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nctsworld · 3 years

Text

the yuletide boyfriend

SUMMARY‌ ‌⇾‌ your one wish this year is to not be single during the holidays. yangyang, as your best friend, takes it upon himself to be your temporary boyfriend. soon enough, both parties begin to wish this new arrangement could last beyond the holidays. // part of the x-mas in ncity collection WARNINGS‌ ‌⇾‌ implied ‌anxiety attack (during the first part of dec 24th – skip if need to), smut, mutual m*sturbation, couch s*x, angst, miscommunication, swearing RATING‌ ‌⇾‌ mature TAGLIST ⇾ @infnteen

AUTHOR’S NOTE ⇾ this is my longest fic to date and also... might be my worst b/c i feel like the angst plot points don’t really make sense... but i hope y’all still enjoy!!!

⇾ gif created by me, please don’t share or repost without credit!

NOVEMBER 30th

“So, anything special on your wishlist this year?”

Your best friend, Yangyang, asks you as you two sit next to each other on one of the many plush lounge couches in the Psychology building. It’s the usual lunch spot where you meet with him during your break between lectures.

The Psych building held much sentimental value for both of you because you met in Psych 101 during first year. Fast-forward three years later, neither of you expected to be the close friends that you are today.

Chewing your sandwich, you ponder on his question for a bit. Through the transparent glass walls leading to outside, you see the trickle of students heading towards the building since class is about to start for the noon round of lectures. A couple, you assume by the tight hand-holding and nose kissing, giggles as they enter the building, glued to one another by the hip.

“Not really.” You drop your head downward to your lunch container, smiling to yourself. “I’m honestly just happy to have Mark in my life, especially at this point in the year.”

Yangyang nods in accordance and smiles too, understanding the story behind your sentiment.

The boyfriends you’ve had since first year have always broken up with you before the holidays, right before the end of November. Since you only became close during second year, Yangyang’s been around for two out of three of your cursed holiday break-ups.

To have Mark, your latest boyfriend, be with you and it being already December tomorrow, it was truly a blessing for you and a silver lining that maybe this was the year to break the curse. Yangyang was grateful too, wanting you to have the utmost happiness.

You take another bite of your sandwich and tilt your chin toward the ramen eater.

“You?”

Yangyang slurps a few more noodles before he answers.

“I mean, the new Playstation would be nice,” he hums, mouth full.

Pointing the tip of your sandwich, you joke, “I’ll get it for you, but only if we share custody over it.”

“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head during a mid-slurp. “You know I can’t promise that.”

Both of you laugh in unison, living in the calm before the oncoming storm.

DECEMBER 5th

The E-Sports club for the university is hosting a party tonight and because Yangyang’s on one of the professional teams, he asked a few weeks ago if you and Mark wanted to attend. Of course you accepted; Mark also had some friends in the club.

However, when you text Yangyang in the afternoon, stating a change of mind, he knows something’s off.

Half an hour before the party starts, Yangyang decides to visit you. Thankfully you both lived on campus, but even if you lived across town, he’d still bus out to see how you were doing. He does it all the time to visit his family, anyway.

In the living room, the two sudden knocks at your door startle you. Peering through the peephole, you see the usual sight of your best friend, his lips curled upward and thumbs tucked in his pockets as he rocks on the balls of his feet.

It feels like an eternity for him when you unlock your door. The hinges squeal as you open it hesitatingly, your face barely appearing through the agape crack.

Immediately, his smile dissolves. Your face is drained and blood-shot eyes avoiding his own confront him.

Yangyang has only seen you cry twice in the three years he’s known you:

Once, when you were freaking the fuck out over potentially failing a course (but, on the upside, you ended up passing the final to save your grade).

The second time was at his house for a family dinner, when his mom accidentally added too much hot chili sauce to her homemade beef noodle soup (let’s just say you weren’t the only one crying that night).

Those were tears of dread and physical discomfort.

But this… this was crying he’s never seen from you before. His chest collapses inward, fearful of the reason behind your tears.

His voice shakes as he asks, “What happened? Are you okay?”

Neither of you are major huggers and only exchange them on the rare occasion.

However, this situation screams the necessity of it, so Yangyang lunges towards you, the collision swinging the door out of the way. His arms embrace you like a large, warm blanket. Comforting and safe.

Despite the affection, emptiness has taken over your body. Tonight, you’re a dead, empty shell of who you normally are.

You feel weak to the bone, but you muster up enough energy to scarcely raise your arms over his back to return the hug. Your eyes are dry from all the crying you’ve done all day, but apparently you have more tears left in you to spare.

Your eyelids snap shut and your jaw clenches.

“Mark broke up with me.”

Your words are muffled into his shoulder, but Yangyang hears it crystal clear.

You break down, sobbing out of control over the statement.

As aforementioned, Yangyang’s been around for your last two, now three, break-ups. Sure, he’s aware of how grumpy and distant you can get, but you never cried in front of him. You made an effort to never have him see you at your lowest point.

And yet, here you are, drowning him in your misery. Guilt washes over you for drenching his bomber jacket, but Yangyang couldn’t give two shits. His arms squeeze tighter while he rubs your back tenderly.

After several minutes pass and your waterworks abate, you peel away from him. You sniffle and rub your nose with the back of your hand.

“Sorry about cancelling last minute.”

“Hey, no need to apologize,” he whispers soothingly.

“I’m just… so fucking frustrated.”

With fatigued eyes, you drag yourself back inside your apartment. Yangyang discreetly closes the door behind him and hurriedly uses his feet to push off his shoes. As he does so, your mouth begins to run off while you slowly pace around aimlessly.

“Fucking done with boyfriends, especially when they think it’s so fucking awesome to keep breaking up with me right before the holidays.”

He kicks off his last stubborn shoe and catches you raking your hands through your hair, pulling it back firmly. Your lips are trembling, along with your entire frame.

“Like I get that I’m horrible and needy and emotional—”

His mouth opens, wanting to cut in to disagree with you with all his heart, but he clamps it back shut and swallows, allowing you to blow your steam off.

“—but can’t they wait until the fucking new year? I don’t know, or maybe just don’t date me in the first place! I don’t know, I don’t fucking know anymore. I’m just cursed, Yangyang...”

You flop down onto the couch and sink into the ocean of shiny pleather, shutting your eyes and trying to stop crying for the nth time. The deep sting behind your eyelids pain you, but it pains Yangyang more to watch the events unfolding ahead of him.

Unsure of what to say, Yangyang walks around the room. His gaze falls on your laptop screen and he frowns at the mostly bare Word document that stares back at him:

“WISHLIST: -KEEP ONE (1) FUCKING BOYFRIEND DURING THE CHRISTMAS SEASON!!!!!!!! GOD FUCKING SDKMFLDS”

There are a few more lines below it with more profanities and keyboard smashing. He quickly darts away, a pang of guilt striking for invading your privacy.

Then, he turns to you on the couch again. You’re now covering your eyes with your forearm, pressing your lips together. His chest twists and his throat is arid as a desert.

You’re in shambles and he’s dying to pick up the shattered pieces of you, wants to glue you back together. On a regular basis, Yangyang’s a talking machine and can talk your ear off for hours, but right now, he doesn’t know what to say to you in your current state. He second-guesses himself, wonders if he’s even that great of a friend if he can’t comfort you in your worst times.

Blowing out a long sigh and removing your arm, you speak aloud, “You should get going to the party.”

Like awakening from a deep slumber, you rise up sluggishly and sit up on the couch, slouched over. The other figure in the room steps closer to you.

“Sorry about your jacket, by the way,” you say. Your body is still, but your glazed eyes move to the dark spot on the middle of his shoulder. He glances at it and shrugs.

“It’s better like this anyway,” he says with a gentle smile, and the tight knot in his heart softens at the flicker of your own smile, albeit a small one. Unfortunately, it fades in a few seconds. “I don’t want to leave you like this, though.”

You stare at the used, crumpled balls of tissues scattered on the living room table. Some also ended up on the floor. Break-ups are shit and 98% inevitable, but you know you’ll eventually get over it. You always do.

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

He raises an eyebrow, as if asking, “Are you sure?” The lack of a worded reply causes you to notice the question written on his face.

“Go,” you plead with a feeble laugh. “Have fun for me.”

Both of you head towards your front door again. Crossing your arms, you lean your head against the door frame and attempt a smile for your best friend.

“Thanks again for checking up on me.”

Yangyang nods with a half-smile, half-pout, “Of course.”

You give him a departing wave prior to sealing your door.

Usually, Yangyang would bus from your place to the student union building, where the party is being held. Instead, he zippers up his jacket and stuffs his fists into his pockets, opting to bear the early winter chill to walk his thoughts off. His blazing self-doubt burns at first, but he overcomes it by focusing on ideas to fix your accursed dating rut instead.

Halfway through the walk, a light bulb moment occurs. A plan begins to brew on the surface of his mind and he thinks on it for the rest of the week.

DECEMBER 11th

It’s been almost a week since you last saw Yangyang.

Finals started already, so classes were done for the semester and thus, your lunch meet-ups halted too. On top of that, since you were simultaneously moping and studying, you hadn’t really texted him much, nor had he, besides the occasional check-up text on how studying was going and random memes. Yangyang knew you preferred time alone to heal and he respected that.

He also thought six days was enough time to get yourself back on your feet.

Yangyang’s at your front door once again, but this time with two bowls of his mom’s beef noodle soup in tow.

“Long time, no see,” you greet. Your tone is chipper, but your eyes look heavy, which could be partially from studying, Yangyang thinks. His smile deepens, content that you seem a lot better than the last time he visited.

“Delivery for two,” he raises the bag in his hand.

“And if I told you I already ate dinner?” you playfully retort.

The boyish man shrugs defeatedly, “Then I’ll tell my mom you hate her cooking—”

“You didn’t say it was your mom’s, Yangyang. Oh, my God,” you gasp, half-mockingly. You rush to grab the bags out of his hand and stroll towards your tiny kitchen. “Start off with that next time.”

As you remove the containers from the bag and onto the granite countertop, Yangyang shuts the door and takes his shoes off.

“So, I’m gonna be upfront and say that I may have come here with a proposal.”

“Changed your mind about the shared custody of the Playstation?”

“I’m still considering that one.” Finally in his socks, he slings his backpack off his shoulder and plops it onto the couch along with his jacket. He stands next to you by the counter. “But it’s on the same page as that. Remember that day we were talking about wishlists?”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum as you rip off the lid of one of the bowls. Blatant wisps fly upward and you inhale the savoury aroma, followed by a heavenly sigh.

“Last time I was here… I might’ve seen what you wrote on your laptop.”

Your expression immediately changes into full-on cringe. You bring a palm over to your face.

“Oh, God. Let’s not talk about that. That was just weepy, lonely me talking.”

Yangyang pops off the lid for his bowl and steps into your kitchen, rummaging through your drawers for chopsticks. “So you’re telling me you don’t want a boyfriend for Christmas?”

Your hand flies off your face. Eyes widening, you spew, “Do you have a boyfriend in your pocket, ready for me to have?”

In your open hand, he places a pair of chopsticks into it. “Well, actually, I was thinking—”

Sternly, you point the chopsticks at him. “Don’t you dare set me up with your friends.”

He counters and points his at you, “Even better than that.”

With your interest piqued, you slide yourself onto the counter stool and mix the noodles around, anticipating to hear Yangyang’s fantastic plan. Your friend sits on the other stool, facing you. He pauses for a second, taking a deep breath.

“Why don’t I be your boyfriend for the holidays?”

You freeze, and the noodles’ drips above your bowl are deafening to both individuals. Laughing awkwardly, you break your frozen state to drop your chopsticks and turn your head to look at him.

Sputtering, you say, “What?”

Unnerved, his mouth pinches to one side, thinking maybe he shouldn’t have even said anything in the first place. This was stupid, so stupid, but it’s out in the open and Yangyang already dug his grave—he may as well lay in it.

“Well, for one, it’s something on your wishlist that I can easily get,” he pauses mid-sentence, glancing upward in thought. “Well, really, fill? Is that a better way to put it?”

He continues, eyes back on you, “And two, I’m not setting you up with a stranger or someone you wouldn’t be comfortable with. I assume you know me well enough that you’re comfortable around me?”

Yangyang lifts an upturned palm and raises an eyebrow, waiting for a response to his assumption. Petulantly, you shake your head playfully and stick out your tongue at him.

Rubbing the back of his neck, his gaze drops down to the floor for his last point. His voice lowers.

“And, I don’t know, we��d just hang out like we usually do during that time, except we’d do more couple-y things.”

Realizing the implication of his words, he widens his eyes. “I mean, we'll do whatever you’re comfortable with, obviously. We don’t have to do any of the physical stuff—”

You burst into a giggle at his rambling and hold a hand out, cutting him off. “Okay, Yang. I get it.”

Yangyang watches your next moves carefully. You’re peering off to one side and picking at the tips of your fingers. After a minute that feels like forever, you nod slowly.

“I guess you have a point. We are sorta like a couple already.”

Your best friend sighs in relief, grinning that you’re not outright rejecting the idea.

“So,” you meet his eyes and bunch a shoulder up towards your ear. “We’ll just be a couple until what, New Year’s?”

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugs indifferently. “Whatever you want. It’s your Christmas wish.”

You chuckle and shake your head in disbelief that you two are actually making an agreement for Yangyang to be your temporary, holiday boyfriend.

Honestly, it’s a little crazy... but maybe it’s the perfect thing to get your mind off of Mark and the handful of holiday exes hanging above your head.

“Okay, since my last final is on the 21st, let’s start ‘dating’ then and we’ll play everything by ear, see how it goes.”

Yangyang bobs his head eagerly. “Sounds good, soon-to-be girlfriend.”

He sticks a hand out for you to shake. You take it firmly, sealing the deal and flashing him a grin.

“Soon-to-be boyfriend.”

Although the night goes on like usual between the two of you, you couldn’t deny how ecstatic you are to finally have a boyfriend during the holidays, even if it was technically your best friend as a stand-in.

DECEMBER 21st

Tonight’s your first date with Yangyang.

That sounds weird to say, you admit to yourself, but it’s the truth.

After you stroll out of your last final of the semester, Yangyang’s waiting for you inside near the main exit of the building with several layers on, including his hoodie over his head and a knitted scarf underneath. His attention leaves his phone and he stuffs it into pocket as he notices you heading over.

“Hey, girlfriend,” he welcomes you, beaming.

You snicker at the unfamiliar label. You wonder if you’re going to get used to this, even if it’s only for two weeks.

“Hey, boyfriend,” you grin harder as the word falls from your lips, trying your best not to outright burst into laughter. “Where we heading off to?”

Although you said both of you could play the dating by ear, Yangyang’s been keen on scheduling plans for the upcoming days. You told him he didn’t have to, however, he insisted by saying that he wouldn’t only be a horrible boyfriend, but a horrible friend if he couldn’t make the next weeks fun for you.

Yangyang was anything but a horrible friend, and the fact that he was willing to be your holiday boyfriend to make you happy proved it further. Nevertheless, you gladly let him take the reins.

“I was thinking the movies tonight? See the latest Marvel film?”

Concurring to the idea, you scurry towards the bus stop and are movie-theatre bound to the nearest one off-campus. Arriving at the theatre, Yangyang and you buy your tickets and a popcorn to share, then head into the respective auditorium where the movie is playing. Since the movie’s been running for a couple of weeks, the auditorium is fairly empty, giving you two the chance to snag perfect middle seats with nobody else is in the row.

Up to this point, aside from the name-dropping of boyfriend and girlfriend, this feels less like a date and more like any other hang-out with him. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing awkward.

But that changes during a third of the movie.

You’re both so immersed by the screen that neither party notices the other’s hand when both of you reach for the popcorn in Yangyang’s lap at the same time.

A jolt runs through as your hands brush together. The duo’s eyes tear away from the screen and flit to the action happening in real-time. The touch lingers for several moments.

“Sorry,” you quickly mumble, drawing your hand back slightly, but still hovering over the popcorn.

“Uhm,” Yangyang licks his lips and visibly gulps under the screen’s bright glare.

He whispers, his voice almost cracking, “As your boyfriend, can I hold your hand?”

Okay, this is just your best friend, acting as your temporary boyfriend, asking to hold your hand. No big deal, no big deal at all.

Yet, the thunderous knocking in your ears, louder than the explosions blasting through the theatre’s speakers, suggests otherwise.

You don’t even register it, but you’re already nodding in response. Your breathing slows to the rate of Yangyang’s hand inching over. At the anticipated contact, you gasp softly. His smooth fingers clasp over yours. Since the arm rest in the middle of you is positioned upward, there’s no obtrusion and you relax, letting your hands mingle in between the empty space.

Without looking at one another, both of you smile bashfully to yourselves as you try to continue to focus on the screen.

After a while, because you aren’t exactly holding hands, you spread your fingers, hastily doing so because you don’t want him to think you’re breaking the interaction, and twist your palm to properly interlock hands with him. You give Yangyang’s hand a warm, gentle squeeze. He does the same and even strokes his thumb against your skin.

Talk about playing everything by ear. Who knew you’d be hand in hand on the first date?

You attempt to not think much on it, but Yangyang’s hand in yours feels... so right, like your hand was made for this, for his to hold. Like you should’ve done this way sooner.

And if Yangyang’s thoughts could be heard, he’s thinking the same.

Despite the mutual fear of sweaty palms, neither of you desire to let go, so much that you not only hold hands during the rest of the movie, but throughout the bus ride back to campus and all the way until he escorts you to your front door.

With a certain charge in the atmosphere, you exchange sweet good-byes. That night, after the culmination of stress from finals and your worries of your holiday exes, you finally have a peaceful sleep, looking forward to your date with Yangyang tomorrow.

DECEMBER 22nd

“Babe, how do I look?”

“Very pretty, honey.” A bundled up Yangyang winks at you from behind his phone.

The second date is an evening at a Christmas light festival at a botanical garden on the outskirts of town. The lights illuminate so strongly; there was a glowing dome-like hue over the location that seemed to reach the dark sky as you got off the bus.

When stepping foot into the garden, all the encompassing lights mesmerize you. Lights on the various greenery, lights as decorative art pieces, lights lining the pathways. Different shades of colours and shapes engulf the massive area.

Yangyang’s currently in the middle of taking your photo near an arch tangled with dark blue, gold, and white bulbs. All night long, you’ve been mockingly using endearing terms, but, despite the frigid air, your cheeks heat up over something else he just said.

“You think I’m pretty?” you genuinely ask, breaking your pose.

He lowers his phone a bit, his jaw dangling.

“Uh, I mean,” he giggles awkwardly, nodding softly. “Yeah.”

Yangyang never told you, but he initially sat near you in Psych 101 because he thought you were the most stunning girl in the class. And sure, he was a little disappointed at the time to find out you had a boyfriend, but that didn’t mean you two couldn’t still be friends. Other than the first few weeks he had a crush on you, he’s never thought of you as more than a friend.

But those feelings are resurfacing, hitting him in the chest like a bag of bricks, due to moments like this one—you’re batting your eyelids, gaze straying elsewhere, and adorably chewing on your lower lip.

“And you’re not just saying that as my holiday boyfriend?”

Pouting to one side, he shakes his head cutely. “Mm-mm.”

On the flipside, the beginning with Yangyang for you was strictly platonic. You were dating Haechan at the time you met him. When Haechan broke up with you later that fall, you kept a distance from dating for a while, heartbroken from the high school love gone sour. During that period, you never told him, but you did run through the possibility of dating Yangyang since you got along so well... until you met Jaemin earlier the next semester, who stole your heart. Ever since then, you’ve never seen Yangyang under that light again.

Despite that, you can’t deny how attractive he is, and now that you’re single and technically dating him, you embrace the fact with open arms.

Beaming as bright as the lights, you tug him by the end of his puffer jacket’s sleeve to bring him closer to you.

“C’mon, handsome, let’s take some pictures together.” Prickles rise under Yangyang’s cheeks from the off-hand compliment.

Holding your phone up in the air at about an arm’s length away, the side of your heads touch to prepare for a few selfies. When you finish capturing them, Yangyang’s hovering over your shoulder as you scroll through to glance through the photos.

“We look good together,” you comment. “Don’t you think?”

In sync, your heads turn to meet each other. Your eyes waver from the blatant clouds of your breaths and over to his lips. The clouds become rapid bursts as you begin to lean forward. So does Yangyang.

“Do you guys want a picture together?” someone suddenly asks. The abrupt voice drags you both apart instantly, crushing the moment into pieces.

“Sure,” you peep, fumbling to hand your phone over to the stranger.

Posing, Yangyang’s hand rests around the middle of your back, which is the norm when you take pictures with him, but he pulls you in snugly. You smile even wider, relishing in the new-level of intimacy and allow yourself to be truly content among his presence.

“You guys are such a cute couple,” the stranger gushes while they return your phone prior to walking away.

“I guess we are, huh, babe?” you jut your tongue out in jest at him. This time, you indulge in the endearing term without a sliver of mockery.

Yangyang copies you, jutting his tongue out further than yours, and seizes your hand to continue the tour around the gleaming garden.

The almost-kiss isn’t mentioned for the rest of the night, nor is it acted upon, but both individuals dwell on the near occurrence before sleep that evening, staring longingly at their bedroom ceiling.

DECEMBER 23rd

For the third date, you find yourselves at the campus’ dedicated ice rink arena to partake in ice skating.

You’ve skated a few times in the past, but you’re by no means a pro. On the other hand, this is apparently Yangyang’s first time, and he’s already skating circles around you.

“Show off,” you grumble as he does another lap past you. Your gloved hands are splayed out in front of you, careful not to fall flat on your face.

Turning on his blades, he rebounds over to you.

“Sorry,” he pants. His raised cheeks glow an adorable shade of pink. “This is really fun when you get the hang of it.”

Yangyang intertwines his fingers with yours before you can say anything. “C’mon, take my hand.”

At first, it was sweet to skate alongside your holiday boyfriend, notwithstanding the few times you almost trip. As the minutes pass, you think you’re getting the hang of it, but suddenly, Yangyang unleashes your hand and glides ahead of you, abandoning you to slide at a swift pace that is definitely out of your comfort zone.

“Yangyang, what the fuck?!” you screech, completely disregarding the handful of surrounding parents with their kids, the former sending daggers your direction. Your ankles struggle to make a T-shape to stop, but the struggling only somehow makes you move faster.

As he spins to face you, now skating backwards with ease, he says, “See, you got the hang of it-oomph—”

Air’s struck from his lungs when you crash into his body. Thankfully, Yangyang skids his blades harshly against the ice and is able to steady and support you within his arms.

“You little fucker,” you gripe, lightly punching him in the arm.

He chuckles blithely, “Sorry, but it was kinda funny, you gotta admit.”

You breathe a large huff, which makes you note how your hair is falling over your face after the catastrophe. You’re about to lift your hand to rearrange the strands, but Yangyang beats you to it and is in the midst of tucking them behind your ear.

The knocking in your ears reappears with a vengeance and the physical source of the knocking is thrashing violently against your chest.

Your scorching breaths fuse in the refrigerated rink as Yangyang eliminates the inches of space between, his plush mouth ultimately converging with yours.

You have to constantly remind yourself to breathe under Yangyang’s intensity, and remind yourself that you’re in a public space and shouldn’t be making out like this.

But everyone’s skating around the couple, daring to not disrupt the affectionate display.

God, you don’t know when was the last time you’ve been kissed like this. Have you ever even experienced a kiss that was a fraction of this? Yangyang daintily cups your cheeks like you’re glass, but his lips press ruggedly into yours, inflaming your entirety and melting any existence of your figurative fragility.

You ignore the echo in the back of your mind that reminds you he’s your temporary boyfriend.

The Talk will inevitably occur, but your future self could deal with it. Presently, you’re too caught up, drowning in Yangyang’s embrace.

DECEMBER 24th

On Christmas Eve, Yangyang decides to bring you to an outdoor Christmas market.

Understandably, since it’s the day before Christmas, the place is absolutely packed. For the first fifteen minutes or so, it’s joyous being immersed in the Christmas spirit with the assorted little shops and their respective products. You’re holding Yangyang’s hand tightly, pointing and half-shouting over the bustle about the items that catch your eye.

Unfortunately, someone accidentally bumps against your arms and your hand is gone from his.

Swivelling your head, searching through the crowd, it occurs to you that you officially lost Yangyang.

Your feet come to a halt as your hand attempts to dig into your jacket pocket to pluck your phone out, but the moving crowd forces you to constantly follow the stream.

You yell for him, but words can’t materialize. Your windpipe tightens. Your breath is becoming shallower and shallower. Blood pulses in your ears alarmingly, blocking out the clamour from around you. Your mind’s running everywhere without control.

Where is your boyfriend?

No, scratch that, he’s not your actual boyfriend—where is your best friend?

Did he leave you? He would never.

Right?

But what happens when all of this is over? Will you still have your best friend?

You’ve avoided The Talk long enough, but you didn’t expect to catch feelings for him. Not like this.

Maybe you’re just destined to be alone.

Is this how it feels to actually lose him?

Tears fight your vision. You hear a faint call of your name, but you can’t urge yourself to turn around, sinking only further into the sea of anonymity. You’re just a face in a crowd, all alone, with no one who cares—

Yangyang grasps you by the arm and maneuvers you aside to a less busy area behind one of the vendor stands.

“Oh, God, thought I lost you there—”

You cut him off, hugging him with all your might and stuff your face in his chest cushioned by the downy layers of his winter jacket. Yangyang immediately drapes his arms securely around you, reading your uneasiness.

“Hey, I got you. I got you,” he soothes, running a hand through your hair. “God, not my best idea. Sorry for bringing you here.”

You shake your head, wordlessly informing him that it’s okay. You’re just glad to be with him again.

“Wanna go home?”

You nod solemnly, and Yangyang zips you out of there in minutes with his arm tucked by your side, ensuring he doesn’t lose you in the crowd again.

Fortunately, the jitters mostly disappear when you arrive at your place in the late afternoon. You’re in the middle of rummaging through your keys to unlock your door.

“Sorry I didn’t have anything else planned for today,” he mumbles, leaning with folded arms against the wall.

“Did you...” You insert the correct key and turn the lock, clicking the door open. Your gaze lifts to match his. “Did you wanna maybe have dinner with me tonight? I was thinking of ordering pizza in.”

The grin that reaches his eyes is a sufficient answer for you.

“Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He hangs his arm around your shoulder and plants a kiss atop your head.

After chomping down pizza and playing a few rounds of Super Smash Bros. on Yangyang’s Switch, you peer over to him on your living room couch while he’s figuring out which character he should play next.

The little mental voice in the back of your mind prods you, reminding that you should really, really have The Talk soon. The Talk that you swept under the rug at the start by saying you’d play everything by ear.

Four dates later, and the thought of this ending scares the living daylights out of you. This not only including the interim relationship, but the dire possibility of the friendship itself too. Is it possible to go back to how you were, flipping it off like a light switch?

But the internal voice is smothered as you’re drawn to his pouting lips in thought. His pouting, oh-so kissable lips. Following the ice skating kiss yesterday, you only shared a good-bye kiss when he dropped you off. Since then, you’ve been itching to have his lips on yours again.

Yangyang eventually detects your lack of focus and finds you gawking at his mouth. Your gaze dashes to his eyes, blinking innocently, but then his eyes flicker to your mouth.

The tension in the room snaps. You two carefully throw the Switch controllers off to one side and attach yourselves together. Unlike the crashing of your bodies at the ice rink, this one is purposeful. Deliberated, as his forehead presses into yours and his tender caress carries your cheek. Your body plummets backwards until Yangyang pins you completely into the couch.

Initially, the lip-locking is gentle and mild. Your fingers lay in the vicinity of his angular visage and sturdy upper frame, in contrast to his hand curling around your waist in a light squeeze.

Soon, hands traverse to other regions—his back, your thigh, his stomach, your ass. Each touch seeking, craving, whining. Tongues slinking and dancing with appetite. Your bodies buzz for more.

Open-mouthed kisses transition from the damp lips to each other’s necks. The touches dig deeper, thriving with hunger. Your back bows, body curving into his. Grinding ensues and his robust desire is blatant against your own pulsing passion.

“You don’t happen to have any condoms on you, do you?” you groan upwards to the ceiling.

He retracts from your neck to swing his head side to side, grumbling a “Sorry, we can stop...” yet you interrupt his apology by cupping his covered length. The guttural groan he exhales into your lips makes you shiver with pleasure.

“Doesn’t mean we still can’t have fun with our hands...” you say slyly.

“Fuck yeah,” he rasps, smirking, before diving in again to taste your mouth.

Clothes are stripped with the assistance of each other, leaving you with only your bra on while Yangyang opts to be completely bare. He tops your body in the same position once more.

On the couch arm rest, your head is perched with his hand clutching the space next to it for leverage. Both figures are too scatter-brained to delve into the exquisite nudity of one another, hands flying desperately to your respective arousals.

Your pretty fingers wrap around his possession almost exactly when he dips two digits into your warmth. In unison, two sharp, quiet gasps pierce the room.

“Shit, you’re so wet,” he hisses observantly. You’re so overwhelmed by the bliss that you can’t assemble any sort of response.

Your mouth’s parted to one side, chest soaring with each plunge. Through his clouded vision, he ambles over your curves and lines and yearns to see your breasts, but he respects your choice of keeping it on and opts to ambush the expanse with kisses. Your chest is launched further into his mouth and Yangyang assumes you’re enjoying this.

Fearing friction burn, you drop him from your grip momentarily, swiping a few licks over your palm. When your hand pumps him again, now drenched with saliva, grunts reverberate against your skin.

“Yangyang?” you whimper, causing his face to pull away from the temple of your body.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’m-I’m close.” And he can attest to it; the contractions around him are increasing, harshly squeezing his fingers.

“Same,” he pants.

Your best friend flicks his wrist with ignition, securing your waves of elation. You attempt to do the same, but it’s difficult when he’s also sloppily thrusting himself into your fist, so you simply clench your grasp harder. His features pinch and choppy moans dribble as he yields to his climax, gushing himself over your stomach.

Still sucking in lungfuls of air, Yangyang kisses you tenderly before removing himself to clean up the mess he made.

Following the clean-up, while putting on your clothes, Yangyang expresses how he should get going since it’s getting late.

“Did you wanna stay the night?” you pipe up.

His mind races, debating on whether to leave or not, anxious to blur the lines of your relationship even further.

Sure, he’s your temporary boyfriend, thus staying over at your place shouldn’t mean anything. But this agreement is ending next week, and he’s questioning if you two can stay just friends after this, knowing that he’s going to want more. Yangyang has had a taste of the what if, and it’s now irrevocable.

He wants you all for himself. Selfishly, but deeply.

For the sake of keeping this a great thing for you, he shoves his thoughts aside. This is all about you and for your benefit, anyhow.

“Uh, sure, I can take the couch like I always—”

“Yangyang, you just put your fingers inside of me,” you snicker, snagging him by the hand to your bedroom. “C’mon.”

The rest of the night is relatively chaste with some kisses and touches here and there. Eventually, you fall asleep facing each other with your fingers interlocked, excited for the big day tomorrow.

DECEMBER 25th

Normally on Christmas, Yangyang and you spend it with your respective families, but coincidentally, both of your families, your parents being retired and all, ended up vacationing this year, leaving the two of you to spend it with each other.

After getting up around noon, Yangyang heads to his place to grab his gift. He takes longer than you expected because, as it turns out, he also went home to grab baking goods he bought beforehand since he wants to make butter cookies with you today.

The cookies end up fine, but the mess is another story. Besides the chaos on the counter, your faces and aprons are splotched with flour (you swear he started it, but he disagrees and stands his ground that you’re the perpetrator). With a damp cloth, Yangyang aids you to clean, but not forgetting to wipe your face and giving you pecks over your cheeks and nose.

The baking and aftermath occupies most of the afternoon, so dinner comes in the form of fancy, romantic instant ramen for two. Afterwards, you two sit in your living room and start to exchange gifts.

Yangyang hands his over to you first. From the size of the gift and the crumpled, oddly-shaped wrapping, you already can guess it’s a stuffed plushie of a cute animal to add to your never ending collection. You hug it tightly with a large smile.

“It’s so cute, thank you!” you squeal, but you change your expression in an instant to a serious pout. “But you can’t steal this one like you did with my Ice Bear plushie.”

“Hey, I didn’t steal Ice Bear, I just forgot to give him back.” You roll your eyes sarcastically and he laughs. “I’ll bring him over tomorrow, if it makes you feel better.”

Then, when it’s your turn, you head into your bedroom and come out with a large, white shopping bag. His eyebrows raise, unsure of what could warrant a gift this size.

“For being my holiday boyfriend,” you grin, placing the bag in front of his feet.

Despite the hugest smile on your face, his heart sinks at the label for a second, but he blinks and wills himself to look inside the bag.

His eyes shoot open, so much that you’re scared you might have to stuff them back into his sockets.

Yangyang slips the box out of the bag with precision and stares at it speechlessly.

It’s the new Playstation.

He shifts his eyes toward you. You’re swaying on the couch, pleased by his reaction.

“Your parents paid for most of it, so I can’t take all the credit.” Sticking a finger in the air, you add, “You just gotta promise to share custody with me though—”

A hand behind your head yanks you into a deep kiss. He’s not the only one left speechless on the couch. He places the top of his head against yours.

“You’re crazy, but I love—” He quickly catches himself from saying something he might regret. “—I love it so much, thank you. Now I feel bad for getting you only the stuffed animal...”

You shake your head softly, brushing your thumb against his cheekbone.

“Thank you for everything.” Your eyes twinkle. “I couldn’t have asked to spend the holidays with anyone else.”

Carefully, like a newborn baby, he safely situates the boxed Playstation to one side and nabs your lips with his again. The scene feels like repeat of last night as your bodies wrestle passionately on the couch.

“Not to be presumptuous,” he mutters between the kisses upon your neck. Your eyelids flutter at the sensation. “But I also grabbed condoms from my place when I stopped by.”

His words sends the two of you leaping towards your bedroom. Under the dim lighting, you fall into the bed as Yangyang pares your layers off, one by one. With each peel, his lips roam the revealing bare skin. You swear he has kissed you from your literal head to toe when you’re fully nude in front of him.

Your companion drags his shirt over his head, throws it off to your floor, and immediately targets in onto your nub with his mouth, finally satiating his craving from last night.

Fingers thread into his hair and over his flexed back. His tongue swirls and his teeth lightly tug on your perkiness, making your eyes roll to the back of your head. And he still isn’t even inside you yet.

After leaving love upon your other bosom, Yangyang fumbles with the condom, forgetting which way it should go on. Giggling, you perch yourself onto your elbows and assist him. Rolling it over his possession, you recline yourself back and spread your legs for him.

Pensively, he sticks his tongue out as he adjusts himself between your sex, easing himself into you, and upon the full impact, you meet his gaze head-on. His stare makes you feel vulnerable and exposed beyond the physical plane.

But, unlike the others you have been with, you trust him with everything, like you always have, and be free with him. Losing your inhibitions and submitting to your whims, you entangle and become one with Yangyang.

