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iaure · 1 year

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𝔦 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔨, 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭

𝖞𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖒𝖎𝖌𝖚𝖊𝖑 𝖔❜𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆 𝖝 𝖋𝖊𝖒!𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 1: 𝔩𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔶; 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 2: 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔰, 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 4: 𝔰𝔞𝔡𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱 𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴

CW: delusion, attempted kissing, chase sequence, snitchery, thoughts of reader being a mother, vivid fears of dying, reader is temporarily locked away, reader gets hurt, SpanishDict translated Spanish.

This part switches between Miguel's POV and the Reader's. ♱ stands for the translation being at the bottom of the post. please let me know immediately if there are any errors!

Severe spoilers for Spider-Man: Across The Spider-Verse.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ we making it out of nueva york with this one !!!! maybe. there's a poll at the end to determine fundamental plot! please vote after you read and share your thoughts!! i had the she's homeless x spider-man india mashup on loop and reached a higher place of ascension.

wc: 3.8k

𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐡𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

Miles Morales had escaped, run amok to another world. Jess and Ben were trying to hunt him down, but with no back history on the Go Home Machine, they were stuck playing the waiting game. Margo was working on it, but Miguel had a hunch that her heart wasn't in on it. Traitors, everywhere. And the most painful traitor of all refused to meet his eye. Miguel sat on a chair in front the containment bubble, elbows on his knees with his hands laced together. Y/N had been sealed away, red filament twisting around her like a hamster ball, or a puffed up cocoon. The grapefruit glow bounced off her skin, casting an ominous light over the blooming bruises around her midsection, where her suit had torn from the glass, where Miguel had hurt her. He hated self-confliction. Y/N had betrayed him, the Spider-Society, the multiverse-willingly aided Miles in his escape. She probably was the reason he got away. Y/N had made the conscious choice to forsake the canon. She had known Miles for all of an hour, at most. Y/N threw away everything to help a teenager that (to Miguel, at least) had no idea the damage he was causing. She completely the deserved the situation she was in. It didn't matter what the reasoning was. And now she sat, curled up in a fetal position on the floor, trapped inside a containment bubble, her back to him. Y/N didn't meet his eye, but he knew it wasn't an act of shame or cowardice. It was the idea that he wasn't worthy of it; the idea that he didn't deserve to see her eyes. That she wouldn't even grace him with the idea that she was looking at him. She was being punished like a toddler with time out. Y/N had made a mistake.

But Miguel loved her.

He couldn't dance around the word anymore. There was a monster clutching his beating heart, and it haunted his immortal soul. It was love, as twisted and convoluted as it was. Love for a woman that had her back to him, pointedly refusing to speak. Miguel had seen her anger before. Being on the receiving end felt like a nightmare. Just silence, as thought the two of them were preschoolers and the silent treatment was the most lethal weapon in the schoolyard. He expected her vitriol to be loud, the kind that breeds screaming matches-not this.

"Y/N." Miguel was met with (shocker!) more silence. "Where did Miles go? This is important." Silence. "Why would you do this. You've potentially damned the multiverse." Y/N shuffled a bit, if only to wiggly further away. "You've helped disrupt the canon." Miguel sighs. "You're an adult. You should know better. Miles was a stupid kid-" "That you body-slammed into a train." Y/N finally spoke, biting like a viper and tilting her head a bit to look at Miguel out of the corner of her eye. "A 15-year-old that you saw fit to chase on all fours. His reaction was reasonable." Miguel's conflict swelled. Y/N was talking in that dulcet angel tone, so succulent despite her anger. But her insistence was irritating. She absolutely should've understood, better than any of the teenagers, her little acolytes. Miles was new. It was true that his reaction was...understandable, to a degree. Hobie always broke the rules anyway. Gwen was going through a rough time, and Pav was there to have a good time. But Y/N's brother died because of an anomaly. She of all people should know the threat they pose.

"We tried explaining it to him. It was his choice that he didn't listen. You, on the other hand, you knew the consequences." "I'd rather be a proper hero and fight for what's right, to help those that need help. That's a concept that's hard for you to understand, right?" "Oh, so trying to protect the multiverse is wrong. Okay, okay. Esto es ridículo.♱" Miguel rose from the chair, muttering under his breath and turning with his hands on his hips. His head was reeling. He knew Y/N was stubborn, but this was absurd. "I'm holding every Spider, every world, together!" "Says the guy who didn't even get bit!" Y/N counters, quick as lightning. "If your canon events are so true, then how is Nueva York standing? You answer me that!" "Canon events can differ-" "By so much that there's not even a spider? Get real, Miguel! The kid isn't doing the-the-the-!" Y/N tripped over her words, rising from her curl on the ground and talking with her hands, trying to get her thoughts in one row. "The devastation that you think he is! Canon isn't infallible!" Miguel whipped around, realising he'd come face to face with Y/N. She was panting like a dog, a scowl buried under a grimace buried under a glare. Her eyes were steely, finally meeting Miguel's eyes like rocks crashing with the sea. It was a clash of wills.

And Miguel hated how much he loved it.

What a woman, honestly. If she was this passionate about protecting a teenager she'd just met, what would she be like with her own kids? Miguel was sure that Y/N would be wonderful, always coming to the kid's defense, without question. That venomous tongue would be soft-spoken to a child, one that would have Y/N's eyes and Miguel's hair. Maybe a little girl, a Gabriella that would truly be Miguel's own. No switching places with the dead. No feigning love for a woman he didn't know. No technicolour nightmares. His own little girl, from his own wife. And god! Y/N as a wife! She'd be so sweet, waking Miguel up in the mornings with light kisses, whispering sweet nothings to him, letting his hands water as his slips out of groggy dreams. The rising sun on her skin would light her up like a holy statue, and the moment Miguel was conscious he'd be happy (honoured) to worship. From the second he woke up, to the second he fell asleep, he'd be worshipping, down to his dreams being dictated by Y/N. Holidays, weekends, family trips, saving the multiverse together...it would be-

"What, you going brain dead? Are you even listening?"

Y/N's biting words dragged Miguel back to reality, as hateful as the idea of reality was. His daydreams were so much kinder than this. She was still upset, still trapped behind that red barrier, and they were still enemies. But after the vision of what they could have, it was like a tease to just keep playing cat and mouse. It would be cruel and unusual punishment to torture himself like that. It'd take convincing. A lot of it. But Y/N wasn't unreasonable. She was noble at heart and maybe a bit naïve. But she was a Spider at the end of the day, always looking for the best solution to terrible problems. And that's where it's important. That's okay. Relationships were about compromise, after all. "Y/N." Miguel spoke softly. He really couldn't hide his affections for much longer. It was spilling out of him like a cup, pouring through the cracks and spilling over the sides. And he saw how Y/N shifted. He could tell that she was figuring it out. She could see how he moved. And she slowly backed to the other side of the containment bubble, moving further away until her back was against the wall. Did it break his heart? A little bit, but this was going to take time. All things would.

"Y/N," He repeated. "We...really shouldn't fight. We're-we're special, you and I." Miguel got close to the containment bubble, watching Y/N.

He didn't realise it, but sometime in the last fifteen minutes, the bubble's purpose had changed. It started out as capturing a prisoner, a traitor, someone who was dangerous and could be a threat to society as a whole. But it changed to a shield, protecting a prey animal from a predator. It was Y/N's last safeguard from Miguel doing anything unwise. The dynamic shifted. Y/N could tell it-every hair was on end, every sense was on fire. But Miguel was oblivious. "I'm gonna shut this off," He tapped on the filament, and Y/N swallowed. "Promise me you won't go running off. We can have an adult conversation. We can talk." And maybe Y/N should've protested. She could've asked to keep it on, but who'd admit they were scared in a situation like this? So she stayed silent. She kept in her corner, and irritation reared it's ugly head again. Miguel was trying to be cordial. Why wouldn't she just promise? He was offering her freedom.

(Somewhat. Details didn't matter, not here, not now.)

It's not like he was going to hurt her. It's two measly words. Two words in exchange for a lifetime and some of love, affection, devotion. Was that really too hard of a deal?

"Promise." Miguel growled.

Instantly, Y/N put her hands up in mock surrender. "Promise! I promise." Miguel's heart bloomed. She could be so charming when she wanted to be. So disciplined and playful, a good wife, a good lover. Listening was the first step, and she was listening. Miguel could only grin. "Okay." He put his hands to the barrier as his heart raced. He was so close. A step or two more, and he would have the love of his life in his arms. And Y/N was staying still. There was no tension that he could see. She didn't look like she was about to run. She was just nervous. The red barrier folded out of itself, and quiet suddenly, it was just Miguel and Y/N in a room. When was the last time they'd done this? Miguel couldn't remember the last time it was just them. It was always either in fleeting moments or with other Spiders around. It was impossible to get Y/N alone, no matter how hard he tried. But here she was, just him and her and them and an empty room where no one was going to stop them. She didn't move, watching him like he were a predator in the savannah. Miguel didn't like to say that he was excited, per se. But there wasn't really another word for it.

His eyes scanned over Y/N's pretty face, every inch memorised in Miguel's mind. Her sharp eyes. Her cute nose. Her pretty lips. Her pretty lips. What would they taste like? Did she use lip gloss? What would that taste like? How would it feel to have her lips linger on his? These were dire questions, and Miguel was done waiting. He walked up to Y/N, slow and purposeful. He had to seem as non-threatening as possible to pull this off. And quick, because chances were Y/N was going to do something harsh, like slap him. But it was a small price to pay. After all, he had his whole life with Y/N ahead of him. He just needed to get it started.

Y/N was by no means a stupid woman.

