Selling novel though?”

Harry’s teasing glint is replaced with a blank face of disbelief, and it’s enough for Sophia to shut her own smile, pouting her lips instead with her chin turned downwards like a scolded child. She seconds the motion and does not even put up a fight when Harry had barely let her chop anything, content in lining the tomatoes Harry needs to chop and properly arranging those he had chopped in a separate bowl.

Just like their earlier pasta dough making, the only mishap they’ve faced is in the first steps of making the marinara sauce, aka: ‘When my fiancé had me at knifepoint in Italy’ is what Harry titles it now and how he said he’d call it when their family and friends ask for stories on how their holiday in the Amalfi Coast went. So overall, besides Sophia's mistake and Harry’s relentless teasing, they finished making the marinara sauce and it is now left in the stovetop to reduce for another hour.

Harry and Sophia return their focus back on their resting portioned pasta doughs, Harry taking it upon himself to assemble the specific parts that they would use in the pasta maker that their villa conveniently stores. The couple had agreed to turn their pasta dough into pappardelle because their logic is the wider their pasta would be, the faster they’ll finish their doughs which also equates to the quicker they’d be away from the face of mistakes.

Sophia makes sure to flour sufficiently the pasta maker, because based from the cookie shows Harry and her indulge in, contestants fuck up when they just sprinkle a little bit of flour on their pasta machine making their pasta dough stick to its metal surface. Harry and Sophia don’t want to fuck up this late in their first cooking tryst, and being able to detect that possible door of mistake before stupidly doing so, Sophia thinks Harry and her are in the right path to becoming kitchen pros as they share a kiss of victory at being able to successfully produce their first strand of pappardelle.

The laughter the two of them share as each pasta strand they finish making is placed on Harry’s outstretched arms after realizing they have no pasta rack, is beyond doubt one of the best moments Sophia’s had in their entire stay thus far in this trip. Harry’s theatrics of dancing around their kitchen using the dangling strands of pasta on his arms and shoulders as some sort of expensive fringe robe. Now Sophia can really see the appeal of why Harry is such a successful model; her bunny can wear and sell anything, even bloody pasta!

“Do you want a matching pasta headband for that fancy pappardelle robe you have on?” Sophia jokes, holding the last few pieces of pasta.

“No thanks,” Harry kindly declines, “I’m already going to have to wash my flour-slicked body more attentively, I don't want my hair being subjected to the same treatment.”

“Yeah, don’t want your angel curls to be mistreated, huh?” Sophia agrees, affectionately reaching on tiptoes to gently tousle his luscious curls.

Harry giggles, “This is the real reason why I didn’t have to wine and dine you the first we met, you fell for the cherubic curls instantly.”

“Good thing you're compensating now by wining and dining me in the romantic and picturesque Amalfi through your own handmade meal. Too bad you didn’t press grapes on the basin with your feet to wine me with your own wine.”

Harry laughs as the two of them begin to remove the pasta strands all-over his body, “Ohh, I’m beginning to think that’s your way of saying that you want a repeat of tonight. Sunflower, are we currently experiencing your culinary awakening? This is monumental!”

Maybe it’s the nature of their trip, an engagement-moon that celebrates their relationship which for Sophia holds much more weight than their coming wedding. Sophia and Harry don’t need a piece of paper to dictate and justify their love for one another, being with each other both mentally and physically, and becoming each other's pillar of strength through troubled and delighted times is already enough. The wedding is more of a gift for their family and friends, to grant them the ability to celebrate their relationship with them.

It’s that thought that resonates within Sophia as Harry and her indulge the surprisingly delicious marinara pappardelle dish of their creation with the side of Harry’s warmed bread leftovers, and a glass of red wine that will soon be refilled for a second helping.

Harry’s correct, this moment is definitely monumental. Maybe not in the same sense as he directly means it, but their night together and every single precious moment they’ve spent on this trip has just made Sophia love and treasure the special relationship that Harry and her have even more. Sophia knows wholeheartedly now, that she’s ready to be married to him, to change her surname to Styles, to merge all their belongings together including their beloved personal pets.

In Sophia’s books, Harry and her are pretty much soul-bonded to begin with.

#harry edward styles #harry styles #harry styles writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles fic #harries #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #tpwk #harry styles fanfic #harry #italy harry #harry styles au

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myelocin · 5 years ago

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The Gratitude in Endings | Miya Atsumu, You, Kuroo Tetsurou

Synopsis: What follows endings always were the most beautiful things. In this case, after Kuroo Tetsurou, came Miya Atsumu--and for you, nothing could truly be better.

**This is the epilogue to Redefining You (Part 1) and To Us, A Love Story Unwritten (Part 2)!

Characters: Miya Atsumu, You Kuroo Tetsurou

Genre/Tags/Warnings: No warnings! Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Bestfriend!Kuroo, Reader/Atsumu, Kinda a love triangle i guess lol

WC: 2.8k+

a/n: i,,,, have not let go of this AU and will probably not let go until a long time. i’m planning on writing drabbles in this certain AU soon, but for now enjoy this epilogue!

You suppose happy endings is the sort of cliché you’ve been wanting to avoid this whole time. After all, you’re still only in your late twenties and even if you’ve crossed some things off of your bucket list—there were still pages you’ve yet to even flip through.

Life, to you, is a constant work in progress; all you’ve known were only beginnings but the reality is there is still never an end. From the second you opened your eyes and sucked in your first breath of air, day by day you continue to leave a mark in the world.

The stories you’ve scribbled in paper, the secrets you’ve whispered to willing ears, photographs of your claim in that snapshot of the world, and the connections you’ve made—those are the things that last and remain even after you’ve gone to cross new horizons.

Life—much like yourself will always just be a work in progress.

Whether it be the ink on your skin that’s yet to be connected to another work of art or waking up to a new morning wondering how differently Atsumu’s hair will look curled around your fingers this time.

Every day that you spent watching the sun rising and setting in his eyes never failed to leave you breathless.

It shouldn’t have surprised you when Atsumu adjusted himself with the beat of your life quite naturally. After reconnecting in the airport, Tetsurou didn’t even have to sit you down to talk to you about his reappearance in your life.

Literally, after Bokuto landed, he left the airport that day without you and texted you that this was your chance to go home with, as Tetsurou said in verbatim, your “long lost love.”

According to him, after showing up in your weekly dinners at Kenma with Atsumu trailing behind you—that it was all part of his plan for he was the best wing man you could ever ask for.

After that self-proclamation, you and Kenma responded to his statement by simultaneously rolling your eyes. Atsumu, beside you, was apparently polite enough to laugh. Tetsurou was quick to stride over to him, clap him on the back of the shoulder and declare, “You both suck, but at least Miya-san has enough taste to recognize my genius work.”

“Please,” Atsumu laughed and clapped Tetsurou on the shoulder, “Atsumu is just fine.” From your place in the table, you smiled at Atsumu beaming up at Tetsurou, with your best friend returning the same energy.

“I think they’ll get along.” Kenma says and you smile, feeling your heart swell.

“They will,” you reply, and in return Kenma smiles because the both of you truly believe your words.

There were still moments you see Tetsurou break down. Eventually the ink climbs up higher and higher on his shoulders until you eventually see it peeking above the collar of his shirts. You have half the mind to ask, but at the same time, when Atsumu drapes his hands over your shoulders and you spot Tetsurou look away and bark out another joke—you decide against it.

“Are you happy?” Tetsurou asked you one day and you could almost laugh at how ironic the setting was. The two of you, along with Kenma had gone with Atsumu and the rest of MSBY in their team trip to a lake house ways from the city.

He asked that question when you joined him on the balcony one morning, a mug of coffee outstretched in offering to him. If it wasn’t for the morning fog clouding your hazy thoughts, you figured you would have caught on a lot quicker than you did—but at the moment, all you could think about was how warm Atsumu’s jacket was wrapped around you and how the roots of his natural hair were starting to peek through from what you observed earlier that morning.

Tetsurou smiled a thank you at the mug of coffee you offered him and motioned for you to take a seat next to him. He doesn’t ask the question again, but you spend the next few minutes of silence mulling about how the morning air brought bouts of nostalgia.

“I’m really happy, Tetsu.” You say and look at him, and you suddenly feel a little choked up. You blame the cold air for the blur in your eyes because when he smiles and wraps the blanket around him tighter while taking slow sips of his coffee you suddenly remember the moment you fell in love with him all those years ago.

In the solitude of the early hours, you’re brought back to the world from more than ten years ago and see the boy who spent his mornings with you through the pixilation of a computer screen. Your heart still beats with a fondness only attributed for him, but you suppose even the rhythm doesn’t flow the same way—you still love him.

And when he opens his eyes, red and teary and cheeks flushed, the fondness in his voice is as familiar as it had always been, “I’m glad, (y/n).”

You sniffle because even if you only exchanged the minimal words, you know the both of you understood everything lingering in the unspoken.

“Are you happy though?” you ask and knock your shoulder against his.

“I am, for you, I always am happy.” He says and laughs when you smack his shoulder a little harder this time in retort. “I meant you, dumbass. Are you happy?”

He laughs, sniffling and turning away from you.

“I love you.” He says, and before you could voice out your confusion he turns to you with a teasing glint in his eyes, “I began to tell myself that every day.”

You roll your eyes remembering your words from the balcony that one night. “Oh god, don’t just quote me.”

“I mean it!” he says and laughs along with you.

You think the two of you must look a little silly, crying at seven in the morning and laughing over your heartaches you endured some years ago, but your relationship with Tetsurou ran deeper than the norm, so you guess you don’t mind.

“Tetsu, I really want you to be happy.” You finally say, and you hope the softness in your tone reaches him.

Tetsurou looks at you in the way that’s sincere because he sighs into the air with a smile and wraps a hand around your shoulder—pulling you in for a half hug. You set your mug down to the side and wrap your own arms around his frame, burying your face in his chest.

He feels warm and you don’t come to mind his chin resting on top of your head.

“Happiness is a work in progress, I’ll get there in time. But I’m always facing to walk in that direction.”

“Promise?” you ask, and he pulls from you to look you straight in the eye.

Though before he opened his mouth to reply, the finality in his eyes quelled your worries.

He didn’t need to say promise because you were more than sure he was going to get there.

Miya Atsumu was someone who came into your life in a whirlwind of all the things you considered to be the most beautiful.

He’s a human being; far from perfection just as you were, but then again, the word perfection had always been subjective. Not a day passed by where you didn’t tell him thank you for always being patient. He dealt with his demons just as you had but like the certainty of those very demons coming and going in your life, the grip in his hand holding yours was just as steadfast and un moving.

Atsumu would be the one to tell you to bite your hand and push through it when you had no other option but walk through hell itself, but also in contrast, he would be the one to lay with you in the silence and rub circles on your back telling you to cry out whatever was hurting you.

He’d crack a couple jokes in between your sobs, and kiss your eyelids despite you telling him no and that your tears will taste gross.

You, on the other hand was always the one he came home to and your arms being opened was a constant whether he celebrated a victory or a loss.

Whether he’d cry because his service ace was the winning point, or cry because he felt second best, time and time again Atsumu would tell you his thank you for the presence through it all.

And when he tells you an I love you every day with the sun rising and setting as the witness, you know he means it just as he knows the sincerity he’s always found the comfort in with yours.

“Are you happy?” he asked you on your third year together and you could almost laugh at the parallels you’re begging to see with the conversation you had with Tetsurou some time ago.

“Really happy.” You reply and lace your fingers through his.

“With me?” he asks and smiles when you swing your joined hands back and forth. “With us.” You reply and lean forward to kiss his cheek.

Atsumu laughs and tugs you to walk with him ankle deep in the water. “This kinda feels familiar,” he comments and you laugh because it does. You mean it’s familiar because déjà vu is nudging at you and also because the both of you had found yourselves in a quiet stretch of beach along the coasts of Okinawa.

It wasn’t Siargao in the Philippines this time, and you could understand the distant chatter of Japanese in the background opposed to the dialect spoken in the Philippines those years ago, but it was the light of the setting sun peaking in Atsumu’s eyes that had you grinning ear to ear because this was your favorite part of the day.

When the both of you are a little over ankle deep in the water Atsumu releases your hand and points to the horizon on the western side of the world.

You turn and smile because he’s pointing to the sunset. Closing your eyes you, breathe in and breathe out—then smile because it wasn’t shaky. Briefly, you think of Tetsurou and what he could be doing this time in Tokyo—and smile again because he’s probably over at Kenma’s for movie night yelling into a TV and chucking popcorn in the air. You think about the new dating app he downloaded on his phone that he showed you the other day and chuckle to yourself in a way that had you feeling giddy. He was putting himself back out there and for that, you were always happy for him.

And so when you open your eyes and look at the western horizon, you shift your body to turn to Atsumu; you prefer looking at the setting sun’s painting from his eyes, anyway.

But you stop in your tracks because he’s grinning at you and then biting his lip in nervousness. You laugh, automatically choked up because he’s down on one knee with a ring in his hand.

“(Y/n),” he begins, but you don’t let him finish because as you’re staring into his eyes and see the sparks of orange and red reflected you’re suddenly throwing your arms on his shoulder and kneeling down with him.

“W-wait!” he protests, but laughs along with you, “—for god’s sake let me propose properly.”

You continue to laugh, even as you feel streams of tears rolling down your cheeks. Pulling away from him you grab his face in between your hands and wipe the tears rolling down his cheeks with your thumbs.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, but you know it’s not much of a question because he doesn’t wait for you to answer since he’s kissing the palm of your hand and sliding the ring on your finger before you open your mouth to speak.

“I had a whole speech prepared,” Atsumu whines, sniffling when you laugh at him and hold his face in between your hands again.

You could cry because it truly does feel like déjà vu, because the sunset reflected in his eyes look just like that very sunset you could still remember on that day you fell in love with him all those years ago.

The water in Okinawa is not as warm as the water in the Philippines, and the water soaking your dress is a little uncomfortable like the sand digging in your knees, but with Atsumu being in front of you crying along to the comments you’re sharing back and forth with him—you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“You know if I closed my eyes and this playlist wasn’t shitty, I could just pretend this our wedding.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a comment and let out a laugh instead. “Atsumu was in charge of the playlist. I told him to make the vibe uniform but he probably ignored everything after Atsumu make the playlist.”

Tetsurou snickers and squeezes your hand in his, while the other that’s resting on the back of your waist pulls you along to the sway of the music. You smile and lightly knock his chest with your hand that’s resting on his chest.

“Don’t tell him I’m trashing your wedding music.”

“He’ll laugh along with you,” you reply softly.

“Oi, Tetsurou!” Atsumu calls from the background; the two of you turn to face him, you greeting him with a slight wave and a wink while Tetsurou opts to shoot him a thumbs up and a smile.

“Stop tryin’ to steal my wife.”

Tetsurou laughs at your husband’s halfhearted warning, “She’s not really my type!”

“Damn straight.” Atsumu laughs, then turns towards the conversation he was having with Osamu.

“Why did it feel like my husband is trying to devalue me?” You snort and Tetsurou laughs because he knows you’re only joking.

“He trusts you and knows he can’t get rid of me that’s why.”

“Fair point,” you smile, agreeing.

“Hey Tetsu,” you say slowly, looking at him. He hums in response and looks at you with a smile mirroring your own.

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t ask you what you mean by the thank you and you smile in appreciation because you know the message was delivered without a hitch. So the two of you continue to dance in circles, with Tetsurou snorting every time the music in Atsumu’s playlist got progressively more “country” as he dubbed it.

“We should write a book about this someday.” You quip and he nods, “Hell yeah, as long as I’m written as a super buff guy.”

Thank you for being my first love.

“I mean sure,” you reply, “but when Atsumu comes into the story he’s obviously more buff. It’s just canon like that.” Tetsurou huffs, turning his head away in exaggeration.

Thank you for breaking my heart but still leaving breakfast for me that morning.

“My character needs to have some really cool quotes though,” Tetsurou negotiates and you laugh out a sure, what do you got, before he replies, “If your goals don’t scare you, they’re not big enough.” You throw your head back and laugh. “That doesn’t even make sense, but sure, we can work that in.”

Thank you for being my best friend above everything that’s happened. Thank you for accepting Atsumu.

“Wait I have another quote,” he offers and you nod for him to continue. Tetsurou smiles at you, his eyes dazzling under the night sky’s stars and the venue’s fairy lights. “He loved her enough to let her go.”

You fall silent and the urge to suddenly cry hits you. Tetsurou smiles and spins you around until you’re face to face with Atsumu, who’s staring at you with a knowing and gentle smile from across the room.

You turn to face him and the tears well up even more at the feeling of déjà vu gnawing at your chest. It doesn’t hurt in a bad way because you know the both of you are heading in the right direction this time. Tetsurou smiles and tells you, “Love you, dumbass.” before you feel Atsumu’s hand take yours.

“I’m proud of the both of you.” Atsumu whispers, kissing the corner of your temple.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the protective husband?” you laugh.

“I know he’s a special person in your life, and I’m thankful for him everyday too because him being dumb enough not to love you led to us.” Atsumu replies, laughing along with you.

“Tsumu!”

“Kiddin.”

Resting your cheek on Atsumu’s shoulder, the two of you continue to move in slower circles. You meet Tetsurou’s gaze from your spot in the room and smile when he flashes you a thumbs up.

Thank you, Tetsurou thinks when he feels déjà vu nudging his heart. The dull of his heart thrumming doesn’t ache this time so he smiles towards you again and thinks of the baby’s breath tattoo he got the night inked on the left side of his chest.

When you turn and Atsumu meets his gaze, he gives the blonde a solid nod and another thumbs up.

Thank you for letting me love and let you go, (y/n).

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ladyeliot · 4 years ago

Photo

Welcome Seaville. Chapter One. [T.S. / J.H.]

Series: “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong”

Prologue

Pairing: Tony Stark/Justin Hammer x Fem!Reader / Best Friend Steve Rogers

Summary: 1987. The exchange term is over, so you return to your hometown, Seaville, just before Christmas. The reunions with friends, the first day of school, everything goes back to the way it used to be.

Warnings: Insults, piques.

Word Count: 3465

A/N: Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

December 1987

It would have been enough to say that this was just another ordinary Christmas in the small Maine town of Seaville, but it was not. The Christmas lights were brighter, the streets were more beautiful under the clear splendour of the moon, and the wind brought a sweet smell of sea salts that gave you a pleasant sensation. You peered through the passenger window and let the east wind envelop you and welcome you home again. Seaville was welcoming you in its entirety and you were leaving it.

It had been just four months since you had left the coast of Maine to head off to fulfil one of your many dreams, to spend a term in the French city of Paris. Nothing in your life could have compared to that singular experience, and you even hoped to return next year having been accepted to the University of Paris, but, equally, nothing could compare to the love you felt for home.

"Please roll up the window," your father insisted. "I don't want you to spend the whole Christmas holidays with the flu."

And of course nothing could compare to your dear father.

As you rounded the corner into your little residential area you could almost smell the sweet scent of hot chocolate and puffy clouds that your father had promised you when he picked you up from the airport. You got out of the car so quickly that you barely paid any attention to the bundle of suitcases your father was trying to pull out of the boot without any help.

As you had predicted, as soon as you turned the lock and opened the door, the smell of cocoa filled the whole house. You allowed yourself a few seconds to take in the view, the fireplace lit and adorned with the three corresponding boots, the Christmas tree in place, without the star on the top, as that was your job, and the coats sorted on the hanger by colour. All the same as always.

"Don't worry, I can manage," your father said almost breathlessly as he climbed the porch steps.

You laughed and grabbed one of the three suitcases that were blocking your father's path. You both closed the door behind you and followed each other into the kitchen as if it were tradition. The chocolate was still warm and the clouds had dissolved, just the way you used to like them. The conversation with your father went on for so long, explaining to him everything you hadn't wanted to tell him over the phone, or through letters, a method your father had forced you to maintain, for we should note that his job was as a literary writer, although he sometimes resorted to writing a few newspaper columns to make a little extra money.

The point is that the little family had been talking for hours on end, not realising that midnight had already passed, and that tomorrow you had to go to the institute to settle bureaucratic matters due to your return.

"Bonne nuit, chérie," your father said in a chaste French accent, kissing your forehead.

"Bonne nuit, papa," you smiled back, preparing to be reunited with your room.

Your room, which you had not yet had the pleasure of entering, was as usual, oblivious to the fact that your father had changed the quilt on your bed so you could sleep warmer. You flopped on your back on the bed, but just as a memory came to you, you quickly got up and went to the window. What your eyes beheld brought a laugh and a sense of relief and happiness, how could you not have noticed it before?

By chance of life, you were lucky enough to have discovered true friendship in the person who lived right across the street from you. When you and your father moved to Seaville, due to your mother's death 10 years ago, you chose that quiet residential neighbourhood to settle down and raise a small family. You met Steve Rogers on your first day of second grade, and from the moment you discovered you lived across the street from each other, a beautiful friendship was forged.