Behind his hazy vision, Yangyang’s simply thinking how beautiful you are, how he can’t imagine anyone else under his touch but you, how he is willing to give up anything to make you smile.

Well, in this case, he’s willing to give up anything to make you pleased.

However, it doesn’t seem like he needs to do much because you’re howling his name and clinging onto his skin and the sheets in a frenzy, like you’re about to die of exhaustion.

You perish a few times under him before he finally reaches his little death himself, convulsing into the sheath.

When air’s replenished into your bodies, you rest on his chest under your blanket. Glancing up at him, you move some of his tousled hair off his sleek forehead.

“Merry Christmas, Yangyang,” you whisper, snuggling him with a satisfied smile.

“Merry Christmas, babe,” he whispers back, giving you one last peck before you both drift into a deep slumber together.

DECEMBER 26th

Last night took so much out of the both of you, you don’t get out of bed until about the middle of the afternoon. Yangyang doesn’t have anything planned for today since it’s Boxing Day, since the crowds might be crazy wherever you go, so it’s officially a chill, rest day for you both.

When you step out of the shower in fresh clothes, from behind the couch, you watch Yangyang gaming on his Switch.

The little voice in your head looms, prompting that now is the time to have The Talk, and speaks up on your behalf.

“Do we have to end things next week?” you croak.

You see Yangyang’s shoulders stiffen, then he pauses the game and turns around to face you. His gaze follows you as you step closer to the couch, opting to stand.

“Uhm.” His Adam’s apple bobs and he shrugs. “It’s up to you, it’s your—”

“Yangyang, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking what you think, how do you feel?”

His lips press together and he’s staring at the floor. You can tell the gears are moving, but you can’t read his expression clearly.

“I’m down for whatever you want to do,” he says slowly, eyes still averting yours.

That’s a I’m-your-best-friend answer, you deduce. Not a I-want-to-be-your-actual-boyfriend answer.

He adds, stuttering, “I mean, I wouldn’t mind doing this a little longer if that’s what you want—”

Your face scrunches in annoyance. “Did you just sign up to be my short-term boyfriend so you can fill my empty heart?”

His eyebrows crease with confusion. “I mean, I never want to see you unhappy.”

“So it’s pity dating then?” you lash, raising your voice.

“No, I—” Yangyang bites down on his tongue, almost letting the one word slip out again. He blows out a lengthy sigh and runs a hand through his hair. “I care about you, so much. I’d do anything to make you happy.”

You’re defining his words as an affirmation of friendship and as an underlying rejection of your love.

You need to know for certain.

“Do you love me, Yangyang?” you blurt. “As more than a friend?”

This is it, Yangyang thinks. This is your chance to let her know how you feel.

But the distress written on your face makes him wonder if he should even go through with it, and it’s intensifying with every passing moment that he’s not speaking.

If only he knew your distress was deepening because you took his hesitance as absolute rejection.

Your heart is breaking because of him, and he technically wasn’t even yours to begin with.

You smack your lips together and gulp a few times, trying to make the huge knot in your throat disappear.

“You know what, maybe let’s just forget this arrangement and leave it all behind and forget about the sex and—”

“You wanna stop this?” he utters quietly.

The word “this” hangs heavy in the air. This, carrying the weight of not only being the temporary agreement, but also your friendship.

“Yeah,” you whisper, tears beginning to blur your eyes. “I think I do.”

DECEMBER 28th

Two days have passed since you last saw Yangyang.

That day before he left, Yangyang, feeling guilty for how events unfolded, wanted to give back the Playstation, but you insisted for him to keep it. In spite of everything, it was a Christmas gift to him from you and his parents.

But both of you weren’t sure if the shared custody promise was going to be held up.

In hopes that things would eventually get better and heal itself, Yangyang thought it’d be best to leave you alone for a while, like how he usually did.

And maybe he was right to do so, but this time is different.

Because he’s on the other end of the stick now; he’s the one who broke your heart.

Under regular circumstances, whenever you needed space, he was always ready to be there by your side.

But Yangyang’s uncertain if you’re going to let him comfort you this time.

And you’re uncertain if you even want him to.

DECEMBER 30th

Today, Yangyang finally makes the move to get in touch with you, texting you to call him, but you don’t, so he leaves a voicemail later in the evening.

“There’s a New Year’s party I’m going to tomorrow,” he starts off, then spews the specific details.

There’s a pause and you hear shuffling in the background. You assume he’s pacing around.

“I know you ended our agreement, but I wouldn’t mind fulfilling my end since New Year’s is the last day tomorrow. I’d be really glad if you came to the party with me, whether it be as my friend or my girlfriend.”

Another pause.

On the other end, Yangyang rubs his palm over his face, considering whether or not he should say it. If you picked up the phone call, he was going to do it anyway, but this just felt improper. He wants to say it when he knows you’re listening in real-time, so he ends off the message with:

“I miss you. So much.”

DECEMBER 31st

It’s 8:40PM. Before Yangyang buses out to the party, he’s back at your front door for one more shot. His fist taps at your door, cognizant that you wouldn’t be elsewhere since your other friends are out of town for the holidays. Despite that, you don’t come to the door. Nevertheless, he speaks to you through the wooden barrier.

“Hey, I know you want to be left alone, but I just wanted to see if you changed your mind about the party.”

Still no answer. He lets out a sigh and prays the following will incite a reaction from you.

“About the question that you asked me that night...”

He closes his eyes and allows his mouth to carry him.

“I do. I do love you. As both my best friend and more. I’m sorry if I hurt you that night by not saying anything, but I love you so much and I think we should give us a shot.”

Still no answer. Yangyang continues.

“Look, I know it’s scary and crazy to date your best friend. I’m scared too, but you know what? I’m okay with being scared. I’ve watched you gone through those assholes over the last few years and maybe you’re scared I’ll end up like one of them, but unlike them, I don’t think you’re horrible or needy or emotional—you’re beautiful, intelligent, and strong for putting up with all those fuckers.”

He leans his forehead gently against the door.

“And even if we ever do break up, and this is a big if because I’ll always try my hardest with you to make it work, I’ll still be your friend. I promise. You won’t lose me ‘cause I need you in my life. I gotta keep my end up for the custody of the Playstation, right?”

A smile breaks over his face from his joke, but still. Radio silence.

“Can you at least say something?” he begs.

After a few minutes, realizing he needs to probably give you more time to be left alone, he departs and heads to the party.

Originally, you actually were planning on attending the party to see Yangyang to make-up with him.

Unfortunately, out of all the days you had to take a late afternoon nap, it had to be today.

And you overslept. Big time.

At 10:55PM, you scramble awake, realizing you’re absolutely late to the event. Since the party’s downtown, you know calling an Uber or Lyft there would be fast, but tonight’s the worst night for any share riding service and there aren’t any available drivers. Thus, you have to manage with busing there.

It’s 11:40PM when you finally reach downtown, but the bus can’t take you all the way to the core centre where the party is; hordes of people are out on the streets and traffic is dreadful. God, you’re going to be cutting it close to midnight, but you make a run for it.

You’re grateful the party is on the second floor of a small building because you slide in right through the entrance at 11:58PM. You rush to call Yangyang’s phone, hoping he’ll pick up as you try to find him in the scattered groups of people.

You begin to holler for him in hopes he can hear you, but the countdown is happening, drowning out your voice. Thirty seconds left until the clock strikes for the new year.

When his number finally goes to voicemail, you redial his number. Suddenly, a hand grasps you by the wrist.

Yangyang looks at you, dumbfounded.

“When did you get here?”

The harmonious chanting around you floods your surroundings.

“Ten, nine, eight...”

Getting closer to him, you practically scream into Yangyang’s face, trusting he’ll hear what you’re about to say.

“I know Christmas is over, but I want to change my wish.”

“Seven, six, five...”

“I know you might not feel the same and I know things might not work out.”

“Four, three, two...”

”But I wish to date you past New Year’s until whenever, however long we last.”

“One...”

“I love you, Yangyang—”

The one you love snatches you by the waist and your cheek, stealing your lips at the last millisecond before midnight.

“Happy New Year!”

A wave of noisemakers, clappers, and hollering erupt around the room. After it dies down a bit, Yangyang shocks you with a scolding.

“Why didn’t you say anything when I came over?!”

Confusion rushes over you. You realize he probably came by when you were sleeping.

“You came over?!”

“Yeah, I confessed my love for you.”

“Wait,” you blink blankly, unsure if you heard him correctly. “Your love?”

“Yeah,” he nods, giving you his cheesy, adorable smile. “I love you.”

“As more than a friend?” you clarify.

“Babe,” Yangyang’s thumb caresses your cheek. “I don’t think I could ever go back to wanting less with you.”

Your lips tremble with relief as your gaze melts in his.

“And, anyway, who else am I going to share the Playstation with?”

“Well, I mean, you do have Hendery, Xiaojun, Winwin...” you start to count his infinite list of friends on your fingers.

“Yeah, but I need you so I can constantly beat your cute little butt at games.”

“You do not constantly beat my cute little butt at games, I’ll have you know that I beat you at—”

Yangyang shuts you up with another kiss, the one of many for the rest of the night.

JANUARY 2nd

It’s your second morning at Yangyang’s place. You’ve only done it a few times now, but you realize that waking up in his arms is one of the greatest feelings in the world, second only to his kisses.

In his bed, spooning you from behind, he grumbles into the nape of your neck, “Morning, girlfriend.”

Half-awake, you mumble back, “Morning, boyfriend,” and sink deeper into the curve of his body.

Content, you finally broke your string of cursed holiday break-ups for good.

And all it took was to be with the one who was in front of you all this time.

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aggravatetheaxe · 3 years

Text

BO SINCLAIR X TRANS MAN / MAN ALIGNED READER COMING OUT - Pt. 1 - Under Your Skin

This title is SAFE FOR WORK. Pt. 2, Over the Moon, will be NSFW. I'll link that here when it's written!

You met Bo while you were still presenting as a woman. Suffice to say things have changed, and you can't keep your secret from him any longer. You have no choice but to tell him or leave ... but what if he makes you leave anyway?

CW: descriptions of dysphoria that get very intense, deadnaming/misgendering, mentions of murder and mortal peril, it's 2005 and Bo is from the south so just be advised it's not all fluff and rainbows (but there is payoff, this isn't straight angst, it's just a journey)

Soundtrack: x

Words: 4,175

Part Two

Masterlist

***

Your shoulders were stiff. Your throat was dry. Your leg was bouncing, the only thing you could do to release the nervous energy juttering through your body.

You were going to tell him.

You'd put it off for months now, not quite sure how to say the words. Then, when you'd arranged them in your head, fear had kept you from saying them out loud. But you couldn't wait anymore. You couldn't live like this any longer.

You'd been hiding the secret for too long. Every time Bo called you by your birth name or made some quip about you being his girl, your heart shriveled just a little more. It had gotten to the point where you didn't even want compliments from him ... you didn't want to talk. You didn't even really want to sleep with him, didn't like to think about him looking at you as a woman during sex.

He didn't know, of course. But that almost made it worse. He couldn't stop hurting you and you couldn't yell at him for it. It was always the same: you lost control, you got frustrated, wouldn't tell him why, he'd get frustrated, you'd fight ... it was a mess. You knew all that was putting a strain on your relationship.

So it had to be tonight.

It had to be tonight.

You had everything planned. You'd already gone into town with Lester and picked up some stuff for a nice dinner; there was a fresh, cold six-pack of Bud in the fridge; and Rocky III was sitting in the VHS player, ready to go. Once he was relaxed, you'd talk to him.

You'd convinced yourself so fully that you'd stick to the plan that when you heard his truck pull up and your heart leapt into your throat, you nearly cried. Fuck, not again. Not another night. You were supposed to be stronger than this.

Stomping boots on the porch. You heard the door swing open from the kitchen. "I'm home."

He didn't sound like he was in a particularly good mood, but it didn't sound like a bad one, either. That was good news, at least. Things must have gone okay down at the shop. "I'm in here!" you called back.

Bo appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, tracking a little gravel into the house as always. He leaned against the doorframe with one hand on his hip, gesturing with his chin. "Hey, sugar. What you got there?"

You looked down at the meal you were plating. "I thought I'd try a pot roast? I dunno. I don't think it came out very good, but I guess we'll see."

He didn't say anything. You glanced over your tense shoulder to see him simply staring at you, like he was trying to read your thoughts. You could sense the gears in his head turning behind those clever blue eyes of his. He knew there was something wrong; you were guarded.

For a moment, you thought he might say something. That familiar little bit of irritation was beginning to creep into his face, right around his neck and jaw. But after a few seconds, he simply said, "A'right," and straightened. "M'gonna go change."

"'Kay." As he stomped up the stairs, you finished getting the food ready and brought the plates to the living room. Bo usually ate at the table—"I ain't a savage"—but you could tell he liked eating on the couch. It was like a special treat. And clearly, you were short on charm at the moment, so you'd have to use your environment to your advantage.

You pulled up two tray tables and set the food down, then fetched the beer. By the time everything was set up, Bo was coming back down the stairs.

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to look at him. He was wearing jeans and a red flannel, sleeves rolled up. At this point, he didn't care about you seeing his scars. You hardly noticed them anymore.

He came closer and slowed to a stop, forehead wrinkling as he eyed your set-up. "What's all this about?"

"I was thinking dinner and a movie." You paused. "I thought Rocky might get the taste of my cooking out of your mouth."

You succeeded in making him laugh a little, crow's feet crinkling, but as he took a step closer, his smile faded. "Did you do somethin'? Is somethin' broken?" He glanced quickly, running his gaze over the clutter his parents had left behind.

"Nothing's wrong," you reassured him quickly, stepping back into his line of sight in the hopes of distracting him. "I just thought, you know, we could have a nice night. Like ... romantic?"

He stared at you for a moment. Then, his gaze lit, a toothy smile appearing. "Romantic, huh? Well hell, sweetie, why didn't ya say so?"

He clearly thought you meant sex. In fact, the way he was looking at you, you thought he'd jump you right up against the pool table if you let him. Your dysphoria made sex so unbearable that you'd been avoiding it when you could lately, and you were sure he missed it.

You were lucky he hadn't gotten mean yet. You guessed that was a testament to how much he must like you. But who knew if he'd like you after tonight?

Quickly, you shoved a beer into his hand, redirecting his attention as you slid onto the couch and clicked play. He slid into place beside you, relaxing back with his legs spread.

You both picked at your food—you because you were way too nervous to eat, and him because ... well, you assumed it was because he was waiting for you to initiate the "romance." He did eventually finish his meal, though, complimenting you with one of his "So good, baby"s and a boozy kiss.

The movie droned on, and eventually, he wrapped an arm around you. As he did, you relaxed, if only a little. You wanted to settle into him ... you wanted it more than anything in the world. You did love him. But who did he love? The woman he thought he was putting his arm around wasn't you.

"What's wrong?" His tone was firm and sudden after such a long stretch of silence.

You blinked at him. "Nothing."

He wasn't buying it, and he didn't look impressed. "There's no point in lyin'a me, darlin'. I know when somethin' ain't right." Then, with a little edge to his voice, "You know I get pissed when you brush me off."

"I'm just..." You sighed, setting your beer aside and rubbing your forehead. "I'm just tired, that's all."

"Let's go to bed, then." In one fluid motion, he stood and turned off the TV. "Hope you're not too tired," he added quietly.

It was equal parts insult, warning, and come-on, and it exhausted you as much as it panicked you. You weren't ready to tell him just yet. You'd figured you still had a few hours, but ... well, if you pissed him off now, all this nice set-dressing had been for nothing. Then you'd either have to tell him while he was in a bad mood or spend another night as someone you weren't.

Biting back a sigh, you stood, too. He was waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, and let you go up first.

"Nice view from back here," he said smoothly. "Almost wanna tell you to start runnin'."

Shit. You needed an excuse to buy yourself a little time. "Can you shower first?"

You knew the question ticked him off because he didn't answer it. He followed you to your shared room, grabbed a towel, and left for the bathroom in heated silence.

The shower would make him feel better. It always did. He'd scald himself like he liked, then come out much calmer. Hopefully. You changed and took your place in bed, sitting under the blankets with your pillow propping you up. Waiting.

You were wrong about the calm. When he came back into the bedroom—red-skinned and completely naked, towel occupied in his hair—he was scowling at the floor. You waited for him to yell. It was inevitable.

When he did finally say something, his tone was quieter than you imagined, though simmering. "Why are you doin' this to me?"

You didn't respond, mostly because you had no idea which this he was talking about.

"Hurts my pride, y'know." He began toweling his body. Rather roughly, you noticed. "My girl don't wanna fuck me. You know how that feels as a man? You think I wanna have to— hurt you?"

A pause. "Bo..."

"Am I gonna have to get it somewhere else? Fuck, Deadname."

You shrank in bed. That name made you feel rotten to the core. It was like poison slowly choking your veins. You had to do this ... but you couldn't. But you had to.

Bo was unaware of the war going on inside of you as he turned, leaning against the dresser, arms back to clutch the edge. "Is it someone else?" You could tell he was murderous just thinking about that possibility, gaze aflame, jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break teeth. "Is it Vincent?"

"What? No!" Why he'd think that when you'd only ever expressed mild concern for Vincent's well-being, you had no idea. "There's no one else, Bo, I just—"

"Then what's a matter with you, huh?" He raised his voice. "Am I too rough, am I too— Jesus Christ, you gotta at least tell me what the damage is!"

Your conflicting emotions threatened to overwhelm you. You yelled back, "It's not you!"

"Then what the hell is it?!"

"It's me!"

He opened his mouth to shout back, but only managed, "What in the f—" before he lost steam, searching your face helplessly. Something about the way you looked must have given him pause. You meant what you said. Desperately, desperately. It was you. You were the problem.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low, glare pointed. "You been off all night. Hell"—one of those incredulous laughs that betrayed his genuine anger—"you been off for a while. Least you can do is tell me what the fuck is goin' on."

He was right. No turning back now. You took a deep, grounding breath. "Okay."

A moment of hesitation. Did you want him close or across the room like that, just in case? Eventually, you decided you needed him close. You patted the bed beside you.

Bo grabbed a pair of boxer-briefs, stepping into them on his way over. His expression was still twisted sourly, but you could sense him relax as he sat in bed next to you. He didn't meet your eye, simply looking down at the sheets. Beneath the anger, a begrudging expectation simmered. Did he think you were going to break things off?

That thought spurred you into taking his hand, squeezing lightly. "I love you so fucking much."

He glanced to the side. At length, he mumbled, "You, too."

You took another deep breath, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "There's something I haven't told you about me. And it's really been stressing me out lately. That's why I've been acting so weird." When he didn't reply, you continued, "It's been making it ... hard to be close to you. I don't like the way lying to you makes me feel, and I've been ... scared, so fucking scared, Bo."

He glanced at you again, brows drawn, this time with confusion rather than anger. "So what is it? What the hell can be so big an' important that you can't stand bein' around me?" A pause. "I mean shit, Deadname, you know I kill people for a livin'. My fucked up twin turns 'em into wax. You know about the fuckin' dungeon—what could be bigger'n that?"

That fucking name. You couldn't take it anymore. Your voice cracked as you whispered, "You need to stop calling me Deadname."

"What? Why?" He frowned deeply. "That's your name, ain't it?"

"It's not the name I want to be called."

You could almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tried to figure out what was going on. "Okay ... so it ain't your real name. Why you goin' around using a fake name?" His gaze turned flinty and cold. "You're a cop."

"No!" You held up your hands. "No, I didn't lie about who I was, not ... not in the way you're thinking. I was born with that name; everything I've told you about my life and where I came from, all those things were true. I never lied about any of that."

"Then what is it?" He was getting angry again. "Spit it out!"

Well, since he asked... "I don't want to use that name because ... it's a woman's name. And I'm not a woman. I'm a man."

Bo stared for a few seconds, then scanned you up and down once. His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "You were ... born a man? Then how come your name—"

"No, no." You pursed your lips, taking his hand hesitantly again. "I was ... I guess for simplicity's sake you could say I was born a girl. I was born with a vagina, I developed breasts and started my period naturally. But I'm not a girl. Like, in my head. In my brain, I'm actually a man."

He didn't believe you. You could see it in his face. But you weren't planning on giving up that easily. You knew what he'd be thinking; you'd planned this whole thing out so carefully, chosen your words so precisely.

"It's not ... a delusion or anything. It's actually more common than people think. It's called being transgender. When you're born one gender but you want to be another."

He frowned, obviously completely lost. He wasn't getting it. He just didn't fucking understand. And you were growing desperate.

"Bo." Your throat was raw, tears threatening your eyes. "Every time you call me your girl, or you refer to me as a woman, or you use that name ... I fucking hate it. It hurts. It hurts so goddamn bad to know you're not seeing the real me. It makes me not see the real me. I look in the mirror and I just want to ... tear my skin off. Sometimes I just wanna take a knife and— and fix me. Cut out whatever part of me makes it hurt so bad. I just want to be seen as who I am so bad."

"Okay." You didn't like the way he was looking at you, but the anguish in your voice had at least moved him to speak. You could see in his eyes that he was working overtime to puzzle this out. "So, what? What're you gonna do? What's it mean for us?"

"Well..." You had to break eye contact, staring down at his hand. "What I'd like to do is start living as a man. You know, dressing like a man—which I already pretty much do—going by a different name, maybe cutting my hair. You could call me 'he' ... I might even get medicine later on down the line, like hormones, to make me look squarer. Maybe even surgery."

"You gonna get a dick?" The almost mocking tone of his voice made you want to shrivel up and die. He seemed to pick up on the change in your body immediately and shifted his tone. "I'm askin'."

"No, that's not a thing. But I'm gonna be a man regardless." Finally, you released his hand, though you still couldn't look at him. "What that means for us is ... up to you, I guess. It'd mean you were dating a guy. I mean, you have been this whole time—"

"I didn't fucking know," he cut in firmly.

A jolt of fear lanced your heart. "I know. That's my fault; I didn't tell you. I was ... scared."

"Scared of what?" he pressed, tone growing aggressive.

"I don't know. Of you being mad. Or not loving me anymore." You glanced up. "I love you. Seriously, I do. More than anything. I still want to be with you, just ... as a man."

There was silence. A horrible, stretching, heavy silence that made you want to hang your head and cry. After a while, Bo rose from bed, going to the dresser and pulling on jeans and a T-shirt, all in that silence.

Was he ... leaving you? No, he wouldn't leave his own house, he'd make you leave. Or kill you. But he certainly wasn't opening his arms to you. Waves of sadness crashed over your chest, so intense you thought you'd throw up.

He seemed to contemplate the dresser for an extended period. Then, he glanced over his shoulder, just barely. "I need ta' think."

And with that, he was out the door. He didn't come back to bed that night. The next morning, you found his pillow on the couch.

***

Vincent was next on your list of people to tell. It turned out he was a big help, bigger than you could have ever realized he would be. You had to explain yourself, but he took it in stride, calling you by your new chosen name and even helping you come up with a sign for it.

« Did you tell Bo? » he eventually asked you.

"I told him last night." Your eyes were still puffy and red from your night alone, and the morning following it. You still hadn't seen him, but you could hear music blaring from the garage, so you at least knew where he was.

« How did he take it? »

"He isn't speaking to me."

Vincent paused. His wax face was blank as always, but you could tell he was considering something. « Did he yell? »

"No ... he just said he would think about it."

A low grunt, and Vincent nodded. « Then let him think. »

And he did think. He thought about it every night from then on. You could see him thinking during meal times, when you brought him lunch down at the shop, when he was watching TV. You noticed him zoning out in the middle of reading sometimes: paperback crunched and folded in one hand, other hand pressed to his grim mouth, those blue eyes glassy and staring at nothing. Thinking.

He hardly ever spoke to you outside of necessary communication. Before bed, he told you goodnight, but it was ... heavy. He didn't roll over to touch you or hold you anymore. The distance was yawning and heartbreaking, especially when you were alone. The silence was so pregnant with unsaid words and all his damn thoughts.

You wanted to ask if he was mad, but you didn't dare. He didn't seem mad, and you knew a thing or two about his moods. This seemed ... different. So you simply didn't say anything.

And then, one day...

"Hey, handsome."

His voice practically made you jump out of your skin. You, Vincent, and Bo—and sometimes Lester—divided who would have to go into the houses in Ambrose to dust and clean, and today was your day. He'd snuck up on you in the middle of oiling some of the rigs like he'd taught you.

"Uh. Hey." You managed a hasty smile, uncertain you'd actually heard him call you what you thought he had. "What're you doing here?" After a week of him barely speaking to you, it seemed odd that he'd start now.

Bo took a few steps in, looking away and reaching to fiddle with a knick-knack on a nearby side table. "Just thought I'd come check up on you. You are my, uh ... boyfriend, after all."

You stopped dead in the middle of spraying WD-40, staring over your shoulder. What?

When he felt you staring, he lifted his gaze. There was an uncertainty there, discomfort, along with a challenge. "What?"

"Nothing." You turned back to your work. After a few seconds, you added, "Thank you."

He didn't respond, but he eventually sidled up to you, surveying your work. "Not half bad. Yeah, you're doin' real good." He reached up to adjust his hat, and you could feel his gaze on you. "We'll make a man outta you yet."

You couldn't help it—your face burned. "Girls can maintain machinery, too, Bo."

"Yeah, I know that, but you—" An edge of irritation entered his voice. "Now you're just confusin' me."

You set down the WD-40 and turned, searching his face. By god, he really was trying, wasn't he? It was almost cute how bad he was at it, but he was trying. Vincent had been right.

"You never asked my name," you eventually muttered.

"Vincent told me it. Y/N." He said it again, rolling it around on his tongue. "Y/N ... in'erestin' choice. I guess it suits ya." A pause, and he lowered his voice. "Gonna take me some gettin' used to."

"That's okay," you said quickly. "As long as you're trying."

"Yeah, well..." Bo paused before reaching out, brushing his fingers through your hair. "Gonna miss all this."

You leaned into his hand. "I might not cut it. I haven't decided yet."

He grunted, continuing to brush his fingers through your hair. You could see his expression drift back to that thoughtfulness you'd gotten used to seeing. Eventually, he said, "Guess this makes me gay."

He sounded so begrudging and yet so decisive that you almost laughed in his face. Thankfully, you were able to bite back your reaction. "You don't have to be. You can be whatever you want. But ... if you stayed with me, it would mean you were attracted to at least one man, yeah."

"Fine." He pursed his lips, huffing through his nose. "Bi-sexual or whatever."

"You don't have to put a label on it right now. You've got time." You hesitated before taking his large hands in yours, bringing them to cup your jaw. "This ... you know ... it isn't something that has to happen overnight. I'm not asking that. It's a process for both of us ... a lot to get used to for both of us."

"Sure the hell is." He scoffed and shoved his hat up his forehead, scratching his hairline. "Now I want you to tell me somethin'. Why were you so damn scared of tellin' me?"

You took a breath. "I mean ... Bo."

"What?"

"I'm in the south ... alone, no family ... in a town where you could kill me if I pissed you off and no one would ever know." He made a face, but you pressed: "You know where I come from. Things are dangerous there, and things around here are even—"

"You think just 'cause you're in the country folks are gonna treat you different?" He sounded offended.

"Bo," you said again. "Let's not kid ourselves. How many guys do you know who would beat my ass if they found out? If they found out I liked other men, even."

"Couple assholes. But they ain't gonna bother you with me around. B'sides, plenty a' gays around here, like any other place ... they're just drillin' and weldin' and workin' the factories." He fixed you with a look. "Country don't mean stupid."

"Did you just quote The Stand?"

"No," he said hastily, taking his hat off and shoving it in the back pocket of his Dickies. "All I'm sayin' is ... I'm not some dumb animal."

Your shoulders sank, heart softening. "I know you're not, baby. But you have been known to, y'know, murder people. You can understand why I was scared, can't you?"

His mouth twitched, but reluctantly, he mumbled, "Yeah, I guess." A pause. "I can't promise I won't never hurt you, Deadn— Y/N. I know I can be real careless with my words on occasion. But I won't kill ya. Don' know if I could reconcile that shame. And, uh ... I love you."

Your heart swelled, and you leaned forward, hugging him tightly around the middle. It wasn't long until you felt his strong, warm arms enfold you in return, one hand tangling in your hair. His heartbeat was steady and comforting beneath your head, and the heat radiating from him relaxed every muscle in your body.

The two of you stayed that way for a while, hugging tightly while the TV droned in the background. Eventually, he shifted and spoke, his voice rumbling deliciously against you.

"Now if you don't mind," Bo started casually before dropping into a purr, "I'd like a kiss from my handsome lover."

You couldn't help but grin up at him. "You sure?"

"Lay it on me, big boy."

Maybe you were evil for loving him despite it all. Maybe you were complicit. Those weren't your judgments to make. But as you craned your neck to kiss him and euphoria exploded through your chest, you knew one thing for certain:

You were you.

***

Part Two

Masterlist

Tip Jar

#bo sinclair imagine #bo sinclair #bo sinclair x you #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair x y/n #house of wax 2005 #slasher fic #slasher x reader #slasher x you #slasher imagine #written #vincent sinclair

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salazarslytherin · 3 years

Text

belong (h.p x y/n)

requested : yes!!! my very first :D [So I don’t know if your up for request but if you are would you mind to do a dom Harry x fem reader and him using different toys on you. You can ignore this if you want ! Anyhow have a nice day !! :)] send in your own request here!

🃛 masterlist!

cw / tw : smut!!!!, name-calling, slight degradation, dom!harry, references like sir etc., bondage, slight exhibitionism, sex toys, anal play, edging, overstimulation, jealousy, possessiveness

word count: 2780 my goodness i just ran with this request huh..

a/n: slight au in this one, basically voldy doesn't exist, like he died or wtv idk . just normal hogwarts with high-school dynamics. hope you enjoy!

"Who do you belong to darling?"

The answer was muffled through the cries that escaped your lips, but Harry gently hit your bum, letting out a harsh 'speak' as he thrust into you, eliciting a soft mewl from your lips as you gasped.

"You, Harry, only you. No one else could make me feel as good as you do!"

⚔︎

It was the party of the year. The Slytherin common-room was in full swing as all four houses meshed together to simply wind down after exams and have a good time. You'd gone to the party with a few girl friends from your dorm, Harry promising to meet you there after he was done with quidditch practice.

"Hey y/l/n! Want a drink?"

Zabini approached you sitting on the couch, two red solo cups in hand as he passed one to you, flopping down on the green satin couch and wrapping an arm around you. The two of you weren't exactly friends, but also weren't exactly strangers. You shared flirty comments in potions, but both of you knew nothing serious would come from it. He was just fun to be around, and you knew he felt the same about you.

Oh, and there was something else about him.

Seeing you talk to Blaise drove Harry absolutely insane.