She grew up with the same precautions every other girl did. Don't talk to strangers, they don't have candy in their van, and know when men are about to jump your bones. And in this case, she could practically smell Miguel's thoughts, like the gears in his brain were making smoke from how hard they were churning. She trusted him as far as she could throw him, if she tried throwing him when she was 12 and before she got bitten. That is to say, she didn't trust Miguel at all. He was a stupid, stupid man, and she needed to bolt. So, that's exactly what she did. Promises, schromises. Y/N could say whatever it took for Miguel to let her go, but at the end of the day, she had a responsibility to herself. For all his talk about having an adult conversation, she knew what the look in his eyes was. And when he began reaching for her cheek, Y/N knew it was now or never. Miguel's body weight was enough that she could web him up and hurl him into the nearby wall. It was like watching a cannonball get launched a Mach speed, and his surprised yelp was far more satisfying than it should've been. But he'd done this to himself, and as Y/N booked it down the hallway, she knew she was on a divine clock. Either luck or skill was going to get her out alive, and luck was unreliable at best. She had her hands, her webs, and her brain. That was going to have to make do.

A vast majority of the Spider-People were out, either in their own worlds or helping hunt down Miles. Poor Miles. He just wanted to save his dad. Y/N did her best, did the most she could, but right now? Right now, she had to focus on getting out alive, preferably with her pride intact. And as she heard Miguel's thundering footsteps behind her, an anguished yell, she found it in herself to go impossibly faster. Maybe if she was an outside observer, it would've been funny-a woman booking it past someone standing, only to be followed by a massive, 6'9 blue and red bullet on all fours. Wow. Miguel really did like just running like a dog. Y/N dove down into the lobby of the Spider-Society, ducking and weaving under bridges and platforms. Miguel leapt like an animal, clawing his way onto a platform above and dropping down.

"Stop running!" He barked, getting up to two legs again and reaching out. Y/N could feel his claws miss by a hair, and she leapt off the edge, swinging around and swerving to a platform above, stumbling into the containment room. Rows and rows and rows of sunset orange, anomalies staring at her with wide-confused eyes. None of them were the ones she'd caught, and as she heard Miguel claw up the side of the wall, she knew running wouldn't work forever. She had to do what Miles did-hide, outlast, outplay. These kids were getting too damn smart. Y/N dove behind the anomalous Rhino, praying that it wouldn't elect to shuffle over. It was the biggest thing in the room, the most stationary-and now Y/N realised she was putting far too much stock in luck. If Miguel found her, she genuinely didn't know what he would do. Would he cage her again? Hurt her? Kill her? It all seemed to be a possibility, all at once.

Now, all she could was hope the anomalies didn't sell her out.

In all honesty, she wouldn't blame them. The Spiders didn't have the most ethical treatment of anomalies. She wasn't even sure if they got fed, or what. But maybe a shared hatred for one particular Spider-Man would get it across. Y/N shared a look with a Doc Ock, and he stared at her. She grit her teeth, praying that somehow, the silent prayer would get across. A twitch throbbed in her neck from sheer tension, before the Doc Ock gave a barely noticeable nod. He looked away. It's a cold day in hell when the villains understood Y/N better than the 'good guys' did. Miguel burst into the room, claws tearing up the metal floor. Y/N could see a handful of the anomalies jump, all eyes on him. She had her back to him, and part of her hated how she'd put herself in such a compromising position. Short of her spider-senses, she wouldn't have a clue if she needed to run, and right now, she was having a Spider-Woman check engine light with how much the sense was going off already. It was rendered useless, because thank you very much, she was aware she was in danger.

"Vamos. Prometo que seré gentil.♱" Miguel cooed, heavy steps reverberating throughout the room. Maybe he was muttering to himself, or he genuinely was trying to speak to Y/N, but she knew better than to just leap out and go 'I'm here! Come and get me!'. Spider-Man was funny, but he wasn't stupid. And the same went for his 7290 variant. The anomalies all went silent, and Y/N felt her mouth go dry. It'd been so long since she'd last felt this genuinely terrified. Last time, she was 14, sobbing in an alleyway as she watched her uncle die. This time, she was being hunted by an obsessed, genetically infused daddy longlegs. This was absolutely, totally, completely fine.

"Mi corazón es tuyo. ¿Qué más se puede pedir?♱" Miguel kept muttering to himself, low and quiet and enough that if Y/N didn't have superior hearing, she wouldn't have picked it up. "I need you, I need you, I need you...you need me."

Mm. Y/N wrinkled her nose at that. That just sounded stupid.

Y/N kept her breathing controlled, trying to tame the soreness in her lungs and the shuddering breaths. Bile pooled in her throat as she heard Miguel slowly walk past the rhino, a shake in her hands that she hated acknowledging. But Miguel was terrifying. He was the ultimate predator, trying to hunt Y/N down like prey. She was prey, for the first time in years. She figured that maybe, if they'd done a better job of convincing Miles, then it would make sense. But if this was what the boy was seeing, feeling, then no wonder. She would've jumped off the bullet highway, too. Abruptly, there was a sudden crash, and Y/N's head whipped around to see that Miguel had thrown one of the containment contraptions, hurling it to the wall opposite to her. She practically jumped out of her skin, the bile leaping to her tongue in a bitter, acidic taste. Miguel swore hard in Spanish, howling like an injured dog, damaging more equipment and clawing up anything that wasn't an anomaly. With every hit, every swipe, Y/N flinched, because holy shit that could be her. He could pop her head off with a single slightly hard hit, and it'd be over.

He stalked out of the room, leaping down to the Go Home Machine below. Y/N's sigh of relief felt like it was shared with the whole room, all the anomalies relaxing at once. It's like a thread had been pulled out of a fabric, letting it finally fall the way it was meant to. One anomaly, a fucked up Green Goblin, did a dramatic flop to the floor. Y/N shut her eyes, taking a deep breath. At this point, she'd just abandon ship-leap out the nearest window and web her way out of the city before Miguel could deactivate her watch. And even if he did, then she'd hide out. Nueva York was insane, a metal jungle. She could spend the rest of her life hiding out there, if she had to.

"Beep beep."

Y/N's eyes flew open, looking to her left. Her gut plummeted. Miguel's golden boy, his favourite, one of their best, stood next to her, exactly 4 centimetres high. LEGO Spider-Man, with his teeny little watch. Before, Y/N thought he was cute, like a dog or something. But as his watch flickered to life and the visage of Miguel appeared, she regretted every single instance of her almost stepping on him. "H-Hey, wait-!" She whispered, harsh. "Don't-!" "Miguel, I got eyes on Y/N!" LEGO Spider-Man moved in a way that only a LEGO minifigure could, his head rotating a little bit. The Miguel avatar slowly turned, locking eyes with Y/N, and her blood froze. "Thanks, Peter. You're one of our best for a reason." "Beep beep." LEGO Spider-Man shut off the watch, looking to Y/N. "Sorry. Nothing personal." There was silence for a second.

"Peter." Y/N said. "You fucking suck."

She picked up the LEGO and proceeded to chuck him as far as she possibly could, launching him into the lobby and watching him fall. Some of the anomalies groaned, and already Y/N could hear Miguel barreling his way back to the room. Why the hell could she not catch a break? She only had a handful of options, most of which weren't actually options she could do. There was turning herself in-a non-option. There was calling for help-another non-option. And then there was simply...jumping out the window. The same thing Miles did. Which...felt cliché. Would Miguel really fall for the same thing twice? Literally? Miguel ran into the room, sliding across the floor. There was a moment where he looked up to Y/N, eyes wide and wild. His grin was wide, panting hard with his fangs poking his bottom lip. A flush had bloomed on his face, his eyes blown out like he was on drugs. "There you are," He hissed.

Well. The window it was.

Y/N's sides still hurt from the last time she got tossed out a window. This time, she gave herself the courtesy of bracing herself with her arms, but the glass still hurt like hell. It cut into her arms as Miguel genuinely shrieked, running out after her. There was a moment where Y/N was just in a free-fall, taking a second to reflect on her situation. Did she wake up this morning expecting any of this? No. If she had, she would've texted her neighbour to keep an eye on her fish. But nooo. She just had to get herself mixed up in super-hero shenanigans. She crossed her arms, a petulant scowl on her face. Maybe she still could call to make sure her fish would be okay. Miguel hurtled out the window after her, a hand reaching out to catch the front of her suit. His claws were out, the extra inch and a half proving far more of a threat than Y/N liked. She spun down and webbed Miguel's foot, yanking him down and using him as velocity to shove herself up. He tried the same trick on her, but if there was one thing she had on the 'kilogram of steel vs kilogram of feathers' built Spider was that she was that much faster. She yanked her foot out of the way, webbing to the side of the Spider-Society and slamming into the glass of a floor she'd never even been on before. Miguel plummeted like a brick to the ground, webbing to a building that was that much lower. Y/N had a total of two minutes to decide what the hell she was going to do. So...what was she going to do?

♱ - This is ridiculous. - Come on out. I promise I'll be gentle. - My heart is yours. What more could you ask for?

╰･ 𝙜𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙘 ⸜❤︎⸝‍ 𝙢𝙞𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙡 𝙤'𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖 ⨯・ ⨯・@ishqani ⸜❤︎⸝‍ @pix-stuff ⸜❤︎⸝‍ @localdepressedvampire ⸜❤︎⸝‍ @cantchoosejust1 ⸜❤︎⸝‍ @tired-writer04 ⸜❤︎⸝‍ @neteyamsbulletwound

#divagaciones (per)#୨♡୧ gothic updates #yandere miguel o'hara x reader #yandere miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader

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sister-lucifer · 2 months

Text

Talk About a Mind Fuck

Tim Wright/Masky x Ticci Toby

A COLLAB WITH @cryptidcircuswrites ! PLEASE CHECK OUT HIS VERSION HERE!

Genre: Gore smut

Summary: A mission goes awry and Toby is shot straight through the skull. Tim decides to take the new hole for a spin, and Toby is more than happy to let him have it.