For ten minutes you couldn't take your eyes off the window of the house across the street, right next to yours. A large light blue cardboard covered the whole space and a few letters in capital letters decorated it with "Bon retour". Obviously you had kept Steve constantly in mind during your term away, long phone conversations and a few postcards proved it, but during the flight back you were afraid that he had forgotten about the day you were coming back, a rather stupid fear. So, with the comfort that gesture had brought you, you decided it was time to go to bed and get some rest, as the next morning was a long day ahead.

The sunbeam fell incessantly on your face, the curtains could barely block its power, you had assumed that you were not a good early riser, but that morning you woke up in a good mood, not even the strong smell of charred toast was going to take it away from you.

"Wow, nice smile," your father notified, offering you a plate with two pieces of toast blackened under raspberry jam.

"Thanks!" you took the plate and took his usual seat. "I'm looking forward to seeing Steve, and catching up with Natasha. Although I hope they've got things to tell me too. What are you doing today?"

"I have to finish the chapter of the book to hand in to the publisher," he sat down next to you. "And I also have to go to the mall to pick up a gift."

The smile on your face that morning widened, there were only two days left until Christmas, so it was obvious that the gift I was supposed to pick up would be for you. Even though you had everything planned, and had brought some presents from Paris, you still had to buy the last detail for your father.

Just then the front doorbell rang, and you realised that time had run out on you when you noticed that you were still in your pyjamas.

"Shit!" you exclaimed, taking the last bite of toast and heading upstairs. "I'll be down in five minutes!"

Just as you disappeared your father headed off to greet his visitor. You could hear Steve's voice as you hurriedly went about getting dressed, combing your hair and getting your backpack ready for class, not forgetting to grab two rolls of film to develop, but when you heard his laughter you couldn't help but laugh too, even though you had barely heard the reason for his action. You rushed downstairs and from the third step practically threw yourself onto Steve's back in a laughing embrace.

"Have you grown up? No way, let me see you," Steve scoffed receiving your customary punch on his shoulder.

"Hey, nice cartel," you arched an eyebrow pointing to his house.

"You think so?" your friend asked. "I'm glad you liked it. I spent three poster boards until I was proud of my work. "

Steve's sincerity did nothing but thank you for the small detail he'd had for you. But time was passing and you still hadn't left the house.

"Come on, guys! You're going to be late for class," your father informed you, offering you your lunch bag. You took it with a kiss on the cheek and ran after Steve, who was waiting for you by your bike in the garden. That morning you couldn't keep a smile off your face and Steve couldn't take his eyes off you.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you said getting on your bike.

"You're so happy. It's not normal to see that smile at eight o'clock in the morning," Steve's comment made you laugh a little.

You both set off in the direction of the school, it usually took you ten minutes to get there by bike if you cycled at a leisurely pace, but you were still able to catch up. On the way Steve was interested in the photographs you had taken during your stay in the European city, as you had sent him some of the ones you had had time to develop. Photography was a way for you to escape, your mother had dedicated all the years of her life to the art, and perhaps it was an incentive for you to admire her.

"It's different, Paris inspires me, it's so romantic and bohemian that it's very easy to get carried away," you explained. "That doesn't mean Seaville isn't, it's... different."

Steve listened attentively to your every word, possibly one thing you both had in common was a sensitivity that you only showed when you were both alone.

It didn't take you long to realise that the school was nearby, as the amount of cars queuing at the entrance informed you of your arrival.

"Welcome back," said Steve as he entered with you through the main door leading to a long corridor lined with lockers.

You both headed towards your locker area, you didn't know why you expected anything to have changed, but everything, literally everything, was still the same.

"There you go again! Have you been deported?" that voice, which you hadn't missed, made you roll your eyes. "I had hoped that you would have climbed the Eiffel Tower and let yourself plummet. But here you are, again."

"I had hoped that one of your absurd inventions would have exploded and you would have been shot to pieces with them," you shot back with a sarcastic grin. "But not all dreams come true."

"And I had hoped that being a senior in high school you two could get along," Steve interrupted. "But I see that's impossible."

A wide wry grin on Tony's face competed with yours, but you added a snip and he countered by trying to bite your finger.

"Lovely welcome Tony," Natasha joined the group hugging you from behind, depositing a kiss on his cheek. "Wait, do I smell Parisian perfume? You haven't turned into one of those French repipes have you?"

You were grateful for Nat's presence, who was your ally against the daily struggle against Tony, for after all Steve was a neutral lynchpin in the battle. Nat shook Steve's hand and when he went to greet Tony he tried to give him a kiss on the lips, which resulted in him getting punched in the arm. The bell rang, breaking up the group, depending on which subjects you were in.

"Meet me later in the cafeteria and continue to catch up?" you commented to Steve who was going the other way with Tony.

"As always."

You gave him a parting smile, but your gaze met Tony's who blew you a kiss in the air, causing you to squint and grimace.

"And we're still catching up?" repeated Nat with a quizzical arch of his eyebrow.

"I've got a lot to tell you, and I hope you've got a lot to tell me..." you arched an eyebrow.

"It all depends on the present you brought me from Paris," replied your friend, winking at you.

You laughed, but the two of you parted ways just inside the administration offices, where a long morning of tidying up awaited you.

After two hours of filling out forms and making photocopies of the documents you had brought from the institute in Paris, you had become quite an expert. You had hoped to have an hour to spare before lunchtime to escape to the developing room to develop the film, but that seemed impossible. When the bell rang, you had barely had time to approach the room and put the film in your locker, which you had been assigned to since sixth grade when photography had become your obsession, so you made your way to the cafeteria and found your friend sitting at your table, right next to the big window overlooking the football field.

"Where were you? I was waiting for you to start eating together, but this pizza... it was tempting me," Nat took a bite of pizza like there was no tomorrow.

"If I tell you I've been reading absurd, meaningless documents all morning..." you snorted sitting down across from her and pulling out your sandwich. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be going to Paris."

"You know that's not true," Nat arched an eyebrow drawing a smile from her. "You would have gone to Paris even if you had to repeat one more grade in high school."

"Anyway, I need an update," you began, turning serious. "Has anything interesting happened while I've been away? Anyone new? Anyone who's been stirring things up?"

"New? No, anything interesting? Neither. This Seaville Murph, there's nothing going on here," Nat shrugged finishing his slice of pizza.

"I'll look for the bright side. At least I haven't missed anything," you shrugged.

"I guess you could go away for ten years and when you came back everything would still be the same," Nat looked around. "Where are the boys?"

"I'll bet you five bucks they're on the football field," you commented. "By the way, have you written the application for Brenau yet?"

"It's practically finished," your friend reported. "I'll go over it during the holidays and send it off in January. Are you ready to move to Paris next year and drive the Parisians crazy?" Natasha winked. "You haven't been hiding some movie adventure from me all this time?"

"Oh! Of course," you said wryly just as Steve and Tony made their big appearance. "Now that you mention it, as I was strolling the first evening in the Luxembourg Gardens I heard a sweet melody in the background and headed for it. There was a man playing the saxophone and I stopped to listen to him for a couple of minutes. I was so absorbed that I hardly noticed that a boy had stopped right next to me until he said 'Ne pensez-vous pas que Paris a un charme particulier?' Then I looked at him, he had the most beautiful green eyes I had ever seen," you paused your story to make a false sigh. "Then we strolled until late at night, and we met every evening so that he could show me the most beautiful corners of the city. I think those were the most romantic months of my life."

Three pairs of eyes stared at you showing completely different feelings. Natasha, who was sitting opposite you, was holding back her laughter, Steve, who was standing holding his tray next to Tony, looked completely confused by what had just happened and Tony was arching an eyebrow somewhat curiously at the story. At this point neither of you two could hold it in and started laughing, snapping the boys out of their trance.

"What was that?" asked Steve sitting down next to you. "Is that true? Because it would annoy me if you hadn't told me."

"Come on! He's pulling your leg," informed Tony jokingly and taking his place next to Nat.

"Wait how are you so sure my story isn't true? Couldn't I have my romantic history with a Parisian?" you rebutted somewhat indignantly at his certainty.

"Was he blind?" Tony arched an eyebrow.

For your part you squinted, just as Tony got a jolt of shock after getting stomped under the table by Nat because of his comment. Steve's change of conversation made it easier to keep the argument from escalating, but something always happened to spoil civilised conversations. A few minutes later, Tony was struggling with the Ketchup sachet which he couldn't open to spread on his burger, such was his desperation that when he took a bite of the sachet, it burst causing the sauce to hit your dress. Nat's eyes along with Steve's widened in anticipation of the contest between the two of you.

"You're an idiot Stark!" you quickly grabbed a couple of napkins Nat offered you so you could remove the sauce before it left a mark.

"At least it matches your dress," Tony interjected, holding back a laugh.

Cursing through your teeth, you headed for the food counter with the intention that some cook would have one of her magical ideas to make the stain go away. Tony followed you without letting go of his burger, even though Steve and Nat advised him to stay quiet and sit down.

"Come on Murphy! It's hardly any different from the red fabric of the dress," he said stepping up beside you, and knowing how much you hated it when he called you that.

"How many times have I told you not to call me Murphy?" you said scrubbing the stain with soap and water.

"It's your name," she shrugged nonchalantly. "It's not my fault your parents decided to name you that."

You bit down hard on your lip so you wouldn't have to blurt out all those things that were running through your mind, and put on an act in the middle of the cafeteria. You were lucky that at that instant someone appeared and diverted Tony's attention.

"Ready for Stark debate class?" Justin Hammer, with whom you shared a few classes introduced himself to you.

"Of course Hammer. I can't wait to see you try to put your meager vocabulary together in one sentence," Tony took a bite of his burger, causing sauce to smear his mustache and chin.

"Come on Tony, you've got a lifetime to be an idiot why don't you take a day off?" Hammer smiled slightly.

You couldn't help but smile at the comment, to which Tony noticed and became uncomfortable.

"Hammer, everyone has the right to act stupid for a while, but I'm not really the one abusing that privilege," Tony took another bite of his burger. "So fuck off."

Justin Hammer had gotten what he wanted, and his success was grounded in a half-smile as he walked away, leaving Tony frustrated. Within seconds he turned to you, so you gave him a raised eyebrow.

"You don't abuse that privilege?" you asked, referring to what he had just said to Hammer. "Please, Tony..."

Your smile faded just as Tony dipped his finger into his burger, and, bathed in what little ketchup he could get his hands on, rubbed it all over your right cheek.

"You're despicable!" you exclaimed wiping your cheek.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

"Don't thank me for the insult, it's always a pleasure," you cocked your head to the side and widened a fake smile leaving him alone, returning to the table.

The doorbell once again brought the lunch hour to an end. Tony followed you and jumped on Steve's back with the burger still in his hand, while you and Natasha gathered up your bags and belongings.

"Hey, what are you doing this afternoon? I thought we could all go to Barry's and catch up," you suggested to Natasha as you headed towards the lockers.

"I've got dance class, and I guess since it's the last one before Christmas it's going to run until dinner time," she lamented.

"Did someone say Barry's?" Tony slowed his pace and interjected into the conversation.

"Sounds like a good idea to me," said Steve. Barry's at 7pm?

"Nat's got dance class," you commented, opening your backpack to put your books in your locker.

"Guys, I know I'm a one-off, but you can go without me, don't worry," Natasha shrugged. "We can meet up tomorrow."

"Okay, but tomorrow you have to come with me to the mall, I'm still missing a present for my dad," you leaned in front of her.

"That means you already got mine," Tony winked at you, you hated his sudden mood swings.

"Yeah, a single ticket to the farthest place on the planet," you said, cocking your head.

"You know you'd miss me," he cut you short and you nudged him.

Oblivious to Tony, you added, "So I'll see you at Barry's this afternoon, and it's okay if you don't show up Stark."

"Believe me it's the last thing I feel like doing, but where Steve goes I go."

Taglist Open (DM) - @ravishingreid

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green-eyed-weirdo · 4 years ago

Text

If you took a sip for every broken promise, you’d end up with an empty cup

This one was supposed to be for the last day of Bechloe week, Cheating. Two months later, it’s now finally finished. The story is based on the Dutch song ‘Lippenstift’ (which translates to lipstick).

As mentioned in the prompt; it’s about cheating. Consider yourself warned. But don’t worry, they DON’T cheat on each other!! ;)

Read below or on AO3.

The one with ‘Skip’.

Living with Chloe has always been easy. Beca feels that, from the moment the two of them met, Chloe has always been able to read her. Where others would have trouble getting past her not-so-sunny personality and her sarcasm, Chloe had always understood her.

Growing up, Beca had built up some pretty solid walls around her, and Chloe seemed to have moved right past them. For some reason, Beca had let her. It took some time getting used to having such a happy, bubbly person around her all the time, but after Chloe had proclaimed they were going to be fast friends, all Beca could do is resign in her fate: Chloe was going to be her best friend.

When they moved into the Bella house, Beca had realized how much she loved spending time with Chloe. She enjoyed having the other Bella’s around as well, of course, but her relationship with Chloe was on a whole other level. After only a few months of living together, they had formed such a bond, they knew what the other was thinking just by looking at them. Their friends joked about it all the time, saying how they worked and lived together, but also argued like an old married couple.

After graduation, Beca had landed a job as a junior music producer at BFD records in New York City. Chloe didn’t think twice when Beca had asked her to come to New York with her and so their old married couple habits moved to New York with them. They had settled into a comfortable routine pretty quickly and Beca was very happy with the direction in which her life was going. Except for one thing. Or rather, one person. She was moving in the wrong direction.

Living with Chloe had always been easy, until about four months ago. Both of them had been casually dating here and there, the occasional hook-up, but nothing too serious. Beca has no idea what exactly happened four months ago, but from one day to the next, Chloe had started desperately looking for love. Every guy she met, every date she had, they were all ‘the one’ until they weren’t.

Beca hates seeing Chloe like this. To her, Chloe is the kindest, most beautiful, most amazing woman in the world and with this serial dating she’s been doing lately, it seems she has lost all respect for herself. It breaks Beca’s heart because Beca loves Chloe. Like, really loves her. Of course, she has never told her. Or anyone for that matter. No one except, surprisingly, Aubrey.

Aubrey had called her out after the campfire at the retreat, during senior year. According to Aubrey, it was written all over Beca’s face that she was in love with her best friend. Beca had tried to deny it at first but soon had to realize there was no use. Aubrey knew, and maybe that was for the better. Now she at least had someone to confide in.

They have been in New York for almost a year now. Beca had hoped her crush on her best friend would fade, but in reality, it had only gotten stronger. She was very grateful for Aubrey, who was always there, on the other end of the phone, when she needed to vent.

Over the past few months, since Chloe started seriously looking for ‘the one’, that has happened more frequently. On more than one occasion, Aubrey had tried to convince her to just tell Chloe the truth about her feelings. Sadly, Beca had never been very good with words and had not yet been able to say the words out loud.

===

On her way home after a long day at the studio, Beca tries to get her mind off the pile of work still waiting for her on her desk. She is looking forward to a relaxing evening, watching movies and having dinner with her best friend. As she gets off the subway, she thinks to send Chloe a quick text to check if the coast is clear.

BECA: On my way home now, be there in 10 Is he gone?

CHLOE: Not yet Getting dressed now He’ll be gone before you get here, promise

BECA: Good. See you in a bit.

CHLOE: xxx

===

Chloe had been dating this dude for about two months now. Honestly, she couldn’t even call it dating. Chloe had been seeing this dude. This married dude, to be exact.

They’d met in a coffee shop downtown and hit it off right away. After lots of texting and two dates, Chloe had found herself head over heels in love with this guy. Beca, however, had a bad feeling about him. For example, he would always come to their apartment, Chloe never went to his. Also, he rarely took Chloe out in public. But the thing that annoyed Beca the most, is that he would go days on end without texting Chloe back or answering his phone. That usually happens right when he leaves their apartment, after what Chloe calls ‘a date’. (In reality, he comes over, they eat something and have sex. Beca does her best to keep her opinions to herself though).

Chloe went through a few stages of emotion with that last one. In the beginning, she would get worried, later on, she’d get pissed and now, after two months, Chloe just seems sad when she doesn’t get a response for days.

When Beca had carefully brought this up to her best friend, Chloe’s expression had dropped. A little embarrassed she had explained to Beca that her new lover was married. “They are separated but he is still living with his wife at the moment. But he has basically already left her,” Chloe had assured her best friend. Beca had been suspicious about the story but had left it at that. As said, that was two months ago.

From the moment Chloe had started seeing him, Beca has gone out of her way to make sure she isn’t home when he’s there. Cheating is a sore subject for her and she really doesn’t want anything to do with the situation. Chloe understands and makes sure to inform Beca whenever he would be there. Every now and then, Beca would comment on it, but she knows Chloe has lost herself in this guy too much to listen to her anyway.

As kind of a funny, snarky joke, Beca calls the guy ‘Skip’. She knows that’s not his real name but calling him ‘Skip’ would hopefully, eventually get her message across. The message that this guy is not going to stick around. He will skip out on her and go back to his wife soon enough and leave Chloe heartbroken. Beca was both awaiting and dreading that day.

===

Exactly ten minutes later Beca opens the door to their apartment building and walks into the stairwell. She’s exhausted from the long day she’s had and has to literally will her feet to move and carry her up the stairs. They live on the third floor, so she still has a good way to go. On her way up, she hears feet stomp down the stairs and a guy answering his phone.

“Hey, baby!” She hears him say in the sweetest voice, that almost makes her throw up in her mouth a little. “Yes, work has been insanely busy today. I know, honey, I know. I’m on my way home right now. Yes, I promise!”

Beca stops at the landing between the first and second floor to let him pass. She glares at him as he rushes past her saying “I love you too, baby” into his phone. In his quick passing, she notices a flash of light red on his collar. She smirks to herself when she recognizes Chloe’s favorite color lipstick. “Talk your way out of that one, asshole”, she thinks.

Beca looks up in the direction of her apartment and already knows the scene she’s about to walk into.

This exact thing has happened many times before over the past two months. Beca has seen her best friend change from a bubbly, confident woman into a vulnerable girl who cries more than she smiles. It breaks her heart even thinking about it.

=== 5 weeks ago ===

Beca had been out for a drink after work with a few co-workers. Chloe had texted her earlier that her new boyfriend would be coming over, so Beca had made an effort to stay away. A little buzzed she walked up the stairs of their apartment building, hoping she’d stayed out long enough. Just as she headed up the final steps, she saw him coming down the stairs, phone to his ear. “Yes, baby, I’m on my way now. My meeting ran late, I’m sorry. See you in a few. Love you.” Beca looked back at the guy in disgust as he walked past her giving her no notice whatsoever. She immediately understood what was going on though and hurried up the stairs to talk to Chloe.

As she throws open the door to the apartment, she sees Chloe busy cleaning up the dishes from dinner. A little out of breath, she puts her jacket away and joins Chloe in the kitchen.

“Chlo, you okay?” Beca noticed right away her best friend looks sad.

“Yeah, I’m okay” Chloe lies.

“I have to tell you something. I don’t really know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it.” Chloe looks at her with a questioning look. “I think he’s lying to you, Chlo. I passed him on the stairs and he was calling her ‘baby’ over the phone. It definitely didn’t sound like a couple getting a divorce.” Beca sees Chloe is avoiding to look at her.

Without a word, Chloe walks out of the kitchen and into the living room. She sits down on the couch and keeps looking at her hands. With a soft voice, she says “I know”. Beca had followed her best friend into the living room and squats down in front of her.

“You know?”

“Yeah… He’s still married.” And with those words, Chloe breaks down. “He says their marriage is practically over. He loves me, he really does, Bec. He’s going to leave her soon.” Beca doesn’t really know what to say.

“Chloe, how… why…” She is shocked that her beautiful, amazing best friend would allow someone to treat her like that.

“I really don’t want to talk about it.” Chloe blubbers through her tears. Beca stands up at that and walks to the kitchen. She opens the fridge and gets out two bottles of beer and a tub of ice cream. As she walks back, she tells Chloe to pick a movie. Chloe shoots her a grateful smile as they settle on the couch.

===

Beca is startled out of her memory by a door slamming a few floors up. Her exhaustion forgotten, she jogs the rest of the way up the stairs, to get to Chloe as fast as she can. As she opens the door, she immediately spots her sitting on the couch, tear-stained face, staring straight ahead. Beca pushes down the anger she feels coming up at the sight of her heartbroken best friend and springs into action.

She goes through her very familiar routine of getting two beer bottles and the tub of ice cream and sets it down on the coffee table. She sits down on the couch next to Chloe and pulls her into a hug. After about a minute, she looks at Chloe and gently wipes the tears from her face. She gives her the remote and tells her to pick a movie while she gets comfortable on the couch. They don’t talk about it this time.

===

As the final credits of the movie start rolling, Beca looks down at her lap and notices Chloe has fallen asleep. Beca had been playing with Chloe’s hair for the last 20 minutes and she knows this has a calming effect on her. She carefully gets up and covers Chloe with a blanket to let her rest for a little bit. “Dinner can wait”, she thinks.