It wasn't that Harry didn't trust you, he definitely did. He just was an incredibly possessive guy, and you found it really, really hot. But also, you found yourself enjoying Blaise's company, so you grew closer to the Slytherin. Playing with fire more and more as the days passed. ⚔︎ Harry stepped into the Slytherin Common Room laughing, the door closing behind him as he slapped Ron on the back. Scanning the room, the laughter dissipated and his jaw clenched, unconsciously gripping Ron's shirt which had the ginger wincing, looking to see what had pissed his best friend off. Ron's eyes landed on you, clad in a tight-fitting dress, sitting with Zabini's arm wrapped around your shoulders. The pair of you were laughing at something as you leaned in a little too close to the Slytherin. The seeker's eyes narrows behind his glasses, stalking over to the couch and stood in front of you. "Oh hey Haz! I didn't know you'd come already. D'you wanna top me off?" Shoving your cup into your boyfriend's hands, Harry took a whiff of the container which reeked of firewhiskey. He could tell you were tipsy, and pulled you up off the couch, whispering into your ear. "No, but I'd like to fill you up." You swallowed slightly, your throat suddenly feeling dry despite all that you'd been drinking that night. Harry threw Blaise a weak smile as he leaned away from your ear, a smile that definitely did not match the dark look in his eyes. "Zabini I'm going to take her back to my dorm for a bit. She's clearly out of it." The aforementioned Slytherin shrugged and got up off the sofa, not before turning back to throw you a wink. "Until next time, Y/N." ⚔︎ The door to Harry's dorm was thrown open with just a wave of his hand, an impressive feat of wandless magic that you were not in the proper headspace to admire. "Did you forget who you belonged to, y/n, hmm? Because it sure as hell seemed like it." The boy all but growled at you, making you shiver slightly, dampness pooling in your underwear. "W-what do you mean Harry?" The boy let out a humourless laugh, his eyes dark with lust and determination, before pushing you down onto the bed nearest to the door, pinning your arms above you. "It seems my little slut needs to be taught a lesson." A moan elicited from your throat as Harry leaned down to kiss you, his tongue slipping into your mouth as your hands shot to your usual position – lost in his mess of curls. But he moved away as soon as you did so. "No can do baby doll, bad girls don't get to touch. In fact, I think that in itself deserves a punishment. Come, get up, strip, then lay yourself over my lap." You slipped off your dress and shoes, standing in front of Harry in just the green lace underwear that you'd worn for the night. The sight of the underwear made Harry's cock swell slightly, but a bitter taste formed in his mouth. "You little slut. Wore that for Zabini didn't you? Your pretty little tits covered in Slytherin colours. Now we can't have that, can we?" He grabbed you harshly, basically throwing you over his lap as he grabbed your left tit over the thin lace of your bra, his other calloused hand rubbing your ass. He took the bra off, letting your tits free, throwing the bra somewhere across the room, summoning a paddle from a secret trunk under his bed. "Now my little whore, I want you to count, and thank me with each one. Let's start with twenty, and we'll see how it goes." You whined in response, but did not object. Slap. "One, thank you sir." Slap. ⚔︎ Twenty-eight spanks later – Harry said you answered too late for some, and squealed a little too loud for the others, and you were on the verge of tears. Wiping the tears that had spilled away, Harry flipped you onto the bed, a dangerous smile on his face. "Very good baby. But don't think it's over yet. You still haven't answered for your actions. You know how I feel about Zabini. Now, I'll make you feel the same." Waving his hand yet again, ribbons, crimson ones of course, flew to bind your hands and legs to the posts of the 4-poster bed. A gag followed

a few moments later, covering your mouth. Leaving you for a second, Harry returned with an array of his favourite toys, making you whimper at the sight of them. He switched on his favourite one, a purple curved vibrator, and pressed it to your clothed clit, a moan ripping from your throat as he toyed with your nipple simultaneously. "Now, because you've been so bad, I don't think you deserve to cum until I've been inside you. Don't you agree darling?" Shaking your head vigorously, your body too sensitive for you to produce any noise, you pleaded with your eyes, but Harry only smirked. "Oh you do! Fantastic. Now, since my little slut is so enthusiastic, why don't we try something new?" Harry ripped the green thong right off of your body, making you groan slightly, narrowing your eyes at him as he smiled innocently back at you. His fingers traced your slit making you moan, gathering the moisture that you had produced on two of his fingers, before leaning forward to give your cunt a soft lick. His slickened hand slowly started to trace your asshole, pushing one finger in as he pushed his tongue into your hole, thrusting in and out of both holes with the same pace. "You like that? You good? Remember to click." The words caused vibrations to travel up your body, moaning into the gag, nodding. Harry's concern for you turning you on further, the knowledge that you could get out of the restraints at any second making you remember how much Harry cared for you. The aforementioned boy hastened the pace at your encouragement, adding a second finger into your asshole. Just as your moans started getting louder and your cunt began fluttering, Harry stopped, moving away from you and off the bed, making you shriek in protest of your lost orgasm. "I told you darling, not yet." With that, he picked up the vibrator he'd abandoned just now, as well as a set of anal beads that he'd newly acquired, and gently put them into you, leaning back and admiring his work. "Well, I'm going back to the party. See you in a bit!" Harry plucked his wand from his back pocket, casting disillusionment and muffliato charms over you, ignoring the screams of protest that came from behind the gag. "Oh by the way, the muffliato is only for the vibrator. Not for you. Don't be too loud! And don't forget. No cumming. Love you!" ⚔︎ Harry was back at the party, sipping his firewhiskey and not even slightly listening to what Dean was saying to him. All he could think about was Y/N. Naked. Tied up. Shaking. Moaning his name. The thought alone made him so hard he was certain you could see every vein of his dick through his pants. "Anyways, I'm going to go back to the dorm real quick. I promised Nott to get him a...Muggle treat. Be right back." Only after the slight slap on the bicep and the closing of the massive wood doors did Harry register what Dean had said. "Oh shit." ⚔︎ You couldn't help yourself as the vibrations kept thrumming through you, trying to keep yourself quiet had become almost useless as you knew that everyone in your grade was at the party, but the fear and adrenaline of being caught turned you on more and more. You and Harry had discussed doing something like this multiple times, but you'd never expected it to be tonight. Torn from your thoughts, you were forced to remember why this toy was Harry's favourite as the vibrations changed in intensity once in a while – Harry could control it with his wand, and Merlin was he doing it. It was like the boy had memorised the way you orgasmed, knew exactly how much it would take to get you to the edge, and then knew exactly how to get you off of it. Lost in your thoughts, you nearly missed the thundering of someone coming up the stairs, and you immediately shut your mouth. Struggling against the restraints you remembered the disillusionment charm, and bit on the gag, hoping whoever came in would go straight back out. "Now where's that bloody mag?" Dean had slipped into the room, tripping over his feet slightly, causing him to have to steady himself on the bed nearest to the door, the

bed you were currently tied to, which nearly made you squeal in fear and shock, suddenly thankful for the gag that had been making your jaw ache. "Merlin, who's–" "Ay mate." Harry walked into the room, a cup barely hanging from his hands as he nodded at Dean, casting a sly glance towards the bed he knew you were on. "Hey Harry. Why're you up here?" The small smile that appeared on Harry's face made you shudder as he subtly turned up the vibrations on his wand. That boy was going to be the death of you... "Nothing much. Kinda tired, and I came here to find something for y/n. I'll head back down in a bit." A hum came from Dean's shadow, who was stood at a bed that was far too close to yours for your liking, as a triumphant sound emerged from the boy. "Finally found the mag! Right, I'm headed back down, see you in a bit Potts." ⚔︎ As the disillusionment charm lifted, Harry was greeted by a very, very, red y/n, with every crevice of your body twitching. An intense moan ripped from your throat as you watched him approach you, caressing your body softly, feeling the callouses on his hands on your soft skin. "You've been so good for me baby. So good. Are you ready for your reward?" You nodded vigorously, tears spilling from your eyes as he switched off the vibrator, removing it from your hole. He began stripping, the slow pop of each button on his dress shirt revealing more and more of his quidditch toned body, making you cry out as the seeker pulled down his pants, allowing his cock out of the tight restraints of his jeans. He removed the gag, placing a soft kiss on your lips as whimpers and moans erupted. "Please. I need you inside me so bad. Want you so bad. Please sir." He attached his lips to your neck, smiling against it as he pumped himself softly, prepping himself to enter you. "Now I can't deny my pretty little slut what she wants, can I?" He sank into you, both of you moaning out simultaneously as he felt your wet warmth tighten around him, reaching behind you to pull the silver anal beads out. "Oh, Haz, please. I'm going – to cum already." Harry began thrusting in and out of you, loud moans rumbling against your collarbone as he kissed and sucked on it, leaving a dark hickey on the bone. "Fuck, yes, cum around my cock. Let me feel your tight little cunt cum baby." A scream ripped from your throat, your voice almost hoarse from the sound you'd just emitted, your entire body shuddering as you released the most intense orgasm of your life – having been kept on edge for almost two hours now. "Fuck, Harry!" As you came, Harry clicked his fingers as quickly as he thrusted into you, the binds falling away from your appendages. Basking in a post-orgasmic bliss for a brief moment, you were brought back into reality by Harry continuing his thrusts into you. "Oh, you're so tight. And this pretty little pussy is all mine." You wrapped your hands around his neck, pressing your lips close to Harry's, moaning against his lips as the thrusts hastened. His hand reached down to your clit, rubbing in vigorous circles, while yours gripped onto his shoulders, leaving nail marks – a reminder of tonight. "Tell me. Who do you belong to darling?" The answer was muffled through the cries that escaped your lips, but Harry gently hit your bum, letting out a harsh 'speak' as he thrust into you, eliciting a soft mewl from your lips as you gasped. "You, Harry, only you. No one else could make me feel as good as you do!" Content with the answer, Harry began kissing down your neck, before reaching your tits, sucking and kissing the two nipples, never stopping the furious attack on your clit. "Come on y/n. Cum for me again baby. Cum with me." His cock twitched inside of you, and the stimulus of everything came down upon you as you came for the second time, and Harry the first, releasing his seed into you, moaning into your breast as you scratched down Harry's back, no doubt leaving marks for everyone to see during tomorrow's practice. He pulled out of you slowly, watching as the aftermath of your time together spilled out of your hole, then placed tender kisses on your ankles and wrists. "You did so well for me darling. So, so well." You hummed, caught in a daze, uncertain of how to keep your head from spinning at the moment. "How are you baby? Give me a colour y/n." The colours were a measure of your well-being: green was good, orange was uncertain but alright, red, well red doubled as your safe word. But you'd never had to use it once with Harry. "Orange, because my head won't stop spinning and my body won't stop thrumming. But I'm fine Haz." He smiled worriedly down at you, his glasses fogged slightly from the sweat that dripped down his face. "I love you so much. Now let's get you cleaned up." ⚔︎ After Harry cleaned you up and about fifteen minutes lounging on, well, whoever's bed this was, you slipped on your dress, without any underwear on, because Harry had literally ripped your thong apart, and got ready to head back down to the party.

"You're so beautiful. I love you so much."

Harry pinched your ass through the dress, giving you a kiss as you two stood at the top of the stairs, meeting Ron who was on his way up.

"Hey mate. Going to bed?"

The ginger nodded, yawning slightly.

"Yeah, hard practice today. See you tomorrow mate. You too y/n. Looks like you had fun."

He wiggled his eyebrows at the hickeys that covered your neck and collarbones, causing you to blush as Harry pushed his friend towards the room.

"Alright alright. Get outta here. Good night!"

The ginger gave a reply, which then turned into a shriek.

"Harry! Why's there a bra on my bed! And a – AHHH. Wait, why's Seamus' bed a mess? He made it this morning! Harry! For fuck's sake! We made a promise not to EVER DO THIS!"

The sound of footsteps came towards the large oak doors, as Harry ushered you down the stairs, the two of you laughing.

"Run. Run. RUN!"

"HARRY JAMES POTTER! Just you wait!"

#mine #writing #smut #harry potter smut #hp smut #harry potter x you #hp imagine #harry potter imagine #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter angst #harry potter fluff #harry potter #harry potter fic #hp angst #hp fluff #hp fic #harry james potter

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fandomness--randomness · 3 years

Text

Not so Hard Run Ins {Reiner Braun x Reader}

Warnings: none, just fluff and embarrassing stuff lol

Word Count: 1.7k

Summary: You just wanted to return a shirt Marco had lended you, instead you found yourself face to face with your longtime crush.... or rather face to chest.

inspired by this tiktok

Anyways - I love Reiner and his hella mommy milkers (I've loved this hoe since season 1, I am the ultimate Reiner simp)

Sasha let out a long groan as she stretched her arms high above her head. Her joints cracked and popped as she did so. “Gah! I’m so hungry!” She whined.

“Please - you’re hungry all the time.” You chuckled softly, landing a light punch across Sasha’s arm. The girl overreacted, splayed herself across the porch banister and placed the back of her hand across her forehead like some kind of damsel in distress.

“Oh woe is me! I have been slain!” She cried out.

Connie, who was walking from the training field with Jean and Marco, quickly joined in on the antics. He laid himself across the banister next to Sasha in a similar fashion and began to lament of their shared demise. Something about how if Sasha, his partner in crime and fellow prankster, died - he too would die of heartbreak and boredom.

Rolling your eyes, you walk into the cafeteria with Marco as Jean attempts to pull them out of their improve scene.

“When those two start acting up, I can’t help but feel old.” You muttered as you snatched a plate of whatever mediocre slop they had been feeding the training corps the last three years and some stale bread.

Marco chuckled. “Come on (Y/N), don’t say that. You’re only a few years older than us. It’s not like you’re some old lady who can barely walk.” He sat down on the bench gently while you plopped down without a care.

Rolling your shoulder, you scoffed. “I sure feel like it with all this hand to hand combat lately. I just want to get back to ODM training already.”

Two more, much taller figures than you and Marco sat down across from you with their own meals.

“Well now, if you’re an old lady does that make Bertholdt and I old men?” Reiner joked before taking a bite of his bread. “We’re the same age after all.” He added, sending you a soft smile.

Clenching your fist under the table, you turned your gaze to your dinner and fought back the oncoming heat to your cheeks. You’re not sure when it happened - but along the path of tough,constant training and awkward teenage development, you found yourself in love with the muscular blond. You didn’t think much of him at first, thinking he was just like the other stupid boys from your village that showed off their muscles in an attempt to woo girls like you and your friends.

But that idea began to crumble when his brotherly nature was revealed and he offered a helping hand to the other cadets when they needed it. The misconception was practically destroyed the day he offered to carry you back to camp after you had rammed right into a tree while using ODM gear. You had originally wanted to curse out Eren for being overly cocky and nearly crashing into you, which caused you to overcorrect and smash into the tree - but the feeling of Reiner’s muscular back against your chest was just too distracting. That night you practically ran to bed in an embarrassed mess.

Tonight would no doubt be the same if Reiner continued to joke around with you.

Shoveling some food into your mouth, you leaned onto the table with your elbows and pointed the old spoon at Reiner. “I’m - what - 3 months older than you? I’ve practically got years of wisdom on you.”

Reiner laughed at your remark just as the rest of your friends joined the table - Sasha and Connie sporting reddened ears and Jean nearly having a vein in his forehead pop.

Smiling at your fellow cadets, you let yourself fall into the flow of conversation. And although you loved and appreciated all your friends, you couldn’t help but let your eyes wander over to Reiner every once in a while.

Thankfully, there was no after dinner training - so the cadets had a few hours of freetime until the lights went out. This gave you the chance to finally get around to cleaning your laundry and refreshing your ODM gear.

While others found doing laundry to be a pain Sasha, you found the rhythmic pattern to be soothing and comfortable. Because of this, more than often, you would do laundry for yourself and few of your friends.

Popping your head into the giant dorm room, you called out to the rest of the girls. “Hey, does anyone need their laundry done? I want to get it done before it gets dark so give it to me now if you want.” Most of the girls shook their head, thanking you for the offer, but some of the others handed off small baskets of clothes and bedsheets.

“Thank you so much (Y/N)!” Christa exclaimed.

You smiled back at her. “It’s no problem. This way they'll be able to dry overnight if need be.”

Walking back outside with a few more baskets of laundry, you set to work. It was the height of summer and the sun was still beating down on the poor training corps. Thankfully, it hadn’t rained in some time so there was no lingering humidity that would prolong the drying process.

It was so hot and dry that your first round of laundry was done drying by the time you finished washing the entire load. Pulling the dry laundry off of the pins, you brought them inside and to their appropriate owners before going to the equipment building to clean and polish your ODM gear.

By the time you returned to the hanging clothes, the sun was starting to set.

You smiled in victory at the realization that all of the laundry had dried. Setting everything in the appropriate baskets, you lugged the now clean clothes and bedsheets inside. The girls who had taken up your offer thanked you again as they readied themselves for bed.

Taking your own basket to your bed (thank god for having the bottom bunk) you began to unload and fold the laundry. All was normal until you came across a large navy blue shirt. It was certainly too big to be yours and you didn’t own anything like this.

Then you remembered. Slapping a hand across your forehead, you let out a long sigh.

The week prior, Sasha had knocked you right into the mud during some after dinner training. Thankfully Marco and Jean were watching the two of you, so being the kind soul he was, Marco rushed into his dorm and grabbed an extra shirt for you to change into quickly.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you glanced out the window. The sun had set, but the torches outside and lights inside the other buildings were still lit.

Turning to Mikasa, you asked, “do you think I have enough time to return this shirt to Marco? Before lights out?”

The ravenette glanced at you, the shirt, outside the window, and then back to you. She nodded lightly. “Yeah, I think it’s safe. The sun set only a few minutes ago. Lights shouldn’t be called for another 30 minutes.”

Letting out a breath of relief, you jogged out the door and called out a thanks to Mikasa for her stable judgment.

It wasn’t uncommon for cadets to go back and forth between the dorms despite their gender. You and Sasha were often found invading Jean and Connie’s space to beg them to play cards with you two and Marco. Eren and Armin always seemed to be calling for Mikasa to come hang out with them too. But that was when the sun was out.

Going to the others’ dormitory building when the sun had already set was sort of...taboo among cadets, even if it was technically allowed.

No one just wanted to walk into the dorms when the chance of walking into the other cadets changing or even bathing were at its peak. But this was just a quick trip in and out. You’d be fine.

Slipping into the boys dormitory hall, you started the familiar trek to the dorm room Marco was in. It was practically ingrained into your head at this point (not to mention that the dorm buildings’ layouts were the exact same). You expected to run in and run out - no issues.

That was until you turned a corner and came face first with a wall. At least that’s what you would’ve thought if the wall didn’t let out a surprised grunt.

Horror flooded through your veins as you realized your cheek was pressed right against someone’s bare chest, the heat of their skin radiating across your face. Glancing up, that horror doubled - no, tripled - in size.

You hadn’t just ran into some random boy. No - you had just ran right into Reiner Braun, who was only clad in a towel around his waist with skin still damp from his shower.

The red blush you had pushed back at dinner came back full force. The two of you stared at each other for a moment in surprise. Reiner’s own blush spread across his cheeks and ears.

“He’s really warm.” You thought. “And a lot more muscular than I thought. Yet his chest is so soft. I feel like I could fall asleep on it.” You stared at his deep hazel eyes. “I really want to run my hands across his chest. Does he have abs too? Oh what I would do to be able to let my hands wander down furth-”

A droplet of water from Reiner’s hair dripped onto your nose.

“THIS IS FOR MARCO PLEASE GIVE IT TO HIM!” You screamed, shoving the now wrinkled shirt into Reiner’s chest.

Not waiting for a response, you turned onto your heel and ran out of the dorm practically screaming - a high pitched whine and curses following your wake. You didn’t stop until you had your face planted into the mattress and body huddled in blankets.

Your entire body was on fire as your friends questioned what had happened. Some were more worried, like Christa; while others immediately thought the worst may have happened like Mikasa and Sasha. Eventually, when you kept shaking your head and refused to come out of your blankets, your friend retired to their beds. All except Sasha, who sat next to you, swinging her legs back and forth as she waited.

Peeking out of the blanket, you looked up at her.

“I did something so embarrassing, Sash.”

#reiner braun x reader #reiner braun #reiner braun imagine #aot oneshots #attack on titan #attack on titan imagine #reiner braun and mommy milkers #I love this man so much #I just wanna hold his hand so badly #and ride his d!ck even more #{🥵 - thirsting}

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itsthestutterforme · 3 years

Text

Don't Pretend (Vincenzo)

Y/N is a very successful civil rights investigator and a friend of Cha-young. Cha-young called her when she needed help building their case against Babel. Chairman Han seo thinks she's a threat, but Jun woo thinks otherwise.

Pairings: Joon woo x reader (romantic), Cha young x reader (platonic), Vincenzo x reader (platonic)

I didn't even set foot in my apartment yet and Cha young called me for help. I love her and all but it seems like she's always in trouble with someone. She wants me to meet her at a theater because she wants me to meet someone.

She said it was urgent, so I didn't even stop by for food, so this person better be the President of South Korea or something.

I step out of my vehicle and walk through the entrance to see a swarm of reporters surrounding a group of people. One of those people was Cha young and I spin around on my heel, not in the mood for talking to reporters.

"Y/N!" Cha young calls. "Damn it," I say to myself before turning back around. "You didn't mention there would be reporters," "Surprise," she says.

I shake my head and she shrugs. I look to a random spot outside and say, "Oh my God, is that Jay Park and his new girlfriend? Look over there by the garden!" You point to a random couple that was walking past the garden.

"Jay Park! Where?" The swarm of reporters then went outside towards the garden. I roll my eyes and said, "They're like ants searching for food." I make my way towards the group and Cha young links her arm with mine.

"I missed you," she says and I grumble lowly. "Y/N, this is Vincenzo Cassano. Mr. Cassano, this is my colleague and close freind, Y/N," Cha young introduces.

"Seems like you're far from home, Cassano." I say in Italian, much to his surprise. He raises a brow at me and says, "I could say the same for you. The last I saw you, you were handling business in Siena."

"And you were handling business in Milano. Nice touch with the garden. It was beautiful," I compliment and he smiles. "Thank you, I try."

Cha young looks between me and Cassano and says, "You two know each other?" "Vaguely," I comment. "And who are they?" I add, motioning to the older woman, older man and two young men. "The enemy," Cha young says nonchalantly.

"For enemies, you seem awfully close," "Believe me, we're not," an older woman snaps. "Don't get your panties in a twist. I'm just making an observation." I snark. "Excuse me?" she steps closer to me and Cha young does the same.

"Careful, she hates being touched." Cassano states. "I'm heading back to my loft," I say before giving Cassano and Cha young a nod.

"Who are you?" The older woman asks but there was something about her that urked me. I give her a once over before walking back through the entrance.

"She's Y/N Y/L/N, a civil rights investigator and the top in her firm. Not only that, but she has correlations with mafias across three different continents. She has the resources to take us down," Han seo says and a small smile creeps on Joon woo's lips. "Why are you smiling?" Han seo asks.

"She's very accomplished," Jun woo answers. "And it's her accomplishments that scare me, brother." "Don't be. I'll handle her," "Handle her how? Like kill her?" "I don't want to, she seems interesting. But I will if she continues to be a threat to us."

I have to get back into the my workouts. I feel like I've put on a little weight while I was in Italy. It's not like I had any choice. Telling Nonna no is like kicking a puppy, no one can do it. Nonna offers you food, you always say yes. That's an unwritten rule that everyone follows.

My sneakers wrap around perfectly around my feet and I could barely feel the ground when I ran through the city park. I always make sure that it was light enough for things to be visible but early enough that there was only a handful of people in the park itself.

I was on my third and final loop when I saw the black van move across the street and park next to the sidewalk I was running on. I stopped to catch my breath for a moment before running in the other direction. I hear a door open and several footsteps run behind me.

I grab the nearest thick branch I could find and wait until they were close enough. I swing the branch as hard as I could, hitting three men in the face. They fell to the ground and I focus on the two guys rushing towards me at once. I duck around one and punched the other in the throat, leaving me with just the one man.

I bring up my guard and shuffle my feet but the man runs in back into the van and drives away. "You okay?" A voice asks from behind me and I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin around and kick his leg out from under him. He falls to the ground and I apply pressure to his chest.

"Relax. I'm not the bag guy here." He strains. "Wait a minute, I know you. You're the-" "A friend of Cha young." He places his hand on my outter thigh and I say, "I wouldn't know if friend is a term I would use. She called you the enemy."

"She was referring to the rest of them," "What ever helps you sleep at night." I finally stand up from his chest and he takes a deep breath.

He stands up from the ground and that's when I notice that he was shirtless. My eyes softly scan the smooth, tanned skin of his pecks. My eyes snap up to meet his and he cocks his head teasingly.

"Speechless?" "I'll never give you that satisfaction," I snark as he steps closer to me so I have to look straight up just to meet his eyes.

The next thing I knew, I am washing off his touch and scent in the shower. Well trying to anyway. Halfway through my shower, he decided to join me and trail his hands down my hips.

I moan softly when he presses my body the cold tiled wall and kisses my neck. He hooks one of my legs around his waist and slowly trails his hand along my inner thigh.

My phone blades, scaring us both. I pull away from him and he says, "Just ignore it." "She's been calling me all day, she already knows that something is up." I walk out of the shower and dry my feet before wrapping a towel around my body.

I answer the phone and Cha young yells, "About time! Where have you been!" "I, uh, I went shopping. There was no food in my refridgerator or cabinets." I answer calmly.

"Don't you have a maid for that?" "I'm not lazy enough to have a maid, Cha young." "Well, you had me worried. I thought someone took you hostage or something." She finally says without yelling.

"You really think they are capable of that?" "They are capable of many things. Be careful, Y/L/N." Vincenzo says in Italian.

"Bene, ciao," I say before hanging up. I turn around to see Joon woo inches away from my face. "Did you enjoy the past few hours?" I ask. He steps closer to me and motions to the scratches on his chest from my nails.

"What do you think?" He says softly. There's just something about him speaking softly that makes my knees buckle. The worst part is, I think he knows that.

"Good, because that's the last time that'll happen." "Do you know how many times I've heard that? And how many crawled back to me?" He says cockily. "Yes, but I'm sure you'll be the one crawling." I say, tapping his chest before walking out of the bathroom.

My worst nightmare came true today. One of my closest friends was murdered last night by a rival mob leader. The boss says not to engage them and that he will handle it, and my anger dwindled down to sadness. I took a day to myself and cried my eyes out in my bed.

Goosebumps littered my body as cold chills rolled through. I wince as the cold, damp fabric of the t-shirt grazes over my warm back and I took it as a sign to hop in the shower. Squatting down on the shower floor, I duck my head under the scalding hot water. The water rakes through my hair and trails down my body when I hear the doorbell ring.

I dry myself and slide on some shorts and a sweatshirt Joon woo gifted me in attempt to see me again. It took Joon woo two weeks before realizing that I wasn't going back to him. After wards, he sent me flowers, teddy bears, sweatshirts and a 10k watch that looked like it costed a fortune.

I gave the teddy bears and flowers to random people in the street and the watch to Cha young and the look on Jun woo's face when he realized it was the gift he gave was aboslutely priceless. But I gladly kept the sweatshirts because they were too cute to give up. I walk down the stairs and wipe away my tears before opening the door.

Joon woo stands in the door way and he looked happy about something. But his smile soon falls when he sees that I've been crying. "You've been crying. What happened?" He tried reaching for my face but I slap his hand away. "Stop. Don't pretend like you care about me." I snap but he lunges forward to grab my face.

I take a few steps back and his hold on my face softens. "Of course, I care about you." He says, caressing my cheeks with his thumbs. He takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. I sniffle and wipe away more of my tears. I always hated crying in front of people, it made me feel weak.

He grabbed the remote and sat on the bed. He pulled himself to the head of the bed and takes me with him. He pulls me between his legs and leans my back into his chest.

He searches through the channels and stopped at a cartoon before wrapping one arm along the clavicle of my neck. He wraps the other across my waist and says, "You don't have to talk if you don't want to."

"Why are you here, Joon woo?" I croak, wiping away my tears. "We won our settlement case and I wanted to celebrate with you." "We're literally enemies," "Isn't that how it always is? Enemies and polar opposites attracted to each other?" He asks and I look up to meet his gaze from behind.

He examines my face as he waits for a response. "I guess that is how it goes, isn't it " I lean on his shoulder and he presses the side of his face against my temple. "I lost my best friend today," I add with a sigh.

#vincenzo #joon woo x reader #kdramafans #kdrama fanfic #fluff

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songbirdstyles · 4 years

Text

good vibrations.

summary: it’s a bit more difficult than you’d expected to maintain a relationship with your professor, but you and harry try your best, anyway. (sequel to when i kissed the teacher)

pairing: professor!harry styles x reader

warnings: smut, angst & fluff! m + f receiving oral, facesitting, 69ing. gross frat boys :-(

word count: 14.3k

song inspo.: good vibrations - the beach boys

The first thing you feel when you wake up is a slight jolt of panic.

Your eyes open slowly, staring at the ceiling above you, and that - in itself - is normal. But there’s something heavy wrapped around your waist and a soft aroma of men’s cologne and that’s when confusion settles into your bones.

It lasts a few mere seconds but it’s enough to make you sit up, leaning back against the headboard and rubbing your fists into your eyes. Harry’s arm, firm around your torso just seconds before, drops to your lap, and your eyes follow the path down his arm and to the rest of him. Perhaps it’s strange, gazing at him as he sleeps, unaware of your gaze, but it’s hard to help yourself.

His hair is messy, curls sticking up everywhere, and his face is buried into the pillow your head had just been on. He’s also naked, the duvet falling to just above his bum, and as your eyes trail down the expanse of his bare back, taking particular note of the light pink scratches adorning the top, that’s when the night prior finally comes back to you. Being eaten out against the wall, a playlist made of pure love, his hands on your face as he promises this isn’t a one time thing.

Your professor, fucking you so hard that there’s still a slight ache between your thighs.

You exhale, dropping your head back against the headboard. The thought overwhelms you, momentarily, but you don’t have too much time to dwell on it before you feel Harry stirring besides you, his arm leaving your lap as he rolls over onto his back. His eyes open slowly, squinting as he adjusts to the sunlight streaming through the window, and then he looks at you and the smile that upturns his lips could make you tear up.

“G’morning, baby,” Harry murmurs, voice throaty and quiet. “Hope you had a nice sleep.”

You grin as you watch him slowly sit up, stretching his arms above his head. “It was alright,” you tell him, pausing to yawn. “Your bed is much more comfortable than the one in my dorm.”

“I’m sure.” You scoot forward, and just as Harry turns his head to look at you you lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. They’re dry and you’re sure yours are too - it’s not as though you’d been concerned with putting on lip balm the night before - but it’s perfect, made even better as he presses his hand to your back, pulling your body closer into his, running his tongue along your bottom lip.

A soft moan falls from your lips and he pulls back, nails running along the back of your neck and sending a shiver down your spine. “So needy. S’only 8 in the morning, too.”

You push yourself to your knees and sink into his lap, feeling his hard on against your thigh that proves he’s just as needy as you are, even at 8 in the morning. “Can’t help it,” you mutter, leaning in to press your lips to the underside of his jaw. His head drops back, giving you more room to work as his hand creeps up from where it had landed on your hip to your chest, kneading your right breast in his hand while you work at suckling a hickey into his soft skin. When his fingers tweak at your nipple you pull your mouth away to moan and examine the mark you’d made, brushing your thumb over it lightly. You hadn’t gotten the chance to mark him up last night, save for the scratches that decorated his back, but you’re more than happy to make up for any lost time now. “I miss you, professor. Everything about you. It’s been too long.”

He chuckles, trailing his other hand down to run a finger through your folds, collecting your wetness at the tip of his finger and focusing it on your clit. He presses down and then rubs a slow circle into the sensitive nub, smirking as you whimper at the sensation. “It has been too long. Nearly 10 hours, can’t imagine how you - fuck.”

Your hand had snaked down, wrapping around his member and swiping your thumb over the tip of him. Harry leans in, pressing his lips to your neck, teeth grazing against your skin as you slowly jerk him off, pumping your hand up and down his cock. You think - or you hope - that you can give of some sort of facade of being experienced at this, of knowing exactly what you’re doing, because you truthfully have no idea. You’d never given anyone a handjob but Harry’s finger, rubbing your clit slowly, stutters as he breathes out a groan, and you hope that means you’re doing a good job.

Two of his fingers slip inside your cunt entirely too easily, and you whine at the feeling. Harry curls his fingers upwards, brushing against the sweet spot that has your eyes rolling back into your head. You’re both too worked up for any type of foreplay, you can tell, and so you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face into yours. Your lips connect, teeth clashing against each other, and when he pulls his fingers out of you, resting both hands on the globes of your ass, you reach down and replace your grasp on his cock, lining it up with your positively dripping entrance before sinking onto him fully.

The burn is a lot less prominent than it had been yesterday but you still hesitate - Harry groans lowly and you exhale, waiting for the ache to morph fully into pleasure before lifting your hips and sinking back down onto him. You swear you can feel traces of him in every crevice of your body, feeling so impossibly full and yet so desperate for more. His hands grip your bum, helping you lift yourself up and down, shaky grunts and moans escaping his mouth whenever you roll your hips just right against his.

It’s slower and less intimidating than it had been the night prior, his hips lazily bucking up into yours, now that you’re not so worried about being able to fit him inside of you. And the noises Harry makes spur you on - throaty cries nearly louder than yours - as you drag your hand down your stomach and rub circles into your clit, slow and gentle, because you know you’re not going to need much to send you over the edge.

“So fucking tight around me,” Harry breathes, teeth nibbling at your bottom lip as his palms smooth over your ass. “Fuck, baby, clench around m’cock, yeah, feels so fuckin’ good -”

Your fingers press harder on your clit and you can already feel your orgasm creeping up on you, and when you rock your hips into Harry’s, feeling his cock brush against your G spot, you toss your head back with a desperate cry, cunt fluttering around him as pleasure rips through your body in waves. Eyes roll back into your head and your nails dig into the back of his neck, pulling his head in to kiss you senseless. With one final grunt and a moan of your name, Harry bucks his hips up, pressing himself as deep inside of you as he can get. The feeling of his cum, shot inside your throbbing pussy, shouldn’t feel so spectacular but God it does and you whine at the feeling, bringing both of your hands up to the back of his head and wrapping your fingers in his curls as you roll your hips back and forth halfheartedly. Merely trying to ride him through his orgasm, and finally Harry presses both of his sweaty palms to your face and pulls you in to kiss him again.

You could kiss him all day. You’ve kissed significantly more people than you’ve fucked (which amounts to a grand total of 2) and you’ve never enjoyed it with anyone as much as you love it with him. Harry makes it interesting, you reckon, hands always going in different spots and making different noises and you could, truly, do it all day.

For a moment the two of you sit there after you’ve pulled your heads away, Harry’s arms wrapped around your back and holding your body to his in a rather intimate hug. Your nails scratch at his scalp, pressing your chin into his shoulder as his fingers trace patterns - tell stories - on the soft skin of your back. Yes, you could stay here forever and be quite happy about it but just as the thought resides in your mind your stomach growls in defiance and Harry laughs at the noise.

“Don’t laugh,” you tell him, voice faux angry as you pull back from him with a smile. “Didn’t have anything to eat last night.”

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow and you nod. “So what did you do before I picked you up?”

Your cheeks heat as you struggle to find your voice to respond, clearing your throat before saying, “Keeping m’self busy, I guess. Now can we please make breakfast?”

Twenty minutes later you’re seated at Harry’s kitchen table, collecting forkfuls of cheesy eggs on your fork and shoveling them into your mouth to appease your overtly ravenous appetite, listening intently to the music coming from Harry’s phone in the kitchen. It’s a song you recognize from the playlist he’d curated the day prior - Happy Together by the Turtles - and you can’t help the smile from bleeding across your face at the sound.

Besides that, though, and the sounds of your forks scraping your plates, the two of you sit in silence for a moment. Beneath the table your feet knock into his - you’d begun swinging your feet out of slight nervousness but it’s grown into the need to see the small smirk that decorates his lips everytime you kick him gently.

When the song changes from The Turtles to And I Love Her by the Beatles, you glance up at him again and then rest your fork on your plate. “Y’know, this is a really nice playlist.”

Harry looks up at you, brows furrowed, and then smiles, and the sight of his dimples makes your heart just about melt. “Well, thank you, baby. Put a lot of effort into it.”

Part of you wants to say it only took you ten minutes but you just nod and tell him, “But I think you might’ve added too many Beatles songs.”

“There’s no such thing,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows. “S’not my fault they’ve written some of the greatest love songs of all time.”

You snort, then, leaning back in his (oddly comfortable, considering the quality of that in his office) kitchen chair. “Sexy Sadie is not one of the greatest love songs of all time.”

He pauses at that, forkful of eggs hanging barely an inch from his mouth. “Well, maybe not that song, but -”

“10 Beatles songs out of 45 is rather excessive.” You giggle as he stands abruptly, marching into the kitchen and returning seconds later, phone in hand, still blaring the Beatles as if in defiance. “What’re you doing now?”

Harry sits back down, scrolling through his phone. You stand up, moving around the table until you’re beside him, and you bend down to look at what he’s doing.

“What song d’you think should replace Sexy Sadie, baby?” Harry asks you, turning his head to where yours is a mere few inches from his. “Since you don’t seem to think that one is very romantic.”

You roll your eyes. “You’d be hard pressed to find a single person who considers that song to be the height of love, professor.”

“Yeah, right.” Briefly Harry rests his phone flat on the table and pushes his chair back, patting his thighs, and you try not to look too pleased as you wiggle into his lap. With his arm firm around your waist and his chin on your shoulder you pick his phone back up, scrolling through Spotify.

“I don’t think you have Good Vibrations on that love playlist, Harry,” you decide. Just to confirm your suspicion you go back into the playlist, scrolling through all 45 songs and - as you’d thought - the lack of Good Vibrations is odd to you. “And that, professor, may just be the best love song of all time.”

He hums as you add the song to the playlist. “Better than Somebody to Love?”

You shrug, sticking out your bottom lip as you flick through Spotify. “That song just makes me sad, sometimes. And you don’t even have that, either.”

“I definitely do!”

“Nope,” you tell him, turning your head to the side to examine his all-too confused expression. “But you do have Get Down, Make Love, which says quite a bit about you.”

Harry groans, and you laugh, and for a moment that’s all that happens - and then the moment breaks, and he reaches out to take his phone from your grasp, and you shift in his lap to look at him with a soft smile.

Whatever banter you’d been having before slowly dissipates, and you clear your throat. “D’you think we should talk about this?”

His hand drops to your hip, squeezing it through the pink button up shirt he’d worn yesterday that you’d snatched from the bedroom floor. “Don’t really think there’s much to talk about,” he says, but you know that isn’t necessarily true.

Truthfully, the last 12 hours have perhaps been the greatest of your life and even if he told you it wasn’t a one time thing - well, he’d just cum inside you and you need to make sure it wasn’t his way of keeping you for the night. And you couldn’t bring yourself to think Harry’s like that at all - the opposite, truly, the greatest man you’ve ever met. But you need to make sure, to ease your mind.

“Um - I guess -” you struggle for the words, suddenly feeling embarrassed for bringing it up, and Harry’s hand flies up to your cheek, cradling it, and the gentle action has you relaxing almost immediately. “I know you said this wasn’t a - one time thing, or whatever -”

“And it isn’t,” he interrupts, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Not for me.”