Content/warnings: OHHH MY GOOOOD DONT FUCKING READ THIS IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, Toby literally gets his brain fucked, bullet hole wound fucking, explicit gore, I cannot emphasize this enough STRAIGHT UP PENIS IN BRAIN SEX, brain creampie, guns/shooting/etc, age gap but everyone is a consenting adult, fake out death, Toby vomits a little at the end, cum leaking out of face holes it should never be in, mirror sex, rough dom top Tim, Tim bullies Toby for his trauma regarding his physically abusive father, use of homophobic language/slurs, degradation, just general nastiness, very mean spirited. NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. THIS IS AS DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT AS IT GETS.

A/N: if you skipped the warnings on this one or didn’t read them all the way, go back and fucking look at all of them, otherwise don’t read.

Breaking and entering.

It’s a routine for Tim and Toby at this point.

Tim can brute force open any door, Toby can pick any lock, and both of them have long since shaken off any qualms about taking a life. They’re skilled at it now, neither of them ever leaving the cabin without their weapon of choice. In a line of work like this one, after all, you can never be too prepared.

This was supposed to be easy.

Three people in the house, a couple and their third wheel squatting in an abandoned vacation home. Bare bones interior, probably no weapons.

Probably.

A lot of good ‘probably’ had done them.

Toby had gone in while Tim stood watch in the doorway, just in case one of their targets tried to run out. His revolver fit into his palm like a glove, his grip confident and ready. He’s done this a million times before.

Tim can only hear the altercation going on in the back rooms of the house, but he has a good idea of what’s happening.

The sound of a hatchet coming down onto a throat.

One down.

A woman screams. Something knocks over, a shelf or a table. A splatter. Silence.

Two down.

A man cries out. Something hits the wall. Rogers swears. There’s a struggle. A gunshot rings out.

…A gunshot.

A gunshot?!

Footsteps.

Fast, frantic footsteps coming down the hallway.

Tim readies himself, aiming towards the dark hall with a hand that is far too steady. He’s holding his breath. The steps are getting closer.

In a split second’s time the last target emerges from the shadows, Tim’s gaze zeroes in on the whites of his eyes and the trigger of his revolver is pulled by a swift finger one, two, then three times.

The shots ring in his ears as the body falls limply to the floor, devoid of life in an instant.

Three down.

But still one bullet unaccounted for.

“Rogers?” Tim calls into the hallway, stepping over the body without looking down.

No answer.

“Rogers!” He says again, with more authority this time.

Nothing.

That little fucker runs his mouth like an engine at all hours of the day, but now he’s quiet?

A stabbing pain of fear twists in Tim’s gut.

Their ‘boss’ won’t let them die, he knows that. The pseudo immortality they’ve been given keeps their bodies functioning and regenerating even after some of the worst injuries one could imagine; he knows that, he’s felt it, and yet…

This silence is sickening.

He can’t stop himself from rushing into the makeshift bedroom, heavy boots on the creaky wood floor announcing his presence before he calls for his partner again.

“Answer me, dammit, Rogers!”

He looks around the room, scanning the blood splattered walls. Two bodies are slumped against them, opposite to each other, one with its neck severed and the head hanging on by a thread of viscera, and the other with half of its innards thrown to the floor. Neither are Toby, he knows that in an instant.

Then his gaze trails to the center of the floor.

The cold washes over him so suddenly he feels faint. He can feel the color draining from his face as he lays eyes on his partner, face down on the ground, a thick splatter of blood painting a moonlit halo around his head.

Or what’s left of it, anyways.

A hastily fired bullet has carved a path through the boy’s skull and out the other side.

Clean through.

Tim’s body seizes with shock, disgust, grief, and everything in between, tensing so suddenly and so harshly he nearly passes out. A hand clamps over his mouth as it opens in a silent scream, a gasp that can’t escape because he can’t breathe. He rushes to the body before he can stop himself.

“Rogers?! Rogers, get up!” He demands, but the way his voice cracks and trembles shows his true fear. He shakes his partner’s still body harshly, desperate to jar him into consciousness.

There’s no movement.

Not a sound.

Tim’s eyes start to wet behind his mask. He shakes harder, even bringing a fist down on his shoulder blade.

Nothing.

“This isn’t fucking funny, Toby!” Tim screams, landing a few more punches on his back, “I’ve seen you take worse than this, get up!”

Not even a twitch.

The realization settles in like splinters under Tim’s skin.

He backs away from the body, the room spinning around him. He grasps at his face under his mask, his lungs starting to expand and restrict so fast it’s painful. There’s a searing panic burning the back of his skull and threatening to engulf his entire body. He stumbles back and falls onto one of the now bloodied mattresses their targets had been sleeping on.

This isn’t happening.

He’s not really gone.

He’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone he’s not really gone—

A sudden noise makes Tim jump out of his skin, his eyes shooting up to find the source of the sound.

Was that a…cough?

He looks down at Toby’s body.

It hasn’t moved.

Maybe it was just air escaping, or some other weird thing bodies do after death. If he didn’t get up already, then he must be…

Tim nearly screams when Toby suddenly splutters and hacks, his body jerking as he fights for air. Tim is frozen in place as he watches the partner he thought was dead slowly struggle to get up, managing to get on his hands and knees. He coughs again, spitting onto the ground and groaning at the unpleasant but not unfamiliar sight of blood.

“Yeugh…god, it’s in m-my nose,” Toby mumbles with a sniffle, wiping his face with his sleeve. He doesn’t notice Tim as he sits up on his knees, inspecting himself in a way that is far too casual.

…He has no idea what just happened.

Tim can feel his eye twitching as he stands up slowly, his frenzied gaze trained on the younger man as he approaches. Toby looks up at the sound of the footsteps, and Tim has to stop himself from reacting to the sight. His body trembles as he forces himself to stay still.

Toby’s right eye is completely gone. There’s not even a shred of the eyeball left, only a pulsing, bloody cavity he instantly recognizes as the entry hole of a bullet.

Toby blinks up at Tim with his remaining eye.

“S-Shit, I must’ve passed out when—bitch!—when h-he hit me, heh. What, you-you thought I was—grrrk!—d-dead for real?” Toby asks with a head tilt and an amused giggle. Tim’s eyes narrow.

Slowly Tim turns his head, following the imaginary trail the bullet would have made based on where Toby fell.

Right there, lodged into the decrepit wall right next to the doorway.

The first bullet.

Clean through, and out the back.

Toby follows his gaze, squinting in the dark to see whatever it is his senior partner is seeing.

“…O-Oh shit,” He mutters, “Talk about a-a close—don’t listen!—a close call—c-call—call me!—hehe…”

Tim stares back at him with a look in his eyes that says ‘You have no fucking idea.’

“…W-Why are you looking at me— a-at me like that?”

Tim looks around. For some reason, he’s not sure how to answer that.

That is, until he lays eyes on a conspicuously mirror shaped object draped in a sheet and pushed into the corner.

Yeah, it’s easier to just show him.

Tim shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket as he walks over to the mirror, trying not to rush. He’s annoyed with Toby for scaring him like that and nearly bringing him to tears, even if it’s not really his fault. Maybe startling him a bit will take the edge off that embarrassment.

Toby’s eye follows him closely as he walks, then watches as his hand slowly raises to grasp the sheet obscuring the mirror. His brow raises, curiosity piqued.

The sheet is pulled away in an instant. The cloud of dust that results makes Toby cough, trying to wave it away from his face. He squints through the grimy mist, struggling to make out his own reflection in the mirror.

“L-Look, Tim, I don’t know what it-it is that you n-need me to—suck it! fuck you!—see, but I-I don’t— Oh my fucking God?!”

There it is.

Toby crawls closer to the mirror, his remaining eye wider than Tim had ever seen it and the hole where the matching one would’ve been stretching gruesomely.

Tim winces. Toby can’t feel it, even if he could feel pain normally all that nerve damage would make it numb, but Tim can’t stop imagining what it would feel like.

“…Jesus Christ…” Is all Toby can manage as he looks at what remains of his face. He feels around the wound, getting far too close to touching the exposed insides for Tim’s comfort. Toby stares at himself for a long few moments. Tim can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Then Toby turns to his partner, and to Tim’s surprise, he’s sporting the widest, most lopsided grin he’s ever seen, his crooked teeth stained with blood on one side where it runs down his cheek from the wound. Tim holds back a shudder.

“The fuck you cheesin’ for?” Tim growls, walking around behind Toby to see him in the mirror, “You nearly got half your damn face blown off!”

“Relax, o-old man!” Toby replies without missing a beat, “In a-a few days there won’t e-even be a— b-be a mark…”

Tim rolls his eyes behind his mask. That’s true, yes. An injury this extensive will take a bit to regenerate, but it’ll grow back like nothing happened. Still, Toby doesn’t even seem mildly disturbed. He practically saw himself die, and here he is giggling to himself and moving his face in odd ways just to see the horrid wound contort in the mirror. The quiet squelching noises it makes nearly bring Tim to vomit.

“…You’re not even a little put off by the fact that…you know. You’re missing half your fuckin’ face?!”

Toby lets out a sharp laugh at Tim’s outburst, amused by his clear discomfort.

“Don’t be s-such a—bitch! bastard!— baby, I-I think it’s—asshole!—I think it’s k-kinda cool. Besides…”

He turns to look up at Tim, yellow teeth glowing in the moonlight that leaks in through the busted windows.

“…I-I got a brand new hole f-for you to try out.”

Tim gasps in disgust. Before he can think a hand comes up to smack Toby upside the head, though he immediately regrets it when a splatter of blood is thrown to the floor as Toby rocks forward.

“Don’t say shit like that, you dirty fuckin’ pervert!”

Toby nearly breaks out into hysterics at that, grabbing his sides as he laughs like a maniac. His tics increase tenfold at the sudden rush of energy, his fingers flexing unnaturally and tearing at his sweatshirt.