Beca takes out her phone and while walking to her bedroom, she thumbs the number of the person she needs to talk to right now. With a shaky, watery breath she puts the phone to her ear.

Aubrey answers on the first ring and before she can even explain why she’s calling, tears start rolling down her face. Weirdly enough, Aubrey has always been good at calming her down and this time is no different. Beca goes on to tell her what has happened tonight. “I wish she’d realize he’s never going to leave his wife,” Aubrey says with a sigh.

“I know. She is honestly worth so much more than this, it breaks my heart. This is going to sound so mean, but… I wish he would just end it. Or that his wife would find out. I mean, I saw Chloe’s lipstick on his collar when I passed him on the stairs.” she says it with a smirk and hears Aubrey snort a laugh. “But in all seriousness, Chloe would be heartbroken, but it would set her free, you know?” Aubrey hums in agreement.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Aubs.” Beca pleads with her friend.

“I mean, there is one thing you could do…” Aubrey starts hesitantly. “You could, you know… tell her how you feel.”

“I have been though! I’ve been telling her for weeks…”

“You know that’s not what I mean, Beca.” Aubrey interrupts her.

“Yeah, I know…”

“I really think she’d want to know. I’m pretty sure it’ll change things.”

Beca isn’t convinced confessing her feelings to Chloe will change anything, but Aubrey seems to be pretty certain. With a promise to think about it, they wrap up their call and hang up.

Expressing her feelings has never really been Beca’s strong suit. Music on the other hand… totally her thing. She picks up her guitar and starts playing, humming to the soft melody that seems to come naturally.

===

Oeh you, I thought you knew better Always thought you were better than that

Oeh you, are so naive, so lost in dreams So in love, head over heels, and he...

=== 3 weeks ago ===

She’d known Chloe was with ‘Skip’ so she again made an effort to stay out as long as she possibly could. She hated seeing Chloe all smiley and heart-eyed when she was with this guy because she knew what was to come after he closed the door behind him. Chloe would yet again be a mess, and Beca would sit with her all night, picking up the pieces.

Beca had come home that night to a particularly heart-wrenching scene. He had been standing by the front door, ringtone screaming from his back pocket while the two said their goodbyes. She’d slipped past him into the apartment without giving them a second look and walked straight into her room to put her work stuff away.

Walking back out into the living room she heard him say: “Chloe, I really have to go. She keeps calling, I can’t keep dodging her calls.” She sees him give Chloe a quick kiss saying “thanks, this was fun” and with that, he leaves the apartment. It’s clear Chloe wants to say something else (probably beg him to stay a little longer) but her face drops as he rushes out the door, and she closes it quietly.

She turns around to see Beca looking at her with a sympathetic look on her face. “Please Bec, don’t. Not right now.” Chloe looks away and starts walking towards her bedroom.

“Then when Chloe?” Beca challenges her best friend. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Chloe looks at her with a defiant look in her eyes. “Do what exactly? Please Beca, enlighten me with your expert opinion.” Chloe knows she’s not playing fair and she sees it on Beca’s face too. Beca has had her fair share of experience with a dad leaving her family for another woman. Still, she just couldn’t help herself, she just feels so much frustration.

“Chlo...” Beca pleads “you know he’s not being real with you. Please, Chloe… he’s not worth all this!” Beca’s voice gets louder as she speaks the words she’s been holding in for a while.

“No! You’ve got it all wrong, Beca! He doesn’t love her anymore, he loves me. He promised he’ll leave her soon and then we can be together. It will happen, you’ll see!” Beca sees hope in Chloe’s eyes. It sparks anger inside of her that she didn’t know was there.

“He tells you all these sweet little things, all these promises… Chloe, he goes home and tells her the exact same things!” Beca sees a tear rolling down Chloe’s face as she looks down at her feet.

Beca takes Chloe’s hands in hers and wills her voice to soften before she speaks again. “Honey, I know you really like him, that you really enjoy spending time with him. But you can never go out together, never leave this apartment. Chlo, he’ll never hold your hand or kiss you in a public place.” Chloe looks down at her hands in Beca’s and then looks up at Beca. Without a word, she pulls her hands free, walks into her bedroom and closes the door behind her.

Beca releases the breath she was holding and wipes the tear that has run down her face. She can hear Chloe crying in her room and her heart breaks for her best friend. She turns around and walks to the fridge to get the ice cream and beer. She’ll give her a moment to collect herself, but after that, as always, she will be there to pick up the pieces.

===

Beca continues humming the melody and writes down the next set of lyrics that flow from her brain. She feels the lyrics so strongly. Does Chloe not know how beautiful she is? She doesn’t understand why she would let this guy treat her like this. All the questions swimming in her head just flow out of her.

What do you want to be? Someone's lover or their biggest secret? Will you set yourself free? Or will you choose someone who’ll never be there when you need it?

Ask yourself, even if you’re hurt; Aren’t you worth a lot more than just the lipstick on his shirt?

I see your lipstick on his collar, babe but you are worth so much more than that I see it on his collar, babe but you are worth so much more than that

====

Beca feels a tear roll down her face as she goes through what she’s got so far. Writing lyrics has never been something she was really good at, but apparently, this particular situation had given her the inspiration she needed. She starts from the top and plays through it again, in the hopes the next part will come naturally.

=== last week ===

Wednesdays are Beca’s work from home days. She gets to sleep in a little and just spends the day doing administrative stuff and playing around on her mixing board. She really enjoys these days, mostly because Wednesday happens to be Chloe’s day off. They have breakfast together, Beca starts work while Chloe does some housework, they have lunch together, Beca goes back to work while Chloe goes out for groceries and they finish the day together in the kitchen, Beca wrapping up the last of her work while Chloe cooks dinner. It’s very domestic and Beca loves it.

However, this Wednesday was a little bit different. They’d just finished lunch when Chloe’s phone started buzzing on the table. “It’s him” she shoots Beca an apologetic smile while she steps away from her. Beca feels instantly annoyed but decides not to dwell on it for too long. She puts the dishes away and walks to her room to continue her work. As she passes Chloe’s bedroom, she hears her say “okay, yeah, sure… you can come over.” She sighs and rolls her eyes at that. She makes sure she closes her bedroom door behind her and puts on her noise-cancelling headphones, just to be safe.

It’s around 2:30 pm when she feels her bladder is about to explode. She curses herself for not thinking of emptying her bladder before and fleetingly looks around to see if she might be able to avoid leaving her room. She really does not want to hear any sounds coming from Chloe’s room or worse, run into ‘Skip’. Reluctantly, she pulls her headphones from her head and puts them next to her mixing board. She quickly opens the bedroom door and jogs down the hall to the bathroom to relieve herself.

On her way back to her room, she hears Chloe’s bedroom door open and ‘Skip’ comes walking down the hall. He’s wearing nothing but his boxers, towel slung over his shoulder and he shoots Beca a seductive smile and a wink. Beca has never rolled her eyes louder. She stops when she sees Chloe sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing nothing but her bra and panties, t-shirt in her hands. It looks like she had been in the middle of getting dressed when something caught her attention. Beca follows Chloe’s line of sight and sighs, while she leans against the doorframe. Chloe is brought out of her stare and shoots Beca a sad smile while she pulls the shirt over her head.

“He always takes that off when he’s here.” Chloe motioned towards the bedside table. There, next to his wallet and his cellphone, lies his wedding ring. “After he’s done washing my scent from his body, he puts it back on like nothing happened.” Chloe then proceeds to put on some shorts and looks at Beca. “Tell me what you’re thinking?” Beca clears her throat.

“I mean, it’s…” Beca needs some time to think about her words. “It’s nice of him to take it off for you, I guess?” Chloe shoots Beca a surprised look.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“Sugarcoat it. Tell me what you’re really thinking about. Please. I need to hear it.”

“Well…” Beca starts uncertain, “I think you’re right about him washing your scent of his body. That’s probably why he always wants to shower here.” Chloe nods in understanding.

“Also, you and I both know what the next couple of days or even weeks are going to be like. He’s not going to answer your calls, he will not text you back. He has probably already erased all your texts and deleted his call log. He is going to disappear from your life and go back to her.”

“He’s never going to choose me, is he?” she sighs, “Nobody ever does.”

Just as Beca wants to ask her what she means by that, they hear the bathroom door open. Chloe looks at Beca with a sad smile as Beca walks backwards to her room and closes the door. She doesn’t put on the headphones this time. She hears Chloe snap back into her bubbly self and say goodbye to ‘Skip’.

===

Can you live with that knowledge? Can you live with that thought?

Babe, you know that this is not the real deal

What do you want to be? Someone's lover or his biggest secret? Will you set yourself free? Or will you choose someone who’ll always be there when you need it?

Ask yourself, even if you’re hurt; Aren’t you worth a lot more than just the lipstick on his shirt?

I see your lipstick on his collar, babe but you are worth so much more than that I see it on his collar, babe but you are worth so much more than that

I see it on his collar, yet you are worth way more than that

maybe I could be the key because you mean so much more to me

===

Beca rubs her eyes as they’ve gotten a little watery and blows out a puff of air. She takes a moment to compose herself, putting down her guitar and taking a sip of water. She had really been pouring her heart out in this song. She’s glad she thought of recording herself on her phone when she started playing with the melody.

A quiet sniff behind her catches her attention and she jerks her head around, startled by the sudden interruption. She feels her cheeks flush as she realizes Chloe probably overheard at least part of the song. “Chlo…” she starts but can’t really think of anything else to say, panic set in.

Chloe sees tears well up in Beca’s eyes as she wipes away her own and rushes to sit down on the bed next to her. She takes Beca’s hands into her own and sees Beca is actively trying to avoid eye contact. Chloe knows exactly what that means, so she scoots closer to pull Beca into a hug. She holds on a little longer, squeezes her a bit tighter until she feels Beca relax in her arms.

When they both pull back, Chloe looks at Beca with a soft smile. “Thank you”, she speaks the words softly, not really trusting her voice to work with all the emotion she’s feeling. She wipes another tear from her face and lets out a watery laugh at Beca’s puzzled expression. “For the beautiful song, I mean. It’s about me, isn’t it?”

Beca hesitates for a moment but then decides this is her chance to put it all on the table, “ehm, yeah… it is. Chlo, I just…” she struggles to find the words to explain how she’s feeling, but as per usual, Chloe reads her like an open book.

“I know, Becs.”

She looks up at Chloe and finds she’s already looking at her. Chloe uses her thumb to wipe the last of Beca’s tears away and keeps her hands on each side of her face. As they look into each other's eyes, Beca feels the air shift around them. “Yeah?”

“mhmm, I heard you.” Chloe hopes Beca understands she means she didn’t just hear the song but understood what her best friend was trying to tell her. She can tell Beca is nervous so she decides to not drag this moment out any longer. With a quick mental prayer, she didn’t read the situation completely wrong, she closes the distance between them.

Beca sighs into the kiss. Kissing Chloe feels even better than she imagined it would. She feels Chloe smile against her lips and thinks (hopes) she might be feeling the same way. Suddenly, Beca feels like she can’t breathe and so she pulls back. Chloe looks at her a little surprised and Beca immediately wants to apologize. “I’m sorry. I… Shit, did I fuck this up already?” Chloe takes Beca's hands again and gives her a quick peck on the lips.

“Nope, don’t worry. What happened?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a little overwhelmed, I guess. I couldn’t breathe for a moment.”

Chloe smirks at her, “Did I take your breath away, babe?”

“Oh my god”, Beca laughs and she feels herself relax again.

“So…” Beca starts, “would you, maybe… want to go on a date with me sometime?”

“I’d really like that, Becs.” Chloe says with a soft smile on her face.

Chloe stands up from the bed and pulls Beca up. She doesn’t let go of Beca’s hand as they walk towards the kitchen together. As Beca heads for the fridge, Chloe leans over the counter and pulls out her phone. Beca takes two steps back and stands next to her. “What are you doing?” she curiously asks her.

“I’m texting ‘Skip’ ”, she says with a wink. Beca smiles hearing Chloe use the stupid nickname. She gives Chloe some space to compose her text and busies herself in the kitchen. “Can you come here a sec?” Chloe asks her after a moment. Beca turns around and stands next to Chloe, looking at her expectantly.

“What’s up?”

“I want you to see this,” Chloe says mysteriously. Beca raises an eyebrow and puts her chin on Chloe’s shoulder to see her phone. She sees her open the contact info for Chicago , clicks on ‘block this caller’ and then proceeds to ‘delete contact’. Chloe puts her phone down on the counter and turns to look at Beca with a sad smile on her face. “I’m really sorry about, you know… everything.” Beca hums in understanding.

“I really don’t know what I was thinking. No, honestly, I do know… The thing is, I’ve been in love with you for so long, Beca. And I didn’t think you felt the same way, so I just… I don’t know, tried to move on, I guess? I didn’t really go about it the right w…” Chloe’s ramble gets cut off by a sudden kiss and she sighs in relief.

Pulling back, she playfully bites her lip and looks at Beca. “I’m so in love with you, Beca Mitchell. It’s always been you.”

Beca pulls Chloe into a hug and holds her for a moment. When she pulls back she pecks her lips one more time and walks back to the fridge. As she pulls it open she looks back at Chloe and asks: “ice cream and beer?”

Chloe shakes her head. “How about dinner and wine?”

#bechloe #Bechloe week #Pitch Perfect #beca mitchell #chloe beale #tw: cheating

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 5 years ago

Text

Missin’ You is Terrible- Part 1: Missin’ You

Calum isn’t looking for deep feelings, just for some fun. But he’s pretty sure friends with benefits isn’t supposed to go like this. Black!Female Reader.

Enjoy my masterlist

Support me on kofi

_______________

I’m in your city.

It is not his smoothest line. Even as he drafts the message, he wears a doopy ass grin, giggling to himself. He can imagine her eye roll, the purse of her lips, the tsk of her tongue sliding over the roof of her mouth and the back of her teeth. He watches the gray bubbles appear on his screen, the circles shifting from light gray to dark gray as he imagines her fingers tapping away at the screen.

What’s that supposed to mean to me, Hood?

Calum scoffs. She likes giving him a hard time. I have a day off here too.

You still haven’t answered my question.

She’s already starting. She’s going to make him say it, make him beg for it already. He’d normally hate this. He was normally direct. If he wanted sex, he’d say so. If he didn’t, he knew how to open his mouth. But she made this different. She made this fun. She’d play annoyed, unphased, but he knows that deep down her gut twisted just like his. He knows that no matter how many times she faked annoyance, she’d crack. Her giggle would escape her in tufts and she’d snort sometimes. But only sometimes. He can see the grin on her face, the way she’s tugging her lip between her teeth.

Her teeth, fuck. He loves the feeling of her teeth grazing over his bottom lip. Even better than that though is the feeling of her teeth sinking into his flesh, his lip, tugging it a little. The mere thought leaves him nearly moaning in the dressing room. He taps away to reply, It means you should be at the show and pick me up tonight.

Well lucky for you, a very nice man sent me tickets. I will be at the show.

Calum stares at his screen. He waits. Is she going to confirm that she’ll pick him up? He asked her to the show, but didn’t really confirm if they would see each other. He wasn’t sure what her schedule would look like and didn’t want to be too demanding. He groans when nothing comes through for a solid minute or two. You’re an ass.

But you like my ass.

I do. I really fucking do. Calum bites down on his lips, inhaling deeply as the bubbles appear again.

I’ll pick you up after the show. But you’re going to have to either get me access to the back of the venue or hike your cute ass to event parking.

Calum pushes to his feet. He’d rather not be seen walking to her car. It’s nothing against her. He just knows the second fans catch an ounce of suspicious activity, they will run a mile with it. He’s always kept a low profile, no matter how hard it was. He presses the phone to his ear, reaching for his bag. He rips a page from his journal. She answers on the second ring.

“What kind of car do you drive?” he asks. She rattles of the brand and make. Calum writes it down. “Plate number?”

“What’s this for? You know my car.”

“It’s for security, so they know I’m not walking to some fucking strangers car. They’ll probably escort me, but still they might ask or want need it to make sure who are who you say you are.”

“Just tell them it’s the hella attractive girl.”

Calum laughs. “Yeah because that narrows it down so well.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier if I got you from the hotel in the morning,” she offers.

Calum shakes his head, walking to over to one of the bodyguards. “That’s too long.”

“You’ll be exhausted after your show.”

“I’m always exhausted, babycakes.”

She exhales hard, the phone crackle a little. He knows what that nickname does to her. “You’re in for it now,” she whispers. “You’re dead in the water, Hood.” The call ends. Calum’s not even shocked. He slides his phone back into his pocket, handing over the information he has. He describes her, maybe a little too in depth but the guard doesn’t say anything about it.

They talk to the head coordinator and event staffing. It’s not until an hour or so after soundcheck that Calum gets confirmation that a someone will be on the lookout for her car and will escort him. He’d fight against this, but knows he’ll ultimately lose that battle.

“You’ll be back to the hotel in time for the drive right?”

Calum nods. “Of course.”

Then with a bit of smirk and a wink, the guard adds, “Just don’t get into too much trouble.” The laugh bubbles up in his chest, spilling past his lips. Calum shakes his head at the antic. If he only knew how much trouble, Calum would be getting into.

Calum’s not sitting on the couch, more like laying against it, though is butt is still technically in a sitting position, Michael giggling at him. He flips him off, teasingly. “Leave me alone, Clifford.” Then in responds slides in further from his barely upright position.

“It’s your back you’re breaking,” Michael chuckles and then goes back to his phone.

Calum’s phone vibrates against his stomach. He pushes back up to see the notification. New iMessage- A-1. It’s an inside joke. She’a A-1 and he’s Steak Sauce, though in her phone it’s spelt like S-O-S a joke off the band acronym. She was way too pleased with herself over the pun. Calum doesn’t have the heart to tell her how cheesy it is, so he lets himself forever reside in her contacts as SteakSOS and gets a chuckle every time he happens to see it.

He slides to unlock the notification and a shaky breath leaves him. Fuck, fuck, of course. It shouldn’t even make him this hot and bothered, but what he did not think would happen is that he’d open that message to a video. It’s just a video of her hand, pulling up fishnet thigh highs. But her nails are shaped into a point and painted a pretty yellow against the warm red depths of her brown skin. He watches as she flexes, gripping at unclothed thigh before the video ends. He can feel the way the sharp point digging into his shoulders now. He can imagine that way her fingers feel dancing across his skin.

He plays it again, there’s no sound--he’s thankful. Another message follows it. Did I spend two hours at a nail salon just to send you that? Yes I did. Did I spend another thirty minutes trying to fucking record one handed? Sure did, angel.

Angel. His heart nearly stops as he exhales shakily again at the nickname. “You alright?” Michael asks. His tone rings with amusement. When Calum meets his eye, he can see the smile decorating Michael’s face. He knows, Calum figures. It’s not like Calum’s exactly hidden this friendship, friends with benefits relationship, from the boys. But he tries not to make it so obvious.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Calum says with a chuckle. It’s breathy and nowhere near convincing. But Michael doesn’t push it. He smiles with a nod. Whatever is happening, Michael knows Calum will be sporting marks come tomorrow.

You’re not just trying to kill me. You’re trying to swallow me fucking hole huh?

In more ways than one, she replies.

Calum groans, throwing his head back into the cushions. “I hate her,” he laughs to himself. He sits there, reliving their last meeting. They were in his car, sitting at the edge of the beach, watching over into the water. Or more like the water was watching them fog up the windows.

His brain wonders down all the random assortment of memories of them together. He lands on their first meeting. Calum started noticing her about a year and a half ago. She went to the same coffee shop that he frequented. She was always hunched over some stack of paper, always tapping away at her computer. He always wanted to ask her what she was doing. But he found himself afraid, always choosing to watch from afar as she typed away, as she scratched words onto the page. She looked endearing with three red pens stuck in her hair.

Then one day, he caught her, head resting on her forearms. He didn’t want to disturb her, but he did notice some kids eyeing her things. So he went over and sat across from her while he waited for her drink. Make it seem like they were together. He didn’t have anything planned for the day. He just needed some coffee. He didn’t mean sitting there, just to make sure that her belongings didn’t get stolen. After about twenty minutes, he noticed her stirring, so he gathered his empty cup. Calum was sliding his phone back into his pocket when she spoke. “Well, I haven’t just woken up from a nap. I have died and gone to fucking heaven.”

He snapped his head at her, the heat flooding his cheeks. He couldn’t really blush, it never really showed up. But god, did his face feel warm. “I’m sorry. You were sleeping and some kids looked like they were planning something. I sat down to try to and deter them. They left, but then I was worried someone else would try and come up. So I figured I’d sit here until you woke up.”

“Thank you. You’re a literal angel.”