“Okay,” you breathe, the turmoil your stomach had been going through calming slightly. “But there’s still other things - you’re still my professor. Seems like kind of a big thing.”

Harry pauses for a moment, and you adjust yourself in his lap again - you can feel the beginning of a boner against your ass but you figure you’ll deal with that later. Then Harry drops his hand from your cheek to the small of your back, massaging soft circles through his shirt, and says, “I want you to know that I’ve never slept with a student before. Never even thought about it.”

You nod, and you know it’s true. You’ve heard girls in class talking about it - how he’s refused his students’ advances and reported them for it, and any rumour of him hooking up with a student was immediately squashed by everyone in the surrounding area. He’s a prude. He’s probably into, like, old ladies, or dudes, or something, because there’s no way he can be a regular guy and not have fucked one of us already.

It made you roll your eyes to listen to, but it did cement in the fact that Harry wasn’t one of the few teachers at university who would willingly hop into bed with any student who asked politely.

“But I like you - a lot.” His hand pauses on your back as he draws his bottom lip between his teeth, gnawing gently. “If you weren’t my student, things would be perfect.”

Part of you hates the word choice, that things are so imperfect now, but you know it’s true. Know that, even if you simply weren’t in his class, everything would be so much easier.

You nod. “I like you a lot, too.” And then you stop and think before adding, “I think as long as we don’t do anything on campus it’s fine.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, leaning in to press a kiss to your nose. It’s as though the two of you can’t live for more than a minute without showing some sort of affection towards each other, and perhaps that should make you concerned but you love it. “We’ll keep everything here. No funny business in m’office or anything like that.”

That resolution lasts roughly a week.

You go to his office after class even though you’ve run out of things to grade, and you work on homework and he helps you study and the most action either of you get is small kisses over his desk. It’s a struggle to pull away from him, but the worry that both of you feel about someone walking in is enough to keep you in your seats.

Though, for the most part, his office hours remain empty. A few stragglers come in, a mix of students who genuinely need help and girls who you can tell hate that you’re in there during their seduction attempts. And Harry plays music, of course, turning it down to the lowest volume on the rare occasions that students come in.

At the end of the day, you walk out to his car together and Harry either drives you home or to his apartment - depends what you’re feeling that day - and in the morning he either picks you up or takes you from his apartment to your first class and it’s a nearly perfect arrangement.

You’ve forgotten, though, about your decision to remain innocent on campus. It’s what you’d expected to happen at some point, with your absolute desperation for each other, but it still manages to slightly shock you as you glance up at him from your spot on your knees. Your hand works at his dick, watching the way he drops his head back against the wall, grasping the cushions of the couch in his fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking on the c, though you can’t quite hear it over Waterloo by ABBA playing just a bit too loudly in his small office. You’d made sure to crank the volume up a bit more than usual in case he let out any too-loud noises, and it looked like he was on his way to doing just that as a grunt escapes from between his gritted teeth. “Fuck, baby -”

(You’ve never given a blowjob before but it seems easy enough, though your stomach turns pathetically as you lean in and lick a thin stripe up the underside of his cock, tracing a purple vein. He seems to like that and you pray he can’t tell you’re an absolute amateur at this all.)

Your thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, which you know he likes, and the moan that’s still barely audible beneath the music proves it. You make sure to keep your eyes on Harry, monitoring his every reaction as you lean in, wrapping your lips around the tip of his length and sliding as much of him as you can down your throat.

That’s good. Harry’s hand goes to the back of your head, wrapping his fingers in the strands of your hair and tugging, groaning near violently, his breathing laboured. “Jesus Christ.”

Your hand drops to the base of his cock, pumping what you can’t fit in your mouth which - admittedly - is just barely less than half. You swirl your tongue around the tip of his cock before pulling your mouth off of him, a string of saliva still connecting your lips and his member.

“Feel good, professor?” you ask, sticking your bottom lip out, but you know very well it does - Harry’s hand goes down to your lips, wiping your spit off of your skin, before leaning back again. “Sure looks it.”

“Keep going, m’girl.”

The thought of being his girl brings a slight smile to your lips, and you could bask in the words for the rest of the day but instead you lean in, bracing both of your hands on his thighs through his nice dress bands, wrinkling beneath your fingers. And now - you really don’t know what to do, besides exactly what you’d done before - but you wrap your lips around him again, lowering your head to take more of him than before, and then you hollow your cheeks (which you’d seen in porn) and swallow around him (which you’d also seen in porn.)

It has the desired effect, seemingly, as Harry yelps, fingers tightening in your hair tight enough that you can begin to feel strands disconnecting from your scalp but oddly enough, you sort of like it. His grip loosens near immediately, scratching your head with the tips of his fingers in some sort of silent apology. Harry certainly seems to like that so you do it again, gathering saliva in the back of your throat and swallowing again, and he moans, the noise cutting through the music (which had turned to Oh, Pretty Woman), and if there happened to be anyone outside they would hear it louder than anything else.

It doesn’t make either of you stop. You pull off of him, sucking in a desperate breath as you pump him in your hand again before going back in, working your mouth up and down his length, relishing in the soft noises that escaped him with every one of your movements.

“God, baby, taking me so well,” Harry mutters, brushing a stray curl off your face. As your tongue flicks over his tip again his hips buck up into your mouth of their own accord - you gag around him and he breathes out a quiet apology but you can tell he’s almost there, and finally he groans, “Gonna cum - fuck - m’gonna cum -”

Perhaps it was a warning so you would pull your mouth off of him, revert to jerking him off, but you may as well finish your first blowjob off with a bang, so you take nearly all of his member into your mouth and suck. You barely get a few seconds before you can feel the ribbons of warm cum shooting into the back of your throat, and when Harry’s moans quiet down into heavy pants you pull off of him. His cum in your mouth doesn’t taste particularly fabulous but you swallow it anyway - it’s not horrible, truthfully. And the way his eyes darken as he watches you makes the slightly unpleasant taste ten times better, anyway.

“C’mere,” Harry tells you, and you rise from your knees to stand between his legs, looking down at him as he tucks himself back into his dress pants. When he buttons them he looks almost normal, not like his dick was down your throat a minute before - but you can tell, looking into his eyes, the effect you’d had on him. “Christ, you’re good at that.”

You hum, bending down to press a kiss to his lips. “Funny how fast you dropped the whole not doing anything on campus act, professor.”

Harry rolls his eyes, rising from his spot sunk into the couch. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

(But it does, of course.)

(Again and again.)

You throw your body across the couch in Harry’s office as soon as you shut the door, dropping your bag to the ground. You pretend not to notice the slightly amused glance your professor gives you - he’s marking up someone’s essay though he’d only assigned them a few days before and you had hardly even looked at the rubric for it. There’s only a few that have been handed in and when you offered, the day prior, to help him grading, he told you he didn’t need it. And you didn’t press it any further, naturally.

Well, you didn’t mind not grading. It was tedious and boring, and you’d only slightly enjoyed it before because you got to spend time with Harry. And you don’t exactly need an excuse, anymore. You can do what you want with him, now, like lying on his couch and kicking your Vans off onto his plush blue rug. There’s already music pulsing through his office, though not a song you recognize from being on the playlist he’d made for you - Strangers by The Kinks.

“Feel free to make yourself at home,” Harry tells you, voice positively dripping in sarcasm, and you roll your eyes with a small smile.

Your phone is buzzing in your pocket and you pick it up, glancing at the text that came in - from Kaitlyn, your best friend, and you scan the what’s up?? that she’d sent you before tossing your phone onto the couch besides you. You’ll answer her later, maybe call her. Thinking of it, you hadn’t talked to her in a bit, but - you’ll call her later, yeah. Catch up.

“Figure I’m going to be here a while, professor. I’ve got an essay for my creative writing class due on -” you pause to think - “Friday and I’ve barely done the draft.”

He furrows his eyebrows as he looks at you, and you don’t even have to glance up at him to feel the slight air of disappointing wafting towards you. “Baby.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s Wednesday. You’ve got an essay due Friday and you haven’t started?”

You shrug, feeling heat flock to your cheeks as you bend to reach into your bag, tugging out your laptop that you, really, only use for essays. “I have started, but I’ve been a bit distracted, I guess.” The only thing you’ve been distracted by is him, truthfully, and he knows it.

For a moment there’s silence filling the air between you, only disturbed by the sounds of your fingers moving over your keyboard. You’ve suddenly felt quite inspired to get a move on with your essay, oddly, and you think that Harry may be the perfect cure to your procrastination habits.

“D’you want my help?” Harry asks, his voice oddly gentle. He’s never necessarily helped you with any homework before though he always asks if you need it, and usually you’d tell him you’re fine but - well, his feedback would be appreciated since you, admittedly, don’t have too much time before this dumb paper is due, so you nod quickly.

Then Harry stands from his spinning chair, letting it roll into the wall behind him and dropping his red pen on top of the essay he’d been grading. You barely have time to look up at him, straining his neck to look at what you have so far for your essay, and you roll your eyes playfully before turning the screen so he can read it.

His eyes move fast as he reads what you have so far, which isn’t enough for how long it takes him to examine your work. You take the time to admire him, the way he pokes his tongue out every so often to wet his lips (which, you’ve noticed, he seems to prefer over wearing lip balm) and the way his eyebrows furrow when he reads certain lines. Harry’s fingers drum against your computer, following the rhythm of the music, and after a minute he leans back on his heels and pushes your laptop away from him, fingers brushing against the soft skin of your stomach from where your shirt has ever-so-slightly ridden up.

You wait a moment for him to speak, and then ask, “Was it horrible? You look like it was horrible.”

Harry shakes his head, curls flopping back and forth (you’re reminded of the beginning of the year, when he used to gel his hair back, though it had grown quite a bit since that point, and you’re not sure gel could have its desired effect on his locks.) “It’s not horrible at all. It’s quite good, actually. Sometimes your sentence structure is a bit wonky, like -” he leans in, tugging your laptop back into his view, fingers dancing across your skin again in a way that you know isn’t accidental, and then he highlights a line smack in the middle of your draft - “here, and a few other spots. But it’s good.” You must do a poor job at concealing the relief on your face, because Harry glances at you and chuckles. “Don’t look so surprised. You’re a great writer. Best that’s ever come into my class, and I’m sure your creative writing professor agrees.”

You shake your head, turning your computer back around so it’s facing you. “I don’t think Professor Capone likes my writing too much. I’m barely scraping an A in her class, but maybe she’s just a tough grader.”

“Reckon she’s just a tough grader. I’ve heard that before.” Harry nods thoughtfully and you can’t help but giggle at the suddenly serious expression that takes over his face, as though whether Capone is a tough grader is akin to the meaning of life. His brows furrow and he glances down at you with a bemused smile. “What’re you laughing at?”

“M’not sure, really,” you tell him, grin spreading across your face. He watches you for a second and then leans down, lips hovering barely a centimeter above yours, and you let your lips touch for just a moment before pushing him away. “Now, c’mon professor, what happened to we shouldn’t do anything in the classroom?” The fact that you two had done just about everything but having truly fucked in this office goes unmentioned, of course.

His response is interrupted by the door opening slowly behind him - your eyes widen and he stands immediately, clearing his throat and backing up so he’s leaning against his desk, cheeks flushed red.

In the doorway is a girl you recognize from your class - Hannah Joseph, you think, and you also believe you’d graded her essay. You give her a small smile and she looks down at you, lying on the professor’s couch with your shoes off, with an air of distinct confusion.

“Miss Joseph.” Harry clears his throat, drumming his fingers against his desk. “What can I do for you, today?”

She pauses, glancing between the two of you with furrowed brows, and you bury yourself back into your essay. Everything about this situation feels wrong and you hate it, hate the energy flowing beside Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen. “Um - sorry if I’ve interrupted something.”

You squeeze your eyes shut at Hannah’s words - she can’t possibly know what the two of you had been doing but you still feel like she does, like she’d been watching you two. If Harry is as nervous as you are about the entire situation he certainly doesn’t show it, just grins at her and says, “Not interrupting anything! Just helping Y/N with her essay, here.”

It isn’t convincing and you can tell Hannah agrees, but she merely shakes her head and makes her way to the desk - Harry walks to the other side and plops in his chair and she takes a seat in the entirely uncomfortable one that you’d opted out of.

She has a question about the essay he’d assigned, naturally. There’s not quite any other reason she should be here but it doesn’t stop your worries. What if she told people she’d seen something suspicious in Professor Styles’ office when she went during his office hours?

You two had been stupid. He was right, you shouldn’t do anything in his office. It’s stupid.

By the time you’ve completed the second to last paragraph of your rough draft Hannah is pushing her chair back, bidding farewell to Harry and giving you a small wave as she leaves - you call goodbye as cheerfully as you can manage as she shuts the door firmly behind her, the noise reverberating through the small room.

There’s silence, at first.

And then Harry sighs, dropping his head into his hands, and you push yourself to sit up, your laptop shutting of its own accord. “Fuck.”

You swallow, glancing down at the light grey fabric of your sweatpants and pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. “Yeah. Fuck.”

Born to Run changes into Livin’ Thing by ELO and you’re not sure of what to say, until finally Harry rests his chin on his palms and says, “We can’t take risks anymore, I think. That was really close.” Then he pauses and adds, “Even having you in my office for so long is suspicious. Maybe - maybe we shouldn’t, anymore.”

You nod. Not going to his office every day will certainly be a change, you suppose, even if it’s for the best. You love every moment you spend with him in the cramped office space. And though you know you’ll hate to not be able to kiss him in his office or anything of the sort you know it’s best - the absolute worst thing that could happen is someone walking in while you and Harry are truly in a compromising situation. “Yeah. We can just keep it at your apartment. Nothing wrong with that, now, is there?”

Harry gives a tight lipped grin and then hesitates. “Maybe it’s better too. I feel bad, sometimes. We spend so much time together - feel like I’m taking away your college experience.”

You furrow your eyebrows, leaning forward to rest your chin against the edge of his desk. “My college experience?”

“Y’know - partying and stuff. That’s most people’s favourite parts of college.”

You pause. You’d been to a few parties during the year but they’d never appealed to you much, and truthfully, you’d rather spend your time holed up in Harry’s office. “I’d rather be able to remember my college experience. I’m not quite a fan of parties. Much prefer this place.”

He sends you a small smile but you can tell something’s shifted in the room, and you give it a few more minutes of silence - besides the music - before sliding your laptop into your bag and standing up. You swing your bag over your shoulder and glance at him. “I’m gonna head back to my dorm, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry looks up at you and nods, running a hand through his messy curls. “I’ll see you tomorrow, baby. Text me when you get to your dorm, okay?”

“Alright,” you tell him, and then you give him one final smile and you’re gone.

“How do Borachio and Don John decide to disrupt Hero and Claudio’s marriage?”

You pause, sipping thoughtfully on your spoonful of soup. Harry leans against the kitchen counter, watching as you think. “Borachio will convince Maragret to dress up in Hero’s clothes and then Borachio will fuck her on the balcony so Claudio will see.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, nodding subtly and scrolling through his phone for another brief moment. “And what becomes of Hero when Don John sets her up?”

“She dies.”

He nods again and then slides his phone into the pocket of his pajama pants, taking a step forward to where you’re seated on the counter. “You didn’t get a single question wrong, you know.”

You shrug, fighting off the smile that wants to appear on your lips. “Well, I’ve read it a lot, professor. Know that play inside and out, really.”

“Ah.” You open your legs so Harry can slot his body between them, resting his hands on your hips through the oversized sweater you’d bought from the thrift store years ago. “So why’d you want to come over, then? Clearly wasn’t to study, now was it.”

It’s not a question, but you still tilt your head thoughtfully to the side as if in deep thought. Truthfully, it had been a few days since the two of you abolished your time together in his office and it had drastically reduced the time you spent with him. He’s invited you over every night he got home early enough but to go from every day for hours to one or two on certain days is a change you don’t particularly enjoy, even if it’s necessary.

Hence, begging him to help you study. But you still shrug and say, “no, it was. No better person to help me study than my professor.”

“Mhm,” Harry twirls your hair around his finger, then pulls back, pressing his lips briefly to your forehead. “You know you don’t need an excuse to come over.”

You feign offense, sticking out your bottom lip. “Wasn’t an excuse to -”

“I’m not saying it was,” he grins and you cross your arms, smiling softly. “But I just want you to know. You can come here whenever. M’always happy to have you here.”

Internally, your heart melts - but before you can respond you can hear the telltale noise of your phone ringing from where you’d tossed it on the couch earlier when you’d arrived. You groan, dropping your head back against the cabinet before pushing yourself off the counter, padding into the living room. Marie sits, curled up on top of the couch, and you brush your fingers down her back as you glance at whoever’s calling you.

It’s Kaitlyn, and you wince - you’d told yourself you would call her nearly ten times this week but you’d gotten too distracted. By Harry, mainly, but also your essay and the rest of your schoolwork, and you’re tempted to ignore this one too in favor of your professor in the kitchen but instead you press accept and bring the phone to your ear.

“Hey, Kaity,” you say, and hearing her small hey on the other end brings a smile to your face. “What’s up?”

“Well, Dylan and I are going to dinner in like, an hour. D’you want to meet us there? I feel like we haven’t talked - all three of us - in forever.”

You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, thinking for a moment. You’d barely been at Harry’s for half an hour but you haven’t seen - or even talked to - your friends in weeks. So you clear your throat and brighten your voice and say, “Sure!”

You can see Harry poke his head out of the kitchen, raising his eyebrows at you, and you bite back a laugh at the site. On the other end, Kaitlyn says, “Cool. See you there, then, and don’t be late, please -” and you say, “Got it,” before hanging up and dropping your phone against the couch.

“Who was that?” Harry asks as you return to the kitchen, his arms wrapping around your smaller frame as he tugs his body to yours.

“My friend, Kaitlyn. I don’t think you know her - she’s a chemistry major.” You wrap your arm around his neck, letting him embrace you before saying, muffled against where your face is buried in his neck, “I’m gonna have to head out soon. Promised I’d meet them at dinner in an hour, and it’s not too short a walk to the cafeteria. But I’ll probably come over after dinner, if that’s okay.”

Harry nods, and when he speaks again you can hear the teasing lilt in his voice. “M’glad you’re going to see your friends,” he tells you, and you smile. “But if you’re gonna leave soon … I guess we better make the most of our time, right?” And you don’t respond before crashing your lips to his.

“I have a question.”

You glance up at your friends, chewing slowly on your bite of noodles. It’s the first time you’ve seen them in - admittedly - a while, nearly three weeks. And it’s a drastic difference when you and them had spent nearly every waking minute together before you’d started seeing Harry, but you didn’t think they’d even notice. After all, Kaitlyn and Dylan had started dating recently, too, and you figured you would give them time off from your third-wheeling.

Well - no, you didn’t figure that. They never gave you an indication that they were bothered by your being there with them, but it was a better excuse than I’ve been fucking my professor, and I haven’t really been thinking of much besides that.

“Yeah?” you tilt your head at Dylan, grabbing your lemonade from the table and taking a sip.

Kaitlyn drops her fork from where she’s been picking at her salad, and then asks, “Well - we’ve kind of been wondering where you’ve been. We haven’t seen you in so long and your roommate said you’re barely there anymore, anyway.”

You raise your eyebrows, squinting at the pair of them in front of you. “You asked my roommate?”

“Well, yeah.” Dylan glances at Kaitlyn and then back at you, and this is beginning to feel like a bit of an intervention. “We didn’t know if you were just mad at us or something.”

“S’not like she’s at our room much, anyway. Always at her boyfriend’s. Nick’s, I think.” You twist more noodles around your fork, making sure to lather them in the slightly-chunky but still edible pasta sauce that the cafeteria had made for today. “I’ve been at my room loads.”

It’s not necessarily the truth but you wouldn’t call it a lie, either. Since you’d stopped going to Harry’s office you’d been spending more time at your room and your roommate had been there more, too - it was curious, since she never used to spend any time there, and you’d started to get to know her a bit, too.

“Her and Nick broke up,” Kaitlyn says, leaning in and taking a bite of her salad. “But - I don’t know. It’s weird. I mean, all of a sudden we never heard from you.” You don’t respond, staring down at your noodles, and she leans closer towards you, “But then - um.”

You glance up. “What?”

“Well - Hannah Joseph said you’ve been spending a lot of time with Professor Styles,” Dylan reveals, drumming his fingers against the lunch table. Your heart drops at his words and you rest your fork against your plate, the utensil still wrapped in noodles. “And there’ve been a lot of rumours.”

With every single word this entire conversation keeps getting worse, and you take in a gulp of lemonade to try and distract yourself. When you’ve swallowed you look up and try to feign disinterest. “What kind of rumours?” you ask, and you’re not quite sure whether your nonchalant facade towards the entire situation is working.

Dylan leans back in his chair, making eye contact with Kaitlyn again - you hate when they do that, especially right now. You feel like they’re having some sort of conversation you’re not allowed to know, that they’re keeping secrets from you and you’re not supposed to do that. They’re your best friends.

(But you’re keeping the biggest secret of all, and you know you’ll never tell them.)

After a moment, Dylan finally says, “Well, when Hannah was telling us about you being in Professor Styles’ office all the time, Alana Williams told us that she walked in on you guys in his office, like, two weeks ago. And you were really flustered and left, like, the second she came in, and he was really awkward about it the entire time.”

Fuck. You’d forgotten about Alana, walking in on you two immediately after you’d kissed for the first time. You know the answer you’re going to get, but you furrow your brows and ask again, “But what was the rumour, then?”

“That you’re sleeping with him.”

Yeah, you expected that. And it’s not like it’s wrong but hearing the words from Kaitlyn’s lips make you feel embarrassed and all of a sudden you want to run out of the cafeteria screaming, run to your dorm and never talk to anyone again. Because if Hannah and Alana told Kaitlyn and Dylan about you being in his office all the time, who else did they tell?

You breathe out a laugh, hoping to God that you sound amused by the entire thing and not absolutely terrified. There’s no foreseeable way you can salvage this and you can’t think of any sort of excuse for your weeks-long absence from your friends because they already mentioned the truth and you can’t tell them that. They’re your best friends and you should tell them the truth, the way they’ve always told you the truth about everything, but there’s no way you can do that now.

You cross your arms over your chest, eyes peeking left and right as though you’ll catch someone watching you, wondering if you really are sleeping with your professor. As if you’ll yell it out. “That’s stupid,” you tell them, and the way their shoulders ever so slightly drop in relief makes you want to scream. “I’m not sleeping with Professor Styles. I’ve just been busy. Overloaded with schoolwork, right now.”

It’s impossible to tell if they believe it, but you roll your eyes and continue anyway. “But I have missed you guys a lot, and I’m sorry for - um - ignoring you. That was fucked up.”

(In the back of your mind, you’re reminded of the way you’d told Harry you’d return to his apartment after dinner. You hadn’t promised but you’d never failed to go to his apartment when you’d said you would. There is a first time for everything, you suppose, so you give them a bright grin that you aren’t feeling at all and lean in. “Speaking of which, what can we do tonight? I’m all yours, I swear. Won’t even think about my assignments.”

The smiles that spread across their faces like wildfire makes you feel ever so guilty - guilty at the fact that, although you do miss them, your heart aches at the fact that you’re leaving Harry high and dry. Well, he’ll live, you know. Probably spend the night watching television with Marie, and you’ll see him tomorrow.

“I’m going to guess you don’t want to go a party, right?” Kaitlyn asks, a grin playing at her lips. They’ve tried to drag you to parties for so long and you hate them, hate everything about them, but -

Right now a party sounds perfect. Perfect to forget about how, apparently, everyone on campus thinks you’re fucking your professor and perfect to extinguish every one of those rumours. So to Dylan and Kaitlyn’s surprise and, truthfully, your own, you lean back in your chair with a bright grin. “I’d love to go to a party! Where’s it at?”

Within ten minutes of being at said party, you regret it quite a bit.

The dress Kaitlyn had picked out of your closet is two years old and certainly doesn’t fit correctly - you can’t remember buying it, honestly, and every couple of minutes you have to tug the top up to cover your tits. You don’t like the way guys are looking at you and more specifically down your shirt, and they look at Kaitlyn too - but perhaps she’s more used to it from going to frat parties more often, because it doesn’t seem to bother her nearly as much as it pisses you off.

Dylan brought you a drink immediately and you took one sip and hated it. You hate everything about being here but you paste a grin on your face, jumping into pictures with people you barely know, and you’re sure if there was ever someone who looked less like the type to sleep with their professor, it’s you right now.

Which is what you were going for. And, if you wanted to take it all the way, you would let one of these frat guys pin you up against the wall and kiss you until you’re breathless, but you can’t do that to Harry. Even if you’re not official - not truly together - the thought of your lips pressed against any that don’t belong to Harry is disgusting. You sent him a text while you were getting dressed, telling him something came up and i can’t come over:(( sorry and he didn’t seem to mind much, merely replying, Sounds good. See you soon. And now, as you stand in a cloud of marijauna, leaning against the wall and periodically pretending to drink from your cup, you realize you’d much rather be holed up in his apartment than here.

Dylan and Kaitlyn are having fun, though, dancing entirely too close on the dance floor. They did this at parties before they started dating, too, bodies pressed close to each other, and you always wondered why they never just came out and got together. The difference between then and now is that, before, Kaitlyn would always drag you out with them at some point, making sure you’re included.

You don’t reckon that’s going to happen now.

So you push yourself off the wall, clutching your phone and your cup in one hand and using the other to brush Dylan on the back as you push past them - you can hardly hear Kaitlyn calling, “Where’re you going?” as you make your way through a crowd of people. When you’ve finally found your way to the edges of the party you can spot an open door leading out to the deck, and you decide that’s where you want to be, so you push yourself through the door and to the violently bitter cold.

It’s a decision you almost regret but there’s so few people outside - two frat boys, one of them who you recognize from your creative writing class, and a girl sitting, half asleep, on the ground. In some odd way you feel like you fit in with the people out here, so you lean against the house and look at your phone again.

Harry hasn’t texted you again and you’re not sure why you thought he would - there wasn’t much to say on his behalf. In the back of your mind you’re entirely too aware that standing outside by yourself like a loner makes you look even more the part of girl-who-fucked-her-teacher but you can’t force yourself to be in there.

“Hey.”

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by a voice from next to you, and you look up to see the boy from your creative writing class, leaning on the wall beside you. His friend has gone, probably back inside, and the girl sitting on the ground looks completely gone now. It’s just you and him, this guy you’ve hardly spoken to ever, but you turn to face him anyway.

“Hey,” you say, voice coming out in a soft puff of air, white in the nighttime air. “S’Jacob, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Jacob nods, blonde hair flopping in front of his eyes, and it reminds you, in some sort of way, of the uncontrollable nature of Harry’s hair. “Aren’t you in my writing class or something?”

You nod, brushing your hair out of your face and glancing down at the cup in your hand. It’s still as full as when you got it, even with all the pretend sips you’d been taking. “Yeah, I am.”

Jacob’s head falls back against the house and says, “Knew I recognized a pretty face like yours.” You exhale, rolling your eyes, and he furrows his eyebrows. “What? M’serious. I’ve always thought you were quite cute.”

“Thanks, I suppose.” You look up at him with an amused smile. “You’re - um. You’re cute too,” which isn’t exactly a lie. He’s not horrible but perhaps being with Harry has skewed your perception of all guys in your year - they’ll never be as lovely as him.

“Well, thank you,” Jacob replies, and you’re not sure what to say now - just lift your drink to your mouth and pretend to take a drink of it. It seems like in the blink of an eye he’s moved closer to you - standing half beside you and half in front, and you pull your cup closer to your body. He’s barely half a foot away from you and his face is even closer, and he smells like cheap beer and mint gum.

You drop your head back against the wall, raising your eyebrows. “What’re you doing?” you ask, confusion and yet complete understanding dripping from your words.

Jacob shrugs, leaning in until his lips are entirely too close to your ear and you can feel his breath, warm against your skin and you can smell him even stronger, now. “Just relax, alright? S’okay.”

You can’t relax though, and all you can think about is how different and terrible this is compared to how amazing Harry makes you feel, and you shake your head vehemently. “Jacob, I’m sorry, alright? You’re really nice and all, but -”

“D’you have a boyfriend?” Jacob asks, then, pulling himself away from you.

“Not really,” you tell him, which is the truth. You and Harry aren’t - technically dating but you still couldn’t hook up with this frat boy if you tried. You’re as good as dating him and the thought of doing it to him makes you sick to your stomach. “But I’m just not interested.”

There’s a pause, then. Jacob takes a step back, looking at you with his brows furrowed and his face looking oddly flushed. There are goosebumps covering your skin and you suddenly want to go back inside but then he’s talking again - “I think I know what this is about.”

You must wear the confusion you’re feeling, because he continues. “Can you be honest with me? Like, really honest.”

You hadn’t thought he was too drunk before but he certainly is starting to seem just a bit drunker than you’d anticipated. You furrow your eyebrows, lips upturning. “Sure.”

Then Jacob takes another step forward so you’re just as close as you’d been before and leans in again, dropping his voice so low you can hardly hear it. “Is it true you’re boning Professor Styles?”

The words take a moment to sink in. Is it true … Professor Styles? And when they’re finally there, embedded inside of your brain, you exhale a shaky laugh. It’s all you can bring yourself to do, resting your head back against the house. “Are you serious?”

You look at him again and he nods, shrugging slightly.

“I’m not - I’m not boning Professor Styles.” The lie tastes bitter on your tongue but you force it to sound normal anyway. “And I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Jacob rolls his eyes until you can merely see a white stripe in them. You can feel yourself getting - angrier? Sadder? More annoyed? - by the moment. And you hate that some dumb frat boy can make you feel so horrible but he’s doing it now, even if he probably doesn’t realize it. He steps back again, running a hand through his floppy hair. “Alright, alright. So you’re not fucking your professor and you don’t have a boyfriend. What, exactly, is holding you back, then?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling heat soar to your cheeks even in the bitter chill of the night. “Can you give it a fucking rest, Jacob?”

He whistles and you’re pushing yourself off the wall, already beginning to slide open the door to go back inside when Jacob begins, “Don’t be such a bitch about it -”

There’s only a brief second of hesitation on your part - turning around and using the hand that isn’t clutching your cup and your phone you press it to his chest and push as hard as you can. The force of it sends your phone flying out of your hand and hurtling down to the deck and you watch it fall down with a moment of brief regret - you can hear the glass shattering and you know it’ll be a bitch to repair. And you drink splashes up, spilling onto your chest and your dress and it smells repulsive. But Jacob (who you suspect is drunker than you originally thought) stumbles away from you and it makes both things worth it.

You can feel tears beginning to sting your eyes as Jacob straightens up, and before he can say anything else you bend down, picking your phone off of the deck and racing back into the house. You slide the door shut behind you and you can feel it open only a second later but you’ve already gone, pushing your way through the crowd, looking for both the way out and someone with a phone that doesn’t have a screen smashed to bits.

Kaitlyn and Dylan are pressed against the wall and you hate to interrupt the way they’re kissing desperately, hands all over each other, but you reach out and tap her shoulder anyway. Because, truthfully, you don’t actually care that much.

You shout above the music that you need to borrow her phone and she doesn’t hesitate to fish it out of her bra, handing it over to you with an incredibly wide grin - her telltale drunk grin - and you grab it in your hand, your broken phone in your other, and open up the phone app.

You have his number memorized from spending so long studying it once he’d given it to you that it’s easy to type it into the keypad - when the line is ringing you realize it’s entirely too loud in the thick of the party so you turn and walk out the front door and onto the front steps, leaning against the railing.

The line clicks and you’ve never been so grateful for such a small noise. “Hello?” the voice on the other end says, raspy like it always is when he’s just woken up (and you hate to think that you’ve woken him from a nap) and you could cry at the sound of it.

“Harry.” you swallow, eyes darting back and forth to see if there’s anyone near you - but everyone seems to be inside, enjoying the party, and you just can’t. “Harry, hi.”

“Hey, baby,” he says, and his voice seems to brighten at the sound of yours. “What’s going on? Whose phone is this?”

“Um -” you bring your thumb up to your mouth, nibbling on your nail before dropping your hand back down to your thigh. “It’s a long story. Can you pick me up? I’m sorry, I just - um. I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be a pain. You don’t have to if you’re too tired because you sound like you just woke up but I really want to be with you right now.”

You look - standing outside of a party, fighting back tears that are burning in your eyes calling your professor, of all people - the exact type of girl who would fuck her professor, but oddly enough, you don’t really think you care anymore. All you want to do is to feel Harry’s arms wrapped around you, making you feel better, and you never should have come to this stupid party in the first place. It was a mistake.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, and you can picture him getting out of bed already, tugging on a pair of joggers - the pink ones he wears all the time - and sliding on his sneakers. “Uh - where are you?”

That you’re not quite sure of. You glance around but you can’t make much out in the dark - there’s a sign at the end of the street and you squint to try and make it out. “Barry, I think. Avenue? I’m not sure. I think it says Barry, though.”

“Okay,” Harry says. “I know where you are, and I’m gonna be there in five minutes, alright? Just stay where you are.”

You breathe out a small okay, and then the line clicks and he’s gone, and you pull the phone away to stare at it for just a moment. Then you go and delete the call from Kaitlyn’s history - wouldn’t want her calling it on accident - and dart back inside. She’s still wrapped around Dylan but you give it to her anyway, watching her stuff the device back into her bra. And you take a moment to bid your friends goodbye - wrapping them in a hug even if you know they’d rather be making out with each other than hugging you - and you head back out the door, sitting down on the front steps and letting the door slam behind you.

Your phone sits beside you in all its broken glory. Your mind is reeling and you can’t think straight - all you want is to be with Harry, forget about the assholes who think (or know) that you’re sleeping with him. Because - well, you are, you suppose. But there’s so much more, stuff they’ll never know, stuff they can’t know.

Just as your teeth start chattering in the cold you can see a familiar car pull up in front of the house. You can see his figure in the drivers seat, a hood pulled up tight over his hair, and you jump up, grabbing your phone and bounding towards the car. You’ve never been so happy to see him in your life - opening the door and ducking into the passenger’s seat, dropping your shattered phone on the center console between you. The warmth of his car is nearly suffocating but you love it, prefer it so much over the cold that’s been so prevalent for so long.

“Hey,” Harry says, voice soft, as if he can tell you’ve had a shitty day. (Which he probably can, truthfully.) “What happened to your phone?”

“I dropped it,” you tell him, taking another glance down at the phone you’ve had for four years that could survive falls from your pockets, bed and accidentally getting stepped on by Dylan but couldn’t make it through a simple fall onto the deck of a frat house. Serves you right for going to the dumb party anyway. “Can I go to your apartment? Just really don’t want to be alone. I had - a really shitty day.”

He nods and then you’re gone, taking off down the street. “D’you want to tell me about it, then?”