“H-How can I not?! You m-make it so f-fucking—fuck! funny!— fun, haha!” Toby replies, his voice cracking as his head jerks involuntarily in all directions.

Tim crosses his arms, huffing in annoyance but not sure what to say. He can feel his cheeks getting warm under his mask. He hates when Toby laughs at him. It pisses him off like nothing else.

He stares daggers into Toby’s restless reflection as he leans into the mirror to inspect his wound again, mumbling to himself endlessly and doing his best to stay still.

Toby’s rambling starts to fade out as Tim glares at his mirror image. He can feel something dark bubbling up inside of him, its vines sprawling out and over his body as he marinates in his thoughts.

He thought he was gone.

For a second there, he really thought he’d lost Toby for good.

And now here he is, without a care in the world, looking at his own fucking gunshot wound like it’s a new tattoo.

Someone oughta teach this kid a lesson.

Tim’s not sure what comes over him, but something, a nagging little thought has settled into his brain and taken root there. It thumps in the back of his skull like a heartbeat under the floorboards. He pulls one of his hands from its glove, looking down at his bare palm.

“…You think this is all some joke, don’t you?” Tim mutters, forcing the words through gritted teeth. Toby doesn’t even turn to look at him.

“W-Why are so damn u-uptight, old man? It’s not—grrrk!—it’s not like I d-died. Psuedo-immortality, r-remember?”

“But you could’ve. You know at the end of the day you can’t really trust anything that monster gives you. It would kill you in an instant if it felt threatened or betrayed.”

“T-The fuck is your— i-is your problem?!”

Suddenly Toby isn’t all smiles anymore. His head jerks to the side violently, pulling a sickening pop from his neck. Tim is used to these mood swings, but that doesn’t stop the heavy tension that settles over the room.

“Y-You’re always on my back about something, a-aren’t you old man?!” Toby hisses. Tim’s ungloved hand squeezes and flexes at his side.

“You a-always got something to say about m-me, or what I—fucker! shit!—what I-I think, you can never j-just let me—“

Toby is cut off as a high pitched cry is violently forced from his throat, making his body spasm as it dissolves into an animalistic moan like neither of them have ever heard. It feels like every nerve in his body is seizing, splitting apart and contorting under his skin. He almost screams at the feeling, but he can’t manage it. He’s choking on nothing.

There’s a sickening squelch as something is ripped from the back of his skull, and he falls forward onto his hands, dizzy and struggling to breathe.

“W-What…what the f-fuck…was…”

He can’t even finish the sentence between his inability to process the unnatural sensation that just overtook him and the indescribable feeling still rippling through his body.

Slowly he cranes his neck to look back up into the mirror. Instantly his eye is locked onto Tim’s, but he isn’t looking back. He’s staring at something else.

He follows Tim’s gaze down slowly, swallowing thickly with a sudden nervousness. His eye widens as it falls on the thing that has captivated Tim‘s gaze:

His ungloved hand, the middle and ring fingers now dripping with blood and viscera not his own.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Did…d-did you just…”

Tim doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

For the first time in a long time, Toby is still. His twitching and jerking ceases, his face halts its uncomfortable wrenching; He’s still, and soundless.

There’s a beat of silence where they both just stare at Tim’s bloodied hand, neither of them moving an inch. It’s like time has stopped in this instant. Toby can feel his heartbeat throbbing in his brain. Something in his chest is twisting and turning with a burning emotion he can’t quite place yet.

He doesn’t even have time to process the sudden movement before Tim has plunged his fingers into the wound once again.

This time Toby is forced to watch his reflection in the mirror as Tim violates the gorey cavity, thick digits rooting around inside his head and shooting a new sensation through him with every touch. His entire body stiffens, his mouth falling open involuntarily as he loses control of it. He can feel his senses being reduced to mush as he groans, the endless sound falling from his lips in unintelligible waves. It’s mindless, desperate babbling, but he can’t do anything else.

Toby watches the depraved scene in the mirror until his eye starts to roll back in his head, further than it should be able to. Tim watches the hazel iris recede until only white is left. Only then does he finally give some reprieve, yanking his hand back and shaking off the chunks that come with it.

Toby’s head bows towards the ground as he catches his breath, his entire body rocking as he heaves desperately for air. He’s too preoccupied to notice the way Tim is leering down at him, his breathing now hot and labored.

“…How did that feel?”

Toby sneers at the question, not looking up.

“H-How did it feel?! You’re d-digging around—shhhh!— in m-my fucking brain, d-dipshit, how do you— d-do you think it f-feels?!”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. I know it doesn’t hurt, so how does it feel?”

For some reason, Toby doesn’t have an answer to that. He wants to snap back with something witty and biting, to tell him it feels like Hell and back and if he doesn’t stop he’ll scatter his brains next, but…

That wouldn’t be the total truth.

“…It…I-It feels…” He stammers, unable to find the words. He sits back up on his knees, locking eyes with his partner in the mirror. Tim is silent. He’s anticipating the rest of that sentence. Toby thinks for a moment, a series of tongue clicks in an odd rhythm sounding as he pauses.

“…It…I-It wasn’t bad, if that’s w-what you’re looking for.”

Tim’s breath hitches.

Only Toby could hear a sound so small, yet so telling.

He has to push this further.

“A-Actually it was kind of…k-kind of good, y-you know? I-I don’t know—rrrngh!—how to explain it, but i-it just…it’s like n-nothing I’ve ever f-felt or imagined, I-I—“

Toby cuts himself off with a gasp as Tim grasps his hair tightly. His other hand moves to his belt. The sound of the metal buckle makes Toby shiver.

Tim leans down a bit, speaking lowly to his partner.

“Keep talking.”

Toby’s stomach flips.

Tim’s not giving him a choice.

“I-It’s like…fuck, it’s l-like every muscle in my— in my b-body is spasming like c-crazy,” Toby continues, watching with crazed eyes as Tim slides the belt from its loops. He grits his teeth as it clatters to the ground.

He doesn’t want this to stop.

He has to keep going.

“I-It’s like f-fire under my skin, b-but I can’t feel t-the burn…”

Tim’s hand moves to the fly of his jeans.

“…I-I lose all control of m-my body, I can’t—fuck off!—I-I can’t even think, i-it just all turns i-into gibberish…”

Tim tugs down his zipper, and Toby can see his twitching bulge straining against his boxers.

“…It’s l-like I can feel myself l-losing my mind, and I c-can’t do anything— d-do anything about it, I c-can’t even p-put—put it back! put it back!—put together a sentence…”

Tim hooks a thumb under the waistband of his boxers. He starts to push them down.

“…F-Fuck, Tim, I-I wanna feel it again.”

Toby clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the moan that threatens to break free as he watches Tim’s erection spring free from the confines of his clothes. He’s thick and uncut, throbbing with rabid need. Toby shudders as his partner lets out a relieved groan, breathing hard under his mask.

“S-Shit, Tim…y-your—your cock! your cock!—n-no! I mean you’re—your cock! your cock! fat cock!—dammit! I-I didn’t mean to s-say that—!”

“I’m taking you up on your offer, Rogers…” Tim growls, cutting off Toby’s attempt to explain himself. He grabs Toby’s head with both hands, fingers digging into the front of his wound on one side and the gash in his cheek on the other. This time Toby doesn’t bother to stop the moan that crawls up his throat as he feels Tim’s cock rut against the back of his head.

“…I wanna give this new hole of yours a proper fucking. What do you say?”

Toby can’t see Tim’s mouth, but he can tell he’s smiling from the way his eyes crinkle at the corners behind his mask. Toby groans at the thought. He can’t stop the crooked grin that spreads across his pale face like butter on a hot pan.

“P…P-Please, Tim,” He whispers, and he knows he’s hit a nerve when he feels Tim‘s grip tighten for a moment.

“…Please what, Rogers?”

He figured he wouldn’t get it that easy.

“Please, Tim,” Toby continues, sucking in a breath and swallowing his pride, “I-I want you t-to fuck me, please—“

Tim ruts against the back of his head again, barely brushing his wound. He wants more.

“P-Please, fuck, I-I’m—need! give it!—I’m begging you! I need it, I-I need you to fuck m-my brains out, please!”

Tim shifts his hips. He’s lining up at the opening.

It’s working.

“Please, please, p-please, Tim, I-I want you to f-fuck my brain! I n-need to—fffuck! fuck! fuck!—I need t-to feel it! Please, dammit, j-just fucking—!”

Toby doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence.

Tim shoves himself inside the bloody cavity without warning, forcing Toby’s brain out of the way as his cock enters. The scream that rocks Toby’s body is as lustful as it is carnal and gruesome. He reaches up on instinct and grabs Tim’s wrists, not trying to pull his hands away but holding on for dear life before he loses the ability to move at all.

“You broke so easy,” Tim sneers as he bottoms out, talking over Toby’s uncontrollable moaning, “What would the others think if they saw you begging for dick like a whore on the street? Huh?!”

He punctuates his sentence with a sudden rut of his hips, making Toby yelp and his body jerk. His nails dig into Tim’s arms, and the pain is delicious.

Tim studies the scene before him in the mirror.

It’s disgusting. It’s horrid. He can see the tip of his leaking cock resting inside his partner’s skull.

He doesn’t want this to end.

He’s going to relish this opportunity, every sickening moment of it.

“What would they think…”

Tim starts to pull back, breath trembling at the slick noises from the movement.

“…If they knew I had you whining for me like a dirty fuckin’ sissy?!”

He pushes back in with even more force than before. Blood is forced out the front of the wound, dripping down Toby’s face and onto the floor, leaving a red trail on his skin. His meaningless babbling is music to Tim’s ears.