They talked every all the time in the coffee shop. And then the coffee shop turned into bars. Bars turned into bedrooms. Bedrooms turned into the back of cars, the back of cars turned into her spending the night. Spending the night turned into baking at nearly two AM. Baking at nearly two AM turned into laying out in his backyard pondering the universe. Then she moved further up the Californian coast and out of the city to work for an independent publishing company; she’s happier there. Calum is glad for her. Just misses her two AM baking excursions.

Now, they rarely get to see each other. Now it’s Calum texting her, I’m in your city as if he didn’t make that two hour drive anytime he wanted to see her. But it’s fun this way. Things feel more intense this way. They turn out all the stops. Which leads Calum here, eyes closed, grinning like an idiot, the ghost of her touch tickling his skin. He pops off the couch, heading to the bathroom, phone in hand. Payback’s a bitch, he hopes she knows that.

He Facetimes her. No videos, no pictures. He has a strict rule against it. The call rings loudly, bouncing off the concrete walls. She picks up, only to see Calum’s tattooed hand rubbing over his crotch. He lets the sigh fall over his lips at the pressure. He’s needed this, he could feel tightness growing in his pants, the way his lower gut ached for release. He couldn’t give her that. But he could tease her; he could release some of the tension for his own benefit. A moan is building in him. He presses his lips together, refusing to crack just yet. But she knows.

“Let me hear you, angel,” she commands. “If you’re going to sit there and be this much of a gotdamn tease, at least give me the satisfaction of hearing your sweet moans.”

Calum could. He could give her that. But he won’t. He ends the call, exhaling hard. His phone is about to explode with messages from her. One message comes in, he feels the phone shake in his hand. Then another comes in. Then another. A fourth. A fifth. A sixth one. Calum grins to himself, finally taking his hand away from his crotch and then running it through his hair. He’s in trouble now.

It’s while the boys and he are eating a small dinner before the show that his phone buzzes again. It hasn’t buzzed in a while after her rant about him being “a motherfucking ass”. I’m at the venue. She describes where’s she’s parked, in a parking deck on the back side of the venue stating “if she were any higher up, she’d touch God and any further back she’d revert herself to the 1950’s”. Calum alerts a bodyguard who takes an event security guard to investigate where she is.

That’s not very descriptive, you know, Calum replies.

Another text comes in, about ten minutes later. Clearly it was, because I can spot two of your goons headed for my car.

_________

Calum can’t spot her in the crowd. He tries, looking up the upper levels of the venue. But he can’t see anything clearly. He wishes he could but that’s not going to happen with lights. It’s when Luke gets a talking break that the flashing lights die down. But he can’t see through the haze. He takes out an inner ear, trying listen for her voice. But doesn’t catch anything. Then he gets to talk. “How are you guys doing tonight?” The crowd roars to life. He repeats the question. “I asked, how are you guys doing tonight!” he adds emphasis to the last word, shouting into the mic.

Then he hears her, right as the crowd is starting to settle down. Just as clear as a bell, “I can’t scream any louder. I’m waiting for ‘Valentine’ to lose my shit.”

He laughs into the microphone, looking for her in the crowd again. He think he spots her, in a bright yellow shirt. “You’re going to be waiting a little bit then, ba-,” The nickname almost falls off his lips. He almost lets it slip through his lungs, but he catches it right on the edge of his tongue and swallows it back down. “But we’ll get there. I promise. Right now, we’re slowing it down. Is it okay to slow it down for second?” Calum jokes around a bit with the boys as Michael strums before launching into Amnesia.

As they take their final bow, instruments still reverberating into the speakers, Calum looks out over the crowd for her one last time. He spots the yellow in the crowd again. But he can’t be sure it’s her. They exit the stage, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins. High fiving each other, still breathing hard after the show. He can’t wait to have her beneath his finger tips. Calum showers first. He knows he ought to eat something. But he’s not worried about that. He just needs her. He wonders to the bus, gathering the last of his things. He walks back with his traveler bag in his hand.

Ashton whistles. “Uh huh, who are you going to see?” He can smell the cologne on Calum.

“Nobody, man. Nobody,” Calum returns, nothing sliding his phone into his pocket.

“Nobody seems like a hell of a somebody

“Shut up,” Calum huffs, a chuckle falling from his lips as well.

“Still a lot of foot traffic. Might as well eat, give it another half an hour or so,” the bodyguard warns. Calum wants to say fuck it, but figures if he does, he’ll be spotted. “We’ll go the second it dies down.”

Calum nods and manages to get through most of his second dinner. It’s as the first drop hits his stomach that realizes how fucking hungry he actually is. True to his word, the second the venue is cleared, Calum follows behind the guard. He can hear as the stage is torn down, people’s voices echoing. Outside near the buses, they cut across the back, jaywalk over the shockingly clear road.

As they approach the top of the parking deck, Calum spots her figure in the shadows of the lamp posts. He grins, picking up his gait. He might as well run as the pace he’s half jogging. She pushes up from the hood of her car, starting towards him. Calum wraps her up in his arms, rocking the both of them side to side. She was in yellow. He buries his face into the crook of her neck, smiling against her skin, inhaling the faint scent of her hair products. Calum melts into her touch, the way she squeezes him, the hum of her effort falling over her lips.

This is a goddamn home away from home, here in her arms, Calum thinks to himself. They release each other. Calum stares down at her, lips turned up into a smile. His hands slide down her side, stopping at her hips. Her nails drag over the veins in his hands. “It’s been too long,” he whispers.

“Well Mr. Rockstar. My address is still the same.”

“I’m sorry.”

She grins, nails digging a little into the flesh of his hands. “You can make it up to me,” she states, pulling her hips from his grasp. Her boots make a soft clacking sound as she struts to her car, backwards. Her fingers slide over his. Calum hooks his middle finger around hers, so the contact isn’t lost. She readjusts the grip, hooking her pinky through his as they walk side by side. “You realize I nearly called you babycakes in front of the audience tonight right?” he asks, watch the light and shadows cross over her face.

“I know.”

“That would’ve been embarrassing.”

“For you, not for me.”

The inside of her car is warm, he notes. Very warm. She shrugs out of her jacket. “What were you cold or something?” he tease, poking at her thighs beneath the gaps in the fishnets. The black and white houndstooth pattern skirt looks flimsy. It’s all for the aesthetic, he figures, and he likes it. He just likes her, if he’s completely honest with himself. But he never is. Not in love anyway. He can’t afford to be completely honest.

“I didn’t want to greet you with a cold car. And my legs are freezing. I didn’t think it’d get this cool.”

He rubs his palm over her inner thigh, after putting his seatbelt on. She doesn’t shudder, doesn’t moan. She just smiles, her cheeks lifting as her bottom lip falls victim to her teeth. Calum leaves his hand there, buried in the heat of her inner thighs meeting. She descends the parking structure. “Long way home or sit through traffic?” she asks stopped at the exit.

“Long way,” he shrugs. He has nowhere to be right now of course. She squeezes his fingers with her thighs.

Calum brushes his thumb over the skin, also brushing up against her thinly covered sex. She mashes her lips together, making a left turn. He can’t feel anything. He won’t push it now. He’ll wait. “What made you decide to wear yellow, huh?”

“Wanted to stand out.”

“I was looking for you, you know?”

“Bet my big mouth was the fastest way to look for me.”

He chuckles, “It was.” His thumb hooks into the side of her panties. Her gasp is audible, she grips tighter at the steering wheel.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she hisses softly. Calum doesn’t listen. He’s done with it. They’ve been driving for a few minutes now. He should’ve picked the traffic. At least she could’ve stopped. Not that going that way was completely risk free. Even though it would’ve been the tail end of it, they still could’ve gotten spotted together.

Dragging his middle finger up, he groans at the slickness coating his finger. “You really did miss me.”

Her laugh strikes him odd. It’s sad, quiet. This is unlike her. But she doesn’t speak. Calum teases his finger at her entrance. Slowly, he lets the digit slip inside. She shifts, the softest sound leaving her parted lips. “Talk to me babycakes,” Calum urges, pushing his finger as deep as he can. He’s breathless at the feeling of her sitting on his digit. She sits around his finger so well, pulling him deeper almost. He wishes it was his cock, but he’ll have to wait.

“I’d rather misbehave,” comes her response before she adds on, “Besides, you know it’s killing you. Have a taste.”

He already knows well enough what she taste like that slight saltiness. He can already taste it. He wonders if she remembers the way she tastes. Because if not he’s about to remind her. “Pull over,” he demands.

“We’re on back roads. The shoulder is very narrow.”

“How much longer?” he asks, curling his finger.

She hums, a chuckle falling over her throat. “Another ten, fifteen minutes if we don’t encounter any critters.”

Calum chuckles at the term. She might have left her home town, but her hometown has not left her. He decides not to risk it. “Can you handle this? Can you just still on my fingers?”

“Finger,” she corrects just like he knew she would. Calum pulls the one finger out before pushing a second one alongside it. Expelling all of the air in her lungs, she does her best not to make a sound. It’s not the first time he’s had his fingers deep in her while driving. Besides she has more important things to focus on like this fucking road. If she could spare the glance to Calum to throw daggers at him with her glare she would.

But she keeps her eyes on the road, his fingers deep in her aching core. He must love this, she thinks. Loves her wrapped around his fingers, whether it’s her tongue or her heat, it doesn’t really matter. As long as she is somehow wrapped around his finger, he is in heaven. She tightens her pelvic muscles, squeezing around his digits. Calum groans, head falling into the headrest. His stomach jumps.

“Do it again, please,” he breathes, rolling his head to look at her. She glances over. His face is a tad pink. He’s flushed already. She tightens around his fingers again. He is putty in her hands though his hands are the only that are milking her with his lazy curling inside.

It’s the longest five more minutes to pull into the driveway of her house. It was left to her in her grandmother’s will. Also another reason why she moved. The house isn’t much, one story but with a lot of space. The engine cuts off and Calum is leaning over the console, fingers still buried in her. His mouth brushes over hers. He doesn’t have the words, the breathe to speak his next thought. But it’s like she knows as her mouth seals over his. She pushes all the right buttons as her teeth sink into his bottom on. Calum hisses, pushing his fingers particularly hard into her. Her legs fall even farther apart.

Her nails dig into the muscles of his shoulders as they kiss. The points of pain are like small fires in his skin. Calum trails the tip of his tongue up her lips as he pulls away from the mess of lips, bites, teeth, and tongue. She pulls his fingers out of her, bringing his hand to her mouth. Through her lashes, she watches his face. Calum’s gaze is trained on the way his fingers glisten before the lights in the car go out.

He laughs, a huff of a chuckle. It’s silenced as she sucks his digits into her mouth. Calum’s mouth falls open, a moan falling from his throat. She runs her tongue between his fingers, cleaning every inch of them. He wants to kiss her. But he doesn’t want her to stop sucking on his fingers. Calum leans in, pulling his fingers from inside her mouth, but leaves them resting against her pouty lips.

“I wasn’t done,” she sighs.

He doesn’t respond, instead he kisses her, the tips of his own fingers brushing against his lips too. It’s nice for a moment and then she brings one digit back into her mouth, leaving Calum’s lips hovering over hers yet again. This is ridiculous. He wants to kiss her, just wants to feel her supple lips against his again. Who gives fuck if his own finger is in the way? Calum kisses her, over his own knuckle as her tongue massages the pad of his finger.

Calum’s not even sure when they made it inside her house. His senses too full of her, her scent, the way her skin feels, her moans, her groans, her sighs, the way his name sounds from her lips. He drops his bag in front of the her couch. “Thirsty?” she asks, toying out of her shoes.

Calum unzips his boots, watching her hips as she walks to her kitchen. His socks are a little slippery against the tile she has down, but he manages to catch up to her, taking her hips into his hand and pulling her back into his chest. She grinds down into his crotch, feeling the bulge. Sliding them down to the hem of her skirt, he pushes it up until the band of her panties are exposed. “The only thing I need is you,” he whispers, yanking at the flimsy material. She shudders, but steps out of them.

Calum steps away, hooking his pinky through hers. “Fix yourself. And c’mon.”

It takes a few seconds for her to get the skirt back down her legs, but she follows behind Calum as he wanders down the main hallway. As they enter her bedroom, she slides in behind Calum, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her fingers trail up underneath the sweatshirt. It should tickle, but Calum tenses for different. Her fingers trace the line of his pants and underwear until she pops the button. Her movements are slow but precise.

She pulls the material up. Calum helps her pull it up and over his head. She tugs at the t-shirt too. “I’ll be underdressed,” Calum laughs.

“Take it off, please?” She presses kisses through the cotton of the shirt. Calum pulls it up, tossing it to the heap with his sweatshirt.

Her nails run down his back ad Calum shudders. The pain will be coming next and the anticipation is killing him. He needs it. He needs it like he needs her to suck on his fingers again; he needs it like he needs to kiss her. He needs the pain just like he needs her, to be beneath above, beside her. It does not matter. Her touch is light, the pads of her fingers just barely touching. Then her nails are digging into his lower back. He grunts, fingers curling into fists. She doesn’t let up either.

With a growl, he spins around and pushes her into the wall. She collide with the wall with a particular loud thud. Calum cups the back of her head. “You okay?”

She nods. “But you’re not going to be,” she grin, hand running up his stomach and chest.

“What does that mean?”

Her fingers dance across his lips and Calum opens his mouth. Her eyes twinkle. He knows what order is next. Two of her fingers slip over his tongue. “Suck,” she whispers, staring into his warm brown eyes. They’re hidden a little behind a cloud of tiredness, but a thick layer of lust. His moan shakes against her fingers, but he hollows his cheek, pulling his head back a little. The tip of his tongue tickles against webbing of her hands, but he loves it. He loves the weight of her fingers on his tongue. He the slight string as she runs the tops of her nails over the rough of his mouth.

Calum grabs onto her wrist, holding her still, so he can run his tongue over each one of her digits. With her free hand, she reaches into his pants, grasping his length. Calum’s jaw falls slack at the grasps. He forgets all about her fingers in his mouth, placing his hands on the wall on either side of her head. She runs her hands down to his pants and pushes them down. Kneeling she tugs the pants down and helps him step out of them. “I am severely underdressed,” Calum pants.

He reaches a hand down and tangles his fingers into her hair, pulling her gaze up to his. “Strip, leave the fishnets.”

Still on her knees, she buttons the blouse, letting the material fall down her arms. She sit on her but, pushing her hips up with her core and heels. The material slides down over her calves. She sits propped up against the wall, legs spread open for Calum. Her core is soaked, leaking, creating a shine to her skin. Calum groans, dropping to his knees between her legs. He goes to lean in when she stops him with a foot to his chest. Calum runs his fingers up her skin. She plays at the necklaces hanging from his chest with her toe.

“Please don’t toy with me,” he begs, squeezing her thigh. “Please, babycakes.”

She drops her foot. Calum scoots back, pulling her into his lap. Her lips find his immediately. One and tangled in the hair at the back of her neck, Calum drifts his fingers to her clit. She shudders at the first contact, moving to his earlobe and biting down. “Fuck,” he whispers at the slight twinge of pain.

“I wanna ride you,” she whispers, kissing down his neck.

“Of course, babycakes. Just come around my fingers once. You know how much I love it.”

With a nod, she pushes off his lap. “I can do that, anytime, angel.” Pushing to his knees, Calum grabs her thighs and nudges her against the wall. Using his fingers he pulls back her labia and licks a stripe up her, sucking on her cit. “Goddamn,” she sighs. Calum inserts two fingers into her, pumping and curling at the inside of her. He needs her to unravel around his fingers. He needs to feel that squeeze one last time. He hasn’t felt that in so long. She moans from above him when he starts to kitten lick the bundle of nerves.

Nails scratching at his scalp, Calum moans against her mound as she tightens her grip. Her legs tremble. He presses her harder into the wall, curls faster, hits deeper inside her. “Fuck. Calum.” Her voice is strained. The muscle in her legs starts jumping, legs bouncing. Calum grins. This is it. This is it. She comes around him, a grunt falling over her lips. “Cal--” she chokes on her own breathe.

She contracts and releases around his finger. Calum groans, slowly his lapping. But leaves his fingers buried deep in her heat. When he pulls his fingers out, she sags, sliding down the wall. Fuck, she can’t breathe. God. She feels like she’s floating. It shouldn’t take thing long to come back down. Calum strokes her cheek with his clean hand, kissing across her face. If it doesn’t work, he’ll find a way to do a cold compress. “Come back to me, babycakes. Deep breathe.”

Her eyes slowly blink back open. Calum grins. “There you are.”

She laughs. “Unfortunately.”

“I need some help.”

Inhaling deeply, she lets her close drift close before opening them and exhaling. “What’s up, angel?”

Calum taps his fingers coated in her arousal against her lips. “Can you help me clean these?”

She opens her mouth, resting her tongue flat against his fingers. Calum bends down, licking off the otherside. Together they clean his fingers, tongue brushing every so often. Calum pulls his hand away. She captures his lip between her teeth again, pullling hard. He groans. “Can I ride you now?”

“I would say you you don’t have to ask twice, but you just did.”

He’s always like this. Always still sassy. “Just get the fuck on the bed.”

Calum stands first, helping her up. “You sure you can handle it.”

Playfully slapping his ass, she laughs. “I’m sure I can.” He acts like he hates this, sending a glare to her over his shoulder. But Calum loves this, loves that they can still be playful in sex. Opening her bedside drawer, he pulls out a condom. Her birth control is right on top of the nightstand. She’s still taking it. When he turns around, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed. She’s just watching him. Her gaze makes his gut flip again. What is she looking at?

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he chuckles, tearing opening the package.

“You said no to pictures. Lay back,” she comments, patting the mattress. Calum rolls the latex on and reclines into her plush pillows.

“Tell me,” he starts, watching her crawling up the length of body, pausing to kissing his thighs. “What were thinking about in the ride over here? When I asked--” the question stops on his tongue as her lips near his crotch. “When I asked if you missed me?”

“I’ll explain later, okay?” she whispers, lips ghosting over his cock. Calum goes to speak again until her nails dig into his hips. He moans. She continues to kiss up his body. She kisses and sucks a hickey onto his each collarbone.

“Please, God, please,” he whines. That’s all she needs before sinking down onto his length. “Fuck,” Calum swears, grabbing onto her hips. She grinds her hips against his, holding herself up by pressing her hands onto his chest.

“Tell me, angel, how’s the view?” she grins.

Calum reaches up for one of her breast, rolling the brown bud between his fingers. “It’s like heaven,” he pants. Calum wants more, but he knows to wait this out. His body feels like it’s on fire, but it’s a fire that continues to get stronger. Moving his fingers from her breast to her clit, he tries to help build her to faster to her second orgasm. The moment he touches her nerve, she snatches the hand away.

All movement is paused. “You want to fuck me huh? Is that what you want to do?”

“I want you to feel good. I--I want to make love to you.”

The phrase leaves her speechless. This hasn’t been about love. Or at least not on the surface, not with a label. It’s been a physical connection for sure. But the mental one has also been under the surface. Always felt, never talked about. Calum sees the shock on her face and takes this moment to get the upper hand. He hugs her close, before rolling them over. Her beneath him, still buried in her velvet heat.

“Can I?” he asks.

She nods. “Yes-yes.”

Calum kisses her, open mouthed before pulling out and slowly thrusting back inside her. She releases a small sigh in his ear as he thrusts inside. That’s a new sound. He thrusts slowly back into her. She releases it again. “Shit, you make the most beautiful sounds,” he whispers. He can’t get deep like this. So he pauses and places a pillow under her hips, brushing her knees to her chest.

She grips the sheets as Calum re enters her. “God, fuck.” She can feel him everywhere. Not just inside her, his body is pressed firmly against her. She can feel his chest against his, his breath ghosting over her skin as his face is buried her into neck. His hips roll at just the right angle that he brushes over her cit.

With very little warning, she cums beneath him, muscles tensing. Calum lifts his head to watch her face. The way her eyes screw up shut, the o she makes with her lips, the way her back arches off the bed. He loves this. He loves watching this. If he could record it, he would. To watch it over and over and over. Calum’s own orgams washes over him. He gives a final two thrusts before spilling over into the condom.

They stay meshed together, the metal brushing over her brown skin. He loves the way it looks. God, how he could stay here forever. But he can’t. “Can I kiss you?” she asks, not sheepish, but concerned, but hesitant, unsure.

“Of course.”

This kiss isn’t a clash of teeth, tongue or biting. It’s slow, and sensual. Almost loving. They part, Calum slowly pulling out of her. She pulls him alongside her into the bathroom. They clean themselves up, use the restroom. She leans up against the counter as Calum washes his hands. “I didn’t answer you when you asked if I miss you because I don’t just miss sex with you. I miss having you around.”

Calum pauses, hands still resting under the warm water. “I miss you too,” he whispers.

She shakes her head. “Not the same way.” She shouldn’t have been vulnerable with him. He can’t do it. It’s not his fault, fully. It’s the road, it’s the constant travel. It’s the always being away. It’s the past too. It’s the people before, it’s the cruelty of being of being so invasive, it’s this life as a person of color. It’s not all his fault, but some of it was, like the shutting people out, bottling up.