You sigh, leaning back against the headrest. You take a moment to listen to the music, playing so silently you can hardly hear - but it’s Just The Way You Are, by Billy Joel, and it’s from your playlist. “Just - um. A lot of people, apparently, think we’re sleeping together and then I was talking to this - this guy named Jacob and he was being a dick about it because I wouldn’t fuck him and then - then I pushed him and I dropped my phone and it broke.” Your voice cracks and you can feel the tears that had been residing behind your eyes finally beginning to spill over, and you bring your wrist up to wipe the tear that had begun to streak down your cheek. “M’sorry. Seems silly, now.”

“It’s not silly.” Harry’s voice is firm and you look over at him, sniffling slightly. When you’ve stopped at a red light he turns towards you, bringing his thumb up to wipe away another tear that had trickled down to your nose. “I’m sorry. People can be dicks sometimes.”

You inhale shakily. “Yeah.” For a split second there’s silence and then you say, “I don’t even know why I went to a stupid party. I hate them and I hated this one too but -” you stop to think. “I wanted people to think I wasn’t the type of person to fuck my professor. Which is silly, I guess, because I am the type of person to fuck my professor.”

“Can you look at me?” he asks, and you do, making eye contact with him briefly before he looks back at the road. “S’all gonna be alright, you know that? Nobody is gonna know. No one’s gonna find out - they’re all just guessing now.”

“I feel like they know.” you sniffle again, blinking away more tears that had come to the surface of your eyes. “And I know they can’t but I feel like they do.”

Harry pulls into the parking lot behind his building, then, and you unbuckle your seatbelt with shaking hands and grab your phone from the center console, pushing yourself out of the car and into the air again. The two of you walk in silence to the doors and then he presses the button of the elevator to go up and looks at you again.

“Baby,” Harry says, and you nod slowly. “What do you want to do?”

You pause. “What do I want to do?”

Then he grabs your hand as the elevator opens and you step in together, pressing the button for the third floor. “I don’t want you to stress about getting caught,” he responds, voice dropping to hardly above a whisper. “We’re going to be okay, I promise. As long as we keep things off campus we’re fine.”

You nod, glancing down at your scuffed heels with a sniff. “I know.”

The elevator dings again and you step out of it, your hand still in his as he walks down the hall to his apartment. While he digs in his pocket for his key, you tell him, “If you’re asking me whether I want to stop this, the answer is no.”

Harry glances up at you, key in the door, with a raised eyebrow.

You continue, shaking your head. “I like you a lot, Harry. A lot. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before in my life and I don’t want stupid fucking frat boys to take you away from me.” The two of you step into his apartment and he flicks on the lights, leaning against the door as you continue. “Don’t think I’d ever forgive myself if the most amazing man in the entire world slipped between my fingers because I was afraid.”

You take a step towards him, and then he wraps his arms around you and it’s what you’d needed all bloody day, just to feel his hug. You burrow your head into his chest and he presses his lips to the top of your hair, his voice coming out muffled by your hair when he speaks again. “I’m afraid too, baby. But I like you a lot too. More than anyone I’ve ever known.” Then he grabs your cheeks, pulling your head away from his so he can stare you right in the eyes - you swear his are mesmerizing. “I think I love you, actually.”

Love.

He loves you.

The thought bounces around your brain and it’s all you can think of - Professor Styles, telling you he loves you in his apartment, his warm hands pressed to your cheeks. And you hadn’t been sure, until now, whether you did love him. You’d never exactly felt that sort of love for anyone before because none of your relationships had ever lasted too long. But hearing him and seeing him now is making your brain churn out a thousand thoughts per minute and the most apparent one is that you love him too.

So much.

So you exhale, a smile quirking your lips upwards, as you reach up to press your hands to his face, too. You can see him fighting back the urge to grin and you could cry again but you swallow the urge and breathe out, “I love you, too.”

And you lean up on your toes, pressing a kiss to his lips and barely hearing the way he mutters back, “I love you so much,” because you couldn’t pull your lips from his if you tried. His hands drop to your back, pressing against the small of it as he leads you farther into his apartment. Your lips never detach and it’s difficult not to trip over your own feet but eventually you’re being pushed onto a distinctly soft surface, and one glance to your right shows you that it’s not his bed but the couch in his living room.

“Sorry, Marie,” Harry says, and you push yourself onto your elbows as you watch Harry pick up Marie from her spot on top of the couch and deposit her to the floor. “Don’t want you to see this. Just shoo for a little while.”

You roll your eyes as Harry looks down at you, one leg propped on the couch and the other firm on the ground. “You’re ridiculous, professor,” you tell him, and he throws an arm over the back of the couch, lowering his body onto yours until you can push your head up and mesh your lips with his. His hand goes beneath your head as he lowers you back down onto the couch. “But I still love you.”

When Harry pulls away his cheeks are a light shade of pink and you feel quite honored to be the person to make him blush - your professor, so professional in front of the classroom and blushing like a schoolgirl above you. You bring your hand up to his hair, twisting your fingers in his curls to bring his head back down but he doesn’t go for your lips, instead lowering his mouth to your throat, pressing hickeys to the column of your neck.

“You smell like beer, y’know that?” Harry tells you, and you can feel the smile on his lips as he trails kisses down to your collarbone. His hand works at tugging the top of your dress down, reaching in to pull your tits out where they’re already practically spilling out of it.

“Spilled a bit on myself at the party,” you breathe as he lowers his mouth onto your nipple, his hand massaging your other breast. “Wasn’t good beer, though. Could tell it was cheap. I couldn’t drink more than a sip - fuck.”

Harry pulls back from your nipple and blows on it gently, the sensation sending shivers up your spine and you moan softly. Your hips buck up into his and he groans against your chest. “God, baby. I love your tits, did you know that? Could play with them all day.” As if to prove a point he leans down again, dragging his teeth against your nipple and reveling in the way you whine.

“I’d be fine with that,” you inform him, voice cracking in the middle of the sentence as his hand trails down your body to the bottom of your dress, pulling it up over the tops of your thighs. Then his fingers brush over the damp spot in your panties, pressing against your clit through the thin fabric. “Oh, god -”

“Does that feel good, baby?” he asks, voice soft and he already knows the answer, of course, but you drop your head back against the couch with a nod anyway. “Wanna hear your words.”

“Feels so good, p - professor,” you moan, feeling his digits finally dip beneath the hem of your panties, running over your folds without the lace barrier. “Please, Harry, need more …”

You’ve learned, by now, his affinity for hearing you tell him exactly what you want. So before you can hear his smug response of what do you need you swallow and tell him, “Want you to eat me out. Please, professor.”

He drops his head against your chest, moaning lowly, and you can feel his dick growing harder against your thigh. “Fuck. Okay.” He licks a line from your chest up to your collarbone and you wonder if he can taste the gross beer still tainting your skin but - if he does - he doesn’t show it. Acts like he’d just enjoyed the best feast of his life as he glances back up at you, eyes dark. His fingers hook in your panties, dragging them down your legs and dropping them, soaked in your arousal, onto the floor. “Gonna take you to my room, yeah?”

You nod eagerly as he stands above you, and you swing your legs over the edge of the couch, pushing yourself up, and you let Harry intertwine your fingers, leading you across his apartment to the door of his bedroom. When he’s shut the door (shooing Marie away again, who’d followed you in an attempt to enter his room) he tugs his hoodie over his head - his phone flies out of the pocket and lands on the carpet, his hoodie heading towards another corner. Then Harry collapses into the middle of his bed, lying on his back, glancing at you expectantly. His joggers slide ever so slightly down his hips and you watch their descent before flickering your eyes back to him.

You furrow your eyebrows. “Not gonna eat me out then, professor?”

Harry shakes his head. “Never sat on anyone’s face before, I reckon?”

No. Of course you haven’t. Your mouth drops open in a silent ‘o’ and you raise your eyebrows, shaking your head vehemently. He motions you to come over to him and you take a moment to kick off your heels, leaving them in a pile by the door before making your way over to the bed, standing beside him.

“I think you’ll like it,” Harry tells you, and wraps his fingers around your wrist in a loose hold, and you take the cue to mount the bed, kneeling beside him, and his fingers drum against your thigh. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. If you don’t, I’ll just do it the old fashioned way. No harm done.”

You nod, swallowing. Any question you have dies on your tongue because you trust him, you know, and you know he wouldn’t do anything to make you uncomfortable.

What’s the harm in trying?

“Alright, then.” He reaches behind him, stuffing a pillow beneath his head. His hand on your wrist drops to your hand, pressing your palms together, and you give him a small smile before adjusting yourself so your thighs are on either side of his head - it’s about as awkward as you’d anticipated, your dress still half covering your arse, and Harry reaches up to pull it up, letting it rest around your hips. His fingertips trail down your thighs - a silent don’t worry and appreciate it. Slowly you lower yourself down onto his mouth, and when you’ve completely settled - your hands resting on his bare abdomen as you lean forward slightly.

You expect to feel his tongue on you immediately but then he pauses, and when he talks you can feel his mouth moving against your cunt. “Siri! Shuffle y/n songs on Spotify!”

You almost roll your eyes when his phone, still on the floor from where it had landed earlier, begins playing Good Vibrations - of course, he can’t do anything without music - but before you can give some sort of snarky remark his tongue is darting up to your clit, flicking the bud gently, and you cry out almost louder than the music.

“Oh, shit, Harry!” you groan, fingertips digging into his stomach as his hands go to your bum, kneading the globes of your ass as his mouth practically attacks your pussy. It’s so much more intense than how it is usually - the Beach Boys in the background, your hips rocking slowly against his face, his soft groans against your core sending vibrations through your body.

Good vibrations, of course.

“Feels so fucking good,” you breathe, dragging your hands further down his stomach. His joggers - the pink ones - are tied loosely and your fingers wrap around the ties, tugging slightly as Harry pushes his tongue inside of you. You can see his dick - thick and looking painfully hard, even through the fabric. Your instinct is to grab his hair but it’s harder in this position so you tug, again, at the tie of his sweatpants until it comes completely undone.

He pauses, momentarily, perhaps wondering what you’re doing - and you don’t even quite know - but soon he resumes his relentless assault on your clit, lips wrapping around the nub and sucking. You cry out, your palm pressed to his stomach and trailing down to the hem of his sweatpants, and when your hand wraps firmly around Harry’s cock he practically yelps into your cunt.

“Jesus, fuck,” you can hear him, muttering against your heat as you pull his sweatpants down further until you can see his cock. Sure enough, he’s hard and heavy in your hand as you shimmy your body ever so slightly forward, causing him to hook his arms around your thighs to keep you close to his face. You crane your neck forward, pumping your hand up and down his cock as you lean forward, wrapping your lips around the tip of his dick, and he moans. It mixes oddly well with the tail end of Good Vibrations as it switches to Sugar Sugar.

The sound rolls through your body and you whimper, lowering your head onto his cock until his length is nearly completely down your throat - you’ve gotten better at fitting him in completely, and you breathe through your nose, counting 1 … 2 … 3 until you hit 10, and then you pull your mouth off of him.

Harry’s nose nudges your clit and your walls tighten around his tongue as he thrusts it in and out of your cunt - you’re so close and you can tell, and you lick up the vein on his cock. He grunts softly, fingernails digging into your ass, and when his tongue flicks over your clit again you cry out, throwing your head back and pumping his cock with your hand.

Your orgasm hits you like a wave and Harry laps up every drop that he can, smoothing his hands over your bum and thighs as you roll your hips against his mouth, riding yourself through his orgasm as you release your grasp on his cock, digging your nails into his stomach as you moan out.

When every reverberation of your orgasm still pulsing through you, you collapse onto his body - then you roll off of him, still feeling the throbbing in your clit as Harry pushes himself onto his elbows, glancing down at you.

“How was that?” he asks, sitting up fully, trailing his fingers up your arm. “First time facesitting. And 69ing, too - it’s a season of firsts.”

You grin lazily at him. “S’that a line from December, 1963?”

He nods, a smile painting his face.

“It was amazing. Of course. It’s always amazing - God, I love you so much,” you tell him, reaching your hand up to rest against his face, and he presses a soft kiss against your wrist. “But…”

“What?”

“I really want you to fuck me.”

Harry raises his eyebrows, and you feel your cheeks burn. His hand tugs at the end of your dress, bunched around your hips. “I really want to fuck you, too.” You sit up, raising your arms so he can pull your dress over your head - you’re left in merely your bra and you reach behind yourself, undoing the clasp and tossing it off the bed. When you’ve lied back down on the bed he takes a minute to stare down at you, and you feel a sudden instinct to cover yourself up - but then he merely says, “You’re so beautiful. I love you -” and he leans down to kiss you, his hands working at pulling his joggers down his legs - “so damn much.”

He takes a moment, dropping his pants to his ankles, to lower his head to your cunt again - tongue lapping briefly at your clit, smirking at the way you jump. Then he pulls his head back and you watch him, propped on your elbows, as he spits, and it lands on your clit and makes you squeal, your stomach flipping. God, you didn’t think you’d love that so much but you want him to do it again and again - something about it is so fucking hot. But he just brings his fingers to your folds, spreading his spit through your already slick pussy, flashing you another smug smirk before leaning back over you.

You loop your arms around his neck, feeling the tip of his cock prodding at your entrance. You’re so wet you’re practically dripping and there’s positively no barrier as he sheathes himself inside of you - you toss your head back with a moan. The first push inside of you is always the best and you take a moment to savor it as Harry grips your thigh, hooking your leg around his waist. And when he pulls out and thrusts back in he brushes that perfect spot inside of you, and you cry out.

Your heel presses into his arse, pushing his body further into yours. Your chests press together, his arm braced over your head as he groans lowly, eyes squeezed shut, and you bring your hand up to his face like he’s done so many times - “Look at me, profess - fuck!”

He does look at you, pupils wide and making his normally green eyes appear just about completely black. Harry’s hand presses to your clit, rubbing fast hard circles as his cock brushes against your g-spot with every thrust inside of you and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his head into your shoulder, hips rocking into his. You’re already embarrassingly close and with just the right brush against your clit you know you could be cumming already to the sound of I’m a Believer by the Monkees, and it would be heaven.

Like it always is.

Harry’s still muttering into your neck, teeth brushing against your skin as he sends wet, open mouthed kisses across your throat - “So tight, squeezing me so good. God, Iloveyousomuch -”

Your nails drag against his back, your hips pushing up to meet his thrusts, his fingers still working at your clit. You wrap your leg tighter around his waist, burying your head back into the covers with a loud cry and then you’re cumming, walls fluttering around him as his thrusts grew even more unrelentless. You’re not sure you’ve ever cum so fast in your life but you were already so close before you even started and he pulls his head up, slamming your lips together as you ride out your second orgasm with him.

“Think you - fuck - got one more in there for me?” His voice is a hiss through gritted teeth as he straightens up, fucking you harder than ever before on his knees, fingers still plucking at your clit. Your leg drops from around his waist and he grabs your calf, stretching your leg onto his shoulder, and the burn makes everything feel that much better. “Gonna cum again for your professor? I think you can.”

Your hand goes down to his wrist, fingers wrapping around him - it’s too much too fast you’ve just cum you can’t - but you know you can and he does too. And you can tell he’s close - the way he’s losing rhythm, his hips losing the steady pace he’d developed. You drop your hand to your chest, tweaking your nipple between your fingers.

“Fuck, Harry - m’gonna cum - God -” you can’t manage to get out any full sentences, mere fragments, your eyes never leaving Harry’s as you clench around you again. Your third orgasm is the most intense of all, feeling his fingers pinch your clit, his thrusts slowing so they hit every sweet spot inside of you, and you couldn’t have held back if you tried.

His neighbors must think you’re being murdered with the way you scream - the duvet firm in your grasp, your eyes rolling back into your head as you practically spasm beneath him. Harry’s movements slow to a jerky, staccato pace - you can feel him, cumming inside of you, and when you look at him his face is bright red, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open in a soft o.

“Fuck, fuck -” he breathes, hand on your clit dropping to the mattress, and your leg slides off of his shoulder and back onto the bed. You’re fucking exhausted as he pulls out, dropping onto the bed beside you, but not too tired to curl yourself into his arms, your face burning hot and your breathing laboured.

There’s a moment where nothing needs to be said. There’s nothing that you could say that could make this moment any better than it is so you hold your tongue, intent on merely falling asleep with him until he mumbles, “Baby?”

“Hmm?”

He pauses, and you open your eyes, turning your head to glance at him. His eyes are shut as well and you could almost fool yourself into thinking he’d never spoken at all until he finally says, “I love you so much.” You don’t have time to say it back before he’s continuing - “And I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met in my life.”

You can feel the beginnings of tears in your eyes - whether it’s the post-orgasm haze and exhaustion overtaking you or just pure love for the man beside you, you’re not sure. “Harry -”

“And, um.” His eyes are still shut and his brows are slightly furrowed as he speaks. “I know we’re kind of already dating but I want to make it official. So … would you like to be my girlfriend?” And then his eyes open, his head turning to look at you, to watch the smile that turns your lips upward.

You tug your bottom lip between your bottom teeth to try and suppress your grin but it doesn’t work - you could never stop yourself from feeling so fucking happy. And you bring your hand to his cheek, brushing a sweaty curl off his face, before breathing, “Of course.”

He leans in, then, kissing you sweetly and - for just a moment - you can forget about everything other than him. Forget about class on Monday, about the people who think you’re sleeping with him. And they’re right, for some of it - but not all. They’ll never really know what you have.

For a moment, all that exists is you and him, wrapped up in each other, bodies curled together and lips pressed gently. And even when the moment passes, and you bury your head into his shoulder, you can’t help but wait for the next to come.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #professor harry styles #definitely dont like this as much as the first part !!! sorry fellas #but i hope you all enjoy #also tried to include some pussy spitting..... for u anon #plot was a lot harder to come up with but i hope it flows and that u like it ok ok goodbye #enjoy #prof!harry

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howtosingit · 3 years

Text

Fic: And Every Birthday After

TK makes a decision about his relationship with Carlos.

AU after 1x05.

3K | Also on AO3

A/N: This is up a day later than I wanted it to be, but considering it’s the first thing I’ve written in two months, I’m still going to take it as a win. Happy reading!

- - - - -

TK climbs out from the car, his eyes on his phone as he shouts a quick “thank you” over his shoulder to his Uber driver before closing the door behind him. The car pulls away from the curb as he glances up at the glowing Austin Police Department sign before him, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth while he thinks about what he wants to do next.

With another look down at his phone to check the time, he nods, turning his back on the precinct to cross the street. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for: Carlos’s blue Camaro draws attention no matter where the police officer parks it.

TK gently runs his fingers along the shiny, unblemished surface, his attention divided between the car in front of him and the building across the street. Carlos should be appearing any moment, fresh off his shift, and TK smiles as he leans back against the door, crossing his arms in front of his chest, trying to adopt a casual pose. He can practically hear Carlos’s laugh now, his brain supplying him with the memory of the last time he failed to casually lean against the Camaro, while they waited for Paul outside the 126.

(TK thinks that just because Carlos has perfected the art of a casual lean, he shouldn’t get to laugh at those who are still learning.)

“TK?”

He’s so lost in his memories of that night - dancing close to Carlos in the club and sneaking kisses whenever the lights left them in the shadows - that he misses when the man himself appears right in front of him. TK jumps when he hears his name to find Carlos already halfway across the street, heading right for him.

“Hey there, officer,” he calls.

“What are you doing here?” Carlos asks, and TK’s eyes shift down just in time to see Carlos hide a giant green gift bag behind his back. “I thought we were meeting a little later.”

“We were, but I got out of work earlier than I planned and thought I’d surprise you.”

TK waits for Carlos to come a little closer, maybe even give him a kiss the way he usually does, or at the very least a smile, but the officer does none of those things. Instead, Carlos stops a few feet away from him, his beautiful brown eyes wide as he presses his lips together in a tight line. TK notices the gift bag peeking out behind his back, fidgeting in his fingers. “Did someone get you a gift?” TK asks, breaking the weirdly awkward silence with his mounting curiosity.

Carlos freezes for a nearly imperceptible moment, looking like he’s been zapped by his own stun gun, before he lets out a sudden high-pitched laugh, his face morphing into a mask of forced normalcy. “Oh, this?” he asks, pulling the bag out from behind his back. TK watches as his eyebrows furrow - truly an adorable sight - as Carlos glances between the bag and TK. “This is from my boss, for Employee Appreciation Week.”

A smile suddenly appears on Carlos’s face as he steps closer, swinging the bag at his side before wrapping an arm around TK’s waist and pulling him in. TK goes willingly, his brain still trying to catch up to Carlos’s abrupt mood shift, and lets Carlos press their lips together in a chaste kiss.

“Thank you for surprising me,” Carlos murmurs against his mouth. “Seeing you was exactly what I needed after today.”

“Long shift?”

Carlos hums in reply, stealing another quick kiss before backing away to pull his keys from his pocket. “Something like that.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later,” Carlos admits. TK notices the way his eyes are twinkling under the streetlights. “Right now I’m starving. Did you finally decide on a place to eat?”

“What do you think of that Greek place on Lavaca?”

“I think,” Carlos starts once they’re both in the car, tossing the gift bag in the back seat before leaning over the console to invade TK’s personal space, “that if that’s what you want, then that’s exactly what I want.”

TK lets out a breath at Carlos’s claim, a feeling of contentment running through his body from head to toe. He feels Carlos’s hand on his cheek, his breath on his face. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.

“You’re kind of sickeningly sweet, you know that?” TK teases, pressing forward to steal another kiss.

“That doesn’t sound like a complaint,” Carlos fires back, his eyes crinkling as a cocky smile takes over his face.

“You’re far too confident.”

“Now I know that’s not a complaint,” Carlos smirks, his eyebrows practically dancing.

“Shut up,” TK whispers, claiming Carlos’s lips again to ensure that he does just that.

- - - - -

“No, I’m telling you, Paul actually said that, no hesitation whatsoever. It was pretty badass.”

“Sounds like it. Though, I’m guessing Marjan didn’t really appreciate it, did she?” Carlos asks, pulling the front door closed behind him as TK flips on the light before toeing off his shoes.

“Oh, she definitely did not. I kind of thought flames were going to shoot out of her eyes, she looked so pissed.” He flops down on the couch, pulling his feet up to get comfortable.

“I know I’ve only met her on calls, but I can still picture that face so perfectly,” Carlos laughs, cutting through the room to the kitchen, where he drops his gift bag on the counter before opening the refrigerator. “I have cake for dessert, if you want any?” he asks, glancing back over at TK.

“Oh my god, yes,” TK moans, pulling himself off the couch and towards the alluring appeal of something disgustingly sweet. He drops his phone on the table before taking a seat on one of the barstools, watching as Carlos pulls out a small chocolate bundt cake before reaching into the freezer for a pint of vanilla bean ice cream. He flits about the kitchen with a casual ease that TK is more than happy to observe, his eyes drawn to his striking figure. There isn’t a single part of Carlos that TK doesn’t like, and he knows he could sit and watch the other man every minute of every day and never get bored.

He gives himself a little shake, trying to clear his head, and his eyes land once again on the gift bag sitting on the counter next to him.

“So,” he starts, his tone laced with curiosity, “what exactly does APD give their best patrol officers for Employee Appreciation Week anyway?” He smirks, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure it’s got nothing on AFD, we all know firefighters have you badges beat.”

It’s not something he really believes in - the whole firefighters versus police officers rivalry - but that doesn’t mean that he and Carlos don’t like to joke about how they’re “sleeping with the enemy” every now and then. It’s even made for some very satisfying, competitive moments in bed, though they’re always followed by laughs and kisses and comments about how ridiculous it all is.

TK turns back to Carlos to find him completely frozen for the second time tonight, the ice cream scoop clutched firmly in his hand with ice cream melting down the sides as he looks from the bag to TK.

This time, TK doesn’t let it go unnoticed.

“What is it with you and this gift?” he asks, reaching out to flick the bag with his finger. “You’ve been acting weird about it all night.”

Carlos swallows, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he drops the scoop back in the carton.

“I lied to you.”

TK stares at him across the counter, taking in the tense set of his shoulders. It’s been awhile since Carlos was this uncomfortable in front of him, and he really doesn’t like it.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, having no idea where this is going.

“This,” Carlos says, pointing to the gift bag as he circles around the island to stand next to TK, “is not a gift for Employee Appreciation Week.”

“Okay, what is it then?”

Carlos stares at him for a moment, his eyes wide, before nodding and taking a deep breath, looking like he’s about to jump off a cliff.

“It’s a birthday present.”

“I don’t understand what…” TK trails off, his confusion disappearing as his brain works to put all of the pieces together: the gift bag in front of him, the chocolate cake and ice cream sweating a few feet away. His mouth goes dry, his heart hammering in his chest. His gaze darts back to Carlos, standing in front of him looking a little terrified but also a little eager, like he’s waiting to see what happens next. “It’s your birthday?” TK asks, his voice tight and barely more than a whisper.

Carlos nods.

“Oh my god, Carlos, it’s your birthday!” TK exclaims.

“It is, it is, but it’s fine, it’s nothing, it’s not a big deal,” Carlos rushes to assure him, reaching out to take his hands in his own.

“Not a big deal? It’s your birthday!” TK cries, trying to figure out what to do with this new information. His brain unhelpfully supplies a detail he had forgotten. “Wait, you’re the one who said we should get dinner together tonight,” TK reminds him.

“Yeah, we both had the night off and I wanted to see you,” Carlos mumbles, staring down at their fingers, intertwined between them. TK feels his breath stutter in his chest.

“You wanted to spend your birthday with me?” TK hedges, the words uneven as his heart threatens to choke him from where it’s become lodged in his throat.

Carlos wordlessly shrugs, a complete inversion of his confident attitude from just a few hours ago. TK takes a moment to appreciate how layered he is, how he sometimes feels like a million people in one, but how he’s still always Carlos, no matter what. “I like spending as much time as possible with you,” Carlos states, still not making eye contact.

TK lets the words roll through him, feeling the way they light up every single nerve ending in his body. He’s surprised to find that they don’t scare him like he thought they would. Ever since the failed dinner date, they’ve both been careful to keep things from getting too serious. They’ve been having fun, hanging out and exploring Austin before coming back to Carlos’s place to roll around in bed together. They’re friends - TK is sure that Carlos is his best friend - and they’re a little bit more than that.

Maybe TK’s finally ready to face the reality of what that could mean.

He thinks about finding out about his dad’s cancer diagnosis a few weeks ago, and how Carlos was the first person he ran to with the news. He remembers how Carlos talked him down from his uncontained anger and hurt, how he held him tight when he cried.

Carlos was there for him when he needed him. TK’s only known him for a few months, but Carlos has always been there, strong and steady and grounding. A beacon of safety and comfort.

And TK knows that he wants to be there for Carlos in the exact same way. He honestly can’t imagine being anywhere else, now that he really thinks about it.

“Come here,” he says, tugging gently on Carlos’s hands to pull him closer, opening his legs for Carlos to stand between them. Carlos lets out a sigh, moving to place his hands on TK’s waist when TK wraps his arms around his shoulders. They rest their foreheads together, taking a moment to stare at each other, truly open and honest for maybe the first time.

“Happy Birthday, Carlos,” TK whispers, waiting for Carlos’s smile to break through his frown before leaning in to steal it from his lips.

His breath catches again as their tongues tangle, their bodies sinking into each other as they give into their embrace. Every kiss with Carlos is worth writing a poem about, if TK was the type of person to write poetry, but this one would definitely inspire TK’s best work. He has a feeling that it’s because of him; he knows that Carlos gives his everything every time, but it’s TK who is now meeting him there with his whole heart. It’s like the wall that he’s put up has fallen away, crumbled to dust in the blink of an eye. Honestly, TK can’t even be bothered; no wall stood a chance against Carlos Reyes anyway.

Carlos pulls away much sooner than TK thought he would, and as his eyes blink slowly open, he finds the other man staring at him, his brows furrowed once more.

“Are you mad that I didn’t tell you?” Carlos asks, his voice tight.

“No,” TK assures him immediately, reaching up to cup Carlos’s face in his hands. He feels the way Carlos sinks into his hold, letting him take some of his weight, like he trusts TK to keep him upright. “I’m not mad, Carlos. Though, I do wish I would’ve known.”

“I know,” Carlos sighs, reaching up to grip his wrists, dragging his thumbs along TK’s skin. “I know, I should’ve told you. It just… I didn’t want to make it a whole thing, spending my birthday together. I didn’t want to freak you out, I know you’re not looking for that kind of thing, I know this is just us having fun and I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything…” Carlos trails off, his grip tight as if he’s scared TK will jump up and run out of the house again.

TK feels Carlos’s fear as if it’s hammering against his heart, but he definitely can’t blame the other man for his thoughts. Their past mistakes are all the evidence he needs to understand why Carlos hid this from him. He nods, biting his bottom lip, trying to figure out how to make it clear that he feels differently now, that he actually wants this to be a whole thing. That they’re on this path together now.

The idea comes to him so suddenly that he almost barks out a relieved laugh. Instead, he smacks a quick kiss against Carlos’s lips before jumping up from the stool, watching as Carlos’s eyes widen in panic.

“Wait, what-”

“I think I know how to make sure this never happens again,” TK interrupts, continuing to hold Carlos’s face in his hands as he backs him up a few steps towards the dining table. He pushes Carlos against it, taking pleasure in the way the other man automatically widens his stance, allowing TK to step between his legs and press their hips together. Without a word, he reaches down to grab his phone, smirking as he brings it up between their faces.

“There,” TK says a moment later, turning his phone to show Carlos, who has stayed silent and slightly terrified this entire time, if his face is anything to go by. He looks over at the screen. “Now I’ll never miss your birthday again.” TK can tell the moment that he processes what he’s seeing, watching as Carlos’s face softens and his arms come up to wrap around his waist.

“You want to remember my birthday next year?” Carlos clarifies, and TK is surprised to see tears in his glassy brown eyes. He tosses his phone back down on the table, reaching up to run his fingers along the stunning features of Carlos’s face.

“Babe,” he says, testing out the word for the first time and thoroughly enjoying the way it causes Carlos to vibrate against him, “I want to remember everything about you.”

There’s barely any warning before Carlos is on top of him, their lips attached once again as Carlos lays claim to him like a man unleashed. TK gives it all back to him, the two of them speaking paragraphs in touches and tastes and sighs and moans. There’s no holding back, not anymore.

When they are finally forced to pull back for air, TK takes pride in Carlos’s disheveled appearance, his curls wild and his face flushed and his lips bruised. He knows he probably looks the same, and he loves seeing the proof of their want and desire and need for each other with his own two eyes. He drags his fingers along Carlos’s plump lips, realizing for the first time that they are his to kiss, for as long as Carlos will let him.

“This is the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten,” Carlos sighs, and TK meets his eyes to find them blown black but fixed on him, his gaze never wavering.

“While I am obviously very glad to hear that,” TK begins, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his favorite lips again, “you should see what kind of birthday gifts I give when I’ve had time to plan them. I can promise you, you’re not ready for next year.”

“I’m ready for anything, as long as I’ve got you,” Carlos says without hesitation.

TK groans, falling forward to press his face into Carlos’s neck, feeling the vibration of his soft chuckle against his cheek. “You’re so sickeningly sweet, I can’t stand it.” Carlos merely hums, dragging his hands up and down TK’s back to soothe him.

They stay like that for a few moments, just enjoying the way they get to hold one another, before TK pulls back to give Carlos a look.

“Speaking of sickeningly sweet,” he teases, his fingers dancing along Carlos’s thighs on either side of him, “what do you say we take that cake and ice cream upstairs and unwrap some other presents, birthday boy?” He finishes the suggestion with a raise of his eyebrows, watching as the blush on Carlos’s face deepens before he lets out a loud, bright laugh, the two of them falling into each other as they struggle to remain upright against the table.

And TK decides that this, right here, being deliriously happy in Carlos’s arms, is everything that he could ever want or wish for.

On this day, and every birthday they’ll spend together after.

#tarlos #tarlos fic #911 lone star #tk strand #carlos reyes #I wrote a thing

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the-last-kenobi · 3 years

Note

How about “Disowned by Family” for bad things happen bingo?

Hello! 🤍 Thanks for the request for @badthingshappenbingo

Ooh, the angst potential is through the roof. Tried to choose the focus based off of what I remember you writing and reading on ao3 (or maybe I just went hmmmm evil)

“Good job, Obi-Wan!” a woman cried, her voice warm with joy. “Very well done!”

Obi-Wan found himself grinning even as he launched himself from one difficult landing into another gravity-defying leap, sweat dripping from his skin.

“Don’t coddle him,” laughed a male’s voice, but he sounded fond. “Keep at it, Padawan, retain your focus.”

Obi-Wan did not waste breath on a reply, whirling through the air, springing from one part of the training room to the other, swinging from posts and tumbling under moving obstacles, listening to the cues the Force gave him when he concentrated.

At last he landed on the mat in the center of the room, and the droids and obstacles ceased their moving, and the fifteen-year-old Jedi dropped to his knees, gasping for breath but triumphant.

“That was beautifully done, Obi-Wan!” Tahl cried, ignoring Qui-Gon’s protests. She rushed toward the boy and clasped his shoulders in congratulations. “I haven’t seen a junior Padawan that skilled in Ataru since your Master.”

“You’re too kind to both of us,” Qui-Gon shook his head as he joined them, standing tall above his kneeling friend and apprentice. Then he smiled. “But she’s not wrong — that was beautifully done, my Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan laughed and bowed his head, happy to be humble before them.

A strange gift, for a Jedi — to have two people so very like parents.

Obi-Wan kept his head low, terrified to look upwards, terrified of what he would see, what he would feel.

There was a heavily wrapped split over one leg, stained with grime and blood. More red liquid was slowly seeping from beneath its edges, gleaming wetly. Shadows lapped at his feet like predators playing with their food before the eating. The Darkness was closing in. But he knew this was mere fanciful thought, and not an actual omen, that his fears were outpacing his reality.

Which was already cast in shadow.

The flickering lights were caused by the flames burning in front of him, and the flames were burning Tahl. Who was dead.

Because of him. The cast around his leg, barely holding up after a day of running, days in hyperspace, and then three days in the Temple, hiding in his room and speaking to nobody, which concealed beneath it an injury that had delayed him and his Master.

And Tahl had died, and now she burned.

Obi-Wan kept his eyes low. He did not deserve to say goodbye, he could not bear to see.

Slowly the flames died, and the shadows consumed. The other Jedi watching departed in silence, murmuring only soft benedictions and farewells.

Obi-Wan kept his eyes on his feet.

Something shifted in the shadows, and from the other side of the empty pyre emerged a familiar figure. Qui-Gon walked quietly around the place where his love had burned and crossed to his Padawan.

A large hand settled on Obi-Wan’s shoulder.

“Listen to me,” Qui-Gon said in a low voice. “By my word and by the expectation of the Council, I am obligated to see you to Knighthood.”

Obi-Wan watched as tears blurred the boot tips he had been staring at for so long. Blackness swam in front of his eyes.

“But I no longer care,” Qui-Gon said. There was no wrath in his voice, no hissing, no venom. He simply spoke. “I will seek the Council out at dawn and you will be formally repudiated for negligence that cost the life of another Jedi.”

Obi-Wan’s tears escaped his eyes. They trembled for a moment against his lashes before they fell, striking the stones with a soft noise.