Again Tim pulls back, faster this time, and pushes in again. He watches Toby’s face in the mirror as he finds his rhythm, completely enamored as it contorts with overwhelming sensations that no human should ever experience. His mouth is hanging completely open, his tongue limp and lying against his chin as he pants and wails desperately like a dog in heat. He’s starting to drool from the lack of muscle control.

There’s something about watching Toby quite literally lose his mind at his hand that makes Tim feel like God.

“You know, I like you a lot better when you can’t run your mouth,” Tim says with a chuckle. He digs his fingers into the front of the wound, groping around in the cavity and feeling the pulsing meat shift under the pads of his fingertips.

“You’re lucky I’m not gonna tell anyone about this, not gonna tell the others you’re a nasty fuckin’ faggot who’s so desperate for dick you’d take it in your brain…at least someone’s finally making use of the lump of meat in your head, eh?!”

He pulls Toby’s skull back on his cock hard and fast, fucking into the hole with more fervor than he thought possible. His arms are bleeding now from where Toby’s nails are digging in, his knuckles locked up as his motor function is ripped to shreds.

Tim’s eyes trail down the reflection as he thrusts, down to Toby’s body and stopping at the tent in his pants. There’s a painfully obvious stain on his groin now where his erection is straining against the denim of his jeans with wretched need. His precum is leaking through the material in viscous waves, a constant stream of shameful arousal. It looks like it hurts, like his zipper is about to burst, but Tim has no interest in granting him even that small mercy of freeing his hard-on.

“Damn,” He mumbles to himself, watching the liquid pool where the tip of his partner’s cock pushes against his pants, “You really are enjoying this, aren’t you? You’re not just tolerating it to see how far I’ll go, you’re getting off on this shit! You’re a dirty fuckin’ boy slut!”

He’s getting mean, meaner than he really needs to be, but he doesn’t care. Toby might not even be able to hear him, and even if he can, Tim’s not going to waste this chance while his partner can’t snap back.

He ruts his hips more intentionally, trying to hit every spot he can. He’s catching on to patterns, that certain touches here or there make Toby twitch or jerk or yelp involuntarily. His eye has rolled back in his head almost completely. It looks agonizing, and it only makes Tim thrust faster.

“Then again, in that messed up little mind of yours I bet this is nothing. You’re so used to gettin’ beat on this practically soft to you, ain’t it?! Or did your old man slam your head into the concrete too many times for you to know the damn difference?!”

Tim’s practically screaming at him now, drool running down his chin and neck as he loses himself to the pleasure. It’s unbearably hot under his mask, but he can’t bring himself to release his death grip on Toby’s head to take it off.

“I should’ve put you in your place a long time ago, lord knows you’ve needed it for who knows how long!”

Tim angles his hips upward a bit, brushing against a certain spot that makes Toby tense and cry out suddenly. The thing Tim notices most, though, is the way Toby’s cock twitches in his pants. It spurts just a bit, not climaxing yet but getting dangerously close. The stain on the front of his pants is only growing with each passing second that Tim violates his brain.

“Oh, you really are disgusting,” Tim huffs, “You’re really about to cum in your pants, and I haven’t even touched your cock? That’s pathetic, Rogers.”

Tim angles his hips up again just to watch the precum gush from his partner’s tip, his stomach flipping in his gut at the thought that Toby is so, so damn close, but he can’t beg for more or touch himself or even move at all.

“Nngh…Like hell I’m gonna let a little bitch boy like you cum first, though.”

He takes a moment to adjust his grip. He’s preparing for the last stretch.

The speed of his thrusting increases tenfold, completely losing all sense of rhythm. He can feel the pleasure taking him over, melting his resolve and screaming at him to go, go, go, just keeping going, go until you can’t anymore, and that’s exactly what he intends to do.

“You better take all of my cum, Rogers,” Tim growls through gritted teeth, “Though I ain’t exactly giving you a choice, am I? You’ll take it whether you like it or not…”

He hasn’t looked away from Toby’s face in the mirror. The sight of it twitching and frozen in a state of screaming ecstasy is like a horrific work of art. Tim’s never going to forget it. He won’t forget any of this. Every second is burned into his brain, and he’s more than happy to keep it that way.

The gory cavity is carved into the shape of Tim’s cock by now, each thrust only feeding the growing puddle of blood and viscera on the ground below Toby. That stain will stay there forever, Tim thinks. A permanent reminder of the debauchery the two of them are so gleefully partaking in. The idea of someone else finding this old house scattered with bodies, walking around and not even knowing the half of what these walls have been subjected to…

God, that’s good.

The knot in Tim’s stomach starts to tighten.

He can’t hold on for much longer. Neither can Toby.

Tim angles his hips in that special way again, hitting that sensitive spot over and over and over again with each frenzied thrust. Toby’s practically soaking himself now, so close to the edge but not quite close enough to fall off, though he runs the risk with each passing second. It’s barely a matter of time.

Faster, faster, faster, that’s the only thing Tim can think.

More, more, more, that’s all he can think about.

Faster, faster, faster, more, more, more, more, more more more moremoremore—

“Shit!”

Suddenly Tim throws his head back with a wild noise, his cock releasing without warning into the bloody cavity he’s been so graciously desecrating. At the same time he brushes that spot again, and it’s finally enough to give Toby his release, too, only a second later. His cum soaks the front of his now completely ruined jeans, the shameful stain running down his groin and thighs. The scream he lets out as his climax rocks his body will haunt Tim’s dreams.

Tim’s thrusting doesn’t slow to a stop until it feels like his balls are empty. Only then does he finally go still, allowing himself to breathe. He looks up at the ceiling as he pants, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment as his orgasm gradually washes away.

Finally Tim allows his fingers to unfurl, releasing Toby as he pulls his cock from his ruined skull. It comes back soaked in blood and sticky with viscera, taking a few chunks with it. He tries to step back, but Toby’s still gripping his wrists.

He manages to shake him off, only for Toby’s body to go completely limp and fall forward, face first onto the dusty wood floor and into the puddle of mixed bodily fluids. He twitches a bit, but doesn’t move or show any signs of life beyond that. Anyone else would think he’s dead.

“I’m not falling for that again,” Tim mumbles with an eye roll, using his discarded glove to wipe off his now flaccid cock before tucking it back into his boxers and zipping up his pants.

He crouches over Toby, grabbing his hair and forcing him up from the floor back onto his knees. All Toby can manage is a pathetic groan. Tim studies his partner’s fucked-out face in the mirror for a moment, watching as the blood and seed lazily roll down his cheek and chin. He can’t help but chuckle to himself.

“…Anything to say for yourself?” Tim asks teasingly, shaking him a bit.

The only response he gets is the sound of gagging as Toby retches. Tim barely moves back in time to watch him cough up a horrible concoction of blood, cum, and God knows what else without being in the splash zone.

“Goddammit, watch it!” Tim scolds cruelly, “If you hurl on my new boots I’m leaving you like this.”

He at least has the decency to let Toby finish before scooping up his limp, helpless body. He carries him under his arm like a log, not taking any care to be gentle.

“I’ll get you back home to Eyeless,” Tim mutters, “He doesn’t ask too many questions, and he’ll patch you up good ‘til you’re all healed…”

Tim tries not to think too hard as he carries his partner out of the house, away from the crime scene and into the endless wooded darkness.

All is quiet for a moment, save for the sound of Tim’s heavy steps on the dry leaves. That is, until what Tim thinks is a muffled giggle sounds from his partner. He stops and looks back, but there’s no more noise.

Dammit, he thinks.

Neither of us are going to be forgetting this.

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harrysonlylover · 9 months

Text

Hidden Actions (Mechanic Harry Part 5)

Summary: The magic from Prince Charming’s kiss did not last long. Will the past follow up with Y/n and Harry?

Wc: 8.5k

Warnings: Discussion about feelings, insecurities, self criticism, mentions of alcohol consumption , child neglect,social anxiety and struggling with fitting in.

A/n: Thank you for being so patient, i adore every single one of you. I hope this part pleases you ( I suggest that you revisit part 4 prior to reading this)

Mechanic H Masterlist

The mystery of our actions remains to be the most taunting dilemma that we must face every now and then. For some, it’s everyday while others barely encounter it once in their lives.

They are the lucky ones, immune against the torture of their brain with no time spared to rethink what they have done or even question its validity. Psychology can explain hundreds of actions whether the motive be fear, irrationality, bravery, stupidity, anxiety…

Though it is a great science, it can only go as far as objective feelings that no one bats an eye when spoken of. Psychology steps away when love interferes.

It is no secret that love is nothing but a chemical reaction in the human brain, merely another feeling that blinds us, but centuries of poems and prose, martyrs in the name of love, and letters scattered around oceans in glass bottles tend to disagree.

Love is what makes us act in hideous or gentle ways. Love is the main source, and everything else follows. The idiocy, irrationality, worry, hurt, happiness, peace of mind, calmness. Perhaps it is safe to say that Psychology’s enemy is love.

It is so silly to think that everything we dwell on or makes us giddy is due to a chemical reaction. Even the brain itself can barely function despite being responsible when the heart steps in.

Do we ever know or realize what we are doing?

Harry would like to believe that he does or so he’s convinced himself for a long time.

“Why don’t you visit us anymore?”

“Harry pick up the phone.”

“Don’t be like every other man and only speak to women for fucking”

“Why do you get so angry for nothing?”

Random questions or thoughts that have been spewed at him by strangers and even close ones. He’d like to think that they enter one ear and leave the other but with time, they resided inside of him and shaped themselves in the form of self-hatred.

He goes on with his life, never questioning anything until his brain gets tired and scolds him as his heart takes control. For the first time in human psychology, the heart leads the brain.

“Why let your lips part from hers and agonize her this way?”

The pondering kept him up at night, tossing and turning, not allowing any form of herbs to lull him to sleep. In his daily routine, when he’s fixing cars, going for a run, and cooking. Not even the loud sound of his Vinyls overpowered the sound of his thoughts.