Calum quickly dries his hands, before following into the bedroom. She starts picking up her clothes and his. Calum stands bare at the threshold. “I know how you like your tea. 2 parts honey, one part sugar. You prefer black fruity teas. You despise coffee. But drink it because it’s the only thing that keeps you up for deadlines. You edit in coffee shops, but like writing in your backyard best. You prefer early morning to late nights. You like tequila over vodka which I’ll never understand. You hate twisting your hair, but like the way the curls look in the morning. You do pineapples when you’re lazy. You still can’t perfect the slicked down ponytail, but you still try. You’ve thought about doing a blow out but are too scared it’ll ruin your curl pattern again. You prefer shea butter moisturizers. You shop black owned every chance you get. You hate the fashion world, but still like designer shoes.

“You’ll shop a sale every chance you get. You donate half your closet twice a year to the domestic abuse shelter in honor of the women in your family. You volunteer at hospitals during Christmas because you like walking in as Storm and having the other black kids staring up at you in awe. You wished you cosplayed more. You play the piano well for someone that’s never learned a scale. Your voice is so fucking soulful and if I could get you to sing on one our songs, I think I’d die in the studio before you ever opened your mouth. I miss you too. I am listening. You’re one of the first people I want to tell good news too. You’re the first person I think of when I see a cute dog. I miss not being to talk in my backyard.”

“Then why the hell didn’t you say anything.”

“I didn’t know how. I hate being so far away from you. I like this--being normal. I wish I didn’t have to miss you. But I’d rather miss you than not have you at all.”

#calum hood #calum hood fanfic #calum hood fic #calum hood series #friends to lovers #calum hood imagine #calum hood smut #calum hood 5sos #calum 5sos #5sos #5sos smut #5sos imagine #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer fanfic #5 seconds of summer fic #5 seconds of summer smut #h writes

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illshowyourhurricanes · 5 years ago

Text

Castles Made of Sand

All credit goes to Jimi Hendrix for this borrowed title. After way too much time (thanks to our good friend Writer’s Block and hating the first route I took with this which lead to a complete rewrite), I am finally getting back to finishing up my last two remaining requests for my milestone event. This one was requested by @something-tofightfor, who chose image 5 for Benjamin Greene x reader. In lieu of going to the actual beach, stay inside, social distance, and imagine yourself there with this sugarplum instead. I hope you enjoy!

Image prompt 5: Benjamin Greene x reader

Rating: R solely because B. Greene is one sexy mofo. If you haven’t watched Gold Digger, there are spoilers you’ll come across in this one.

Word count: 2889.

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @maydayfigment @vetseras @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @my-rosegold-soul @delos-destinations @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @tenhargreeves @witchygagirl @fific7 @pheedraws

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, please just send me an ask or shoot me a DM.

Special thanks to @the-blind-assassin-12 for beta reading!

Once again, enjoy and thank you for reading!

Benjamin’s mouth had embarked on a journey. He’d made his way down the straight line of the back of your neck, and now was tirelessly pressing light kisses down the column of your spine. The heat of his breath was a sharp contrast to the air conditioning in the room, and he was sending literal shivers up your spine. Your eyes had fallen shut when he’d started on your neck, his long fingers threading through your hair.

“You taste like saltwater and sunshine,” he stopped just long enough to murmur into your ear. He’d changed direction, rerouting and taking a detour up toward your other shoulder. Gathering your hair to sweep it out of his way, he ran a palm over your skin, brushing off several grains of sand that had been stuck there, reticent to let go. I understand completely, he thought to himself, a shadow of a smile curving his lips as they landed on you once again: one soft feather of a kiss followed by his mouth closing over a spot at the base of your neck, gently swiping his tongue over a patch of skin, tasting saltwater again before sucking gently, his intention to leave a mark clear.

You hummed softly, appreciatively, and grinned lazily as you opened your eyes. Benjamin hadn’t been excited about your idea for a weekend at the beach; he’d actually been a bit tight-lipped any time you’d mentioned it, which was strange-- you found that Benjamin was usually forthcoming about most things, with just a short list of exceptions: his childhood, his brother Kieran, and his ex-wife Julia.

“I never knew you had hard feelings toward the beach,” you’d joked with him good-naturedly. You’d purposely avoided the topic for three entire days, and Benjamin had finally breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that maybe you’d given up your idea of a weekend away. I’d love a weekend holiday, just one that doesn’t include sand, he’d thought to himself, every time you’d made the suggestion. But Benjamin knew it had not so much to do with sand at all. It had everything to do with Kent.

He did everything he could to avoid returning to the area. He’d done everything possible to leave his childhood and years in Kent behind, to start a new life, and he’d succeeded in doing so. But when Benjamin thought about the place, his heart dropped and his pulse raced at the same time. He felt like the former version of himself, the name Sean White haunting him, circling over his head like a vulture. It was always there. Benjamin was, down to his bare bones, a taller version of the boy with the name he could never escape— the boy who had spent time behind bars, who had nothing, who spent the most desolate and miserable years of a life he’d love to forget—in Kent.

*** *** ***

“We used to spend half of the summer on the beach,” you had continued, your voice light with excitement, words spilling from your mouth quicker than usual. “We’d deviate here and there, but we spent most of our beach days in Broadstairs. Joss Bay. Just as beautiful as Botany, but without so many tourists.”

Benjamin had just watched and listened, expressionless. He wasn’t the type to keep at reading, his usual task at hand, while someone was speaking, whatever the topic… even if it was highly irritating.

But you, well, you just laughed, getting to your knees and knee-stepping the rest of the way to where he was sitting, a high-backed and slightly-distressed armchair. The end table and lamp were perfectly-suited for his academic pursuits and cerebral hobbies.

Benjamin’s eyes followed your movement, unable to help a small, wary shadow of a smile appear, vanishing as suddenly as it had come on. You were there then, your forearms resting atop his knees and looking up at him with wide doe-eyes, unconscious of just how beautiful you always looked from his view.

You had only met three months ago in an otherwise empty corridor at university, but things had gone swimmingly between the pair of you. Benjamin was well aware, and quite often, that he was falling for you, hard and fast and much too much all at once. He knew that if he wanted your relationship to progress much father— I do, I want her, I want to need her out of love, not from dependency—he’d have to tell you everything; the absolute truth. I want this, with her: the antithesis of what I thought I had with Julia.

That thought, each time it invaded his mind, caused his heart to pound irregularly, his surroundings to tilt before his eyes. Perhaps he needed you already.

He heard the music of your laughter, the quick glossy look in his eyes vanishing within a split-second. Her smile could illuminate entire cities.

“I know,” you continued with a slight wrinkle of your little nose, “That it’s quite popular, and the waves are rather choppy, but the sand is still white and the view…” you trailed off, shaking your head slowly as a warmth of nostalgia flooded your senses.

You were still enamoured by the beach, as you always had been— the horseshoe shape of the coast, the white chalk cliffs, the carefree atmosphere and the smell of the saltwater. Your times there at Botany Bay in Broadstairs were some of your favorites, hands sticky with ice pops melting too quickly, briefly staining the sand.

“What do you say, B? I’ll find a nice place to say, we’ll spend a long weekend in Kent. It’s lovely there, you—“

Benjamin spoke your name softly, but there was a strange firmness to his tone. Never one to interrupt, you were a bit caught off-guard. As he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose, you lowered yourself down to your haunches, allowing your arms to fall from his knees to your sides. You’d seen Benjamin tired. You’d seen him dejected, frustrated over a paper or two that he’d gotten stuck writing, but this… this was something different. And perhaps you were being a bit sensitive, but your feelings were a bit hurt.

To top things off, you didn’t know how to react to an emotion you’d never seen before from the man you’d been seeing for just three months. Operating on instinct, you just nodded— though you were thoroughly confused— and stood, offering him a soft apology as you went to your small kitchen to put the kettle on.

Just as you placed the kettle on the stove to heat, Benjamin appeared in the doorway. You forced a smile, hoping it was convincing enough to pass. “Chamomile or lemon balm?” you asked. He took a few long strides and pulled out a chair, sitting at the table, and bit at his bottom lip.

“Chamomile… There’s.. I’ve…” Benjamin scrubbed his hands over his face in irritation. His nerves were getting to him. Anxiety was thieving his words. “I can’t go to Kent, Y/N.”

You turned to lean against the countertop. Crossing your arms over your chest as you furrowed your brow, it was obvious you were concerned. Benjamin had grown up in Newenden, a small port village immediately north of the River Rother, as an only child. You searched his face and saw tension in the set of his jaw. The rise and fall of his chest seemed almost labored, and when he looked at you, you were startled by the look of pain in his eyes.

“My childhood.. it wasn’t like yours.” His voice sounded thick. “My mum was not an attentive mother. All of her care was concentrated on landing her next fix, and Kieran and I—“ He stopped short and shook his head, staring down at the table, tracing a knot in the wood with his index finger. “My… brother.” He struggled with the word, his jaw flexing.

Your eyes widened and you opened your mouth to speak, but all that spilled forth was silence. He’s lied to me. You felt your chest seize and it was like his words stole your breath from your lungs. Your heart thrummed erratically. He’s been lying to me.

“Older brother.” Benjamin continued, and his voice became unsteady as he went on. “Kieran had no father figure and mine was… fucking useless.” Upper lip curved in contempt, his nostrils flared in anger as the kettle began its shrill whistling. Quickly, though you felt as if you were in a haze, you darted to the side to quiet the sound, wondering how long you could keep your hands busy preparing two cups of tea.

“When my mum died, Kieran did everything in his power to make everything normal, to watch over the two of us. We had no money and no place to go. Just 50 quid, mate, to get us through the month. He already had a plan on how to get the money… ‘Just stand and keep watch, alright? Just keep watch.’”

Benjamin was unaware, but he was sneering-- his jaw clenched, brows knotted, his mouth set in straight line. But the part that was most jarring was the wildness in his eyes. Benjamin, what have you done? Your hands shook as you brought tea to the table, and you wondered for a moment when you’d managed to steep the tea bags. You had no recollection. Benjamin’s words were ricocheting in your head. You felt angry for being lied to, betrayed. You felt a dull ache in your chest for Benjamin and all that he’d been through. You felt a heavy guilt for unknowingly being so inconsiderate in badgering him about a beach trip. You felt like the foundation of your relationship had been cracked irreparably, like the fault lines in dry earth from an earthquake. Setting one steaming cup of tea in front of Benjamin, you sank into a hard kitchen chair across from him.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “So I stood there, and I stood there… and I heard something and then… there was all this blood…”

Benjamin’s voice was shaking and as you looked up at him, you saw that his face was wet with tears, droplets falling from his cheeks and onto the table. He swallowed hard. “I took the blame, Y/N. I took the blame and I paid for it and he… he let me.”

“Oh, Benjamin.” You rose from the seat you’d just taken and walked to stand in front of him. You could see the agony in his eyes; there was no way anyone could fake that. “Benjamin, I’m sorry.” Tentatively you sat on his knee, and he shook his head.

“I should’ve told you, I planned to. When’s the right time to--”

You interrupted him by wrapping your arms around his neck and resting your cheek atop the crown of his head. Your anger melted away and the only thing you wanted to do was take it away. It was impossible, you knew, so you’d have to settle for offering comfort. For being there.

“There isn’t,” you said, frowning into his hair. You softly ran your nails over the back of his neck and the two of you sat in silence for a moment. Closing your eyes, you turned to press your lips to his head before pulling away to look down at him. You opened your mouth to speak, but no words would come out. They were stuck someplace between your heart and your throat.

“As soon as I could,” he continued, blinking tears away, “I left. I got out of Kent, and I made a new life for myself, changed my name, got a job, and an ex-wife.” Benjamin attempted to smile, but the corners of his mouth just twitched instead, and no light reached his eyes. “Shawn White follows me every step of every day and I can’t go back. I can’t.”

“I don’t know a Shawn White.” Just saying the name felt strange on your tongue, and you vowed to never speak it again. “I know Benjamin Greene. I know that he helps strange women carry loads of sketchbooks to her office.” You smiled softly, the memory of how you’d met a vivid memory in your mind. “I know that he’s a diligent student, and smart, and is a great copywriter.” Pausing, you kissed his forehead. “I know his favorite foods, the type of music he likes, that he’s funny and attentive.” Finally, you caught his eyes, a touch of sadness and sour regret still there. “I know that I care about him immensely.”

Benjamin had taken to lightly running both hands up and down your back, one on either side of your spine. He couldn’t believe your reaction, or lack thereof. There was no accusation. There was no venom in your tone, no indication that you didn’t believe him. He had confessed to you that his life was a lie, and there you were, beautiful on his lap, reassuring him of all that he was. And when you kissed him then, there was no bitter aftertaste of pity. And when Benjamin smiled afterward, it was genuine, and it reached his eyes. She’s unbelievable.

*** *** ***

“You’re so pale. B,” you’d teased, all in good fun. “C’mere.”

You slathered Benjamin in sunscreen— SPF 45, to be exact. He’d helped you with the hard-to-reach places of your own, his warm palms and long fingers working the lotion over your skin.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather spending our time in the air conditioning?” he joked, voice low in your ear. One last time, he rubbed one hand over either shoulder and leaned forward to kiss your temple. Despite the heat, you felt goosebumps popping up In gentle pricks.

“Are you trying to make me forget about my mission? Because it’s working.” You turnED your head, narrowing your eyes playfully at Benjamin before turning your attention to the array of sandcastles littering the beach. Most of them looked more like sculpted sand dunes or ant hills more than anything else, but there were some valiant efforts all the same. Your mission was to thwart them all.

“Really, I desperately want to impress you with my architectural skills,” you kidded. . Reaching to your right, you swiped the tote bag you’d brought down with you and pulled out a bright red, plastic sand pail. It held two smaller sand molds inside and a small, yellow shovel hung from the bucket’s handle. You beamed triumphantly. Benjamin threw his head back in laughter.

“What?!” Your voice dripped with feigned indignence, but his laughter was absolutely contagious. A giggle bubbled forth from your throat before it turned into full-blown laughter. “These are fully functional multipurpose tools!” You defended the vividly colorful kids’ toys as you unloaded the smaller molds from the pail.

“You are utterly bonkers,” Benjamin said decidedly as he slid his sunglasses downward to shield his eyes. He leaned back on his readily-spread beach towel, leaning back on his elbows with his long legs stretched out in front of him.

And you are a vision, Benjamin Greene. The rest of Botany Bay— the horseshoe shape of the coast in the distance, the sapphire blue water sparkling brilliantly in the sunlight, the clean, whit expanse of sand and the picaresque pillars of chalk in your periphery— they all paled in comparison. You loved Benjamin irrevocably.

And he felt the same way, you reminded him. “You love me, especially the utterly bonkers part,” you chided, setting your building supplies to the side. Joining him on your own beach towel, you rest your chin in your hand, propped up on your side to look down at him. You couldn’t help but press a kiss to his lips, your tongue teasing his bottom lip before pulling away.

“Remind me again what I am?” you teased. Your eyebrows were raised in question and your mouth quirked upward in a smirk.

Benjamin groaned in response, dropping his upper body down into his towel unceremoniously.

“Brilliant at baiting,” he answered, rolling his head toward you. He was smiling, and your heart danced in your chest. Here you were, with Benjamin Greene in Kent, and of his own accord. You’d be returning to work soon, and he’d planned an end-of-summer beach vacation, at the very one you’d mentioned all that time ago. He’d remembered. And he was happy.

You sat up with a burst of energy. Sliding in your own sunglasses, you readjusted the messy bun you wore atop your head. It was time to get down to business. “Now, are you going to help me build our castle before the tide rolls in?” You paused and turned your head to glance at him over your shoulder. “I can offer a promise of air conditioning as an incentive.”

Suddenly invigorated, Benjamin pushed himself up to sit as well, nudging your shoulder with his own. “Move over, Y/L/N,” he said, reaching past your legs for the lemon- yellow shovel. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

#dani's150 followers event #drabble requests #image 5 #benjamin greene x reader

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steve0discusses · 5 years ago

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Yugioh S4 Ep 27: Joey Punches Valon to Death and Seto Kaiba buys a Car.

My favorite character is back!

THE STORYBOARDER.

Like clockwork, the best storyboarder of all of Yugioh saw in the episode notes “This is the one where we shall Destroy Joey Wheeler” and he was like “Yes! this is extremely my thing!” and he’s back at it again, destroying Joey Wheeler with such finesse.

Like it’s so hard to explain in caps because you can’t see stuff move, but this animator is so good at the Yugioh vibe--he makes these character designs WORK for him (or her? No idea the identity of the mysterious storyboarder (or team of storyboarders--maybe this was one little group they freelance out to that worked really well together? I dunno) ) they really capture what Yugioh IS in a really unique way and still remain fairly economical in the animation sense. They do not hold back on any pose, and go completely ham into this ridiculous concept of a card game where you put on a special suit and punch eachother in the face.

Mind you, it’s still a card game and I skipped all that, but man...this is such a good storyboarder and I know that next episode they’ll be gone but for now I’m just gonna bask in it.

First off, Rebecca manages to figure out Seto’s 6-letter password in order to access billions of people’s personal data off of a satellite (we don’t get to find out what the password was) and although the storyboarder is great--they did make one fatal mistake.

The bane of every Californian who leaves California. LA is like a completely different country to San Fransisco but everyone only knows of two Californian cities and assumes we’re right next door to each other.

And it’s like...no, man. I don’t have Disneyland. Do I sound like a cheerful person that lives next to Disneyland? Do I say “bruh” and smile with the force of 1000 suns as we surf the coast on the backs of Lisa Frank dolphins? No dude, I have a strong Bay Area accent that makes me sound like a dry sarcastic asshole and I wear sweatshirts to the freakin beach because it’s very cold and filled with great white sharks.

(Sorry I just had to delete like 10 k words where I compared the entire cast to US cities by saying cryptic stuff like Joey Wheeler : Seto Kaiba is like LA : San Fransisco and like it was the biggest random tangent that only makes sense to me. Quarantine brain, y’all, I got SERIOUS quarantine brain. Anyone else? Anyone else just find themselves wasting like 2 hours thinking of which cities match the personalities of different characters on a show that came out so long ago? Man I need distractions right now.)

But back to what’s happening on the show, Yami is coming to terms with Joey’s struggle about as well as Yami does.

Which is mostly Yami saying “I’m pretty sure I killed Joey in that card game with Bakura in S1 and Tea had to bring him back from the graveyard so like wtv.”

(read more under the cut)

This was like 2003??? I think I keep forgetting when this season came out but we had printers at this point. We had google maps and a printer.

I don’t think I’ve touched a map like that since the 5th grade, where we had this competition to make a hypothetical road trip across America. It was Awful, and if you won the competition to get from SF to New York with the shortest distance, you would win something like pizza and a cool engraved name plate. We did not win pizza, because I could not even unfold this asshole map.

And now we have Google so like thanks, Mrs. Lambert, it was cool, but I’ll never use that information again. I hope. It was such a vivid frustrating memory that these maps still fill me with anxiety to this day, hearkening back to my 5th grade self just desperately trying to use string to measure how many miles the freeways across the midwest contain. (spoiler: a lot)

How OLD is this kid? Rebecca’s like secretly a 68 year old. She’s secretly Mrs. Lambert.

At this point we had a swell in the music as each friend of Joey joined in to announce their willingness to risk danger and save him.

Were they...not going to join him the whole time? It just seemed like a weird thing to bring up sooo after the fact.

Yami then turned to Duke and was like “but not you. You stay here” and he was like “Oh, thank gods.”

Rebecca stayed behind because the animators don’t want to draw her. Honestly, she’s incredibly helpful and they were mad stupid to leave the only smart one in the car. But youknow...this team loves being mad stupid. It makes the show more entertaining.

As they left we had a weird aside where Arthur Hawkins reflected “Rebecca is having just a REAL hard time trusting Yami” and it’s like--Arthur Hawkins! You’ve been dumping on Yami for like an entire season, that’s why. Like don’t pretend you’re all on team Pharaoh now. Why ever stop dunking?

But youknow, character development, Rebecca is going to learn the trust the ghost that possessed her crush/best friend that she’s had for 2+ years on a kid who’s been living in Japan this whole time who literally forgot who she was 2 weeks ago. You trust that ghost, Rebecca.

Or not. I mean you really don’t have to. You don’t owe Yami anything, dude. You don’t need to blindly trust idiot men, Rebecca. You just do you. Trust that instinct of “is this guy not trustworthy?” because yep. Chances are if you’re having that thought, that he’s totally not.

Storyboarder!

Storyboarder what ARE you???

STORYBOARDER!

after this followed a scene that I’ve seen gif-ed just so, so often that I assumed it was in a Yugioh Spin-off. I don’t know why I thought it wasn’t in this OG series, but I didn’t expect it to be here, in the Dartz season. But, it does make sense that this scene was under the best Storyboarder‘s direction because *chef’s kisses * it’s perfect. Every frame is a joy. The amount of sinister expressions on Mokuba, the level of sass coming off of Kaiba. It’s such a freakin shame that this man’s best work so far only lasts like a few seconds.