Qui-Gon sighed. “I told you that you were not capable of living the life of a Jedi, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Your persistence cost the life of a better.”

And then he walked away.

And Obi-Wan was alone.

“Good job, Anakin!” Obi-Wan cried, clapping his hands sharply. At his signal, the young Padawan stopped his kata demonstration and turned to grin at him, bowing with bravado.

Even after two years of training, Anakin managed to surprise him daily.

The first surprise had been when Anakin, all of nine, had announced to the Council that Qui-Gon Jinn had requested before his death that Obi-Wan Kenobi, trained to Knighthood by Mace Windu, would step in if Anakin should ever need a teacher. While Obi-Wan was still reeling, blindsided and drowning in memories of disgrace and ashes, Anakin had also presented another surprise: he had attached himself to Obi-Wan’s leg and refused to let go. Almost literally, mostly metaphorically.

They bonded immediately.

“Come here, Padawan,” he called.

Anakin came running, his braid flapping against his cheek, still beaming. “I told you I could do it! I told you so, Master!”

“So you did,” Obi-Wan agreed, and he reached out as the boy slid to a stop before him and tugged gently on the blonde braid. Anakin growled in mock rage and leaned away. “But, my very young Padawan, I also told you not to attempt it. I’m grateful for your skill because it proves that you’re strong and capable, but also because it saved you from injury. If you had truly not been ready, you could have been seriously hurt.”

Anakin barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “But I knew I could do it, and I just proved it!”

Obi-Wan sighed, his hand moving from the braid to Anakin’s shoulder, squeezing slightly as he tried to make his impudent, mischievous student focus on him for a moment. “And you disobeyed me to do so. So now you have a victory slightly tainted by that. And what if the next time I command you not to do something, you do it anyways and it goes badly wrong? You overreach, or circumstances intervene, and you’re hurt? In the field that could very often be the case, which is why I need to know that you’re accustomed to obeying. I can’t trust you on the field if I can’t trust you at home.”

Anakin’s face sank into lines of bitterness and shame, his head ducked low. Anger heated his cheeks.

Obi-Wan stopped himself, taking a slow breath.

“I’m sorry, Anakin,” he said quietly, and he squeezed Anakin’s shoulder a little tighter, rubbing the edge of his thumb up and down as if to soothe the boy. “Forgive your Master, he likes to hear himself talk.”

“Hey, that’s true,” Anakin chuckled, but he still didn’t raise his head.

Obi-Wan laughed quietly. “Yes. And while I made some very good points, things I want you to think about as we approach our first mission— there’s one more thing I want you to remember from this.”

Anakin’s shoulders slumped. “…Yes, Master?”

“You did extremely well today,” Obi-Wan reminded him. “And I am proud of you for working so hard and believing in your capabilities.”

Anakin’s head jerked up, and a beam spread slowly across his young face again. “Thanks,” he said a little shyly. “I’m grateful for your teachings, Obi-Wan. There’s no one I trust more than you.”

Dooku was a traitor and had escaped capture, war had been declared, over a hundred Jedi were dead, Obi-Wan’s leg was so injured that he was stuck in a cast and splint for two weeks, and Anakin… Anakin had lost most of his arm.

Obi-Wan could think of few moments in his life that had frightened him more than lying helpless on the floor while his student payed for his reckless behavior with a limb.

Now he sat here by Anakin’s bed, waiting for him to wake up to his new mech arm and hand.

Obi-Wan had no idea how to guide the boy through this.

He stared at his hands in his lap for awhile, and then at the bandaged leg, the stupid bandaged leg. This wound, it had stopped him from getting to Anakin in time.

He would never forgive himself—

“Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes flew to the bed, where Anakin was blinking at him in a daze, his hair in disarray and an expression of pinched pain on his still youthful face.

“Anakin,” he gasped, and sat upright, his leg throbbing as he moved. He grabbed his Padawan’s remaining flesh hand with his. Hoping to transfer some of his warmth. To ease the terrible chill.

“You… you’re here.”

“Yes.”

“Did you bother,” Anakin said, his voice a dry rasp, “to ask yourself if I wanted you here?”

Obi-Wan went very still. “I… I’m sorry. I thought you might want company. I can go.”

“Company, yeah,” Anakin replied. “But not you.”

Obi-Wan stopped halfway through standing up. He clung to the arm of the fragile chair, his bad leg trembling beneath his weight. “Is there… if there’s something we need to discuss…”

“You’re a liar,” Anakin said flatly.

Obi-Wan reeled.

“You’re a fake,” Anakin continued. “You pretend to care about me, pretend to be my friend, pretend to be the perfect Jedi. But someone who was a good teacher and a good friend would never have ignored my visions.”

“Anakin, what—” Obi-Wan asked, and could not tell if the strain of tears was caused by the pain in his leg or the explosion of anguish in his chest.

“I told you I dreamed of my mother!” Anakin shouted. “You let her die!”

“I don’t — you said dreams, you never said — Anakin, I’m sorry, I would never have—”

“And then you couldn’t even hold off Dooku,” Anakin spat, “and you made us abandon Padmé in the sand! She could have been killed, but you only cared about the chase. Nothing ever matters to you but the mission!”

“Anakin, no,” Obi-Wan said, and it was a sob this time. He felt disoriented, blindsided.

Last time, he had been expecting it, but now—

“I want you out of this room,” Anakin said, still helplessly slumped against his pillow but so full of betrayal and rage that he seemed about to spring from the bed and throttle his Master. “And when I recover enough to get out of this bed, I’m going to the Council to petition for Knighthood or for another Master to finish my training.”

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispered. “I’m sorry. Please.”

But Anakin was shaking his head. “You’re broken. You shouldn’t have been a Padawan, and never a Knight, and absolutely not a Master. Do you understand me?” The apprentice was breathing heavily, his eyes still glazed with drugs and grief. “You leave here and figure out some other place to be. You don’t belong here.”

Anakin glared at him until Obi-Wan had backed out of the room, leaning hard on the chair he was dragging.

As soon as the door slid shut, Obi-Wan collapsed against a wall, his forehead pressed against the cold metal, his hand still clenched around the chair.

And Obi-Wan was alone.

fin.

#so this is a parallel universe where apparently both qui-gon and anakin are just complete assholes #yeah #my poor boys #mostly obi wan in this case #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #anakin skywalker #my writing #bad things happen bingo #found family #but gone very wrong

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polaroid15 · 3 years

Text

The Words I Never Said

Summary: “I am a scientist, Peter. You are an experiment. It’s the natural order of things, really, that I study you.”

“You’re insane. You have to let me go.”

“I don’t think you understand, so I will try to be more clear. I own you. My research courses through your veins. Your life is my property.”

Or, Norman Osborn kidnaps Peter, and Tony will do anything to get him back.

Read on Ao3 HERE :)

--------

Peter knows something is wrong as soon as Happy’s ID fills his phone screen.

He’s sitting on the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling fifty feet in the air and a half eaten sandwich from Delmar’s in his hand. Not even waiting to swallow, Peter accepts the call. “Happy? What is it, what’s wrong?”

At first, he’s met with an uneasy silence. His spider sense flares uncomfortably in response. “Why do you always assume something’s wrong?” Happy asks.

“Because something always is.”

Happy sighs. “It’s Tony.”

If Peter weren’t sitting, he would have fallen. He steadies himself anyways, leaning back as the cityscape below threatens vertigo. “What? What about him? Is he okay?”

The silence again. God, it’s killing him. Peter can hear his heartbeat in his ears. “Happy,” he stresses. “Talk to me. Is he okay?”

“As far as I know, he’s fine. I got a ransom call about fifteen minutes ago. Oscorp has him.”

Peter’s head is a top spinning out of control. He drops his sandwich and stands, too upset to stay stationary. He paces on the roof with his free hand on his head. “Oscorp? Are you kidding me? What- how the hell did this happen? What does Oscorp want with Tony?”

“It’s a long story. But listen- it’s not Tony that they’re really after, kid.”

Peter stops short in his frantic pacing, his spider sense flaring once more. “What is it then?”

“They want Spider-Man. They want you in exchange for Tony’s life.”

Peter can’t breathe, all the puzzle pieces clicking into place. Oh man.

“I’ll do it,” he says, though somewhere in the promise his confidence wavers. “Do you know where in Oscorp he’s being held?”

“No- Pete. Listen to me right now. God, I shouldn’t have called. You can’t just barge in there, okay? We need to strategize. Swing to the Tower and we’ll make a plan to get him back safe without putting you at risk too.”

“He could be dead by then!” Peter argues stubbornly. He spins on his heels and sees the top of Oscorp tower, barely visible through the New York skyline. “It’s me they want.”

Happy’s voice rises, and if Peter wasn’t so hyperfocused on his mentor’s safety he would hear the man’s raw concern bleeding through. “Peter. You are not handing yourself over to Oscorp. Come to the Tower and we’ll figure out a way. There’s a better way.”

“I can’t let him die because of me,” Peter whispers, because Ben already has. No more blood. “I’m sorry Happy. I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“Peter! Don’t you dare hang up-”

But he does, his adrenaline making it almost impossible to feel the sting of guilt that follows. After tucking his phone away, Peter sprints to the edge of the roof and leaps. He free falls and fires a web, swings, and prays that he won’t be too late.

-------

“He’s not going to come. I’m terrible leverage.”

“On the contrary, Stark.”

Tony flexes his arms against his restraints and grinds his teeth together until his jaw aches. They had called Happy. Made their demands. Spider-Man, in exchange for his life.

Peter.

“Whatever you think you know, you’re wrong. I hardly know Spider-Man. I built his suit. That’s it.” A lie. God, it’s such a lie. Peter is his kid. As close to flesh and blood as he’ll ever get. “He’s not coming, so you might as well put a bullet between my eyes while you still have the upper hand.”

Tony doesn’t know the names of the men holding him, only that Norman is behind it all. There are five of them all together, each one armed with an assault rifle and military-grade vests. The ringleader, and ugly man with a pierced lip, smirks at Tony’s suggestion. “If Spider-Man is half the hero he claims to be, he’ll come.”

It leaves Tony’s mouth dry, because it’s true. Peter will do anything to keep him safe.

And it scares the hell out of him.

“The hour’s almost up,” one of the men says. “If Spidey doesn’t show soon our heads are on the line.”

“He’ll show,” sneers the man with the piercing. “Be patient.”

Tony pulls harder on his restraints, but they don’t budge. Come on, Happy. Fix this.

Five tortuous minutes pass.

The elevator dings as the doors open, spilling orange light into the dimly lit room. It’s empty and the ringleader curses, raising his rifle to his eye. “Check it out,” he orders the man to his left.

Obeying, the accomplice moves quickly towards the open elevator, his heavy footsteps making loud echoes that reverberate through Tony’s head. The anticipation is overwhelming. Please don’t be Peter. Oh God, please don’t let it be him.

The doors start to close but the man reaches out a hand to stop the movement. Tony holds his breath, hands sweating and heartbeat threatening to jump out of his neck at what lies beyond. It’s the longest second of his life.

The man looks left, right. Then up. “Holy crap!”

The sound of webbing is enough to bring tears of panic to Tony’s eyes. He digs his nails into the chair and watches in earnest as the man falls back against the floor, his entire upper body encased in webs that keep him in place.

Chaos.

Before Tony has the chance to blink, Peter is swinging out from the elevator and shooting off webs. They hit and shatter glass, and Tony ducks as gunshots start to fire. He feels a rough hand in his hair that is gone a second later, a web hitting his assailant’s face and landing him flat on his back.

More gunshots. A window erupts into thousands of fragments.

Silence.

Tony jerks up his head, dizzy with relief when his eyes land on Peter. The boy is sprinting towards him, sliding on his knees and grappling with Tony’s bindings until they snap. “Oh my god! Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay. I’m so sorry this is all my fault and I can’t believe they fell for that elevator trick-”

“Kid!” Tony interrupts, grabbing him at the shoulders and shaking lightly. “You can’t be here!”

“But-”

“They want you, idiot! Not me.”

Peter squirms away from his grip before turning his head sharply towards the staircase, a tic Tony has come to recognize as his Peter tingle in action. “More are on their way. No time to argue. We gotta go!”

Knowing better than to object, he allows Peter to help him to his feet and stumble towards the elevator. His legs are cramped and stiff from sitting in the chair for so long, but the adrenaline of keeping Peter safe stows the pain somewhere he can’t feel it.

Behind them, the door to the staircase slams open. There’s gunshots and yells and in the crescendo of the noise, Peter pushes him forward. The force of it knocks him off balance and he slides the last couple of feet into the elevator, landing awkwardly against the back wall. Peter scrambles in moments later, his breathing ragged. “Get the door!” he screams.

Tony fights to get to his knees and slams his hand against the button for the parking garage. Bullets tear into the metal as the doors close.

They make it.

“Oh thank god,” Tony exhales, sliding down the wall. “Nice moves, kid.”

“T-Tony?” Peter stammers, his back turned. Something in his voice makes Tony’s blood run cold.

“Pete? What is it?”

Peter turns slowly, his hand pressed hard against the base of his ribcage. Tony doesn’t need to look hard to know he’s bleeding. That he got shot-

“No. Peter-” Before he can finish, Peter collapses down to his knees. Tony moves faster than ever to help soften the fall, his hands moving on instinct to cover the growing warmth on the kid’s side. “This can’t- You can’t-”

“Sorry,” Peter murmurs. “There were too many. Didn’t mean to.”

“Obviously not!”

The elevator lurches horribly, the small space going dark as they stop. Tony curses loudly as the elevator fills with soft yellow emergency lights. Under his hands, Peter laughs. It’s delirious. “They cut the power. Smart.”

“Not smart!” Tony hisses. “Now we’re trapped.”

“Don’t say that,” Peter whines. “You know I’m claustrophobic.”

“Why did you come here? What the hell were you thinking?”

Peter gapes at him, eyelids drooping. “Are you kidding me? I just saved your ass!”

“No, you’re going to get us both killed!”

“That’s not going to happen!” Peter says, struggling to get up before moaning and collapsing back. Tony’s knees are sticky with what can only be a growing pool of the boy’s blood. He tries very hard not to think about it.

Tony pushes Peter’s head back, his touch leaving tiny smudges of red under the boy’s hairline. Fix this. Fix him. “Stay down Pete. Moving around is only going to make the bleeding worse.”

“Yeah, I feel that,” Peter wheezes. His face is about a dozen shades more pale than normal. “Must’ve- must’ve hit something important.”

The dark crimson spreads. Tony is three seconds away from a panic attack. “Side wounds bleed a lot. Just try and stay awake, alright buddy?”

Peter hums, his eyes hazy as they trace the four walls keeping them captive. “I hate small spaces.”

“I know. I’m sorry. This is all such a damn mess.”

“Couldn’t leave you,” Peter slurs.

“You should’ve.”

“If it were me, you would- you would have done the same thing.”

Through the dim emergency lighting, Tony sees Peter begin to shiver. He wonders if it’s from the shock or the blood loss. Maybe it’s some sick combination of the two. Tony presses his hands down harder against the wound and Peter cries out, his eyes rolling back.

“Hey, hey. Focus up kid. Don’t go anywhere. You want to save me? Then save me. You can’t do that if you’re unconscious.”

Peter’s eyelids flutter but stay stubbornly open, his chest heaving with laboured breaths. His lips are crimson. He looks up at Tony in a daze. “Never been shot before,” he murmurs. “Ben-”

“Don’t go there,” Tony interrupts, mouth going sour. “Don’t think about it.”

“Kinda- kinda hard not too.”

God, this kid.

The stain underneath Peter grows further, pooling underneath Tony’s shins. “Think you can web the wound? It’ll- it’ll slow the bleeding. Buy us some time.”

“Time,” Peter agrees, lifting a shaky hand. “Help me.”

Together, they seal the wound closed. It saturates quickly but holds, though for how long is uncertain. His hands are free now, covered completely with Peter’s blood. It’s impossible to look away.

“Hey,” Peter says, covering Tony’s hand with his own and pushing them down. As if everything around them has slowed, Tony meets Peter’s eyes. “It’s okay. Happy is on his way-”

The elevator lurches again, the emergency lights replaced by the regular ones. Both flinch against the brightness, the gore of Peter’s wound even more vivid and launching Tony’s heart into his throat.

“This’ll be a good story one day,” Peter says breathlessly, paling further as the webbing over his side begins to leak.

“You’re not funny, kid.” His hands are shaking too badly to do anything. He prays that whoever is waiting for them at the bottom is friendly, that Happy found a way to save them.

“I mean it,” Peter says, smiling up at him. Even with blood stained teeth, Tony can’t help the rush of fondness that washes over him. “Never a dull moment.”

“God, Pete. If you only knew how many gray hairs you’ve given me-”

“Gray hair is in right now. Very trendy.”

The elevator hits its destination. Tony turns his back on Peter to face the doors head on, his arms splayed out wide to protect him. “Look, kid. Whatever happens-”

The door springs open. Too quick. A dozen men stand waiting, their weapons trained to shoot. Peter gasps behind him as he struggles to get up, and Tony sacrifices a hand to push him back gently.

“We only want Spider-Man. This doesn’t have to concern you, Stark.”

Rage, hot and consuming rises up through Tony’s chest. “If you want him, you have to go through me.”

Peter makes a low noise of protest, words seemingly beyond him. He feels the kid’s weak hand circle around his wrist, his thumb slick with blood running what should be a comforting line across his pulse point.

“Whatever you say.”

They surge forward. Tony struggles and screams but it’s hopeless. There’s too many of them. He’s wrestled away from the elevator and dragged out into the garage. “Don’t touch him!” Tony spits, too desperate to breathe. He watches in horror as they swarm Peter’s body, grabbing his limbs ungently and extracting him. It leaves a gruesome streak of red.

“NO!” Tony fights. He fights with everything he has. Because it’s Peter. It’s his kid, and it’s his own damn fault that they’re in this mess to begin with. “I’ll kill you! If you touch a hair on his head, I’ll-”

Something hard slams against his forehead, stunning him. The world goes blurry as his body loses its strength. He pitches forward and sees Peter on the brink of unconsciousness reach out for him.

He already knows they’ve lost. He reaches back anyways.

A boot slams into his temple.

And then there’s nothing.

----------

“-ony.”

“-hear me?”

“Damn it.”

Static. Darkness.

“Give him some space!”

It’s a battle to stick to reality. For now, he’s blissfully unaware, concerned only with how difficult it is to open his eyes.

“Come on, boss. Now would be a good time to show some life.”

The voice is familiar. Safe. Tony tries again to climb out of the dark hole he’s stuck in and manages, by some miracle, to regain his sight. The first thing he sees is Happy leaning over him, his face pinched in worry. “Thank God. You still got all your brains?”

“Happy?” Tony mumbles, the static still hanging heavy in his brain. “What-” he turns his head, sees an impossible amount of blood, and nearly passes right the hell back out. Peter. Oscorp. “Oh my god. P-Peter. They have Peter.”

“Take it easy,” Happy says, using both arms to help support Tony in his struggle to sit. “You took a hard hit to the head.”

“Peter was shot. They- they took him.”

“Calm down, boss. We’re going to get him back.”

“No. No, Happy you don’t understand-” Hot blood. A red hand reaching out for him. “Oh Christ. I can’t- I can’t-”

“Yes you can. You can. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Tony gasps, his eyes stinging as Happy guides his head down to hang by his knees. He can’t see the blood anymore. It helps.

“He’s a tough kid. Norman’s an idiot. We’ll have him back in no time.”

“He’s just a kid, Hap.” My kid. “This is all my fault.”

“No,” Happy says, his hand squeezing Tony’s shoulder in feeble reassurance. “I called him. If anything, it’s mine. I should’ve known he’d swing over here guns blazing.”

Head still spinning, Tony tries to focus on bringing air into his chest. You can’t help Peter like this. Get better. Breathe. “He wanted to save me.”

Happy is quiet for a long time. Then, “he did save you.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut. “He sure has a habit of that doesn’t he?”

Beside him, Happy nods. Tony catches him looking at the elevator with a look of foreign bitterness.

“Now it’s our turn.”

---------

Peter wakes up alone.

It’s disorienting and painful, his mind clouded and his stomach tied into nauseating knots. It doesn’t take him long to remember what happened.

He’s tied down to a chair, his hands cuffed tight behind him with something strong enough to keep him in place. Vibranium, possibly. Or maybe it’s just the blood loss making him weak.

Stifling a groan, Peter rolls his head until it rests on his chest instead of hanging back. He’s not wearing his suit anymore. In its place, a pair of medical pants and a loose fitting t-shirt. Trying hard not to dwell on the invasion, he realizes his mask is gone, which doesn’t surprise him but is scary nonetheless.

They know who he is.

The shirt is bloodstained, but barely. Rather they stitched him up or his healing factor kicked in enough to close the skin. Regardless, the wound stings. Peter tries to ignore it.

Certain he’s not at risk of dropping dead, Peter expands his attention to his surroundings. Another facility, by the looks of it. The walls are white and albeit a little worn down. Old lab equipment and machinery litters the perimeter in no particular order or fashion, suggesting he’s in some kind of storage room.

He tugs on his cuffs and thinks of Tony.

He should’ve listened to Happy.

Before his thoughts can venture farther the door to the room opens. Norman Osborn fills its space and Peter shrinks away, fighting once more with his restraints. He’s alone. “Hello Peter.”

Heart beating hard against his ribs, Peter tries not to show the fear he feels. He raises his chin. “You’re a monster,” he says.

Norman chuckles like they’re good friends catching up after many years of being apart. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. “It seems, Mr. Parker, that the only monster here is you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course I do,” Norman says, “because I made you, didn’t I?”

“My powers have nothing to do with you.”

“Lying will profit you nothing.”

Peter can’t decipher between his anger and his fear, a hate he didn’t know he was capable of burning low in the center of his chest. “What do you want with me?”

Norman’s eyes light up as if he’s been waiting for Peter to ask all along. With the gait of someone at perfect ease, he strays closer and leans against an old lab table. “I am a scientist, Peter. You are an experiment. It’s the natural order of things, really, that I study you.”

“You’re insane. You have to let me go.”

“I don’t think you understand, so I will try to be more clear. I own you. My research courses through your veins. Your life is my property.”

Peter feels his walls crumbling. He strains his wrists even after he feels his skin split underneath.

“I don’t belong to anyone. You’re sick and you’ll never get away with this.”

Norman comes up beside him and backhands him so hard that Peter sees stars. It’s more shocking than painful, though his mouth fills with blood.

“You are not in the position to be disrespectful, Mr. Parker.”

Peter spits the blood in his mouth at Norman’s feet. “Tony will come for me.”

“Oh Peter,” Norman says softly. He straightens, his long shadow covering Peter’s small form. “Tony Stark is dead.”

Peter’s insides freeze. He stops breathing. Norman slips his hand into his pocket and reveals a syringe filled with clear liquid. He continues to smile, seeming to enjoy Peter’s distress. “You’re lying,” he chokes when no other words come. Because it can’t be true. He doesn’t remember a lot after the elevator had opened. Only that they had dragged Tony away from him. But he had been alive, then. Alive, not dead.

“I’m afraid not. One of my men shot him in the head when he resisted. I suppose Iron Man was not as indestructible as we thought. Now, try not to squirm.” Norman slides the needle under the skin at his neck. Peter doesn’t even feel it, his body numb with shock.

“No. No. It’s not true. It’s not-”

A wave of dizziness hits Peter hard, more powerful than when he had been bleeding out in the elevator. In an instant, all the strength in his body disappears and his head lolls back against the chair. Through tunneling vision, he sees Norman smirk. “You should’ve done a better job at protecting him,” he says.

Tony. Hot tears leak down the sides of Peter’s face. His heart is going to beat straight out of his freaking chest.

It’s the last thing he remembers.

-------

“We need to find him.”

“Tony, calm down. Let the Doctor look you over.”

Tony squirms away. He feels like he’s trapped. “No. We’re wasting time! Osborn has Peter and he’s going to kill him-”

Happy gestures for the Doctor to step away. Looking conflicted, she nods. When the door closes behind her Happy kneels in front of where Tony sits and places both hands on his shoulders. “If Osborn wanted Peter dead he wouldn’t have taken him. He would’ve just killed him at Oscorp. We’ll find him, but you need to get checked out first. You’ll be no good for Peter in the state you’re in right now, you hear me?”

Though it should be impossible, Tony manages to nod.

Obvious relief colours Happy’s face. “I’ll get the Doctor back in here. Keep breathing, boss.”

Peter. Gone. His fault.

“Right.”

----------

The drug Norman had injected into him doesn’t last long. Peter wakes up strapped to a table, a blinding light pointed directly at his face and the shadows of scientists surrounding him on all sides. They peer down at him like he’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen, bloody instruments paused in their hands as he struggles to get the cotton out of his brain.

“Amazing. Awake already. Inject him again, but double the dose this time.”

“No,” Peter moans, his voice nearly inaudible. He tries to move and can’t. “P-please.”

He doesn’t feel the needle. He doesn’t feel the pain. It’s almost more scary this way.

“Sleep, Spider. Let us do our work.”

His body is weak. Tony is dead. Peter doesn’t even try to hold on.

This time, he’s out for good.

---------

Tony gets three stitches in his head. It’s uncomfortable but nothing in comparison to the heaviness in his chest.

“Any luck with Oscorp’s records FRI?”

“My system does not detect any Oscorp facilities that are unaccounted for. Facial recognition and security camera data is currently underway.”

Beside him, Happy holds his breath. They’re on thin ice and Tony is two seconds away from knocking down every building in New York. “Double time, FRI.”

It’s been three hours since he lost Peter.

Tony doesn’t let himself think the worst.

--------

Peter is back in the chair.

Every inch of him hurts, the scattered pain somehow much worse than the intense localized agony of the gunshot wound. He refuses to look down at his body, to see what Osborn has reduced him to.

I own you.

Tony Stark is dead.

This time, they’ve gagged him. When Peter cries, he can barely hear the sound to his own ears. He feels like he’s falling down a steep cliff, unable to find purchase or stop his descent. For the first time since he’d been bit, Peter sincerely wishes none of it had ever happened.

Tony is dead and Peter has no one to blame but himself. He wishes they had more time, that he had told Tony the things he’d always wanted to but never had the courage to verbalize.

His stilted sobs make his side scream in pain. Peter loses his breath.

He hopes Happy is looking for him.

But maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

--------

It’s another long hour before FRIDAY finishes her search. “Boss, I have identified three probable locations for Mr. Parker.”

His relief is a dam breaking open in his chest. “What’s the most probable?”

“Sending the coordinates to your suit now.”

It’s all he needs to hear. Metal encloses around his body and Happy sprints towards the car.

For the first time in hours Tony feels hope.

I’m coming Pete, he thinks. I’ll get you back.

No matter the cost.

--------

Peter is drifting when Norman comes back to his room, though from the drugs or the pain he isn't sure. The man drags in a chair this time and sets it in front of Peter, sitting comfortably with a manilla folder on his lap.

Without his voice, all Peter can do is glare.

“Now, now, Peter. There’s no need for such hostility.”

Go to hell, he tries to stay. It comes out as a pathetic jumble of words.

“Even gagged, you’re too mouthy for your own good. Speaking is a privilege, Mr. Parker. In time you will learn that.”

Tears well in Peter’s eyes. He blinks furiously to prevent them from falling.

“Congratulations on completing your first session. You truly are remarkable. The results my colleagues have shown me are almost too good to be true.”

Peter closes his eyes and breathes carefully through his nose. He wants this to be a dream. A horrible, terrible dream. Because if it’s a dream he can wake up. He can wake up and Tony will be alive. The pain will disappear.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Norman muses, “how this all came to be. A school field trip, correct? The chances are nearly impossible. It’s almost like this was meant to be.”

Peter stays perfectly still and quiet. Norman’s hand clamps around his jaw and shakes his head hard. Crying out into the gag, Peter tries to flinch away, but the man is too close. He can smell his cologne, which in reality probably costs more than Peter’s entire life. “You will look at me when I speak to you, understood?”

If Peter could spit in his face, he would. He jerks in his cuffs, his anger giving him the strength he needs for his defiance. Norman hits him for a second time. This time, in the eye. Peter has had enough experience to know it will swell.

“You’re lucky we still need you,” Norman says.

Peter glares, feeling sick enough to throw up as Norman pulls out another syringe. “Ready for round two?”

--------

The first location is a dead end. Tony checks it three times over to make sure he isn’t missing anything.

It’s been five hours.

“FRI. What’re the next coordinates?”

He doesn’t give himself the luxury to be afraid of what he might find.

--------

Peter wakes up screaming.

He doesn’t know why, at first. Only that he’s lying flat on a cold table, pinned and surrounded by strangers.

Then he feels the pain.

White hot. All consuming. Mind melting. It’s so intense that he doesn’t really comprehend where it’s coming from, or if he’ll be able to survive it. His muscles strain and stretch under the restraints, and then one of his hands breaks free all together. It lashes out, hitting the scientist closest and throwing him across the room. If Peter were more lucid he would hear the crunch of bone against the wall, or the yells of the others.

But he doesn’t.

His body clinging to freedom, his hand continues to fight desperately. He manages to hit away another scientist before three sets of hands press his arm down hard against the table. A sharp jab in his neck lets him know he’s been injected again. His limbs lose some strength, his mind fogging, but it’s not enough. Peter screams and fights. He cries.

Somewhere in the distance, a door is thrown open. Through the kaleidoscopic mess of his vision Peter sees Norman and cries harder. “S-stop-”

Norman’s hand closes around Peter’s neck and squeezes. “You don’t have a say over what happens to you. Do you understand? I own you!” He applies more pressure and Peter wonders distantly if his eyes will pop straight out of his head. “I. Own. You.”

Peter loses control over his body. His lungs stall in his chest. Only then does Norman let go, wiping his hand on his jacket. “Keep going,” he orders.

Peter is too exhausted to sob, darkness gathering around his vision. I’m going to die, he realizes.

Something hits his head hard, and he welcomes the escape with open arms.

--------

Seven hours. Tony’s tracked the three locations, all proving to be as useful as the last. His patience is slipping, his resolve shaken.

“FRI? I could really use a miracle right now.”

“Retrieving coordinates for the next location: an Oscorp storage facility in Staten Island.”

“Thanks. Send Happy the same.”

“Of course.”

Tony flies like his life depends on it. Because really, it does. If he loses Peter-

Stop, he chastises himself. Focus. It’s not over yet.

Fifteen minutes later, Tony lands hard enough to dent the cement under foot outside the storage facility. On the outside, his chances look bleak. Dark windows, no cars in the lot. “FRI, can you pick up any heat signatures?”

After a short pause, FRIDAY replies. “There are approximately ten heat signatures detected inside.”

“Oh god. Do any match Peter?”

“Yes, boss, it appears so.”

His legs turn to jelly. “Tell- tell Happy. I’m going in.”

“Sending a message to Happy Hogan.”

“Best point of entry?”

“The front door will be fine, sir.”

Tony follows FRIDAY’s prompts from the dark entrance to one of the building’s sublevels. Once close enough, he hears voices. Laughter, even. “FRI?” he whispers.

“The door to your left,” she supplies.

Tony wastes no time in blasting it off its hinges. Halted screams come from the smoking wreckage as Tony steps through. It appears to be some sort of staff room, a large group of men and women in lab coats sitting around a circular table. They stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Spider-Man,” Tony demands. “Where the hell is he?”

No one answers. He fires a repulsor at the ceiling.

“Norman has him!” one of them yell, hands raised to shield her head. “Follow the corridor down to the end. You’ll- you’ll find him in there.”

Tony can hardly see straight in his relief. He backs out of the room, dislodging a drone from his suit to block their exit. “If any of you try to leave, this will shoot. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He runs.

The end of the corridor.

Peter. Peter. Peter-

After confirmation from FRIDAY, Tony kicks down the door in question. His blood goes cold. Because it’s Peter- his kid- cuffed with his hands behind his back and a thick gag around his mouth. His head is tipped back, his eyes closed. He’s covered in so much blood that Tony has trouble seeing parts of him that are clean.

And beside him, Osborn.

He fires a repulsor at the man before his mind can catch up. It hits Osborn in the chest and he flies back, hitting the wall with a loud grunt and sliding down to the floor. Though painful, Tony steps past Peter’s lax body. He’s not sure if he’s awake. Or even alive.

“Wait!” Norman yells, raising his hands in defense. “You can’t- you can’t do this.”

“Like hell I can’t,” Tony growls, his palm growing hot. He raises it to Norman’s face. “You took my kid. You hurt him.”

“Peter’s life ceased being his own the moment he was bitten by my spider. I have the right to study him, to learn from what I created.”

“You’re an animal. I should kill you right now.”

“But you won’t,” Norman counters, his eyes glinting against the fire in Tony’s hand. “Because if you do, Peter will never forgive you. He’s good, Stark. Too good for you. And you know that.”

Tony clenches his jaw hard, his heart beating loud in his ears. He thinks of Peter sitting on a table in the lab, kicking his feet and laughing at a joke Tony had told. He thinks of the boy thumb wrestling with Happy and the cheesy birthday card he had made Tony last year.

“You’re right,” Tony says, lowering his hand. “I won’t kill you.”

Norman perks, his mouth curling.

“But you’re going to wish I had.”

And with that, Tony hits him across the face. Harder than he should. Osborn goes limp against the wall.

Behind him, Peter moans.

“Peter-”

Tony removes his faceplate and collapses at Peter’s feet. One of the boy’s eyes is open to a slit, the other swollen shut. When he connects with Tony his eyebrows draw together in confusion. Then, without further warning, he begins to cry.

“Hey, hey, woah. It’s okay kiddo. I’m here.” He reaches up and gently removes the gag from Peter’s mouth, the skin underneath it raw and chapped. “I’m here, buddy. Don’t cry.”

Peter doesn’t look any less comforted. He strains against his bindings. “Are you real?” he whispers, his voice cracked and strained. Only now does Tony see the dark bruising around the kid’s neck. The sight brings bile up his throat.

“I’m real,” he promises, reaching up his hands to card through Peter’s hair. “I’m here.”

Peter sobs again, going limp. Tony catches him against his chest and cradles him close. “They told- they told me they shot you,” Peter says. “They told me you were dead.”

Tears of his own well in Tony’s eyes. He presses his cheek into Peter’s hair. “I’m not dead,” he says, voice wavering. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thought it was my fault,” Peter slurs. More of his weight dips into Tony’s chest as he goes quiet.

“Kid?” Tony shifts so he can see Peter’s face. His eyes are closed, his breaths short and laboured. “Damn it! Pete, can you hear me?”

Happy chooses this moment to arrive. He swings into the room, a pistol curled around his fingers and his eyes wider than Tony’s ever seen them. “Is he-?”

“Alive,” Tony chokes. “He was talking just a second ago. I don’t know what happened.”

“It looks like they tried to pull him apart.”

And it’s true.

“Call a med team. The police- the whole works. I need to get him out of this chair.”

“On it,” Happy says. His eyes linger on Peter in obvious distress before he flees from the room, pulling out his phone and barking out orders.

“Alright Petey. Hang tight.” Tony positions his limp body against the back of the chair, trying not to dwell on how unalive he looks. He ventures to Osborn’s body, retrieves a promising ring of keys, and returns back to Peter.