But Harry has learned how to tame his feelings, how to shut unwanted emotions down in the abyss of his brain. He will continue to do so because after all we are only humans and there is no such thing as love.

Love is another card we pick only to lose all the others and pay the price.

The feeling of being unwanted has chased you your entire life like a shadow with a tight grip on your back. The laughter of other girls at you when you asked if you could hang out with them, the mocking of boys when you thought one of them liked you, or the teachers at school that said you were a lost hope.

A feeling that became a part of you, with nowhere to go as it continues to torture you whenever it likes. You’re not even sure what being loved feels like, there are days when the kind smile or compliment of a stranger creates sparkles in your heart and others where their rudeness or stares make you feel like an 8-year-old girl again whose friends stop talking when she arrives.

Time doesn’t heal, it molds the feelings and brings them out in different ways when you are unguarded and expect them the least. You’ve always wondered if immortal beings exist, not for the fun of it but to know if they have to live with old wounds for the end of time.

The only real friends you ever had were Mia and Lee, they took you under their wing in college and never parted from you ever since. They always sensed the apprehension in your attitude and knew how careful you were with friendships but managed to reassure you in their own way.

You haven’t seen them since you moved here but you call them from time to time and update them on your life. It is not the loneliness that you hate, it is the torturous thoughts you have at night or even in broad daylight of being unwanted.

To love dearly and be loved back is something you never got to delight in and it’s okay, maybe you were sent on Earth to give love but never receive it.

You knew from a young age that fairytales in books were only for daydreamers, Prince Charming may never come. In fact, Prince Charming in real life lies to you, plays games, pretends to like you, or doesn’t care to show interest if you are not up to his standards.

The only man you ever found so close to Prince Charming was Harry.

He had an aura about him that made him a mysterious prince, the one mothers warn their daughters about, but when you look closely, you’d realize that he is nothing but another prince simple and tender but in his own world.

It’s been merely over a week since he drove you to your job interview, the breeze from the road trip still lingers, as so does his hand on your waist and lips on yours. You try to remember how it felt, your surroundings at the time, the cherry and cigarettes taste, his curls tickling your face, and his hunger.

The sparkles he lit inside your body felt like fireworks on New Year’s, a ray of warm sunshine in winter, picking random chocolate only to find out that it’s your favorite, fallen petals on your hair as you walk beneath a blossoming tree and street cats rubbing on your ankle.

It was otherworldly and hiding your blush was useless, you didn’t even feel like hiding it. You wanted him to know. “Your kiss did this to me and I don’t want to stop smiling. Can we kiss again?”

Perhaps you are trying to recall the moment to avoid thinking of what followed. It was a joy to go to bed that night, seeing how much your life had changed in a few months, from getting a new remote job to having Harry kiss you.

But it all evaporated in the upcoming week.

You clocked into Harry’s garage earlier than usual with a plate of pancakes and strawberry jam in your hand. You couldn’t roll your lips without thinking about his own, they fit so perfectly like a puzzle piece you thought you’d never find.

In My Life by The Beatles filled Harry’s space with a good vibe as he was already working on Meena. You stood frozen in front of his shop, unsure of your next action like a young schoolgirl. The pancake dish was warm and uncomfortable in your hand, It was probably for the best to just go in as always but you’re not sure how you developed the giddiness feeling so fast.

Harry seemed to be stuck in his own world, you wondered what he thought of, whether it be about what to cook for lunch or what the best movie in Hollywood is. There are some things that he revealed by himself, yet you feel like you barely know him.

You hated it when the other person had you memorized like the back of their palm while you needed to pull out the information from them discreetly. It didn’t make you feel good, in the bigger picture it is nothing but a preference to be closed off from the other person. But in your own thoughts, that meant you were easy to decode and a simple dumb girl.

No one could barge in on someone else and ask them to talk about themselves, it is your own fault that you’re a bit chatty as well. Most of the time you feel like you are deceiving yourself, why would you consider yourself to be shy yet talk someone’s ear off when they show you the faintest hint of kindness?

You don’t realize what you are doing until the other person sighs or groans, there were times when you muttered a low ‘sorry’ under your breath and continued your day normally ignoring the clutch at your heart but not the voices that tell you you’re annoying.

What scares you about Harry is that he never did any of that, and although it should be something comforting, it sometimes keeps you up at night. What if he is secretly annoyed and doesn’t want to say anything? And what if he isn’t bothered at all? The latter thought scares you the most.

You didn’t realize how long you’ve been standing outside until the song on the Vinyl changed to ‘Here Comes The Sun’. You took a brave step forward and approached the table you always sit on. The strong smell of oil and metal filled your nostrils unlike the usual where hydrangeas would welcome you.

Harry still didn’t notice your arrival which made you uneasy as he would know when you are near miles away. He was too deep in his own train of thoughts, leaning over Meena and even though you couldn’t see his face but you know a pout is present on his lips.

You decided to clear your throat and mutter a low ‘Good Morning’. He didn’t turn his head immediately and it felt awkward to repeat it so you retaliated to your designated seat and removed the foil paper off the dish, you placed four pancakes in a new one and added a generous amount of strawberry jam over it with chopped bananas. It was the only way of saying thank you to him for driving you earlier last week.

You slowly approached him, making sure to not scare him off while working with dangerous materials, so you stood in front of him with a broad smile lowering the pancake dish to his level.

“I heard your Good Morning the first time” He growled in a snarky tone making you take a step backward and clutch onto the glass dish.

His attitude was something you’d never witnessed before and definitely not a thing anyone would do after a kiss. But you couldn’t possibly be so selfish as to dismiss the possibility of Harry having a bad day. For all you know, he may be stressed over personal things and a silly kiss isn’t an excuse for him to put on a smile for you. When our negative emotions get in the way, we don’t owe anyone an explanation and you can’t count the number of times you put on a brave face but with Harry, you assumed he wouldn’t do that.

To lie and pretend that his words did not feel like a knife going through your heart would do nothing good for both parties, he obviously wanted to be left alone so you wrapped up the food again and moved it aside where he could see it in case he got hungry.

The next few hours were weird. It was even more awkward than when you first began working for Harry. There were only a few appointments to schedule and not much to do. He didn’t allow you to clean up or organize anything, muttering things about messiness under his breath. You sat at your bar stool with your hands in your lap as you observed his cranky attitude and dismissive demeanor.

You hated it when someone was mad around you but especially when you were starting to get close with this someone. From the logical side, it is never your fault 90% of the time, and it probably isn’t in this case. But the anger of a person makes you feel small and guilty as if you were the reason for their fury.

Harry’s attitude was unexpected but again you couldn’t exactly think that way because he owes you nothing. The hours went by unbelievably slow, Recently you’ve ditched the company of books when you’re working knowing that Harry has become a better replacement but at least books don’t get mad.

You made a mental note to always keep any kind of book in your bag from now on ,as you readied your bike to leave with an attempt to ignore your grandfather’s car lying neglected behind the garage. You informed Harry that you were leaving to which he didn’t move a muscle before you glanced at the long-forgotten pancake dish, and hopped on your bike away from his store.

Harry’s jaw twitched as he clenched onto the nearest object he could find in front of him, making it graze the palm of his hand. He wanted to bang his head against the nearest wall and he was not sure if allowing himself to cry was the right thing to do. He caught a glass bottle near him and threw it across the concrete as he panted and tugged at his hair.

Why do we act the way we do?

‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ sat neglected on your bedside table, you can’t remember the last time you didn’t feel like reading. Now that you thought about it, you never encountered a reading slump, books were your safe place.

As you stared at the book cover, you wondered as to why you were feeling this way. Books were supposed to save you from whatever was going on in your life, they stretched out a helping hand and pulled you out of your pool of thoughts.

You can’t even grasp the book! You pinched the bridge of your nose, took a deep breath, and lied down on your back as you stared at the ceiling.

You didn’t want it to come down to this; to allow your feelings to win. You closed your eyes and recalled Harry’s actions earlier today, he was an enigma that fooled you by allowing you to believe that you could decode him.

He likes his solitude, that’s for sure. In the movies, the evil characters do not come in contact with anyone, they keep their distance and sometimes cause harm to others.

Harry was just awkward around others, he despised socializing, and given his history with the town when he first moved in, you can’t blame him. He wasn’t gentle towards you on many occasions including when you first met. He’s always grumpy and relaxes when music is on, he has certain mechanisms that he follows to avoid being angry around you, but he hasn’t been this disrespectful directly ever since you asked him to repair his car, it felt like ages ago considering how much your relationship with him has developed.

Now you’re back to Zero.

Even if he changed his attitude later on, it would feel awkward to bring up the kiss. Very awkward.

Raising your expectations is something that you keep repeating when you know damn well that you’ll end up being disappointed. You genuinely couldn’t help it when it came to Harry.

He wronged you— yes. But what about the other times?

Sticking with you during the race, bringing you to his house when he’s secretive, introducing you to his pet, cooking for you multiple times, driving you to your job interview, braiding your hair, offering you strawberries and dismissing your insecurities.

All of these were acts of kindness that assured you how soft he was deep down, he wasn’t a mean person, but he tends to be very complicated.

If that was just the case, you could back down immediately and force yourself to forget him, after all you got hired and you no longer have to tolerate working at his garage. What’s better than avoiding someone physically if you’re trying to forget them?

But he kissed you, and he got jealous when Niall flirted with you.

He stares for too long at your physique, leaves hair ties around the garage for your hair, extra strawberries in the refrigerator, suggests new music and you could’ve sworn you saw Pride & Prejudice laying around.

That damned kiss. His lips were almost stuck to yours like glue, you could feel his grin and smile during the kiss even now that you’re miles away. His face and labored breaths exposed his rough guard. He was waiting for it as much as you were.

So—Why?

You sighed heavily and covered your face with your hands despite being alone in your bedroom. The window was open and the evening breeze welcomed itself in followed by the sound of crickets.