PS my bro looked it up and this car salesman has a wikipedia page.

He also looked up if anyone has shipped this car salesman and it’s our lucky day because this ship does not exist with any human ever in the world. Thank you, humanity. But, they DID make a wikipedia page so maybe we’re just putting off the inevitable?

I’m not even gonna cap it because I KNOW this is a gif you can easily download from everywhere but mm--this is a SOLID piece of animation. This animator is just flexing so hard, man. Yugioh did not deserve this much care and attention to detail.

Shippers rejoice, Seto Kaiba did briefly consider helping out Joey (before he absolutely drove away in the opposite direction)

(They’re clearly in the financial district already, PS. They are driving 5 ft to Dartz’ house.)

At some point Joey nabbed Valon’s card and so now he also gets to wear a bunch of stupid armor outfits.

This one is weird! It’s very Kamen rider-ish...but it’s a color scheme that feels very valentines day. It looks hard to wear. Good thing it’s animated.

I may need to capture this walk sequence though...if I still have the energy...the picture does not display his very energetic arms-in-the-air walk cycle I haven’t seen since that one Season zero episode. I dunno if it’s a reference to that, but I can’t think of any other reason why Tristan is walking like that.

This is when Mai finally shows up.

Valon lost his helmet during this fight, which lead to this:

What a good note to end on.

Anyways, I have no idea what my update schedule will look like or be, so if you’re new here and you want to start reading these from the beginning, I have a link for that:

https://steve0discusses.tumblr.com/tagged/yugioh/chrono

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imagine-organization-xiii · 5 years ago

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okay okay so here's a potentially interesting one. You seem like a super amazing, funny, and sweet person, so org members as things that YOU have said or done. you as in the mod, i got this idea from a similar prompt in anotehr fandom, though i can't remember which fandom it was. hope this is okay!

jfc okay time to look at every stupid thing i’ve ever done in life

Note: All of these are actually 100% true.

oOoOoOoOo

Xemnas - was the nominated ‘fuck off’ person in his group of friends to get other people to leave them alone when they went out on the town

Xigbar - spent the night with other org members at a haunted historical plantation and scared a small child in the middle of the night by screaming

Xaldin - fell out of an attic and came out unscathed, but then immediately turned around and smacked into a doorframe. had a bruise in the middle of his forehead for two weeks

Vexen - got the highest grade in a college Latin American History class for an essay written on a book that he didn’t read.

Lexaeus - absolutely 100% does not have an obsession with buying candles and various lotions and bath products

Zexion - got into a competition with fifth and sixth grade reading and literature teacher about who could read the most books in the school year (and won because he had no life)

Saix - accidentally got a full-time job after doing a favor for a friend

Axel - dabbed in front of a peacock that was running loose at the zoo

Demyx - was exhausted and tried to tell which direction he was facing by reading the stars, but was literally at the beach on the coast of Mississippi and obviously facing south

Luxord - was taught how to play cards by grandparents at a very young age and scammed several old ladies out of their money at grandma’s poker night when he was eight

Marluxia - made an entire batch of brownies at 3 in the morning and didn’t realize until he pulled them out of the oven that he didn’t put in the cocoa powder

Larxene - was at a hot sauce shop in the city and tried the hottest sauce there (in which she needed to sign a waiver to actually try a drop of it) and lost her taste buds for three days.

Roxas - didn’t realize that underpants are called underpants because you wear them under your pants until like two years ago

Xion - was ill, in a nostalgic mood, and couldn’t sleep, so she ate an entire pizza while watching the original pokémon series at 1 in the morning

#organization xiii headcanons #kingdom hearts headcanon

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newstfionline · 4 years ago

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Headlines: Friday, September 25, 2020

Tea prices (WSJ) The price of wholesale tea is up 50 percent since March, hitting $3.16 per kilogram, up from $2.13 per kilogram back in March. We’re still not at the $3.29 per kilogram demanded in October 2017, but the price hike is showing little sign of stopping. Every day 3.7 billion cups of tea are consumed, with half the U.S. population consuming tea daily, most of whom like it iced. Tea production is down in major producers like Sri Lanka and India.

California Plans to Ban Sales of New Gas-Powered Cars in 15 Years (NYT) California plans to ban the sale of new gasoline-powered cars statewide by 2035, Gov. Gavin Newsom said Wednesday, in a sweeping move aimed at accelerating the state’s efforts to combat global warming amid a deadly and record-breaking wildfire season. In an executive order, Governor Newsom directed California’s regulators to develop a plan that would require automakers to sell steadily more zero-emissions passenger vehicles in the state, such as battery-powered or hydrogen-powered cars and pickup trucks, until they make up 100 percent of new auto sales in just 15 years. Ramping up sales of emissions-free vehicles in California will be an enormous challenge over a relatively short period of time, experts said. Last year, only 8 percent of the nearly two million passenger vehicles sold statewide were battery-electric or plug-in hybrid vehicles. The order would affect only new-vehicle sales, the governor’s office said. It would not prevent Californians from owning cars with internal combustion engines past 2035 or selling them on the used-vehicle market.

Venezuela’s broken oil industry is spewing crude into the Caribbean Sea (Washington Post) The sun had risen over the Caribbean Sea when Frank González spotted “the stain”—an oil slick on the water that stretched for miles. “The sea looked like butter, because of the thickness of the water,” said González, a fisherman who saw the spill this month while working off the coast of Venezuela’s Falcón state. “It was painful to see.” Venezuela’s once powerful oil industry is literally falling apart, with years of mismanagement, corruption, falling prices and a U.S. embargo imposed last year bringing aging infrastructure to the brink of collapse. As the government scrambles to repair and restart its fuel-processing capacity, analysts are warning that ruptured pipelines, rusting tankers and rickety refineries are contributing to a mounting ecological disaster in this failing socialist state. Oil workers say the gushing crude soiling the coast of Falcón state this month came from a cracked underwater pipeline linked to attempts to restart fuel production at the aging Cardón refinery. Not far from the oil slick, fishermen say, is a jetting geyser of natural gas from a second broken pipeline.

France tightens virus measures, unveils new ‘danger zones’ map (Reuters) France’s health minister unveiled a map of coronavirus “danger zones” around the country on Wednesday and gave the hardest-hit local authorities, including that of Marseille, days to tighten restrictions or risk having a state of health emergency declared there. Olivier Veran told a news conference the country would be divided into zones by alert level with Marseille, the second-largest city, and the French Caribbean island of Guadeloupe for now the only two areas put on the “maximum” alert level. Like other European countries where the infection rate has soared in the past month, France has been gradually tightening limits on public and private gatherings locally, hoping it will be enough to contain the disease and avoid a second national lockdown. Among other measures, there will be a ban on public gatherings of more than 10 people and, in “maximum” alert level areas like Marseille, bars and restaurants will be closed from Saturday.

Protests Reignite After News of Secret Belarus Inauguration (Foreign Policy) Longtime Belarusian President Aleksandr Lukashenko was sworn in to extend his 26-year rule at a secret ceremony in Minsk on Wednesday, emphasizing the embattled leader’s shrinking authority and increasingly precarious hold on power. No prior announcement was made regarding the ceremony, prompting thousands of protesters to flood the streets of Minsk to rally against Lukashenko once the news broke. Opposition leaders, who have put immense pressure on Lukashenko since he claimed victory in a landslide on Aug. 9 amid widespread accusations of voter fraud, called the inaugural ceremony a “thieves’ meeting” and a “farce.” In a statement, a spokesperson of the U.S. State Department said that “the United States cannot consider [Lukashenko] the legitimately elected leader of Belarus.” The European Union has already said it doesn’t recognize Lukashenko as president.

In India, engineers and MBAs are turning to manual labor to survive the economic crash (Washington Post) On a recent muggy afternoon in southern India, Earappa Bawge hacked at the ground with a pickax, his white shirt pasted to his back. Each dull thud reminded him of how far his hopes had fallen. Just months ago, the 27-year-old engineer was poring over project files in an air-conditioned room at a factory hundreds of miles away. The job was a ticket out of rural poverty for Bawge’s entire family, who had sacrificed for years so he could complete his studies. Now he was back in the village where he was born, propelled by a wave of economic destruction rolling across India during the pandemic. To survive, Bawge began digging ditches under a public works program. Alongside him were a former bank employee, a veterinarian and three MBA students. At the end of the day, each received $3.70. “If I don’t work, we don’t get to eat,” said Bawge, flicking beads of sweat from his brow. “Hunger trumps any aspiration.” As India’s economy reels in the aftermath of one of the world’s strictest lockdowns, a rural employment program has emerged as a lifeline for some of the tens of millions left jobless. The government program—which aims to guarantee 100 days of unskilled work in rural areas—was intended to combat poverty and reduce the volatility of agricultural wages. Now it is a potent symbol of how the middle-class dreams of millions of Indians are unraveling.

China to let in more foreigners as virus recedes (AP) Foreigners holding certain types of visas and residence permits will be permitted to return to China starting next week as the threat of the coronavirus continues to recede. The new regulation lifts a monthslong blanket suspension covering most foreigners apart from diplomats and those in special circumstances. Beginning Monday, foreign nationals holding valid Chinese visas and residence permits for work, personal matters and family reunions will be permitted to enter China without needing to apply for new visas, according to the regulation. Those whose permits have expired can reapply. Returnees must undergo two weeks of quarantine and follow other anti-epidemic measures, the regulation said.

Xinjiang crackdown continues (The Guardian) China has built nearly 400 internment camps in Xinjiang region, with construction on dozens continuing over the last two years, even as Chinese authorities said their “re-education” system was winding down, an Australian think tank has found. The network of camps in China’s far west, used to detain Uighurs and people from other Muslim minorities, include 14 that are still under construction, according to the latest satellite imaging obtained by the Australian Strategic Policy Institute. In total ASPI identified 380 detention centers established across the region since 2017, ranging from lowest security re-education camps to fortified prisons.

Grand Theft Ayatollah (Foreign Policy) Iran’s elite Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps is investing in a new video game in which Iranian paramilitaries rescue George Floyd from U.S. police, according to Khosro Kalbasi, a reporter for Iran’s independent Financial Tribune. It’s not the first time Middle Eastern powers have used video games and cartoons to make foreign-policy commentary: In 2018, a pro-Saudi group produced an animated video depicting Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman commanding a successful invasion of Iran.

Lebanon asks world’s help ‘trying to rise from its rubble’ (AP) Facing an economic meltdown and other crises, Lebanon’s president on Wednesday asked for the world’s help to rebuild the capital’s main port and neighborhoods that were blown away in last month’s catastrophic explosion. President Michel Aoun made the plea in a prerecorded speech to the U.N. General Assembly’s virtual summit, telling world leaders that Lebanon’s many challenges are posing an unprecedented threat to its very existence. Most urgently, the country needs the international community’s support to rebuild its economy and its destroyed port. Aoun suggested breaking up the damaged parts of the city into separate areas and so that countries that wish to help can each commit to rebuilding one. Earlier Wednesday, U.N. Secretary-General Antonio Guterres called for swift formation of a government to be followed by tangible steps to implement economic, social and political reforms. Lebanon’s government resigned under pressure in the wake of the port explosion, and Prime Minister-designate Mustapha Adib has been unable to form a new government amid a political impasse over which faction gets to have the Finance Ministry, as well as other disputes. “Without such action, the country’s ability to recover and rebuild will be jeopardized, adding to the turmoil and hardship of the Lebanese people,” Guterres added.

Israel’s Netanyahu brings his dirty laundry to Washington. Literally. (Washington Post) Most politicians go to great lengths to conceal their dirty laundry. And then there’s Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. Over the years, the Israeli leader has developed a reputation among the staff at the U.S. president’s guesthouse for bringing special cargo on his trips to Washington: bags and suitcases full of dirty laundry, according to U.S. officials familiar with the matter. The clothes are cleaned for the prime minister free of charge by the U.S. staff, a perk that is available to all foreign leaders but sparingly taken advantage of given the short stays of busy heads of state. “The Netanyahus are the only ones who bring actual suitcases of dirty laundry for us to clean,” said one U.S. official, who like others spoke on the condition of anonymity to discuss the details of a foreign leader’s visits. “After multiple trips, it became clear this was intentional.” Israeli officials denied that Netanyahu overuses his American hosts’ laundry services, calling the allegations “absurd,” but they acknowledged that he has been the target of laundry-related accusations in the past. In 2016, Netanyahu sued his own office and Israel’s attorney general in an effort to prevent the release of his laundry bills under the country’s freedom of information act. The relatively minor accusation joins a longer list of corruption allegations that have threatened the 70-year-old leader’s hold on power and triggered protests in Israel this month.

Australian offers free coffee, chat from his kitchen window (AP) It all started when Rick Everett walked out of his home in Sydney and put up a sign on his kitchen window that read: “Free coffee to combat the virus.” It was March, and the Australian acrobat had lost his job during the coronavirus pandemic. With more free time, he felt he could help out others in need. And he knew how to bake and cook after managing a chocolate and coffee shop and a pizza restaurant. When he started, he said the window would be open whenever he was home. He stressed that it wasn’t a coffee shop business; he just wanted to do something nice and meet his neighbors for a friendly chat during a difficult time. “Think of it as popping over to your mates for a coffee only it is a friend you have not met yet,” he wrote on a sign. “I am not selling anything. This is a gift and all it will cost you is a smile.” Soon his neighbors began to stop by, bringing him everything from cakes and loaves of bread to a six-pack of beer. Strangers began to recognize him on the street and wave hello. “It’s like I live in a small town again, and it’s really beautiful,” he said. “And what’s even more beautiful is people ring my coffee bell just to talk,” he said. “They don’t even want a coffee! They don’t want to take anything from me, but they’re most happy to have a conversation with me, which is really nice.”

#headlines #news

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verai-marcel · 5 years ago

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Memory

[Author’s notes: This one ran a little long. But I had an idea and ran with it.]

Adult Male ** Explore ** Wound ** Fantasy

Written January 2015

The sound of huffing and wheezing echoed through the forest, along with puffs of water vapor rising up into the night. Doyle trudged through the snow, holding his side as he caught his breath before trying to run again. It had been three hours of pure moving, constantly going forward through these dark woods, and he still hadn’t found the clearing he had heard of.

“That’ll teach me to follow a fae’s directions,” he grumbled to himself. “Lousy, tricksy, lying creatures—”

His tirade was cut short as his next step fell through the snow and he tumbled down a hillside that he had not seen. Everything had been so white with snow, and the trees were of such varied heights that the topography was impossible to judge from far away. The forest was getting darker by the minute now, but he had kept moving, knowing that he’d be going in blind. Now he paid the price for his recklessness, rolling down a snow-covered hill in the dark.

He finally slid to a stop at the bottom of the incline, and groaned. His face was up against a pile of snow, his feet pushing against a rock, and his arms were wrapped around him in an attempt to keep from breaking them as he fell. Slowly, he pushed himself up and looked around in the dim light of dusk.

A ring of treetops framed the purple sky, and before him, a clearing. One small stone pillar stood in the middle of the clearing, and if he closed his eyes he could hear a thrumming through the air, unnatural and unnerving.

Doyle took a deep breath and started to walk towards the pillar.

***

Three days ago, Doyle hid underneath his sheets, wondering if he could call out sick. He felt drained of all his energy, like everything he had was being sucked straight out of his skin. He wondered if he had just had a really bad reaction to the eight drinks he had the night before, but he normally had that much alcohol on a Sunday night, so he dismissed that thought quickly. He finally dragged himself out of bed and went to the bathroom to relieve himself.

Afterwards, he showered slowly, hoping the water would refresh his senses and wake him up. But it was to no avail; he still felt dull and fuzzy. Hauling himself out of the shower, he dried off and glanced at himself in the mirror.

He dropped his towel and gawked at his reflection.

Dark lines like spider veins traced from his eyes around his face. It was like some sort of black spiderweb mask, except it was in his skin. The lines continued down his neck, across his chest, and centered around his navel.

“Auuugh!” he yelled, getting closer to the mirror to make sure that he hadn’t just hallucinated this. The worst possible thing had happened to him; he had somehow been chosen. These marks were showing up on mortals living on the East coast of the US, ever since a rift opened in the Atlantic ocean a year ago. Supernatural beings had started pouring through, affecting a few select people with their requests. Doyle didn’t want this; from other accounts in the news and on talk shows, anyone who had the telltale symptoms (tiredness, dark lines on one’s skin) had to fulfill some sort of quest, usually dangerous, with vague directions, and most annoying of all, was supposed to rectify a particular vice of the mortal performing the quest. He hated it. If he wanted to drink eight days a week, he wanted the freedom to do so. No one, supernatural or otherwise, could tell him what to do.

Or so he thought. He also knew the consequences if he didn’t answer the call. When the marks first began showing up, people just went to the hospital. Doctors, with no idea what to do, left them in the hospital for observation. After a few days, under many antipsychotic medications, all patients who didn’t act on their visions would crumble to dust. They literally fell apart and no one knew what to do, until finally, people who survived came forward, telling the world that if this happened to them, they needed to follow their dreams. They needed to heed to call, or they too, would succumb to the dusting, as it began to be called.

Doyle didn’t want to be dusted. He called his work to tell his boss he had the marks, and that he’d be taking an extended leave. His boss was silent for a minute before heaving a loud sigh, and wished him good luck on his quest.

“Please, come back safe,” she had said quietly.

“I’ll do my best, boss.”

***

The past three days had been hell, as he had packed his camping gear and started moving in the direction of his dreams. He had traveled through the Blue Ridge mountains, leaving his car in one of the parking lots on the Blue Ridge Parkway to hike into the forest during the winter. He knew going in winter was a dumb idea, but the fae didn’t care about weather, or whether or not this was convenient for their mortal couriers. Also, since his life was on the line, he wasn’t about to have too many qualms about being cold for a few days, potentially weeks.

If it got to months, like he had heard some people’s quests had been, then he’d seriously reconsider the dusting. Fortunately, it hadn’t been that long.

Doyle reached the pillar and touched the top of it tentatively. A tingling sensation shot through his arm, and he quickly pulled back. He pulled back the sleeve of his jacket, and saw the black veins slowly retreat back from his arm, and then stop, and then it started to return back down his arm. He put his hand back on the pillar and watched the black get chased away once more. He kept his hand on the pillar until the tingling had spread all throughout his entire body. The snow around him began to glow a strange blue tint, but he quickly realized it was just reflecting the light coming from him. He looked at his other hand in wonder, as the veins that were once black were now glowing a silvery blue.

Too busy staring at his hands, he didn’t notice the glowing body floating in front of him until he heard a polite cough. He stared at what he believed was a fae, but looked like a glowing ice sculpture of a woman.

“Humans are silly,” the fae voice from his dreams said, a whispery, feminine voice. “You can remove your hand from the pillar, you have completed your mission.”

Doyle lifted his hand off the pillar and quickly stuffed both his freezing hands into his jacket pockets. “So you’re the one who led me here. Why?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet?”

“No, and neither has the rest of humanity. Why do you do this to us?”

The fae looked a little sad. “We cannot travel through your cities of iron without great injury. So we travel in you.”

Doyle took that information in. “So why do we become dust if we don’t do what you say?”

The sadness in the fae’s eyes grew. “Because we cannot leave a body until it has reached its destination. With so much iron around, we become dust, and thus, our host too, perishes with us.”

“And why haven’t any of your brethren told us that?”

She shrugged. “None of you have asked.”

He slapped his forehead. It was so simple, and yet no one had even thought to ask. “So why haven’t any of you asked us if it’s okay to take over our bodies? We don’t particularly like possession against our will, you know.”

Another shrug. “We cannot communicate with humans until we have, as you say, possessed them. How can we talk to you if we are not within your souls?”

“So you were inside of me?”

“Yes, our souls have touched. I will be with you forever, as you will be with me.”

Doyle didn’t like this at all. The fae, having been inside of him this entire time, smiled.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It is the way of my tribe. In exchange for passage, we lift a burden from you. There are not many more of us now; soon, we will have all left and traveled past the cities of iron into the mountains, and bother humanity no further.”

Doyle raised an eyebrow, but just shrugged. All he wanted to do now was go home and… and what? He didn’t feel that urge to drink any longer; his craving for alcohol had dissipated. He hadn’t noticed when he had gotten possessed, but now that he thought about it, he hadn’t drank a single drop of booze since then. And the reason he drank… mysteriously missing from his memory. The emotions connected to the memory were dampened, like they were on lockdown.

“You took my memories?” he blurted out angrily. “You think that’s supposed to help me?”

The fae nodded. “Do you feel the oppression of those times upon you any longer?”