“I got you kid. I got you.” His hands are shaking too badly to fit the key in the small slot at the base of the cuff. He has to sit back on his heels and take ten measured breaths before he tries again. This time it works and Peter’s arms pop free.

Without the restraint, Peter’s body tips forward. With an aborted yell, Tony lunges forward to catch him. They end up in a tangled heap on the dirty floor, Peter’s head pillowed in his lap.

“Oh Pete. Oh god. W-wake up. It’s over now.”

Nothing. Above the bruises, there’s half a dozen needle marks in his neck.

“Peter? Come on, bud. Wake up.”

Wake up. Wake up.

He rocks the kid in his lap until help arrives, refusing even for a moment to let go.

-------

Peter realizes three things in quick succession when he wakes up.

First, it’s quiet, and the distinct lack of his spider sense is more than relieving. He’s safe, he realizes. Which two, means it’s over.

His vision struggles to keep up with his waking body but after a few long blinks the blurred medbay comes into sharper focus. He sees May’s purse, though she herself isn’t in the room. And with a stiff turn of his head, Peter comes to terms with thing number three.

Tony.

The man is slumped in a chair beside his bed, his head tipped back as he snores. The events of his rescue rush back into his head with such force it leaves him dizzy. Without further warning, tears leak out of his eyes.

Alive. He’s alive.

They both are.

As if Tony has a fifth sense of his own, he shifts in his sleep and his head dips. The jerky movement must be enough to wake him because within seconds, his eyes open. They connect with Peter fast, widening when he registers that Peter’s awake.

“Oh Pete,” he says, rubbing at his eyes and leaning forward. “What’s wrong? Are- are you okay bud?”

Peter lifts a heavy hand to wipe the moisture from his cheeks. “Sorry,” he whispers, trying for a smile. “Must be the drugs.”

The creases on Tony’s forehead smooth. He returns Peter’s smile, though some deep abiding concern rests in his eyes. “God, it’s good to see you awake. You gave us all a good scare.”

“Right,” Peter agrees, his strength already dwindling. He casts a sideway glance over at May’s purse. “Is she- is she okay?”

“She’s happy you’re safe. That you’re getting better. She just went to grab some food. She’ll be back real soon.”

Peter’s insides feel hollowed out. He thinks of Norman standing over him. I own you. “Oh. That’s good.”

Tony scoots closer in his chair. “How’re you feeling bud? Any pain?”

To Peter’s embarrassment, another tear leaks out of his eye. He catches it quickly and sucks in a shaky breath. “No.”

“You sure?”

Peter bites his lip. Stares at Tony’s worried face. “I really thought you were dead.”

Tony holds his breath and pulls absently at his fingers. “He was just trying to get in your head, Pete.”

“Yeah,” he laughs without humour. “Well, it worked.”

“Peter...”

“It’s just- the whole time I was thinking about everything I should’ve told you. When Ben died, I regretted- I regretted my last words, you know? Wish I said more.”

“Your uncle knew how much you loved him, kiddo.”

Peter swallows hard. “And do you?”

Tony blinks. “What?”

“Know,” Peter says, staring stubbornly at the wall. “That I love you? Because I never told you before and then it was too late. I was too- I don’t know. Scared, I guess. But I can’t be too late again. I have a second chance now and I want you to know.”

Silence. Peter can’t look. Maybe Tony got up and left-

Warmth. Arms circling his chest. Peter inhales sharply in his surprise, the tubes and wires hooking him up to the machines pinching. Oh god, he’s hugging me.

“I thought I lost you too,” Tony whispers over his shoulder. Peter is frozen. “When they dragged me out of that elevator and took you-” he chokes. “I thought-”

Peter closes his eyes. He’s tired and achy, his bones like lead under his skin. “I’m fine.”

“Let me finish.”

“Okay.”

Tony breathes in deeply, his chest expanding against Peter’s. “I love you too, Pete, is what I’m trying to say. So damn much. Since day one, really. And if you ever scare me like this again I swear I’ll lock you in a tower like goddamn Rapunzel.”

Peter’s glad that Tony can’t see his face. I love you too. Finally regaining strength, he wraps his arms around Tony’s shoulders to complete the embrace. It’s weak and broken but tangible. Real. “Thank you for saving me.”

“You did the same for me.”

They separate. Neither comment on their wet faces. “What happened to Norman?” Peter asks. It feels like his throat is closing.

Tony looks down at the floor. His hand had fallen from the hug to rest on Peter’s arm. He doesn’t let go, and Peter doesn’t want him to. “Prison. He won’t hurt you again, Pete. I promise you.”

He isn’t sure how the admission makes him feel. “Oh.”

His side twinges in pain. Something must cross over his face because Tony winces too, like the hurt is his own. “I’m so sorry, Pete.”

Peter leans back against his pillows, lightheaded all of a sudden, his energy far past spent. “I hate it when you apologize,” he murmurs.

“Pfft. Well, the feeling’s mutual.”

Peter smiles. He closes his eyes. “You gonna tap back out?” Tony asks gently.

He hardly finds the strength within himself to nod. Everything is catching up to him, a dark shadow of a nightmare. It’s over, he tries to remind himself. Tony is alive. May is safe. He loves you back. “Stay?”

“Always, Pete. I’m not moving a muscle.” As if to prove it, his thumb runs across Peter’s wrist, straight over the bandages covering the marks of his restraints. “You’re stuck with me.”

“Stuck with me too,” Peter slurs. He reaches out blindly until he finds Tony’s hand and grips it with as much strength as he can muster, which truthfully isn’t much. “Like a web.”

He drifts further, but is sure he can hear Tony’s quiet laugh, that he feels Tony’s lips press over his forehead.

“Go to sleep kiddo. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

And he will. Peter knows it.

Always.

#irondad #irondad fic #peter parker #tony stark #norman osborn #kidnapping #hurt/comfort #hurt peter parker #peter parker whump #protective tony stark #protective peter parker #tony stark acting as peter parkers parental figure #angst with a happy ending #gun violence

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ncssian · 4 years

Text

A Favor: Part Two

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: im so sorry i know i need to start editing these

***

Nesta stands in her guest room at Cassian’s cabin, hands on her hips as she eyes the garbage bags full of things she managed to salvage from her old apartment.

All of her rain-soaked clothes sit in two huge bags, waiting to go through the laundry, while her books are carefully spread out on the windowsill, floor, and anywhere they can catch enough sunlight to dry their pages. Nesta almost cried when she saw that Lorene had salvaged her few adult coloring books and the art supplies to go with them, still dry.

For a brief moment, she’s glad she didn’t buy any physical copies of her textbooks this year— the loss of that money would be too much to bear.

A brief knock sounds at her door, and Nesta spins to find Cassian standing there, laundry basket in hand. “I can take your clothes down for you if you want,” he offers, lifting his own basket with a hand.

Nesta’s lips tighten. He wants to do her laundry with his. Their laundry will get cleaned together. Her underwear will get tangled up with his.

Cassian’s brow furrows. “Nesta?”

This is her new reality now. She’ll have to accept it at one point or another.

“We can do separate loads if you want,” Cassian adds. “Feyre told me you— well, she said you might be more uncomfortable with some things than others. It’s totally fine if you don’t want your clothes mixing—”

“No.” Nesta finally snaps out of it. “I don’t care about the laundry. My clothes are right here.”

Because she has a sneaking suspicion she might be being unintentionally bitchy again, Nesta helps Cassian drag her bags of drenched clothes downstairs.

“I feel sort of bad for bullying you into this deal,” Cassian rambles as he dumps clothes into the washer. “Which is why I need you to know you can enforce whatever rules and boundaries you want while you’re here. If you’d prefer I never speak to you for the rest of your time here, I can manage that, too.”

Nesta looks at him with a hint of disbelief. Sometimes he says the oddest things. “I don’t want you to never speak to me again.”

There’s relief in his sagging shoulders. “That’s good,” he says as he pours out detergent. “I mean, I was a little worried you were against this so much because you hated me, but you don’t know me enough to hate me, do you?”

Hate. Nesta rolls the word over her tongue, tastes the hard corners of it, and decides it doesn’t fit for Cassian. Not even close. She wonders how to articulate this to Cassian.

She settles on: “You seem nice enough. Obviously, since you’re letting me live in your luxury mountain cabin for free. But I don’t want to set any boundaries while I’m here. You shouldn’t have to change your normal lifestyle just for a guest. Do whatever you want; it’s your place.”

Cassian presses a button and the rumble of the washing machine begins. “I want you to be comfortable,” he says, turning to face her completely. “Whatever you need, Nesta, seriously.”

For starters, it would make Nesta comfortable if he didn’t say her name like that. His earnestness makes her skin itch, but she’s not going to tell him that.

Instead, she bravely lifts her chin. “I’ve been pushed so far out of my comfort zone that I don’t think I know how to find my way back.” The honest truth. “At this point, you might as well keep me out here.”

Cassian’s eyes narrow. “If you don’t tell me what things bother you, I’ll have to find them out for myself, you know.” It sounds like a challenge.

“Go ahead,” Nesta deadpans. She doesn’t know what Feyre’s told him about her, but contrary to popular belief, Nesta isn’t a glass doll. Sensitive, high maintenance, yes, but fragile? Never.

She turns on her heel and leaves Cassian in the laundry room, determined not to let her circumstances get the better of her while she stays here.

***

Cassian takes everything back. He’s obsessed.

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment, how or when or why he decided he likes Nesta. Maybe it was an amalgamation of different things, but by the time she settles onto his living room couch with a box of takeout Thai food, it’s safe to say he’s fascinated.

She’s nothing like how Feyre talks about her. She’s barely anything like the woman he met at the dinner party two years ago. The problem is, Cassian hasn’t pinpointed what she’s like. There’s still too many walls in place, but here, as she slurps noodles unabashedly while watching TV with an intense fixation, she’s softer than he’s ever seen her. Maybe it’s because she doesn’t feel the need to defend herself to a sitcom; there’s no self-consciousness, only a deep focus on the Community episode they’re currently watching.

Cassian splits his focus between offering commentary in an attempt to make Nesta laugh and observing her reactions from the corner of his eyes. A few things he’s noticed so far: 1) Her cheeks bulge like a squirrel’s when they’re full of food; she seems to have no shame about this. 2) She isn’t inclined to respond to Cassian when he makes comments on the show, but the corners of her mouth tilting up imply that she likes it anyway. 3) She watches sitcoms like she’s studying for a final exam about them.

When the episode finally ends, she turns to him and glances at his hands. “Are you going to eat that?” she says.

Cassian glances down at his untouched container of food, a little surprised, but hands it over to her without a fight. He can’t pretend it doesn’t do something to him to see her eyes light up over something as simple as curry and rice.

Nesta’s poking her chopsticks around the box when she notices Cassian watching. “What?” she says, immediately on the defensive.

“You eat funny,” he admits. Her brows furrow so deeply he thinks they might create a permanent indentation. He’s quick to add, “It’s adorable. Seriously.” It isn’t something he would have said yesterday, but he’s taking Nesta’s words from the laundry room to heart. He won’t put a damper on his personality as long as she can handle it.

Her hand comes up to self-consciously touch her cheek, but she quickly drops it. “Play the next episode,” she says as she picks up her chopsticks again, and that’s the end of that.

***

Cassian wastes no time coming up with ways to push Nesta out of her comfort zone, just as he promised. The next morning, he greets her downstairs in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. Nesta takes a long, slow blink at his bare torso, muscled arms, and brown skin, and turns around to get started on making breakfast. It’s not good enough— he catches a glimpse of her reddened cheeks when she reaches for the milk container anyway.

It’s only until they’re both settled in the living room after dinner that he realizes he doesn’t have the upper hand he thought he did.

Nesta is stretched out on her stomach on the Persian rug in an oversized tee and nothing else. Her bare legs swing in the air behind her, and she’s listening to music and coloring.

Cassian’s unanswered emails sit abandoned on the phone in his lap. He truly can’t stop staring; there’s just too much to absorb.

For starters, she wears glasses. Big, round, gold-rimmed glasses that are almost slipping off her nose at the moment. That revelation alone is so affecting that he has to quickly move on to other, smaller details. Like the sound of her uncapping different markers and filling in smooth lines on the page before her. Cassian feels a desperate desire to see what she’s coloring. Her hair is up in a ponytail, and her legs…

Cassian can’t say that ever since he first took notice of the beauty mark at the corner of Nesta’s lush mouth that he hasn’t wondered where else on her body she might be hiding little moles and freckles. He just never expected to get an answer so soon. Because right there, where her shirt rumples up to reveal her bare thigh, is the smallest dark spot.

He wants to put his mouth on it.

His own thoughts take him by surprise, and he realizes he’s gripping his phone so hard the screen might crack.

He uncurls his fingers from the phone and squeezes his eyes shut against the wave of desire crashing into him. Desire and something else, something achingly fond and frustrated at the same time.

“Cassian?” The sound of his name has his eyes snapping open. Nesta’s watching him, brow furrowed. “Are you feeling okay?” she asks.

He feels stupid for trying to play this push-and-pull game with Nesta, because it’s barely even started and he’s already losing. “I’m gonna go put a shirt on,” he mutters, moving to get up.

Nesta’s lips turn down a little. “And ruin the view?” She says it completely seriously, not a hint of slyness to her words.

Cassian’s ass falls back into his seat in pure surprise. His eyes widen. “Was that a joke?” Did Nesta Archeron just make a joke?

Her frown turns deeper. “I don’t think so. Was it funny?”

“It was teasing.”

“Then it wasn’t a joke.” She shrugs and returns back to her coloring. “If you put a shirt on, I’m putting my pants on,” she says without looking up.

Cassian has absolutely no idea what he’s gotten himself into. But he doesn’t move from the couch for the rest of the evening.

***

By the end of the weekend, Nesta has gotten the hang of being around Cassian. There are several occasions in those first couple of days— slips of the tongue, really— where she pauses in trepidation, worried she’s said or done too much. She is always doing too much. But then Cassian grins, or laughs, or as of more often lately, teases her right back, and her muscles can relax again.

He has also relaxed around her. Nesta knows that quiet front he put up when they first met was partly for her benefit, because the more comfortable they become with each other, the more he reminds her of the Cassian Feyre’s always talking about. And yet, the person he is with her is nothing like the person she’s seen hanging around Feyre’s inner circle. This person doesn’t make her feel excluded or ignored. It’s the exact opposite— she hasn’t been on the receiving end of this much male attention since Tomas.

And as much as it surprises her to like it so much, she’s not in the mood for his particular brand of teasing at seven in the morning on a Monday.

She stumbles into the kitchen fully dressed and more than a bit disgruntled, needing the strongest cup of coffee available to get through her morning classes today. Cassian is already sitting at the island with his laptop, and raises his brows to see her up this early. He dares to smile at her before the sun is even fully up. “Glad to see you woke up ready to play, Nesta.”

Nesta almost throws her empty mug at his head. “Don’t talk to me,” she says, thumping her mug down beside the coffeemaker.

Taunting becomes questioning as he eyes her outfit. “You have somewhere to be at this hour?”

“I’m a law student,” she grumbles, punching buttons on the coffeemaker. “I have morning classes three days a week.” It’s unacceptable, but it isn’t the worst thing she’ll go through as she tries to get her J.D.

Cassian sits up straight at that. “Who’s taking you to class?” Her car is still in for repairs, and she has yet to rent one to make up for it.

“I’m Ubering,” she tosses over her shoulder.

“That’s ridiculous,” Cassian says. “I’ll drive you.”

Nesta spins around at that. “No way in hell.” She throws whatever bite she has into her refusal.

Cassian is unfazed. “It’s on my way to work.”

“You work from home.” He’s not even dressed.

“Then today is the day I’ll make a stop at corporate headquarters. My subordinates get to see my pretty face for once, you get to go to class, and we all win.” He grins, and in this moment Nesta truly hates his grin. It lights up his whole face in a way that should be illegal. He’s probably robbed banks with that grin.

Nesta doesn’t have the brain capacity to argue with him. She doesn’t even feel like criticizing the fact that at twenty-seven, Cassian runs the entire security division of Night Court Inc. thanks to the help of the CEO, also known as his adoptive brother.

She’s never met anyone who makes nepotism look so good.

Grabbing her steaming coffee mug and taking a deep sip, unflinching at the feeling of her tastebuds being burned away, she meets Cassian’s expectant gaze. “Get dressed.”

***

When Cassian texts to ask her when she’s getting out of class, she doesn’t expect him to actually show up outside the law building with drinks and a paper bag of food. She has to stop and glance around for a moment, as if he could possibly be here for somebody else.

Approaching him cautiously, Nesta takes the cup holder from his hand and inspects the contents. A green tea and a rainbow-colored slushie. She looks back up at Cassian, and he smiles. “Shall we?”

They end up settling under the shade of an oak tree on the lawn outside where her Principles of International Law class is held. “So how was your day?” Cassian asks as he bites into a burrito.

Nesta can’t remember the last time someone asked her that and sounded genuine about it, and she almost doesn't know how to answer. “It's noon,” she says.

“Fine. How was your last four hours?”

“Nothing more interesting than yours.” She eyes his outfit at that. She’s never seen Cassian in this manner. Work Cassian wears expensive buttondowns tucked into slacks. Work Cassian must use some kind of fancy product on his hair to make it so flowy, because for the first time ever, he looks exactly like the amount of money he makes. “You look so...adult. I’d almost buy it if you didn't have the taste palate of a five year old.” Nesta sips from her tea.

He actually rolls his eyes at her. “You wish you had what it takes to handle an every-flavor-slushie.” Because that's what he’s drinking, a heart attack in a 32 ounce cup.

“That's bait, and I’m not falling for it,” Nesta says through a mouthful of burrito.

“You don't need to.” He offers the drink out to her. “Try it.”

Nesta stares at the cup, chewing slowly. Usually the thought of sharing a straw with someone would disgust her, but—

She just wants to know how it tastes. Swallowing quickly, she grabs the drink. “Whatever,” she mutters, and wraps her lips around the red straw.

Cassian watches intently as she takes a deep pull. Ten different flavors hit her tongue at once, and she thinks her brain spasms. She's too tough to make a face, and swallows the slushie like it's nothing.

“You like?” Cassian looks hopeful.

Nesta slams the cup down. “It’s disgusting. My point was proven.”

He laughs. “Weak.”

More easy moments pass like this before he says, “I wish you came around Feyre’s more often. I could have gotten to know you earlier.”

Nesta stills, food halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean?”

Cassian shrugs. “It just seems odd that we’ve talked more in the last three days than in the last three years I’ve known of you. Why don’t you hang out with Feyre like Elain does?”

She stiffens, and considers whether the conversation is even worth continuing. “Feyre’s always with you guys,” she chooses her words carefully. “There’s rarely time left for me.”

She waits for Cassian to tell her that sharing exists, and that she’s allowed to be at Feyre’s place with Feyre’s friends at the same time, but he just watches her patiently. Waiting for her to go on.

“Besides, I used to come over all the time before my sister moved to Velaris. You were there, too.”

“I was?” That gets his attention; he drops his food and turns to face her fully. “What are you talking about?”

Nesta nods, but an odd, old feeling is bubbling up in her chest. It tastes hard and a little sad. “I doubt you noticed, but I was there. In the background while you guys got drunk or laughed together.”

He huffs an odd sort of laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would have noticed you from a hundred foot radius from Feyre’s apartment. We’ve only seen each other twice before this weekend.”

Nesta is caught between disbelief and disappointment, but she hides it well with a scoff. “We’ve only spoken to each other twice, idiot. I’ve seen you plenty of times.”

Cassian looks like she just came up to him with scientific evidence that the sky is green and grass is blue, and he can’t wrap his mind around it. “That just doesn’t make sense,” he says.

Nesta raises a brow. “Are you implying I’m lying?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, but— it’s like you’re saying I failed to notice a fucking lion in the room every time I didn’t see you. It’s just not something someone fails to notice. It’s impossible not to notice!” He throws his hands up.

You’re impossible not to notice. Nesta has no idea what to make of that, or whether she should be insulted or not. He didn’t say it with the same backhanded tone as so many of the people she knew in high school, but it didn’t sound like high praise, either. On the other hand, the words are so ironic they’re almost funny.

She settles for a shrug and begins sweeping up her napkins and trash. “Well, it isn’t impossible for a lot of people.” The look she throws him says clear enough, Including you.

He works his jaw, seeming upset, but helps Nesta up from the ground anyway. Walks her all the way back to his truck in near-silence and drives them home.

A/N: you’d think the ‘ready to play’ line was a cute reference but i actually just suck at writing banter so i needed to borrow from sarah.

tagging: @ladywitchling @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @sensitiveillyrian @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy

if you want to be added or removed please send an ask or dm!

#nessian #nessian fic #ncssianwrites #nesta archeron #cassian #a favor

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babineni · 3 years

Text

A Night Out in Dyrford

A little something something about a certain farmer becoming a mayor and how that complicated his relationship with his best friend.

Roughly 2500 words, cw for violence ending in beheading

"Dear Gaura"

Edér read the words over and over. Something didn't feel right about them, and he didn't even write anything worth writing yet. A single drop of ink dripped off his quill while he pondered how to continue. He sighed as he ripped a strip off the top of the page. He didn't have a whole lot of blank sheets of paper and he had no idea where to get any in Dyrford. Yet. It's only been a day since he arrived after all.

The Watcher was so much better at this, he mused. Edér looked at the page again.

"Miss having you around. I'll see you soon, I promise."

Now, he ruined the page. The farmer crumpled the sheet as if he could squeeze the thought out of his head. Not that there was anything wrong with such thoughts, he reassured himself, but he couldn't just put something like that on paper and have it sent to a friend. She might get the wrong idea. Edér tossed the tiny ball of paper over his shoulder. A second later he groaned as he stood up to clear it up. He couldn't just mess up a rented room like that.

A rented room. That was a decent place to start, he thought as he sat down again and took out a new, empty page.

"Gaura,

Just letting you know, I didn't go back to Gilded Vale so don't send any letters there. I'm in Dyrford now, I'm thinking about moving here. I got the sense I could help out around here, be of use, all that. And folks around here have been real friendly towards me so far. Reckon they remember us passing through. The mayor invited me over for dinner."

Me, he thought to himself and a chuckle bubbled up from him. He wasn't sure what to make of his situation. He wasn't used to being wanted around. At least not by anyone other than the Watcher. He liked the feeling.

"Willing to bet he'll try to get me to stick around. I'm thinking I'll play hard to get, but I do want to stay. We'll be basically neighbors. So don't think you're rid of me, just 'cause I left. I'm still around, I'll visit as soon as I'm able. And you better come over too."

Edér nodded at the letter in satisfaction. That will do.

"See you, when I see you,

Edér"

The farmer folded the page and a moment later he realized he didn't have any sealing wax. He shrugged. It's not like he could send it before morning, anyway, so it became a problem for tomorrow. That night's problem was the dinner. Edér wasn't sure how to present himself, not that he had a lot of options on that front. He didn't take most of the things the Watcher pampered him with. He could only hope she didn't take it as an offense that he left her gifts behind. It's bad enough he walked away from her. But what was he supposed to do? She became the Lady of Caed Nua, and Caed Nua became one suffocatingly fancy place. It was just like Gilded Vale - a home turning into... something else - something alien - right before his eyes. Except no one would have hurt him in Caed Nua, and knowing the Watcher, she would have let him live there however he wished to live. And he had a purpose now, one that lead him away from Caed Nua. He just wished he could've gone about his departure in a way that wasn't unfair to Gaura. She deserved better.

His old armor would do, he came to the conclusion. It always was lucky in a way, not that he needed luck, but it couldn't hurt. Edér lit his pipe and opened his windows, once he felt ready to go. He watched the smoke leave through the window and be carried away by a breeze. It was blowing towards Caed Nua. He glanced at the letter on his desk and made a mental note to ask around for messengers, as he put the pipe away a few minutes later.

By the time Edér left the Dracogen Inn, the sun was already setting. The mayor didn't live far from the town square, luckily, and the farmer got there in no time, and yet his host was already waiting for him by the door. He looked pale and a little anxious.

'Sorry for being late,' Edér couldn't help but apologize seeing the mayor's sorry state.

He, however, only blinked in confusion. 'No need, you're just in time,' he offered his hand with a strained smile.

'Happy to be here, if that's the case,' Edér shook the mayor's hand. He had quite the grip, he noted. His eyes probably just played tricks on hím.

'It will be just the two of us, if you don't mind,' the mayor said as he ushered him in. 'Wife's visiting relatives in Eina's Rest, dragged the kids along. So you'll have to bear with my cooking.'

Edér chuckled. 'Can't be worse than my own cooking and I've been eating that crap for years.'

The mayor's house was more spacious than Edér expected. It had an upper floor and there were no rooms on the ground floor, just a kitchen, the hearth and a rather long table with plates prepared on each end. And yet there was also something about the place that made the farmer feel like the walls would close around him if he stayed in there too long. Still, he took the seat the mayor pointed to and said nothing when the mayor came to fill his cup with beer that had a strangely red-ish hue.

'It's from Dengler's reserves, beer made of strawberries and wheat'

'That's real kind of you, thanks,' Edér shuffled awkwardly in his seat. He didn't expect any sort of fuss around him and could only hope things wouldn't escalate beyond the fancy beer and the Pearlwood chicken on his plate.

'The last time you were here, you helped out quite a lot around here. This is the least I could do to welcome you back,' the mayor made his way to the end of the table and sat down as well. He poured himself a drink as well, and drank it in a few gulps. 'Sorry, cooking got me feeling real parched.'

Edér drank from the beer for courtesy's sake. 'Don't be. There was really no need for your trouble. I'm really just here looking for work and lodging. Like most folk coming here, I assume.'

'Most folk coming here didn't take part in ending Waidwen's Legacy. Really, the honor is mine.'

'Mine was a pretty small part,' Edér's fingers lightly drummed by the fork in front of him. 'The Watcher did all the important bits, I just stood between her and everyone coming at her mostly.'

'I imagine she had quite a few folk coming at her. I heard some... troubling things about her last visit here.'

The farmer tried to forget about that particular memory. He emptied his cup, hoping that the beer going down his throat would drown the disgust turning into nausea in his belly. The shadows in the room seemed suddenly very long in the last rays of the sun.

'Yeah, she's got a knack for tangling with cults,' Edér chuckled. 'Remind me to tell you about our trip to the White March.'

'You really make it sound like standing between her and her enemies was quite the part to play,' the mayor let out a vaguely bitter laugh. 'Sure hope you got paid handsomely.'

'It ain't ever been about the money,' Edér picked up the utensils and was about to cut into the chicken when he realized he wasn't really hungry. He noticed the mayor hasn't touched his dish either. It was already dark outside and the room looked a lot smaller than when he entered it. At the other end of the table his host gave him a knowing nod.

'And yet you're here, looking for work and lodging.'

'Reckoned I'd be more useful here than in Caed Nua,' the knife in Edér's hand felt almost comforting to him.

'So there's no bad blood between you two, that is good to know. Good on you, son,' the mayor filled his cup again and raised it to Edér, a grin growing wide on his face. 'To your friendship with the Watcher.'

At that moment, the farmer realized why the room felt as crammed as it did: as he looked over the mayor's shoulder, he noticed an axe by the hearth; as he looked to the window, he noticed a garden hoe resting against the windowsill; and of course there was the pitchfork right by the door, just waiting to find its proper place in someone's chest. Completely ordinary things in a completely ordinary house in a completely ordinary village. Dyrford already felt like home. Edér let out a hearty laugh as he stood up.

'Can't really drink to that,' he said. 'My cup's running dry.'

'Well, why didn't you say so?' The mayor stayed seated. If Edér had to guess, he was going to grab the axe the moment he turned his back to him.

'Guess our conversation was just that godsdamned riveting.'

For a moment he and the mayor eyed each other in silence. Then the moment passed, and Edér dashed for the door. He grabbed the pitchfork and without looking, he ducked. He heard a swing going for the spot where his head was a fraction of a moment before. Edér turned around just in time to block the second swing coming at him - and the garden hoe got stuck between the tines of the fork. Edér couldn't help but scoff in surprise. He pulled the pitchfork to the side, dragging the hoe and the mayor at its end along, creating the perfect opening. The farmer landed a blow on the mayor's ribs, drawing a stifled grunt out of him but just as he lifted his fist for a second hit, the mayor dropped their interlocked weapons and lunged straight for Edér's throat. His momentum pushed the farmer against the door. Dull pain bloomed on the back of his head where it hit the door, fuelling a rage burning in Edér's veins. He twisted the hands off his neck until he heard joints cracking and cries of pain, then he slammed his head in the mayor's. The force of his strike sent the mayor staggering back against the table.

Edér could've turned and ran. The mayor could've grabbed a knife from the table and lunged at him again. And yet, both their gazes darted to the axe by the hearth. If only the Watcher were there, Edér thought just as he ran towards his goal, she could've made him faster. But as it were, the mayor threw himself at the axe, and while he may have been on the floor he held on to it firmly. Edér got there a moment later and barely stopped himself from crashing into the weapon held out at him. The farmer grabbed it instead and pulled. Then pulled again. But the mayor held on to the axe for dear life. Edér then twisted the axe downwards instead, leveraging every muscle in his body, and pushed with all the strength he had.

The next thing he knew, he was covered in the mayor's blood. The axe went right through his neck.

'Shit,' Edér muttered as the realization dawned on him: he just murdered the mayor of his would-be new hometown. His legs shook as he made his way to the table and emptied the mayor's glass that he raised to his friendship with Gaura. If only she were there, she would know just the right thing to say to save him from this mess. He sighed. As he walked to the door it felt awfully far away.

Edér wasn't sure what he expected when he opened the door. He certainly didn't expect a crowd gathering in front of the house, staring at him wide-eyed. It was only then that he realized he was still holding the axe. He dropped it hurriedly as he raised his palms.

'I can explain.'

But before he could say anything, Dengler, the innkeeper pushed past the crowd and looked him over. When he saw the blood wasn't his, he pushed past the farmer as well, and into the house. He came back out with the mayor's head.

'The mayor's dead!' He held up the head and Edér was almost certain he was doomed. But in the next moment he saw something completely unexpected: relief washing over the crowd.

'The Twinned God blessed us today!' He heard a voice cry out in joy.

'Bless you, stranger, bless you!'

More and more voices joined into one bizarre, celebratory cacophony, that Edér couldn't process, but it became clearer with every passing moment that these people were terrified of their cultist neighbors and that he was needed here.

'Wait, who will lead the town now?' A question arose in the joyful chaos, and it quickly silenced the crowd. Edér stood stunned as gradually more and more gazes fell upon him, questioning him, pleading to him...

'If you want... Uh... I could give it a go.'

A moment of silence followed his offer, then another question came.

'What's your name?'

An awkward laugh burst out of Edér. What was he thinking? These people didn't know him, they may be grateful but who would trust a stranger with the responsibility of running their hometown?

'I'm Edér,' he answered regardless.

'Gods bless Mayor Edér!'

And the celebrations continued. Edér felt Dengler's hand on his back guiding him away from the mayor's - former mayor's - house and towards the inn.

'Needless to say, your room is on me until we get you a proper house,' he said as he opened the inn for the crowd and for the new guest of honor.

Edér muttered a thanks and did his best to slip away to his room quietly. He left his window open, he realized and the evening breeze was now caressing the letter he wrote not so long ago. It ended up on the floor while he was away and it was now bathed in the moonlight streaming in through the windows.

"See you, when I see you"

It felt like a lifetime ago that he wrote those words. The excitement he felt then felt foolish now. The mayor was awfully interested in the Watcher and the relationship he had with her. Edér knew he wasn't his real target. All those months ago when they first came to Dyrford, that girl they saved wasn't the Skeanites' real target either. He sighed as he reached for the letter and took it to his desk. He lit a candle and fed the sheet of paper to the tiny flame. The smoke stung his eyes.

It took him some time to finally clean up and go to bed, but when he did, Edér was overcome with a sense of loneliness he hasn't felt in a long time. He fell asleep holding onto a crumpled piece of paper that he couldn't bring himself to burn. He liked the thoughts it contained.

"Miss having you around. I'll see you soon, I promise."

#pillars of eternity #edér teylecg #Wrytinge™#i couldn't sleep until i finished this idk what spelling is anymore

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wefoundloveunderthelight · 3 years

Text

Void of Extinction by GleefullyCaptainSwan Chapter 7/9

Or on FF

Stacy's Tortured Crew: @teamhook @kmomof4 @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @itsfabianadocarmo @mariakov81 @qualitycoffeethings @zaharadessert @jrob64 @jonesfandomfanatic @natascha-ronin @tiganasummertree @xarandomdreamx @therooksshiningknight @batana54 @superchocovian @onceratheart18 @ultraluckycatnd @snowbellewells @karlyfr13s @the-darkdragonfly @xsajx @deckerstarblanche @jonesfandomfanatic

Chapter 7: Ambush

“When you get to the back wall, there are two doors.” Emma heard Killian’s voice crackle in her ear. “It’s the first door. You won’t see a keypad but it’s there, behind a panel on the wall.”

Will ran his hands over the wall until he found the hidden panel. “It’s here.” He said with a shake of his head.

“We found it.” Emma announced.

“Ok, the backdoor code is 7344.”

Will punched the code in and they heard a click as the door beside them unlocked. Ruby pulled the door open, and everyone followed her into the dark stairwell.

“It’s going to be a long climb to the Mayor’s floor. You’ll know you’re there when you reach a red metal door.”

Emma nodded to Will, and they began their ascent through the darkened space until her legs were screaming in pain, and she felt like she couldn’t climb another step. When they finally reached the metal door, Emma bent over, trying to catch her breath.

“Ok we’re here.” She wheezed.

“The code is 6812.” Killian announced in her ear and Ruby punched the code into the keypad as the door clicked open.

Will peered into the dark room and then turned toward Mary Margaret. “It’s clear.”

“Ok let’s go Emma.” Emma followed her into the room as they scanned the darkness for the data port.

“What now?”

“The data port is kept behind her desk. There’s a notch in the wall, if you click it, it will open the port.” Killian’s voice cracked in her ear as the com’s device struggled to maintain its connection.

Emma reached up and pulled the ornate flower from her ponytail, clicking the flower stem out of its place until the metal nub was exposed.

“You mean you’ve had this important information in your hair this whole time?” Ruby asked with wide eyes.

Emma simply shrugged and made her way to the wall that Killian had instructed. Feeling around the wall she found the notch and clicked the button hidden inside of it. A noise emanated from beside her hand and light streamed into the darkness as the wall opened, revealing the data port inside.

“Will, over here…” She said nervously as he approached her side.

“Ok plug it in and then step aside so I can do my thing.”

Emma shoved the metal into the port and stepped away from the wall, watching as Will plucked against the tiny keyboard. “Just a few more clicks…there you are.” He said to himself, a smirk spreading on his face. “Merlin.”

Emma closed her eyes, praying that this would all be done soon when suddenly the lights turned on around her. She spun around, coming face to face with men who had entered the room.