You hate that you’re allowing this to get to you. It was perhaps a bad day for him yet you’re psychoanalyzing him like it’s your job. You have to admit that as a social worker, you never met anyone like him.

Despite everything, you’re getting sick of having to come up with excuses for him in your head or explanations for his attitude. You tried to put yourself in his position only to get more furious when you remember that you barely know him while he is aware of every little detail.

He even knows about your anxiety and tendency to overthink yet he still acts—

Here goes your train of thoughts again.

You were used to letting people to walk all over you, but none of them acted friendly after.

If you allow this to continue, then not only will you lose sleep but also your peace of mind which you craved ever since you arrived here. Everything has been a complete whirlwind, so as you shut your eyes to the feeling of the night breeze caressing your skin, you finally figure out how to deal with a complicated Prince Charming.

The next morning, something changed in the air.

You felt more care free as you went on with your morning routine. You even woke up earlier than usual thanks to the kisses from the sun that sneaked through the window.

There was a certain calmness that wrapped your body in an embrace and clung to it tightly. You hoped it would last forever.

You devoured a yummy Omelette and biked to the Library seeing as you have 45 minutes to spare before heading to the garage.

Ah yes, the garage.

This type of communication with you and Harry was simply not going to work, you knew what the safer choice was and it’s time to put yourself first for once in your life.

The library was empty as usual with only Kitty sitting in her chair. You returned ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ and went through many shelves until your eyes landed on ‘The Great Gatsby’.

You’ve read it before which is why you should grab it, perhaps it will terminate this stupid reading slump of yours.

Kitty’s eyes brightened as soon as you walked towards her. What a woman.

“Oh dear I didn’t expect you to be back so soon! Did you not enjoy Oscar Wilde’s work?” She questioned you with a curious glance.

“It’s not that… I just couldn’t bear to read it. It’s a weird feeling so I think this could help.” You pointed to ‘The Great Gatsby’ , tipping Kitty a light smile before handing it in to have it registered.

“It is indeed a bother darling. Don’t worry it’ll fly by and you won’t feel it.” She assured you while checking in your new book.

Despite feeling good, you weren’t up for any conversation even with Kitty so you glanced around the place to pass time.

Your eyes landed on a very familiar item around Kitty’s neck. You inched your face closer to make sure that you’re not mistaken.

“That’s a nice necklace.” You pointed out as you stared at the same necklace Uncle George gave to Harry for fixing. The same one you admired with him as you read the engraving on the back.

“Forever more our love will reign, even when the stars don’t align”

“Thank you! My husband gave it to me for our 35th Anniversary. Look it even has words engraved on the back.” You thought it was a simple and cute coincidence right until she flipped the back of the necklace showing the same words you cooed over.

Her husband?

“I didn’t know you were married.” You spoke calmly ignoring the weird feeling in your chest.

“You know me… I’m not a chatty person. But if you wish to meet him just pass by his shop! His name is George.”

The pieces began clicking inside your head. Uncle George was buying flowers for Kitty, he asked Harry to fix the necklace for her which explains why he’s close to the both of them.

It was normal information yet it sparked a foreign feeling in your chest. You always saw Kitty as an older version of you, but to find out that George is her husband, the same man Harry looks up to…

“Why a mini clock though?” You cleared your throat not paying attention to your panicked facial expression.

“Me and George went through a lot before we let down our guard… we were young and stubborn, so that meant lots of wasted time. Miscommunication is very tricky Y/n. Beware of it.” She spoke with both love and pain mirroring in her eyes. You stared back at her with a blank expression feeling shivers go through your body.

“Sorry I need to go.” You grabbed the book and walked away in hurried steps not paying attention to the warm knowing smile she shot at you.

You didn’t care much about being lucky or attracting good vibes, but whatever feeling you were blessed with in the morning was gone and you’d do anything to earn it back.

You could’ve avoided asking her all these questions, maybe pour your attention somewhere else but as of late it seemed like fate was playing games with you.

It was just normal information right? So what if they’re married!

‘Cemetery Gates’ by The Smiths pierced your ears as you stepped into the garage. You didn’t stay silent on purpose, the Kitty and George situation just took a huge portion of your interest.

Harry was cleaning some of his tools when you walked in, his back was turned to you but he knew.

He has the sound of of your bike memorized, not to mention the strong odor of Strawberries that enriched the air.

You didn’t say Good Morning.

He was a proper asshole yesterday and he isn’t surprised one bit that you chose to ignore him. He deserved it, besides it’s better this way.

The kiss was something irrational on his part, yet it felt so right. He needed to taste your lips or he would’ve become a mad man.

But now that he got a glimpse of what it feels like to have your lips on his—

You still didn’t utter a word but he won’t push you. He hates that it has to come down to this but it’s for the better.

You are too pure for him.

He sets all the tools back in their place, and takes off his rings to continue his work. His curiosity got the best of him as he raised his eye level to get just a small glance—

Your yellow sundress was right above your knee, hugging your body perfectly. Your hair cascaded down to your waist with two small braids secured with a flower hair clip. His heart skipped a beat when he noticed the braids.

You were positioned on the chair you always sit in, but something was off about you.

You were staring straight ahead with your hand under your chin. Not checking appointments, nor reading. Your eyes didn’t catch his despite his shameless staring.

He was well aware of what kissing you meant, the hope it’d give you, and the emotions it’d show.

Even his attitude yesterday was unaccounted for, instead of expressing his anger toward himself, you took the blame. He’s allowed you to do that several times and he simply can’t let that happen again.

He never felt this nervous around someone before, not even when you laughed and took his worries away.

Your silence scared him.

The idea of confronting you made his body weak, he never learned how to do that properly hence why he’s a lonely bird.

Snowy didn’t require much talking, the little bun is simple to live with but he definitely had to deal with Harry’s rants.

Communication was not his best trait.

Growing up didn’t include happy memories for Harry. He had to provide for his sister and himself by working random jobs. He can’t even remember the amount of times he got himself in trouble or messed with the wrong people, yet most of the time they’d let him go. He was just a boy, barely fifteen.

His father was an alcoholic who didn’t play the role of a parent correctly. If he wasn’t passed out on the couch then he’d be out getting drunk at a cheap bar. It wasn’t until he and his sister were left without food for two days that he knew he had to step up.

He was a very anxious kid, he even flinched from the most delicate sounds, he was an easy target for bullies at school. His innocence was stolen away before it even developed.

When it came down to his baby sister, nothing else mattered. He didn’t mind being hungry or wearing dirty clothes but his chest ached when he witnessed other girls making fun of his sister.

Harry doesn’t understand the decisions he makes, but the only one he has an explanation for is searching for jobs at a young age. He placed all of his anxiety and troubles with stuttering aside to see his younger sister smile.

After that, he didn’t have time for thinking about his choices, he always did what was best for his sister and his desire to avoid emotionally charged situations.

He never realized that he let down his guard with you until he caught himself smiling around you. He would be cooking food and it would make him wonder if you liked the dish or not.

Feeding Snow Bun or plucking the strawberries from his garden never failed to remind him of you. Everything did, even if it wasn’t related. You’re his sweet shortcake that laughs like there’s no tomorrow, furrows her eyebrows when reading books and asks the silliest questions about car repair.

You will forever deserve someone as pure as you. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to say that. The only person he confided his feelings on was Uncle George, Harry had a very soft spot for that man who opened up and told him that he sees his younger self in him.

Harry’s aware that Uncle George disapproves of his treatment to you, but only because it was a mistake he once made. Harry never failed to listen to his advice intently but he simply can’t seem to reach this bliss that he always hears about.

The more his attitude worsens, the more he feels you pulling away from him.

He’s losing you, and that will be in your favor.

He felt unexpected joy upon your success in getting hired. He never doubted your talent nor abilities. He wanted you away from that stupid institute since day one but he didn’t lie about needing a helping hand.

He scared customers away with his manners and lack of coherent communication but you? You pulled them in.

He’s pretty sure that you didn’t notice but they were coming in like bees. Your voice was soothing when you spoke on the phone, asking them to describe their issue word by word before giving them a date and telling them to have a nice day.

His appointments used to clash together despite his affinity for being organized which caused a fuss for him, but everything is better now that you’re around. The scheduling notebook was filled with adorable drawings that he admires every morning.

He got too caught up in his thoughts that he didn’t notice how the song changed to ‘In The Woods Somewhere’ by Hozier. He was speechless upon seeing you in the same position after what seemed like ten minutes of being a hostage to his thoughts.

Should he approach you? Maybe ask if you’re okay? Then he remembered what he did yesterday and took a few steps backward.

He opened the hood of the car that’s waiting for him and dived right in as an attempt to silence his thoughts and forget about the sight of a frustrated shortcake.

It appears like you lost your ability to communicate as well.

It’s been over an hour since you arrived and all you did was stare at the empty road ahead, you could feel Harry working next to you but you didn’t spare him a glance.

What went down with Kitty was eating you up. You kept telling yourself that it was a normal coincidence so why do you feel nauseous? Why does it feel like your whole world is upside down? That there’s something you should do…

Everything that occurred around you was a blur. You didn’t feel in touch with reality until later in the afternoon when a customer stopped by. The words that came out of their mouth felt incoherent as you stared back at them with a blank expression. Harry took over the situation immediately without any questions.

You were aware of the presence of a book in your bag yet all you could do was sit in your chair and think. Harry’s prying eyes did not go unnoticed by you.

“I scheduled that man’s appointment.” He muttered with his back turned to you.

“Okay.” It was all you had to say before hopping on your bike and leaving with a tense Harry standing in his garage.

It didn’t take long for you to get caught up with other issues.

Your new boss sent an email with your job offer and contract for you to keep. When you laid your eyes upon the mail, your brain instantly thought of Harry and his soft lips. There is no possibility for you to ever forget that moment.