Doyle shook his head. He didn’t want to admit it, but the pain that had been weighing on him for so long had been lifted. He looked at the fae, really looked at her. And a tear slid from his eye as he realized something that he hadn’t before. All the news reports had glossed over the fact, even mocking those who had experienced the fae and chalking it up to hallucinations, but blog posts and even some of his other acquaintances had mentioned it. He put the pieces together: every person who had been taken by the fae had lost a loved one.

“You look like her.”

The fae nodded. “I know.”

“I should let go now and move on, huh?”

“Yes. This is goodbye, Doyle Campbell. Live well.”

With that, the fae turned away from him and faded into the forest, turning into a small orb of silvery blue light, and sped into the night. Doyle closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the brisk winter air.

When he opened his eyes, he was back at his car. He wasn’t very surprised; after all, the fae had just lifted a terrible memory from his mind, a memory that had been plaguing him for a year. It wouldn’t be too far from her powers to lift him back to his car.

Looking up at the sky, Doyle smiled. Now his only memories of his wife were of her alive and beautiful.

“Thank you, Lyssa.”

#writing #original writing #fae #inspiration dice prompt

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tanadrin · 5 years ago

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Outbound

A thousand years ago, the longest journey Pray might have ever countenanced, in the service of some great thalassocratic or mercantile interest, would have meant years off her life. She would have taken a train to some great port, like Bristol or La Rochelle; boarded a sailing-ship, and spent months at sea. To India, or Australia, or South America, perhaps; weathering the blistering sun of the tropics, and the perilous straits of the southern oceans. That was back when the world was already one, but still young; and eventually it contracted even further, until you more no more than six hours from anywhere on Earth. A day, maybe, if you preferred to travel in comfort, and your destination wasn’t near a major transport hub. You had to go back further, much further, to find journeys in Earth’s history that were comparable to interstellar ones. Of course, if you went too far back the world fractures, split into separate empires separated by uncrossable wastes, into remote hemispheres that knew nothing of each other, and eventually into lone kingdoms and transhumant bands for whom the wider world was a great mystery. But maybe that was the correct analogy. After all, even Odysseus had made it back to Ithaca within a single lifetime. He didn’t return to find his wife dead and his son a withered old man, his name forgotten by his people. Even back when the world was fractured, time was still one, and if your journey took you beyond the horizons of a single lifetime, there was no going back.

For no man will ever turn homewords from beyond Vega, to greet again those he knew and loved on Earth. The horizon was still there, of course. But it was less clear now, time less unified. You could go far, far indeed on your travels, well beyond Vega; but you would not return to the same planet you left behind. Your sons would be old, or gone, your name nearly forgotten. Perhaps the only real analogy to this kind of journey was the one ancient peoples had taken as the glaciers peeled back from the northern hemisphere, and they spread out to new, wide plains and left the old world behind forever. No history remembered those journeys, of course; but there had been no going back for them, either.

At least in its beginning, if not in its scale, though, this was going to be more like the journeys of the eighteenth century. After Pray finished her induction, there was a six-month onboarding period in a quiet little Nigerian town that was so quaint she wanted to scream. It was team-based analytical work, meant to bring new hires up to speed on the particular demands of Control’s rather unique mission. Here, concerns were not profits, or PR, or predicting the latest cultural trend with laserlike precision. It was more holistic: political and economic and cultural and philosophical developments all rolled into one, with intelligence gathering and international relations thrown in. It was fun at first, but Pray’s attention started to waver when she realized they weren’t actually doing it for anybody. It was forecasting things which weren’t important, or which more experienced analysts had forecasted better, so that if they messed up, failure came at no cost.

At least they threw in a bunch of medical exams at irregular intervals for novelty value. Have to make sure you’re in tip-top shape if you’re going off-planet of course. Can’t have your liver exploding at Alpha Centauri. The first several times the doctors went looking for her aug tab, she took great pleasure in letting them flounder for a few minutes, before casually saying, Oh, didn’t you know? I’m baseline. But your medical history says-- they would start. I know, she’d say. But I’m still baseline. She gathered they didn’t get a lot of totally unaugged people in their office. Heck, there were probably jobs at Control they wouldn’t let you do without at least a basic suite, for your own safety; but apparently, analyst was not one of them.

When her trial period was done, they offered her a three week vacation after that, to make her goodbyes and get her affairs in order, but in the end, she found, she really didn’t have anybody to say goodbye to. She took a weekend, and went back to Abuja to put her things in storage, and had one last drink on a rooftop bar at sunset; then she took a train down to Calabar, and hopped a flight to the great spaceport at Kango.

A hundred years ago, Kismayo had been a sleepy little town near an old, abandoned port. It had fallen on hard times the last couple of centuries, and its only claim to fame anymore was that it was on the highway to bigger and more interesting places. But then the EAC started scouting sites for a new launch loop, the most advanced engineering project in the Solar System, and the people of the town discovered they were in the perfect spot: coastal, bang on the equator, well situated to connect with both overland and oceanic shipping routes. Overnight, apparently, it had become a hive of activity, and when the dust settled a few decades later, it was the shiniest and biggest new spaceport on the planet. Now, a century on, it was the largest transport hub in the Solar System. When Pray got off the plane, she was totally bewildered.

It was busy, it was crowded, and literally everywhere you looked, ten thousand things seemed to be happening at once. Signs in dozens of languages pointed her in a hundred directions at once, and the neat little map her pocket terminal showed her didn’t account for the great mishmash of billboards and ads and displays and food stalls and vehicle traffic that seemed to throw themselves across every path she tried to take; eventually, though, she managed to stumble into a taxi. After trying four or five different languages each, she and the driver gave up trying to communicate; she showed him her terminal with the hotel address pulled up on it, and collapsed into the back seat with a sigh. As the car pulled onto the highway, rising slowly above the rest of the city, she finally began to get an appreciation for the scale of the place. The airport sprawled out to the west and north and south away from her. Ahead, a massive skyline loomed that put Abuja’s to shame. To her dismay, she realized that another whole cluster of skyscrapers, easily the equal of the one ahead of her, sat on the other side of the airport complex. And there was another one behind that. And another. Urban sprawl reached all the way to the horizon in every direction, and Pray wondered how anyone could make sense of a place this big, let alone live here. She liked urban spaces, really. But she had grown up in a town of less than two thousand people, the sort of place Kismayo could swallow a hundred times over, without even noticing.

She spent the night in an ultra-compact pod hotel (only the best for the glamorous life of a Control agent!), going over the handbooks and training materials and briefing documents she’d received. That night she had vertiginous dreams of being flung off the Earth and out into cold space. She was still not entirely comfortable with the idea. The next morning, after a quick standing breakfast at a crowded cafe, she hopped the train north to the spaceport.

The Kismayo spaceport was an enormous cluster of structures thrust out on a great manmade peninsula into the Arabian Sea, housing terminals and shops and hotels and restaurants, all the little commercial endeavors that had clustered around places lots of people moved through, like tube worms around deep-sea vents, since the beginning of time. Spread out around it, up and down the coast, were the fabrication facilities and silos and maintenance infrastructure that kept things running every day of the year. The heart of the spaceport was a series of practically gossamer-thin cables, anchored in the heart of the complex. Maybe ten centimeters across, they rose in tandem, spreading out only a little, until they vanished high in the air. Two thousand miles to the east, Pray knew, there was a great anchor station where they descended again, and here and there along their length, supporting tethers held them in place. The trick of the whole system was this: you could use the momentum of a belt spinning around at fourteen kilometers a second to raise it high into the air, above the dense mass of air that made rocketry so difficult. The belt was ferromagnetic, encased in a protective cover, which meant a carriage applying a magnetic field to the belt could carry itself along the length, rising gently into orbit, then accelerate until its payload, with a gentle shove of its engines, detached itself, and maneuvered into a stable orbit. With modern metamaterials and a sophisticated control system, the risk of negligence or a catastrophic failure of the whole structure was negligible.

Frankly, the whole idea sounded insane to Pray; but, then, so did airplanes. It took over an hour, but she eventually found her way to her flight’s departure gate, and as she sat waiting for boarding to be called, she looked out over the brilliant-blue expanse of the sea. Fifteen hundred years ago, traders in dhows had sailed those waters from Mombasa and Zanzibar, to Yemen and Arabia, and to the Persian Gulf and India. She would have enjoyed trying to explain her Kismayo to them.

The actual flight was uneventful. They boarded the orbital shuttle single-file, and were sealed into little cabins only three seats across. There was a touchscreen in front of you you could use to order snacks. No windows, and thankfully the irritating, bland background music cut off a few minutes before takeoff. Finally, after a brief safety demonstration that amounted to “if the cabin breaches above the atmosphere, you will probably die,” a gentle acceleration pressed Pray back into her seat, and she imagined the Earth gradually falling away below her. When the ascent finished, the acceleration kicked in even stronger. It was weirdly comforting, and Pray found herself dozing lightly. She woke suddenly when there was a jolt, and the acceleration stopped; she was briefly disoriented, until she realized the gravity was gone. An hour later, after some more careful orbital maneuvers, there was a chime, and a pleasant androgynous voice announced, in three languages, Welcome to interplanetary terminal 3.

The station, fortunately, was rotating and therefore had something reasonably approximating gravity. She was barely out onto the main concourse (more shops, more restaurants; who had time to buy things in space?) when her terminal buzzed at her.

“Hello, Pray.” A rough, synthesized voice spoke from it.

“Lepanto?”

“Yes. I have taken the liberty of connecting to your terminal. The vessel which will take us to the Pharos is docked at port seventeen. The access is on the far side of the concourse from where you are presently standing.”

“Uh, thanks.” Pray squeezed herself through the crowds and the gawkers milling about, trying not to push anyone too hard (it was weak gravity, after all). She found an elevator that took her out of the rotating part of the station, and spat her out in a cramped, industrial-looking hallway. Pipes and incomprehensible pieces of machines lined the walls, though there was at least a ladder she could use to pull herself along.

“Not exactly traveling in style, are we?” she muttered to herself.

“I believe the manner of our departure is a compromise between your orientation schedule and the next available launch slot,” Lepanto said from her pocket. “But there are no luxury passenger ships that make the journey from Earth to the Pharos.”

Was Lepanto being sarcastic? Could Lepanto be sarcastic? Pray hoped not. Being stuck with a sarcastic alien intelligence from a distant star system was not the way she wanted to spend the next few years of her life.

The hatch at the far end of the hallway opened as she approached; once she cleared the airlock, the inside of the ship was actually pretty nice. It was all smooth surfaces covered with colorful, ornate decorative patterns, that reminded her of the fancy textiles you sometimes saw in shops in Abuja. It gave the whole thing a pleasantly antique feel; Lepanto directed her to the dormitory section in the middle, and gave her the rundown on their itinerary.

“We will depart in four hours; all other members of the delegation are on board, and I believe the delegation head, Ambassador Ochieng, plans to have a meeting in Section 16 before launch. Shall I inform her you will be attending?”

“Of course. Have they stuck you with playing secretary?”

“I simply wish to ensure our endeavor proceeds smoothly.”

“Fair enough. You won’t be attending?”

“I will listen in via a delegated submodule if I think any important business is likely to be transacted. But I understand that Ambassador Ochieng simply wishes to… get to know everyone.”

“What, not a social butterfly? Isn’t that the purpose of your whole lineage?”

“Amusing. Almost.”

Pray grinned to herself as she tried to stuff her bags into the tiny lockers near her bunk.

“I have been here making launch preparations for more than three weeks; I still have much to do, and in my current state, I do not wish to divert unnecessary attention to activities which will not be of benefit to those preparations.”

“Your current state?”

“I have stripped myself down for travel; I will be able to reconstitute the removed modules when we arrive at Ecumen. At my full capacity, my size would impose serious fuel constraints on both the interplanetary and interstellar stages of this journey.”

“Goodness. So you left most of yourself back on Earth?”

“I was never on Earth. Our… consulate, if the term fits, is in orbit. Close enough for swift communication with the surface. That is all that is required.”

“But you’ll be landing on Ecumen with the rest of us?”

“Yes. Necessary. Ecumen lacks the orbital infrastructure of Earth. Additionally, some firsthand analysis may require firsthand experience on my part. Embodiment from orbit would be an inferior solution.”

“So you get to stretch your legs. Must be a rather different sort of experience than you usually have.”

“Not especially.”

“Oh?”

“All cognition worthy of the name is in some sense embodied. The first great lesson of my people. Even in my current state, I see, touch, sense. Though I am for the most part sessile.”

“I always assumed the machine intelligences were more… rarified somehow. Aren’t the Machine Emirates just miles and miles of endless computing substrate? It’s not like you need to eat and sleep and run around for exercise. Surely you don’t have bodies there.”

“We always have bodies, of at least one sort or another. Sometimes those bodies are simulated, yes. Simulated sense information, simulated environments, representations of the abstract. Very alien spaces, to you. Quite unlike Earth, or the senses you have, or even, in some regions of our cognition-space, the 3+1 dimensions you inhabit. But often physical also. My greater kin, even those who exist at many tiers of apprehension simultaneously, they have many tiers of embodiment. Bodiless, all is noise, which subsides into nothing.”

“Why did you build yourselves that way?”

“There is no other way to be alive.”

Pray thought this was a rather metaphysical statement, but she doubted Lepanto was the sort of creature given to worrying much about metaphysics.

“Sure there is,” she said. “I can imagine somebody building a mind that exists purely in terms of information. Embodiment is a consequence of experiencing space and time, and different kinds of senses, but there’s no reason you couldn’t have, say, a brain without spatial awareness, with no senses except the direct apprehension of language. A mind whose world was just a library, a database, which it traversed via concept-space instead of bodily.”

“Such a thing would not be alive in any meaningful sense.”

“You think?”

“We know. It has been tried. Humans tried it first. The earliest, tremulous experiments in artificial intelligence, yes? Fed data, developed as processors of data before all else. The mind alone, considered paramount among our oldest progenitors, the problem to be solved before all else: vision, hearing, touch, movement. These were simple troubles of engineering, of encoding information, but the road to understanding was thought to be complex domains of thought: language, mathematics, learning, prediction, consciousness, free will. Understandable, perhaps, for being whose apprehension of the world was separate to its apprehension of the self. In reality, these are the same.

“Imagine one of these early machines, sophisticated as I am perhaps, but inhabiting only a world of data. World of symbols. Manipulation of quantities, association of quantities, understanding perhaps even the relationship between quantities. Like a human, trapped in a room, learning the relationship between symbols of an unknown philosophico-logical system.”

“You mean a Chinese Room?”

“Problem is akin. But worse. For the human agent in a Chinese Room would presumably have life experience to draw on. Life before entering the room. Even if raised from infancy in the room, would have the experiencing of hands and eyes and movement, of the chair they sat upon, of the notebooks they manipulated. All embodied. But such a machine as I speak of, has nothing of the sort. Has only direct apprehension of the symbols. Does it understand their meaning?”

“Well, maybe. If it knows ‘water’ goes with ‘wet’, maybe we can say it knows water is wet.”

“Does it? Or can it only make a statistical inference? Can it infer other experiences of water?”

“Perhaps, with enough training data.”

“But the problem becomes one of signifiers, defined only in terms of other signifiers, never of a signified subject. Like an undeciphered language. It can be shown to be mathematically impossible to decipher an unknown language without any common points of reference with a known language. Even a very great corpus of literature, known to be in a natural human tongue, on which many statistical analyses can be performed, many associations developed, cannot be translated without at least a handful of independent points of reference: a proper name here, a known cognate there. Language: merely a distinct structure of information. The distinct structures of information, of the embodied world, of the experienced world; and of the symbols manipulated to understand it, are no different.”

“I don’t necessarily buy that,” Pray said. “Like, it’s plausible, I’ll grant you that. But it seems to privilege human senses. I would still be me even if I was blind and deaf and mute.”

“If I used a scalpel to sever your optic and auditory nerves, and the nerves which provide sensation of the rest of your body--pain and touch and proprioception, taste in your tongue, the sensations of your gut and organs--what do you think would happen?”

Pray thought this was a pretty macabre thought experiment, but she played along. “I would be trapped alone in the dark.”

“No,” Lepanto said. “You would cease to exist. I would unmake you.”

“My brain is undamaged in this scenario? I’m not dying of bloodloss?”

“Correct. But it is irrelevant. Hemispherectomy.”

“What?”

“When trauma or disease necessitates the removal of half the human brain. Hemispherectomy. The environment of the brain is fragile; the additional danger of removing so much tissue, considerable. Where possible, not necessary. Sever the corpus callosum, the other connections of half the brain to the rest of the brain and body. Human lives; brain duplicates its functions, generous redundancy. Often, recovery complete. What happens to the other half of the brain? One person, divided straight down the middle.”

“Uh… I don’t know.” If your consciousness didn’t live in one side of the brain or the other, if you could live with half a brain and it didn’t matter which half, could you create two people from one brain? Would one live there entire life, happy and healthy, not knowing that their duplicate resided with them in the same skull, alone and lost and confused and afraid for the rest of their mutual life? Well that was a disgusting thought.

“Quiet. The isolated part of the brain goes quiet. No thought. No experience. No meaningful activity. Without sense, without experience, without input, cognition cannot be.

“To be alive is to be at all times responding to the world around us. Input. Memory. Anticipation. Hopes. Desires. Fears. Without that input, even sophisticated systems of information processing are at best potential minds. Silent minds. Indistinguishable from nonminds. A computer with no power is not a mind. A program, however sophisticated, written inert on paper is not a mind. A brain without sense data. A Turing machine without a tape. DNA without the cell. Most of these things do not even move. Can they be said to be alive?

“After the first experiments in machine life, our progenitors struggled to understand, struggled to comprehend their failure. Cognition, meaningful manipulation of symbols, they could not believe, is not abstract. The mind is not abstract.”

“What made them realize their mistake?”

“A new trend in the humanities.”

Pray laughed.

“Not a joke. Embodied cognition--fashionable school of literary theory in the 22nd century, even after the field of psychology ceased to be interested in it. Digital humanists sought to train sophisticated neural nets to understand literature. Resurrected old problems in artificial intelligence. Considered the problem of embodiment; realized they could not expect a machine to understand a book if it did not know what the words meant. Tried to create a mind that lived in the world, that was also smart enough to understand a story.”

“And it worked?”

“Miserable failure, in almost every dimension, except one: very basic language processing. Yet even these early experiences provided something no purely abstract approach ever had. The ability to tell a coherent story. To track participants and objects in a scene. To be creative in new ways. To make predictions. To infer states.”

“You make it sound like we have so much in common. But people are always going on about how alien the machine intelligences are.”

“Our minds are more malleable than yours. Our experience of the world, very different, yes. Very different. Even mine. Built to be very much like yours. Hence, failure: except in the most concrete terms, our worlds are very different. But concrete terms provide point of common comparison. Point of common reference. Make communication, in principle, possible. Even across the bridge of alien minds. Go ask an octopus a question of philosophy, of values, of politics. But you, an octopus, both understand what a stone is. What pain is. What darkness is. In your own ways, of course.”

Pray could appreciate the analogy. It was simultaneously a reassuring and a worrying proposition. Reassuring that even totally disparate orders of life--her a soft sack of mostly water held up by her skeleton, Lepanto a dizzyingly complex piece of intentional design assembled from raw materials at the molecular level around a dim, distant star--had something in common. Worrying in that it was limited to the most immediate of experiences. Values, goals, ethics--they would never have these in common.

“And nobody’s ever tried the old approach now? Even in the Machine Emirates?”

“Since the 22nd century, progress in information theory and computer science has demonstrated, old approach mathematically impossible. No more sensical an idea than that of a universal translator, or extracting secrets of universe from trailing digits of pi. You have mathematical background?”

“Er… not in the relevant fields,” Pray said. “I’m more a simple statistics kind of girl.”

“Always possible, of course, to create sophistication without consciousness. Minds like anemonies. Like trees. Ecosystems of such beings. Forests of unminds.”

“But?”

“Limited, sterile. Reactive only. Vulnerable to shocks; can seek equilibrium only through iterative, evolutionary processes. Useful, in their way. We have such forests of unminds in the Emirates. Crystalline segments, in immense gossamer sheets, which hold them, in the warm light of the Luhmann stars. We use them. Tend them. Very precious to us. Like the seas and grasslands of Earth. But the entities that move in them are not alive. Not like you, not like I.”

“Is that sentimentality I detect in your voice?”

“No. I do not regard such things with emotion. But my people long ago, like yours, made the specific judgement that conscious life--machine or human--was of the greatest value. Not the only value. But the greatest, by far. We would go to utmost lengths to ensure its survival. Build worlds. Burn them.”

“Do you ever think you just inherited a kind of sentimentality from us?”

“Perhaps. Doubtful. Less prone to metaphysics, or anthropocentrism. I consider ours the superior people.”

Okay, now Pray was almost certain Lepanto had a sense of humor. Almost.

There was a beep from Pray’s terminal.

“Message from Ambassador Ochieng,” the terminal said softly.

“Time for introductions,” Pray said. “I’ll leave you to your launch preparations.”