“Hey, who the hell do you think you are?” Emma recognized one of the men as she tried to shield her face, a man who most definitely did not belong in the Mayor’s office.

“Emma, what’s going on?” She heard Killian in her ear.

“It’s Gold’s men.” She whispered before turning to Will. “How long until the message is sent?” She asked nervously as they all spread across the room to give him time to send the message. Nothing else mattered except getting the message to Merlin. If they didn’t reach him, all hope was lost, and their lives wouldn’t matter anyway.

“It’s uploading, gonna need more time.” Will grunted, turning his back to the portal, and raising his dagger in front of him.

“Then let’s give these boys something to do while we wait.” Mary Margaret said with a mischievous grin.

Ruby fired the first shot, the arrow striking one of the men in the shoulder as he stared at her in shock before grabbing the arrow and yanking it from his flesh.

One of the men grabbed her by the arm, pulling her toward him and Emma balled her hand into a fist, swinging through air until she made contact with his cheek. “Bitch, you’re gonna pay for that. The boss is gonna be really pleased when I bring you back to him.” Emma held her fists up in front of her.

“Who said I’m going anywhere with you.” She smirked before she swung her fist again, ducking when his own came in her direction, she felt herself being tossed toward the ground, pain searing up her side when she slammed into the hard floor. She looked up as the man stood menacingly over her, a dark syringe in his hand. Emma felt her mouth go dry, she had seen them in Gold’s lab, weapons used to knock their mark out while they took them to the lab to experiment on them. One stick of that syringe and they would be unable to fight.

“Watch yourselves.” She screamed toward the others. “Stay away from the syringes.”

The man laughed. “Come on sweetheart, don’t want me to jab you with my stick.”

“Dream on, you big cow.” Emma growled. “You aren’t putting me to sleep with that stupid thing.”

He laughed loudly. “Put you to sleep…” He looked down at the syringe. “Oh, you think this is…oh no darling, you’ve been gone a while. We’ve upgraded. This is so much more now.” He sneered, an ominous laugh filling the room.

Everything around her happened suddenly as Mary Margaret screamed behind her, one of the men leaning over her with his leg pressed against her stomach, the syringe sticking out of her thigh. The woman growled, grabbing the nearest item she could reach and slamming it over his head. The man slumped to the ground, and she scrambled to pull the needle from her body, tossing it to the other side of the room. She wouldn’t have long before she would pass out cold.

Will was fighting a man at the back wall and Ruby had just dispatched a man who had tried to enter the room. She slammed the door shut again, pushing a large chair in front of the door, and jamming it against the doorknob. Men were banging against it on the other side, trying to get into the room.

She kicked the man next to her in the shin, causing his leg to buckle as he fell to the ground, the syringe falling from his hands and clattering onto the ground into the dark. She jumped up from her spot and dove onto the man’s chest, grabbing the metal lamp from the desk behind him and pressing it against his neck hoping to take the air from his lungs away from him long enough to knock him out.

He snarled loudly, his eyes glaring into hers. “Want to know a secret…” He wheezed, letting out a strangled chuckle and Emma pressed harder against his throat. “We weaponized J2…” He coughed. “She won’t live long.” Emma pushed with all her might until the man’s eyes glazed over and his head tilted to the side.

She fell over to her side, breathing heavily until her thoughts flooded her.

We weaponized J2…

The syringes.

She jumped up from her spot on the floor and rushed toward the data port. They didn’t have long, they needed to get out of there, needed to get to the doctors…before…she couldn’t think about it. The banging at the door was getting louder, it wouldn’t be long before they breached it.

Will slammed the last man in the room to the ground and looked up at her anxiously. “Did it send?”

“We have to go.” She exclaimed. “The syringe, it’s J2.”

His eyes grew wide as he looked over at Mary Margaret being helped up by Ruby. When his eyes returned to hers she was met with an understanding from her friend. They needed to go, now.

The door cracked and arms pushed through the newly created hole. “We gotta go now.”

Emma reached in and grabbed the flower from the port, yanking it free and running toward the exit as Mary Margaret limped in front of her. They slammed the door shut and she felt like they were falling down each flight of stairs they took.

They got halfway down the stairs when the metal door sprung open beside them and a man jumped out and slammed into Will, he swung his fists, pushing the man off him. “Keep going.” He screamed and Emma pushed Mary Margaret further down the stairs, looking back as she watched Will scrambling with the man above her. She pushed away the tears threatening to fall, focused only on getting Mary Margaret to safety.

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and Ruby shoved the steel door open, letting the light flood into the dark space. “We gotta get out of here.”

“What about Will?” Emma cried.

“He’ll catch up.” Ruby grabbed Mary Margaret around the waist and pulled her forward, and Emma took one last look toward the door. She couldn’t believe they were just going to leave Will behind.

They scrambled through the streets, rushing through the busy people moving around as if they hadn’t a care in the world. It wasn’t until they reached the boat that Emma stopped to look back again. “We can’t just leave him.” She said with tears in her eyes.

“We can’t stay here, we’re in the open.” Ruby warned.

“I know but…” She took one last look as Ruby gave the order to pull away from the shore. In the distance she saw movement, someone stumbled through the wall. “Wait.” She screamed, standing up and jumping out of the boat into the cold water as she waded back to the shore.

Will crawled, gripping his hand into the muddy shore until he fell against the cold ground. Emma reached him, grabbing at his jacket, and turning him to face her. “Hey Emmie.” He laughed with a grunt. Emma didn’t stop to think, she pulled at his jacket, dragging him toward the boat. Ruby met her and pulled him up, helping him into the boat as they road away from the shore.

Emma pushed Will up against the side of the boat, helping him to sit on the ground. There was blood on his shirt that was continuing to grow a deeper shade of red, she pulled his jacket away from him. “Leave it.” He growled.

“No, stop, you’re hurt.”

“It’s fine.”

Emma snorted and yanked his jacket away from his body, examining his side until she found the deep gashes from a blade against his skin. “You’re gonna be ok.” She cried.

“No…” He said, reaching up and stilling her hands. “I’m not.” He said solemnly, pressing something into her palm. When she opened it, she stared numbly at the empty syringe in her hand, the blood draining from her face.

~*~

Killian stared at the boy in his lap, his knee bouncing nervously as the child gurgled and cooed in his arms. “I’m sure she’s fine lad.” He reassured, knowing it was more for himself than the boy who had no idea what he was saying anyway. The coms unit had cut out just as he heard the men breach the office. He had no idea what had happened after that, and the line had been silent for an hour. He tried not to think the worst, tried to have hope that Emma was always telling him to find, but with each ticking minute his thoughts turned darker.

He couldn’t reconcile what he would do if something happened to Emma, but he was starting to feel completely helpless. “Your mom is the bravest woman I know, but I’m sure you already know that.” The boy’s sparkling eyes stared up at him and Killian felt as if he was actually listening to what he was saying. “You look just like her you know.” He said softly. “You have her nose.” He tapped the boy on his tiny little nose, so much like his mothers. The boy had so many of her features, except for his brilliantly blue eyes, Emma’s were an intoxicating shade of seafoam green.

Babies were a wonder to him, he had never been around children much, but was amazed at how something so tiny could mirror his parents with such perfection. He was happy that the boy resembled his mother and not Neal.

The night Emma showed up at his door, tears in her eyes as she told him she was pregnant with Neal’s child; he didn’t even hesitate to assure her that he would take care of her. He loved Emma, he would do anything to protect her and her child, regardless of who had sired the boy.

The boy wrapped his tiny fist around his thumb and Killian felt the tears come to his eyes. Emma needed to be alright, he thought.

He heard a commotion outside the door of his room, and he stood quickly, rushing into the hallway, the boy wrapped tightly in his arms. He saw her golden hair bounding down the hall toward him, a look of terror on her face. Ruby had Mary Margaret at her side, limping as she screamed for a medic. Behind Emma, Will was being helped down the hall by a few men, blood splattered across his face.

Emma rushed to his side, tears staining her face. “What happened?”

“The plague…” She said breathlessly. “They’re using it against us.” She dropped the syringe into his hand, and he looked up at her with terror in his eyes. “Will and Mary Margaret. We…we couldn’t stop it.”

~*~

“What happened here?” David asked as he entered the floor to the Mayor’s office. When he heard over the radio that there had been a break in, he immediately left Regina at the wall and rushed back to the precinct.

“Break in. They came in through the back.” The officer stated.

“How did anyone know about the back entrance?” He said out loud, not really asking a question, but instead talking through the situation to himself. Regina’s entrance was a guarded secret. It took 2 codes to get through both doors. Only someone close to Regina would know the codes.

He stepped into her office and looked around at the mess that had been left behind. Broken items were spread across the floor. He bent over and moved a piece of broken glass with his hand. He needed to see the surveillance footage. Obviously there had been a fight in here, but why.

He walked toward Regina’s desk, running his hand over the wood. He narrowed his eyes when he saw the data port open behind the desk. Looking in he found it empty. Regina’s data port was the only one in the building capable of sending a message outside the walls. The screen was flashing, showing that a message had partially been sent, 89% showing on the screen. Whoever was trying to use the port didn’t succeed in getting the entire message pushed through.

He clicked a few keys on the screen and pulled up the information of the intended recipient. He gasped when he read the name. Merlin.

Whoever had breached the room was trying to reach Merlin, the leader of all the realms. David couldn’t think of a single reason that anyone would be trying to reach Merlin besides Regina. Something didn’t feel right. He clicked onto the screen and had the message sent to his laptop for investigation.

“What did they take?” He looked up suddenly as Regina entered the room.

“Nothing was taken, it seems like they were trying to send a message, but it failed.”

The woman paused. “A message? To whom?”

“Merlin.” He said softly.

“Merlin? Are you certain it failed?” Regina stepped toward him, and he felt the hair on his neck stand up. He didn’t know the reason for his concern, Regina had been acting strange the last few days but something about tonight wasn’t sitting right with him.

“Um, yeah, nothing went through.” He lied, clicking out of the screen in front of him and closing the port. “I’ll check the camera’s and see what I can find out.”

“No.” The woman almost yelled before stopping and laughing lightly, a gesture that made him even more concerned. “I’ll take care of it. You should go home, David. Get some rest, check on that wife of yours.”

“Are you sure, I don’t want to leave you with all this to clean up?”

“I insist.” She said firmly.

“Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He said with a nod, looking back before he exited the room as Regina glared at him.

David went to his office and gathered his jacket and keys. The nagging feeling continuing to weigh on his mind. He stared out into the hallway and stepped back into his office, shutting the door behind him. Sitting down at his desk, he opened his holo screen.

“Open surveillance for Regina’s office.” He announced and the screen in front of him came to life, images frozen on the screen. “Play video A16.”

The image began to move as the door at the back of the office opened and a man and a blonde woman entered the screen. Behind him another woman moved in the shadows. He narrowed his eyes as four individuals moved in the dark, walking directly to Regina’s desk. He watched the blonde woman open the data port as if she knew exactly where it was hidden and then the man started typing on the screen.

Suddenly light was exposed in the room and men he didn’t recognize entered. A fight ensued and he watched as the group split apart, each taking on one of the assailants. And then his heart stopped.

“Enlarge video.” He demanded as the size increased. “Pause.” He stood up in front of the screen, leaning forward as if he was suddenly hallucinating. The woman standing with her face to the camera, a glint in her eye, a knife in her hand staring at the man in front of her was none other than the woman he had known his entire life, his wife, Mary Margaret.

He fell into his chair, staring at the screen in disbelief. It was impossible. Some sort of trick. There was no other explanation.

The dark-haired woman beside her was staring directly toward the camera. “Zoom in.”

The woman’s face was in the center of the screen. “Run facial scan.”

The screen began to move in front of him. “Match found. Ruby Lucas, 26, member of the Resistance, Warrant issued for arrest in 2051.”

David dropped his hand to his lap and exhaled loudly. His wife was in Regina’s office with a known member of the Resistance.

Clicking into his computer he navigated to the message he had sent himself from Regina’s port. Opening it he saw fragments of code. Whoever created this was good, but he was better. He clicked a few more times until words came into view.

Merlin,

My name is Emma Swan from Storybrooke, and we need your help. Our people are dying with no chance of help. Mayor Mills has been killed by the leader of the Hive; a man you already know named Mr...

David stared at the screen as the rest of the message corrupted on the screen, information that did not complete in the upload. What the hell was this bullshit? He had just seen Regina not ten minutes ago, nothing in this message could be true. Why would Mary Margaret be a part of this clearly made-up madness.

“Continue video.” He said, watching the rest of the interaction on the screen, his heart beating out of his chest as he watched his wife fall to the ground, the man climbing on top of her as something shimmered in the light and his wife crumpled underneath him.

He was confused and angry but relieved when he watched as his wife was helped out the door. He didn’t know how to feel from this obvious betrayal that he couldn’t explain or comprehend. He grabbed his laptop off his desk and shoved it into his bag, walking out of his office and locking it behind him.

He drove to his home, stepping into the dark house and waiting for his eyes to adjust. Was anything about his life real? Had everything been a lie? He had known his wife since they were children, he fell in love with her before they were teenagers. She had known him better than anyone and he thought he knew her. Had he been so wrong about the woman who had stolen his heart?

“What have you gotten yourself into?” He said into the blackness around him.

His com alerted him with a beep, and he read the message on the screen.

I know you’re confused, Mate. You have every right to be. If you want to know more, call me at this number, your wife’s life depends on you.

David’s heart was racing as he called the number.

“Hello.”

“Where the hell is my wife, what have you done to her?” He yelled into the phone.

“Dave, I need you to trust me.” The familiar voice sounded in his ear.

“Killian?”

“Aye.”

“Where the hell are you?” He all but growled into the receiver.

“That’s not important right now, you need to listen to me. Regina’s not who you think she is. You can’t trust her.”

“Says the person who just disappeared without a trace.”

“We have a lot to talk about, but we don’t have time. I know you, so I know you’ve watched the surveillance video already. You’re a good cop and I’m sure you have questions. The men who showed up, they belong to Gold.”

“Gold? That idiot lab guy?”

“He’s more than that. He’s Hive.”

David’s heart was pounding in his chest. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Stop thinking Dave, you just need to know that you can’t trust Regina and Gold has some dangerous stuff. He’s weaponized J2, carrying it in syringes. You have to be careful.”

“Why should I trust you, why should I trust anything you’re saying right now?”

“David, they used one of the syringes on your wife.”

“No, you’re lying.”

“I’m sorry Mate, I really am.”

He sunk to the ground, leaning against the wall. “Where is she?”

“I’ll be in contact.”

The line went dead, and David screamed into the night.

#void of extinction #stacy's fics #emma swan #killian jones #captain swan modern au #captain swan fics #captain swan au #captain swan

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janeofcakes · 3 years

Text

Soulmate: How John Met Sherlock...Again Chapter 2

Hello, my friends! I come to you today knowing there is but one burning question in your minds today: What will Gracie and Olive get up to next? Okay, maybe two: When the hell will John and Sherlock meet, Jane? Tell me. Tell me now! Haha. Patience, my lovelies. You know I can't write a story without stringing you along for a while first. I am very firmly on the naughty list and like our dear friend, Martin Freeman I cannot abide being on anyone's nice list. Mwahaha.

I also wanted to say that the next few chapters are not as long as the first. There was so much to get through in that one. I hope you aren't disappointed. The good news is my typing and editing are going well so I should be able to keep my weekend schedule. Hooray!Happy reading. Jane

----

Gracie casts a side look at Olive from where she sits on the jungle gym. It is afternoon break and the two girls just climbed frantically up the poles and bars to sit at the top for a rest after running themselves ragged all over the playground pretending to be Nancy Drew and George Fayne solving a mystery. Every day since Monday has gone more or less the same way. They play together for morning break, talk at lunch and play again in the afternoon. They write notes on one another’s notebooks during lessons, but manage not to disrupt class or miss instruction. It has been a truly amazing first week of school, better than Gracie could have ever imagined.

Gracie looks at Olive again and feels her throat swell. It’s like she has known Olive forever. They seem to always understand each other and be in perfect sync. Gracie has talked about nothing else at home and has even dreamed about playing with Olive each night. Olive has told her all kinds of things about London and its history. Tower Bridge, London Bridge, the National Theatre, but what Gracie is most interested in seeing is the Tower of London. She asked her father just last night if they could go sometime to see the old castle and the crown jewels. She can’t wait to see and do everything, and it would be even better if Olive could come along for some of it. London is much more exciting than Bath ever was, hands down!

“Gracie,” Olive begins in a lazy tone, “how do you feel about bees?”

Turning to face her friend fully, Gracie furrows her brow and frowns. Olive does not react to the movement and continues looking at something in the distance, or perhaps at nothing at all. Gracie says nothing at first, wondering if Olive had been talking before and all Gracie heard was the bee question. The taller girl finally turns her head and fixes the blonde with an inquisitive gaze. Gracie frowns as she considers the question. She is not really partial to any insect, nor is she upset by them.

“They’re all right, I guess,” Gracie shrugs. “They make honey, so there’s that.”

“Mm…” Olives hums in approval. “True.”

Gracie raises her brows, every inch of her face asking ‘What are you on about?’. Olive blinks and seems to realize she was lost in her own mind, leaving Gracie with absolutely no context for the question.

“That’s what my dad wants to do when he retires,” Olive explains. “Beekeeping. In Sussex, probably.”

Oh no. This can’t be happening. Gracie just met Olive and had the best week of her life and now she’s going to lose her to bees?!

“You’d leave London then?” Gracie chokes on the words, not even trying to hide her distress.

“Yeah,” Olive answers absently, playing with the end of her long braid. “He says they’re fascinating.”

Gracie’s whole body tenses and her stomach roils. She feels sick and a bit dizzy when she glances away from Olive to a girl laughing wildly on the swings. It’s like a bad dream spiraling out of control to the soundtrack of that girl’s mad laughter. Gracie bites her lip hard to ground herself and looks back at Olive.

“Is he close to retiring?” Gracie forces out, beads of sweat beginning to collect at her temples.

“What? No,” Olive huffs a laugh and looks at Gracie again. “He’s definitely old, but not ancient. He has too much fun working anyway. Hey, are you okay?”

“Fun?” Gracie asks incredulously, ignoring her friend’s inquiry. “At a crime scene?”

“Oh, yeah, he loves it,” Olive laughs, seeing Gracie begin to relax. “He loves a good mystery. Locked room murders are his favorite.”

“Wow,” Gracie mutters, only half understanding what that means.

“He used to have a partner, you know,” Olive adds with a grin. “He loved it even more then.”

“So he had his own Clue Crew?” excited energy vibrates through Gracie’s body as she pictures a grown up and male version of Olive with a man and woman posed behind him like on Charlie’s Angels. Gracie’s dad loves old shows and movies, so she has seen her fair share. James Bond is his favorite. She makes a note to ask Olive if she has ever seen any of them.

“Not a crew,” the brunette corrects. “Just the one partner. They solved all kinds of cases together. They were best friends.”

“Like us?”

“Yep, exactly like us,” Olive says with a flash of teeth. Gracie grins too and is about to ask about Bond when something else pops to the forefront of her mind.

“Oh! It’s like my dad’s bedtime stories!” Gracie blurts eagerly. “Sam Williams and Dean Jensen. They’re best friends and solve crimes together. That’s how I got started on Nancy Drew in the first place. Dad’s read some of the old ones to me.”

“Really?” Olive cries. “Oh! Oh! Mystery of the 99 Steps?”

“That’s my favorite!” Gracie shrieks, her hands flying to her cheeks.

“Mine too!” Olive gasps.

“Girls,” the teacher on duty calls up to them from the ground below. They look down at her, all wide eyes and smiles. “Time to go back inside.”

They climb down as the teacher walks away to tell other kids. The two girls bound towards the school, slowing to a walk as they get closer. Gracie feels something brush against her hand and glances at it just in time to see Olive’s longer fingers wrap around it. She shifts her wide eyes to her friend’s, barely able to contain her joy.

“We should get our dads to read us the same old Nancy Drew book, a chapter each night,” Olive tells her conspiratorially. “Then we can compare notes the next day and see if we can solve it before Nancy.”

“That’s the best idea!” Gracie crows. “We can figure out which one during library time.”

“And then you check it out,” Olive says decisively. “Mrs. Hudson has all of them. I can borrow it from her.”

“Ok,” Gracie agrees, already knowing so much about Olive’s godmother that she doesn’t even question the woman would have the whole series. Honestly, Gracie wants to meet her almost as much as she wants to meet Olive’s detective father.

The two girls giggle for a moment at their new plan and then skip into the school building.

***

Saturday afternoon finds Gracie hand in hand with Candace McCleary, a nanny John handpicked while Gracie was still in Bath. They met the day after Gracie arrived last week and she instantly fell in love with Candace, much to John’s relief. Candace would not be a live-in nanny, but is employed like one. John needs her to get Gracie from school and stay with her until he gets home in the evenings. He also needs her to be available at a moment’s notice for when an emergency, like the birth of a baby, arises. John had warned his daughter after Angela Taylor’s check-up on Wednesday that he thought the baby would come early and probably at a most inconvenient time. Sure enough, he received the call just as he started lunch. Gracie was disappointed that her first trip to Hanover Gate Children’s Playground in Regent’s Park would be without her father, but was still over the moon when Candace was happy to take her. She had been looking forward to it almost all week.

“Oh my gosh!” Gracie exclaims as she and Candace approach the playground. There is equipment everywhere to climb and swing on and slide down. Gracie immediately decides the sandpit is first on her list. A tall tree stands in its center with wooden bridges and walkways built all around it. Rope ladders and nets offer admittance and there is even a hammock to sit on. “Candace, this is amazing! This is the best park ever!”

“Why don’t you jump right in?” the woman laughs. “I’ll just be right on this bench if you need me.”

Candace points to an empty green bench as she speaks and starts heading for it before someone else claims it. Gracie calls out her agreement and makes a b-line for the nearest rope ladder. She is up it in seconds and running across a bouncy bridge, laughing all the way. She runs the whole course, turns right back around and does it again. There are quite a few kids in this part of the park, but it’s still easy to work her way around them. After a few more laps on the equipment, a small group of kids asks Gracie to play tag. She recognizes them from school and accepts.

A good hour later, two of the kids have to go home and Gracie is exhausted. She begs off, having had her mind set on playing in the sand since she and Candace got there. Plopping down in a shady spot, she plunges her hands beneath the beige and brown grains. The sand is cool and dry and feels soft in between her fingers, not like the rough sand that is sometimes used in parks. It’s like the white sand from a beach. She has half a mind to pull her shoes off and let her feet sink into its depths. Gracie closes her eyes and wiggles her fingers, feeling the sand move around them like a favorite blanket. She opens her eyes as she curls her fingers around the tiny grains and watches them slip through when she lifts her hands.

Gracie does this again and again until she grabs a stick and begins to drag it through the sand like a plow. At one point, she makes a short trench and plants sunflower seeds and raisins from the snack baggy in her pocket. She pats the sand with satisfaction after covering them and looks toward the bench where Candace sits. She waves and her nanny waves back. Gracie giggles and gets to her knees, but stops when a figure just sitting down on the hammock suddenly blocks her view of Candace.

“What the…” Gracie mutters, her mouth falling open in disbelief. She gets to her feet and runs straight for the rope hammock and its occupant, who hears her footfalls and looks up with blue-grey eyes.

“Gracie!” Olive cries in surprise as her friend trips in the sand and drops face-first next to the hammock. “Gracie?”

“I’m okay,” the blonde girl declares, pushing herself up and standing quickly. The two girls lock eyes and start laughing. “What are you doing here?”

“We come every weekend,” Olive replies, pulling Gracie onto the woven rope. “Our flat’s just that way.”

“Really?” Gracie gasps with a delighted squeak. She points in the opposite direction. “Mine’s that way.”

“No way!” Olive shouts with glee. “That’s amazing! I had no idea we lived so close.”

“I know right,” Gracie exclaims, beginning to rock the hammock a bit. Olive unfolds her legs to hang them down and help push. “What are the odds?”

“Well,” Olive considers, adopting her contemplative face. Gracie knows instantly that a deduction is coming. She giggles and her smile widens as she watches her best friend. “Since we go to the same school, it seems fairly likely that we would live close together because it’s usually based on geography. However, it’s a bit different with public school. Kids can come from all parts of London as long as they have the money to pay.”

“Oh my god,” Gracie can barely contain her excitement and she stamps a foot on the ground a few times. “We could play here every weekend! I’m sure I could get Dad to bring me.”

“Yes! Let’s set it up now,” Olive sits up straight, ready to jump off the netting. “Is your dad here?”

“No, he had to deliver a baby,” Gracie rolls her eyes. Olive makes a dismissive noise that sounds like she just opened an air-tight container and sinks back into the hammock “Exactly. I mean, babies are important and all, but now he has to wait another week to see all this.”

Gracie swings her arms out wide and tilts her head skyward before flopping unceremoniously onto her back. Olive lets herself tip backwards as well and they soon lie side by side, looking up at the clouds. Gracie points out one that looks like a panda and proceeds to tell her friend all sorts of facts about pandas.

“I even have a panda,” she finishes.

“You do?” Olive asks, her eyes widen with wonder.

“Since I was three,” Gracie nods. “She’s my favorite stuffie. She’s called Pandy and I sleep with her every night.”

“I have a bee,” Olive says without hesitation. “I call him Wellington, sometimes Wellies for short.”

“Do you like bees as much as your dad does?” Gracie is curious because Wellington might have been a gift like Pandy was, but it certainly sparked her interest in pandas.

“I don’t think anyone could like them as much as Dad,” Olive huffs a laugh, “but yeah, I definitely like them too. It’s amazing how they make honey and their whole society and all.”

“Wow. Would you tell me?” Gracie fixes her with a serious gaze and licks her lips. “I loooove honey.”

“Sure, and you can tell me more about pandas,” Olive grins and points to a medium-sized cloud. “That one looks like a catapult.”

Gracie cocks a brow and follows her finger to a cloud that, amazingly enough, does resemble a rudimentary catapult.

The afternoon passes as the two girls tell each other stories and make up new games, their favorite being pirates sailing their hammock boat across the sea to a mysterious island. They leave their spot at this point to explore sandy beaches, nearly being vanquished by a giant hippo and almost losing Olive beneath quicksand. Gracie keeps her head about her and is always within Candace’s line of sight, and it’s a good thing too because the two girls are interrupted as tea time nears.

“I knew I’d find you here,” a low rumble of a voice comes from behind Gracie where she sits facing Olive. They have just dug up a treasure of sunflowers and raisins, a very valuable find on the sea. Their eyes grow wide as a menacing laugh fills the air around them. Gracie swallows hard and turns slowly to see the towering silhouette of a man in a billowy black coat. She shields her eyes, but with the sun behind him, she cannot make out his features. He probably has an eye patch and everything.

“What are you doing on my island?” the man demands as he steps closer. Gracie gasps and pushes herself backwards toward Olive to get away from the dark figure only just coming into focus.

“Hi, girls. Is everything okay?” Candace McCleary asks from the right and Gracie glances at her gratefully. Her trusty companion must have bolted from her park bench as soon as the giant appeared. Now she stands alert as though ready to pounce and Gracie breathes a sigh of relief. She hadn’t even seen this man until it was too late. Gracie grits her teeth and silently berates herself as her father’s words about being observant come to mind.

“Uhhh…” Gracie finds her voice, but it comes out as a meek croak. Meanwhile, Olive leaps up next to her and runs for the figure with open arms. Gracie gapes, sure she is about to see her friend eaten before her very eyes.

“Daddy!” Olive cries, launching herself into the man’s arms. Gracie blinks and it is like a cloud has moved from where it had covered the sun. The giant, no longer in the shadows, transforms into a tall man wearing a nice suit with no tie and a long coat. Gracie finds herself marveling at the fact that he doesn’t appear to be hot in the slightest and momentarily wonders if he has ice in his pockets, but stops all speculation when she sees his face. Angles and cheeks like Olive, dark curls and the same grey eyes that seem to change from green to blue and back. The corners of Gracie’s mouth turn up and a sense of ease washes over her.

“Is it time to go already?” Olive is speaking at a mile a minute. “We only just started playing pirates. Can Gracie come home with us? We’re having Thai for dinner. I bet she’ll like it.”

The tall man chuckles at his daughter and the sound is like a really warm blanket, soft and comfy. He glances at Candace and settles his gaze on Gracie. She bristles for a moment at those all-seeing eyes. It’s true they are like Olive’s, but much wiser. Gracie has the feeling he is learning much more from just watching her than anyone else can. She’s not entirely sure how she feels about that, but supposes it’s why Olive is so perceptive and she loves her. Besides, this is her dad. Gracie feels like she knows him already after all the stories she has heard.

“Ah, so this is the infamous Gracie,” Sherlock says surreptitiously with a look in Olive’s direction. The girl smiles broadly and nods while Gracie smiles a little timidly. His chin dips in greeting. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

“I know a lot about you too,” Gracie replies as she rises, finding her tenacity again.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Sherlock answers. He turns his attention to Candace, who still looks a touch uneasy. “And this is your friend?”

“Yeah,” Gracie confirms enthusiastically. “This is Candace.”

She jumps up and grabs Olive’s hand, pulling her toward the young woman.

“And this is Olive,” she exclaims.

“Oh,” the last traces of suspicion vanish from Candace’s eyes and she gestures at the girls. “Of course. You’re Olive. Gracie has been telling me about you all week.” “And this is my dad,” Olive introduces. “Sher…”

“William,” Sherlock interrupts, offering his hand. Candace steps forward and takes it in a firm shake. “Will.”

“Nice to meet you,” Candace replies, not noticing the quizzical look on Olive’s face, but Gracie sees. She also sees Sherlock glance at his daughter and communicate something that clears the confusion from Olive’s mind in an instant. Gracie tilts her head in thought, considering this new information. She and John can do that sometimes too. It makes her that much more certain that Olive is meant to be her best friend.

“It’s quite a coincidence them meeting in the park like this,” Candace is saying when Gracie emerges from her thoughts. “Do you live around here?”

“Yes, just on Baker Street,” Sherlock answers politely, but with a tinge of the tone Olive has when she mutters that something is obvious. Gracie lets out a quick giggle.

“Oh, right,” Candace nods with a friendly smile. “That’s not far at all. Maybe we’ll see you here again.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Sherlock looks down at the two girls, both of which are very excited. Olive is almost dancing in place and Gracie would swear she needed the toilet if she didn’t know better. “We’re here every Saturday just after lunch.”

“Perfect,” Candace says. “That’s about when we arrived. I’ll let her father know too. He’ll usually be the one who brings her.”

“He had a baby to deliver,” Gracie supplies. “He’s a doctor.”

“So Olive tells me,” Sherlock tells her with a certain mirth in his tone. “I would very much like to meet him, especially now that I’ve met you.”

“He’s wanted to all week,” Olive exclaims, giving Gracie’s hand a squeeze. “Ever since the first day.”

“I just can’t believe we ran into each other like this,” Candace declares, still a little dumbfounded.

Gracie doesn’t hear Sherlock’s response because Olive leans in close to whisper in her ear how great it will be when their fathers meet. The blonde nods her head vigorously and they laugh together quietly.

“Oh my, it’s nearly tea time,” Candace says to her watch. “I have to get her home. Are you ready, Gracie?”

“I guess so,” the girl pouts. She throws her arms around Olive in a huge hug. “I can’t wait to see you on Monday.”

Gracie gasps and looks at Olive with wide eyes, her hands still clamped around her arms.

“I’m going to write you a special note tomorrow and make a comic with my favorite markers,” she announces with glee. “They smell like strawberries and grapes and stuff.”

“Oh, wow!” Olive hoots. “I’ll make one of my maps for you.”

“It could be of this park!” Gracie shouts as Candace’s mobile sounds. She pulls it from her pocket and glances at its screen, pressing the surface to turn off the alarm.

“We really have to be going,” Candace says apologetically. “It was so nice to meet you both.”

“And you as well,” Sherlock dips his chin in farewell as Candace takes Gracie’s hand and leads her away.

“Bye, Gracie!” Olive calls, waving madly.

“Bye!” the blonde shouts back.

Olive waves for a good thirty seconds and then turns to face her father with her arms crossed over her chest. She raises a brow expectantly and Sherlock knows precisely why, but says nothing.

“Let’s go, shall we?” he begins walking toward home, knowing she will follow. “I believe Mrs. Hudson is making fresh biscuits.”

“What was that about, Dad?” Olive asks in disbelief, already matching his steps. “Why William?”

“You know I use aliases at times,” Sherlock replies without looking at her.

“Yeah, for cases, but these aren’t criminals,” Olive insists. “These are my friends.”

“I know, love,” he turns his head to see her earnest expression looking up at him. “I just don’t want to prejudice Gracie’s father.”

“What’s prejudice?” Olive furrows her brow as she repeats the word.

“Well, you know my profession can be dangerous,” Sherlock begins.

“Yeah…” Olive says slowly, eyeing him curiously.

“A lot of people know that because they see my name in the media,” he explains. “I don’t want Gracie’s father to hear my name and assume Gracie will be in danger. I’m concerned he will get the wrong impression and feel uncomfortable about you being friends.”

“Oh,” Olive says flatly as if she hadn’t considered that. They walk in silence for a moment until she speaks up again. He knew she would. She is too smart and inquisitive not to have follow-up questions. “So what are you going to do when we’ve been friends for months and it’s time to tell them your real name? Say ‘By the way, my name is really Sherlock Holmes.’?”

Sherlock gives her a withering look and says nothing. Her jaw drops and she shoves him lightly.

“Dad! You can’t NOT tell them,” Olive insists. She bends at the knees slightly to emphasize the word not. “It’s dishonest. Dad, it’s lying.”

“Sometimes we lie for the greater good,” Sherlock tells her curtly.

“Now you sound like Mycroft,” Olive sneers and that stops Sherlock dead in his tracks. He turns to face her, dropping into a squat and meeting her eyes.

“I would do anything for you, Olive,” he says sincerely, resting his hands on her shoulders. She curls the corner of her mouth and cocks a brow.

“Dad,” Olive begins matter-of-factly, “I know that and I would do anything for you too, but you told me I couldn’t lie.”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” Sherlock sighs and then continues resolutely. “You’re right. I’ll introduce myself properly when we meet Gracie’s father. Okay?”

“Okay,” Olive grins and they walk again, hand in hand.

“Olive?” Sherlock says, glancing her way. She looks up at him in answer. “Don’t compare me to Mycroft again.”

Olive lets out a quiet chortle and tightens her grip on his fingers.

“Desperate measures,” she replies more than a little pleased with herself. Sherlock puffs a quick breath through his nose and smirks as they walk on. Like father, like daughter.

---

What the hell, Jane?? I know what you said at the beginning, but this is unfair. Gracie and Candace get to meet Sherlock, but not John?! I want the boys to meet again! NOW! So sorry, my friends, but you'll have to wait a bit longer. Worry not, it will happen. Eventually. (insert evil smile, cruel chuckle and holding of fingertips together like Mr. Burns) Love, Jane

@johnlock-rocks

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #bbc sherlock #john watson #johnlock #sherlock loves john #John loves Sherlock #Johnlock fanfic #Mystrade

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