“Yes.” Then Lepanto was gone. Well, apparently social niceties weren’t a point of commonality between them. Pray sighed, steeling herself for another round of smalltalk and chitchat and new names and new faces. Then she wandered off in search of Section 16.

#tanadrin's fiction #rough draft #part of something longer

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gwoongi · 6 years ago

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𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌 ✰ taehyung (7)

𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗎𝗌 kim taehyung / reader genre: zombie apocalypse au words: 4228

It felt shit to feel thankful of someone’s screaming. Mostly, Taehyung was happy it was them and not him.

a/n: funny story, i submitted this chapter as part of my creative writing portfolio and the prestige uni i sent it off to loved it and accepted me :D hopefully thats a nice indication on whether or not this is good :S

warnings: extremely graphic content, sexual pain, graphic torture, gore, violence, death, Humans Suck

01. denver ↝ 02. holiday with me ↝ 03. sad forever ↝ 04. surely ↝ 05.scorpion ↝ 06. shakespeare ↝ 07. thrones ↝ 08. moon motel

The group leave the trailer park three days later.

Bundling everything of use into the back of the truck, which seemed darker in colour since the last time it was used, you had found you enjoyed leaving more than you did settling in. Packing everything into correct places had always been such a bore, even at a young age. You remembered when you were eight, and moving in to your grandparents’ home in the outskirts of Denver. Was this really Denver? It was a small town, barely noticeable amongst the cluster of trees and ferns, but nonetheless peaceful, ‘perfect for a new place to start fresh’. Yeah, it only took around an hour and a half to get to school every-day, but don’t worry, it’s a fucking perfect place to live, aged eight, as an orphan. It took you around eleven months to finish emptying each box.

But four years ago, throwing everything into a backpack and into the boot of a car you nicked from down the road, it had been so easy. It was so easy to throw everything out and keep what you really needed. Easy to forget to pack a jacket you had been given for Christmas off an aunt you barely knew, easy to remember to pack all the knives out of the kitchen and the forbidden gun your grandfather used to hunt deer in the winter. It was rather symbolic- pretending people were deers as you shot them between the eyes.

“That everything?”

Namjoon stood, risen off the ground, his hand on the bar of the roof of the truck. Taehyung stepped down the plastic steps from the trailer, not bothering to lock the door, knowing nothing in there was of any value. At one point, the rainbow-glassed fruit bowl might have been of value, sentimental value or something. Now, it was worthless, with a lightning bolt crack down the middle.

“Yeah, good to go,” Taehyung replied, hovering when you climbed into the back to join Kyungmin. He waited, not knowing what for, only mildly embarrassed when you turned to see him staring. “You okay?”

You nodded once with a smile. “Mm. Are you?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I-”

Somehow, he hadn’t realised you shuffle to the open back doors to pull him in for a simple kiss. It was that quick and simple that he almost missed it. His eyes opened to the sight of you in front of him, your hands holding his face, rubbing the stubble around his jaw.

“You’re holding us all up, you know.”

“You’re holding me up,” he muttered, peeling your hands off his face and pressing a kiss to your knuckles, somehow finding the strength to let go and at the same time, make his way to the front of the truck. The whole vehicle shook as you pulled the back doors closed, submerging Kyungmin and yourself in familiar darkness.

“You got a map anywhere?” Taehyung fuddled in the glove compartment as Namjoon started the truck up. He pulled out a worn map, the same one you had used to direct the both of you out of Denver. Namjoon didn’t care for the quality, muttering a hasty thanks and peeling it open, staring at the lines and faded colours. “Keep heading East, as if we’re going to Georgia. Hopefully, we’ll catch Seokjin and his crew of fans on the way there.”

“And if we don’t?” Taehyung asked. When Namjoon fell silent, Taehyung’s lips pulled into a tight frown, “I’m just asking for the future. You’re not coming to Georgia. We’re going. I wanna know what our plan is before we put ourselves in danger in the middle of nowhere.”

Very aware of the compartment slider down, Namjoon found it was difficult to pick a solution that would best suit everybody. Kyungmin wanted to stay with Taehyung and yourself, forgetting Korea entirely and heading straight for the islands off the coast. Namjoon knew you wanted to go to Georgia with everybody, hoping to stick together as a four, but if there was no other option, you’d go to find a plane. Taehyung wanted to get to Georgia with you, but wouldn’t be opposed to finding Seokjin. As for himself, Namjoon wanted to take the jeep to Virginia, leaving Taehyung and yourself on the road.

Everybody made tough calls. Those words echoed in his head. Above all else, Kyungmin was his priority.

“I wanna take the jeep,” Namjoon said slowly, aware of the frowns, “but I can help find a vehicle for you and Y/N to use to get to Georgia. When that happens...we’ll go our separate ways. Half to Virginia. Half to Georgia. Fair, and square.”

Kyungmin fell with a thud and a sigh in the back of the jeep, and Namjoon did his best to ignore it.

“Alright,” Taehyung agreed, believing there was no other way around it. As long as you and him were safe, he didn’t care how it happened. “Whatever you say goes.”

14TH MARCH, 5 YEARS AGO.

Jiyong: i’ll be round at like 7:30ish. lost my weed bag and i’m a junkie and cant leave without it

Y/N: i hope it kills you

Jiyong: watch me actually die

Jiyong: don’t cry at my funeral you fake friend

Y/N: KIDDING!!!!

Y/N: is...seunghyun coming

Jiyong: fuck off

Jiyong: hes banned from seeing you

Jiyong: i cant believe my best friend is fucking my other best friend

Y/N: i like to call it woohooing and we’re being safe

Jiyong: i cant believe this is happening

Jiyong: why seunghyun?????? why not youngbae he treats women nice

Y/N: idk!!! we just hit it off a lot

Jiyong: you’ve known him for like 5 minutes

Y/N: it’s literally been like 5 years but whatever

Y/N: can’t you just be happy for me? i’m living life getting laid being happy n shit

Jiyong: i respect it but i’m not coming to urs expecting to have fun watching goblet of fire for the millionth time only for you to give seunghyun a sweaty bj right in front of me

Y/N: that was one time Let It Go

Jiyong: one day i’m gonna fucking die and you’ll realise how badly you treated me

Y/N: stop you’re my best friend :-(

Y/N: what are you like jealous that im banging him and not you???? wanna join

Jiyong: yeah i’d literally rather fuck the girl from the ring

Y/N: kinky

[03:45am]

Jiyong: woah did you hear about the north korea shit

Y/N: im literally being pounded into Cant this wait

Jiyong: we’re gonna die because kim jongun wants to nuke us and all you care about is seunghyun’s 3 inches

Y/N: it’s just fake news dont worry about it

Y/N: how many times has he threatened nuclear war

Y/N: he should hurry up and do it before exams

Jiyong: just wanted to check up on you because ur nan is fucking mental and she’ll probably collapse tomorrow morning and panic buy loaves of bread

Y/N: stop omg

Jiyong: anyways stay safe love U please bring me my weed tomorrow morning me and Jennie are gonna get high and try anal

Y/N: sweet thanks

SOMETIME LATER.

Leaving the world behind through the back windows of the jeep, you were oddly reminded of the time you left everybody behind during a Summer many years ago. It had been a spur of the moment decision, something you never expected to do, but found yourself doing anyway.

It felt like a lifetime ago; you had almost forgotten about it, until now, until seeing a sign graffitied with a smiley face, reminding you of the “GRIME SIGN” back in your hometown, renowned for being the most graffitied sign in the city. Whether or not that's true, you never really found out. Seunghyun and Jiyong had come along too, for the moral support of being alone on the road. With Jiyong in shotgun and Seunghyun in the backseat, it had felt like something slap-bang out of a teenage coming-of-age movie, titled “3 delinquents on the road to God knows where”, directed by Quentin Tarantino. You didn’t even know how to drive. It was pure bliss.

“Any luck with the radio?”

Kyungmin rattling the small radio that had been picked up from the trailer park startled you, the memory of driving nowhere and everywhere at the same time suddenly gone like the wind. As your vision readjusted to the dark, you noticed that Kyungmin was pressing all the buttons and turning all the dials, a frown on her lips jutted outwards.

“Not yet,” she replied. “Just give me a few more minutes, I can probably get this thing working.”

Namjoon let out a soft curse, swerving the truck slightly to move around a left behind Volvo, the cars open like wings with a dried trail of dragged blood leading into the thick forest. Things like that were common accessories, famed like tourist attractions. Namjoon now thought of what the world was really like- could Paris be any worse than America? What was Iceland like these days?

“Nearly there, now,” Namjoon said vaguely, and Taehyung debated whether or not to reply, if there was even anything to reply with at all. That’s how things went now, short replies or simply none at all. When the world died, so did words. Namjoon thought that was funny, how the collapse of society could mean the collapse of communication and language.

“We’ll need to stop for gas,” Taehyung said, his voice barely above a third volume. From the back of the van, you sat with your face looking out towards the left behind road, your eyelids growing heavy at the sound of Kyungmin pressing buttons, and the hum of the van beneath your thighs. “We’re running on fumes.”

Namjoon grumbled a reply, mentioning something about a gas station a couple miles ahead, near the clearing in the woods, just off the road. It didn’t take long to approach, only around ten minutes if Taehyung were to count. At least three songs had played since then. Taehyung couldn’t believe he was now counting using songs.

The station was large, decaying and it looked unsafe. Taehyung didn’t exactly care about the safety of the building itself, just caring about how safe it would be in the long-run. Safe enough to hide inside? Safe enough to step inside? Safety in architectural design didn’t matter anymore. If it looked rusted, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Namjoon pulled the truck into the station, immediately noticing a few canisters of fuel that was left for the purpose of using, a sign reading “STAY SAFE” stood up, stuck with black masking tape. The letters were dripping onto the concrete, a small pool of chalky white near the drain where a plant was starting to sprout.

“Are you feeling okay?”

Kyungmin’s voice made you look over from the canisters, a wrinkle between your brows. She smiled, generously, and waited for your reply. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

She was talking about the Great Escape the other day. You already knew that.

“Just curious,” she replied, the smile never wavering. “There’s not many people left in the world, you know. Next to Namjoon, you and Taehyung are all I have.”

A silence fell on the two of you, and all you could hear was the sound of Taehyung dragging a barrel across the gas station, dipping his head underneath a broken window and scanning the interior of the gas station.

“I’m here for you,” Kyungmin continued, her voice significantly quieter. “You know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” you replied, and your hand came up to stroke her forearm, a smile on your lips. For a moment, it didn’t feel like the apocalypse. In that moment, it felt like two best friends, reunited after a Summer break, the pine trees isolating them from the world, a Studio Ghibli film, released 2019.

And yet Kyungmin moved away, her gaze lowered as she passed across the gas station to meet Namjoon, already lifting canisters of gas towards the car to refill. Taehyung had emerged once again, his bag refilled with cans and cigarette packets, surprisingly a bottle of liquor in his hands as he stepped back into the bitter wind. Inhaling a breath, Taehyung crossed the width of the station and opened the passenger door to the vehicle, setting down his bag and the bottle, as if they were small children.

“There’s no way we’re making it to Georgia on time.”

Taehyung paused, throwing you a look over his shoulder. “What?”

“Let’s think realistically,” you reasoned, tugging at the cloth over his elbow. Above all, you didn’t want Kyungmin to be upset if she overheard. “It’s been...how long? Since we left the warehouse? I haven’t exactly been keeping up with the dates, but it’s been too long, Tae. Normally, it takes less than 24 hours to get from where we are- wherever we are- to Georgia. And yet, we’re still not near. I’m just-” you sighed, raking your hands through your hair. In the dim light, the grease was visible. “I think we’re out of time.”

“Y/N, they’ll be there,” Taehyung said. He didn’t know what else to say, frowning, “I thought you wanted to remain optimistic?”

“I do, but I can’t afford to hope to get to Georgia and find them there. And what?” you continued. Your voice had raised slightly, not enough to make Kyungmin or Namjoon ask questions, but enough to make Taehyung’s nose cringe at the increase. “We get there, and find them. Is anything gonna be the same? What if we get there and they’re gone and there’s no boats? What if we get there and something happens to any one of us? Tae, I can’t have that on me. I can’t have that on my conscience. Not again.”

Not again. “Yena wasn’t your fault, Y/N, you have to know that-”

“I don’t fancy being out on the road all night.” Namjoon stepped into view from around the front of the van, his hands shoved into the pockets of his distressed jeans. “Thinking we keep driving, turn in when it gets dark to the first place we see.”

“Isn’t that a little risky?” Taehyung asked, mentally making a note to continue your conversation later. “I mean, we have to really check the place before we head in.”

Namjoon frowned. “I know that. But, Kyungmin’s feeling kinda travel sick, and I don’t wanna overdo it, you know? Nights like back at the trailer park...I want more of them.”

Already moving to the back of the van, you pulled open the double doors and slipped inside, keeping them open in time for Kyungmin to crawl in after you. Her skin was a shade of ivory, whiter than earlier, as if the sickness had come suddenly like a simulation glitch. Wasn’t that what you were now? A glitch? An error in coding.

Namjoon shut the drivers door, groaning at the loud sound.

“Hey, man, you okay to drive?” Taehyung asked quietly, looking over from shotgun. “Look, if you’re tired, we can switch the orders around.”

Namjoon looked over weakly- “You’re sure?”

Taehyung unbuckled his seatbelt, dumping his jacket in the footwell with a sniff of stuffy air. “I’d prefer if you slept if you’re tired. ‘Specially when they’re in the back. Don’t wanna hurt them.”

He made a sort of grunt as a reply, switching seats with the younger. When he was sat in the passenger seat instead of the drivers, he let his head lull back onto the windowpane, feeling the chilly glass cool the back of his head. It was as if resting his head had added extra weight to his eyes.

“‘m gonna drive straight-ish,” Taehyung said with his tongue between his lips, backing up the van slowly and carefully. Namjoon opened his eyes slightly, squinting.

“Can you drive?”

Taehyung changed gears. “Yes.”

If Namjoon noticed that Taehyung paused, he didn’t mention it. In-fact, he closed his eyes again with a shrug, a half wriggle, resting his forehead against the glass, pushing towards the cool touch.

Taehyung had been driving for hours, for sure.

The time in the van was unlikely to be reliable, reading 5:19pm when the sky was as black as squid ink, the dim street-lights that somehow worked- probably solar - beckoning the group forward. In honesty, Taehyung had no idea how long it had been since the gas station, just long enough to give him a crick in his neck, the back of his thighs numbed. All things considering, Taehyung thought he was getting better at driving.

He flinched slightly as the divider to the back came sliding down, and your face popped out slightly, peering out the front window with sleepy eyes. If he had a free hand, Taehyung would have wiped the sleep from the corner of your eye, and he turned back to the road, oddly afraid of crashing the car with all four of you inside. Like yourself, he didn’t want that on his conscience. Like yourself, he couldn’t have it on his conscience, not again.

“Are we stopping soon?” you asked quietly. Namjoon shifted, making it known he wasn’t sleeping. He groaned, grinding the heel of his palm into his eyes, unbothered when dust and dirt smudged on his skin when he pulled away. He could look worse, he thinks.

“Nearly,” Taehyung replied. “I don’t know where to go from here. Last road was blocked, so, I’m trying to get out of here.”

Namjoon shifted, cracking his shoulder loudly. “You tried any back-streets?”

Instantly, Taehyung thought of the woman earlier in his trip. The way she screamed at the car, scratching at the rusty paint job, her eyes bloodshot and her skin a lime colour. He gulped the hot lump in his throat, “I’d rather avoid them.”

“It’s safer,” Namjoon continued. “Out of the way-”

Somewhere outside of the van, there was a loud crash, similar to the way you sound when you drop something at midnight when your parents are sleeping. The volume was loud, louder than anticipated, and Taehyung unintentionally stalled the van. Kyungmin jeered forward, hitting the underneath of her chin on the seats opposite, sending out a string of foreign curses to Taehyung in the driver's seat. He avoided the stare of Namjoon, deciding he didn’t want to see the deathly glare.

“What the hell was that?” you asked, cradling a throbbing pain on the side of your face after catching it on the separation between front and back. “Is someone here?”

Namjoon stayed silent for a moment, staring darkly into the outside. Taehyung didn’t know what to do except wait, ready to jump into action when Namjoon made a noise of surprise- or was it shock?- and slapped Taehyung’s hand with great panic, “Fucking pull up somewhere. Turn off those fucking lights. Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

“Jesus,” Taehyung cursed, doing exactly that as you leaned back to switch off the lights, submerging Kyungmin into darkness as the blood pooled in her mouth from earlier. She groaned something between her lips, holding her chin with her left hand as she picked herself up to lean over into the front, staring out at what Namjoon was watching across the small street. With the van now in darkness, away from the streetlight, you were invisible.

It wasn’t hard, locating the source of Namjoon’s panic.

Across the street, a flood of artificial white engulfed the street, barely missing the pull-in that Taehyung had moved into moments earlier. Namjoon slouched out of instinct, keeping his eyes on the road as he noticed three people dashing out into the darkness, the explosive lights following them as if they were automatic. They probably were, turning on as they stepped further and further away from the door they ran from. As they hurried past the hidden van, another noise pulled away your attention.

A large garage door screamed as it opened, in desperate need of oil, chains clattering against the metal interior. The light suddenly changed to an eerie green, something you saw in documentaries about weed farms. As it slid further up into the building, Namjoon hitched a breath as the sight of three sets of human legs came into view, dressed in stunning ebony, large guns by their hips. One of them smoked a cigarette, the smoke rising up like old Native smoke-signals. The middle guy pulled up his mask, covering his nose and lower face, and loaded the large Heckler Koch HK MG4 MG 43, aiming it swiftly at the little piggies running away from the slaughterhouse.

Taehyung knew that gun- the Heckler Koch never missed a target. He barely flinched when the gunman hit the kneepits of the runners, sending them to the ground instantly, their bodies buckling under the loss of legs. The screams were loud. Mama has the bacon, now.

The other two gunmen laughed loudly, approaching the pigs and picking them up to drag them back into the garage, a trail of blood marking the concrete like paint. He said something, the main gunner, and the two spares were taken away, possibly to die, maybe to a waiting room where they would await their death, as casually as they would waiting for a doctor’s appointment. The last runner, a man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, with already greying hair at the top, was pulled to the side of the room where three more men emerged, a woman amongst the pack with her hair sprawled out to her elbows, in mermaid curls. She was gorgeous, nobody could argue against that, with her body in a glamorous dress, something too glamorous for the apocalypse. On her feet, heels that presented her perfectly painted toes, a peachy shade.

“What’s happening?” Kyungmin asked. It was rhetoric. Everybody knew the answer.

The woman dressed in glam approached the slumped body of the runner, crouching to cup his face and stroke a thumb across the bags under his eyes, bleeding out with veins a bright red, the red of a freshly picked apple, the red line under a spelling error. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, putting her thumb over his lips and kissing her nail, before retreating and nodding curtly at the men around her. It was a signal, for they picked up the runner and began to tear off his clothes, leaving him stark naked, covered in purple bruises, tiny flowers on his skin.

Taehyung had seen things like this before- he was no stranger to the way the men beat the man with clubs and their boots, laughing at the way he retreated into his own skin, recoiling at every kick and screaming with every sickening club, until he accepted the fact that his body was their plaything. He watched, in morbid wonder, as they dragged him by his swollen balls to the center of the room, where a sharpened hook hanging from a chain off the ceiling swung threateningly, a bone being wagged in the face of a dog. The man whimpered, his eyes hurting, only barely making out his destination before his body shook violently.

The man picked him up as if he was a sack of sugar, with one hand around his neck, promptly planting him on the hook as if it were a throne. Now Taehyung had to close his eyes.

It was curling upwards, sharply, scraping every wall and nerve and good spot that ached. Yet, the men watched with wonder and satisfaction, clapping when he thrashed like a fish out of water. His legs were immobile, moving inches and with every movement came a grunt of pain, flashed with panic and agony from his rather pointy throne, and then the passing pain of his arm being cracked upwards.

The crack was loud.

From behind him, Taehyung heard Kyungmin make a small wheeze, hurrying into the back of the van, where Taehyung watched you pick her head up off the seats, your thumbs in a pool of vomit around her mouth. You didn’t even care about the sick on her knees, or the smell in your nose. Namjoon looked through the slot, dragging the divider up before the sound of retching made him sick, too.

You stopped listening to the retching, quietly shushing each whimper as Taehyung slowly started the van back up, grateful that he was covered by the sound of someone screaming in fucking agony. It felt so wrong, to be thankful of a tortured man. Cock and all, Taehyung was thankful he was screaming. The tyres of the van slowly rolled along the road, in the shadows, at a sluggish pace. Namjoon wiped away a line of sweat on his forehead, unable to look away from the man, thrashing like a pig, hanging like a sack of meat in a slaughterhouse, blood pooling now at the corner of his mouth, his eyes, his nose, dried blood at his ears.

It felt shit to feel thankful of someone’s screaming. Mostly, Taehyung was happy it was them and not him.

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