You still felt a bit distraught and shaken when it came to Kitty and George, it made you feel unsettled. Whenever you thought about it, it’d be a few minutes before a green eyed man crawled into your thoughts.

You’re still confused as to why the new information from Kitty bothered you but you’re more startled from your feelings toward Harry. Usually, you recall every word said between you and the other person who harmed you. Maybe even replay the scene in your mind for years to come, or feel its maim coming back in the form of a new person which happened many times with Harry.

You could dream of him, work with him, make eye contact or allow him to dominate your mind but you can’t feel anything.

It’s a scary situation.

You’re not angry, upset, or disappointed even though you should be. You’re numb when it came to him, and you’re not sure how or why.

Your crush on Harry started to form when you first met him, he’s an angel really. Many would disagree and correct you by saying “an angel with devilish intentions” but you know damn well that it is not true.

A huge debate is happening inside your brain every day. Harry is sweet, generous, pretty and kind but he’s also non expressive, cold, and tough.

He’s allowed to have bad traits right?

He is aware of your perceptions, yet he acts out.

He knows about your anxiety, yet he doesn’t explain his attitude.

He listens to all your rants, yet he doesn’t understand that he could be the reason behind them.

You still come down to the garage every day and thankfully avoid these thoughts while “working”. It is in the evening when they strike with sharpness, or simply when your fingers touch your lips and hair strands.

Sooner or later, you’ll need to quit working with him. You already started your new remote job and it’s taking up your time since you spend your mornings and mid afternoons at the garage. Most of the days, you stay up till midnight or after to keep up with the work you should be doing in the mornings.

But you’re being patient for the sake of readying yourself to tell him and face him. So you zip your mouth shut, and ignore the sting in your eyes from the lack of sleep as you await the right moment.

After all, you’re used to cutting small pieces of yourself for the comfort of others, and it is said that midnights welcome distraught thoughts…

“Hello Av.”

Harry’s voice echoed through the living room as he spoke into his phone.

He’s not a talkative person, nor the type to pick up his phone and spend hours chatting with someone, but in times of distress he knows who to call, and even then he barely speaks.

“Glad to know my brother is alive.” Her sarcasm had a painful undertone to it. He’s aware of how distant he’s become but he swears on the heavens that he can’t help it.

“Hm how are you?” Of course she’s well because he would never allow anything else.

“You know I’m the one who should be asking that.” Ava liked to lecture him, he’s the older brother but she’s wiser than him.

When it comes to emotions, she’s an open book. He is glad that she got this trait when he couldn’t. His whole purpose of protecting her years ago didn’t just revolve around the physical aspect. He believes that her emotional maturity and openness come as a reward for everything he sacrificed. His sister is the only good karma he ever experienced, but after you, he’s not so sure.

“I fucked up Av.” He breathed out after staying silent for a few minutes. She was used to his silence whether comfortable or not.

Despite his inability to open up, she had everything about him memorised. She was a bit shocked when he said that, partly because she instinctively knew that it’s about a partner and because he never mentioned meeting someone.

“How so?”

“I— It’s— I’m f—u—cking up things with a pu—re girl.” The shaking in his voice made her swallow down her throat, his stuttering alarmed her as he didn’t suffer from it since they were kids.

“Breathe H.” She’s not near him to calm him down and it breaks her heart because he’d travel across seas for her. She hoped that Snowy was near, he grounded Harry.

Harry rested his head against the wall, closed his eyes, breathed in and out for a few moments to muster up the courage he needed.

“I don’t know how to be normal Av. It’s so hard to keep driving people away.” His stuttering ceased but it didn’t erase the fact that he was hurting.

“There’s no such thing as normal.” She tried to help as much as she could, but she knew absolutely nothing about you. Not even your name.

“She never saw my birthmark.”

The silence on her part was loud.

“Oh.”

Harry was around twelve when a carnival stayed in their hometown for three months. Every night he waited for his father to pass out, before joining his hand with Ava’s and sneaking out to the carnival. Normally, kids would be drawn to rollercoasters, ponies, plushies and candies but Ava adored the area for psychedelics.

Harry caved at some point and walked around with her till they reached a fortune teller table. He doesn’t remember what she chatted with Ava about, but even though he did not speak to her directly, she did.

“Young man, Your soulmate will not notice your birth mark.” It had nothing to do with what she was discussing with his sister, and her smile was unsettling. At twelve, Harry had other things to worry about and his soulmate was not one of them.

Ava held on to that vision and teased him along the road. Surprisingly, his birth mark is the first thing everyone noticed about him, except you.

He’s not sure why he felt like he had to mention it, but it might explain more than talking about his idiocy.

“You can’t be true to her when you’re not true to yourself. Liking someone is complicated H. You are worth more than you know, you’re way too harsh on yourself. Did you try and ask her about how she feels?” She was good at giving advice. What kind of sister would she be if she didn’t help her brother out even when she’s clueless about his dilemma?

All she could hear was his heavy breathing as she awaited his answer.

“Snow Bun raided the fridge this morning…” He continued to talk about other mundane things that are irrelevant against his real issues. Whenever he did that, it was a silent cue for them to stop talking.

Harry deserved the world in her opinion, but he had already given it to her out selflessness and she’s sure he would do the same to you, only if he talked a bit more.

The following week was the most torturous period in Harry’s life, or so he thought.

He believed that his sister transmitted him some sort of invisible power he could use to behave normally around you.

But in reality, his words became jumbled whenever you were near. He had a tiny glimmer of hope that you would return to being yourself again.

He didn’t really think about what to do in case you continued with your abnormal behaviour, which you did.

Your Good Mornings never resumed and he found himself aching to witness the movement of your lips and hear the echo of your sweet voice.

He was not accustomed to being treated this way, he was now on the receiving end of the attitude he gave to other people.

You had every right to ignore him, but it pained him more than he thought it would.

He tried to play music that you might like and at some point he switched to a big cassette player just so he could put Swan Lake on (he didn’t find it on a Vinyl).

When the instrument caught your ear, you tilted your head slowly over your shoulder and were met with Harry whose back was turned to you but was trying to move his head to the side to catch your reaction.

There was nothing but uncomfortable silence between the two of you. As for appointments and schedules, he didn’t have to talk to you for that, he simply took a look at the journal.

He almost caved in and asked instead of checking the daily schedule, which would’ve made him look desperate but when he approached the table you sit at, you shifted your body towards the wall and placed your eyes on the book you pretended to read.

Your response confirmed nothing but the thoughts inside his head.

He will always drive people away.

If only both of you knew what was happening inside the other’s mind.

You were struggling as much as he was. You can’t figure out how to approach him and tell him that you want to leave.

His caution made you feel apprehensive, it was as if he always wanted to do or say something before backing off to a corner.

You shut down all sorts of communication with him because you didn’t want to hear his words of rejection coming straight out of his mouth.

“Sorry i mislead you…”

“I did it in the heat of the moment…”

“Look you’re a nice girl but…”

You imagined how it would go down and what he would say. You never understood how people can kiss each other and go back to living normally without addressing anything.

But it wasn’t just about the kiss. There were other moments that made you feel warm on the inside, and they were sometimes as tiny as eye contact followed by a wink.

You couldn’t bear having him pity you ,so you resorted to mechanisms that made sure you wouldn’t need direct communication with him.

You had breakfast before clocking in and brought home cooked food every single day. You missed having him cook you terribly but not on the account of being degraded.

Your hair was styled neatly to avoid fallen hair strands because as much as you adored the feeling of his knuckles brushing against your skin and his fingers going through your hair, you needed to stay away.

By the time Thursday rolled around Harry could not handle the situation any longer.

He didn’t mind if you shouted in his face, cried, blamed him or uttered the most awful words. He just wanted to see you in your element, as delicate as his hydrangeas adding sunshine to his life. But as usual, he was met with silence and casual work related sentences.

He was filled with an awful emotion that settled in his stomach, and despite his past experiences and ability to move on quickly from emotionally charged situations, he felt like throwing up every time he recalled the interactions with you.

In the evening, he made himself a cup of chamomile tea and rested on his yellow sofa with Snowy snug in his lap. He was encouraging himself to finish Pride & Prejudice so he could tell you about it.

Maybe then, you would respond and not give him a cold shoulder despite him deserving it, perhaps he would be graced with your smile that he was forbidden from or the glimmer in your eyes that he ached to see.

Maybe he wouldn’t lose you after all.

You found a way to resign from working with Harry.

It isn’t very appropriate, but it will do the trick. There’s nothing better than escaping unwanted situations, let alone an awkward one where you can’t handle looking into the other person’s eyes that make you so weak.

Harry does not work on Fridays, at least not directly. He cleans up the garage, his tools and goes over maintenance stuff but he doesn’t fix any cars. He spends around 2-3 hours before heading back to his house.

Although it wasn’t a requirement , you used to spend Fridays with him at the garage, he never objected but his eyes spoke words he never let out and as much as you hated concluding his feelings, you couldn’t say that he disliked your company.

Even if you changed the Vinyl without asking so you could dance, even if you played around with his organized tools and even if you crept into his life and turned it upside down that he could no longer breathe properly when you’re not around.

Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip as you looked down to the piece of paper that had your stomach in knots. As silly as it sounded, you wrote him a letter. You could’ve texted, called or even said it to his face but you started off the wrong foot and even though it slowly got better later on, your current situation was charged with weird energy that you didn’t feel like questioning.

Next to you over six crumpled papers lay, resembling your attempt at displaying unresolved emotions. Words could only convey so little.

Your most recent letter is being judged with your hesitant eyes that rake over every word hoping they would somehow move and carry themselves to Harry to accompany him till he’s right in front of you.

‘Harry, I know this may appear childish and inappropriate but if I were able to stomach another interaction I’d say it to your face. I can no longer work with you at the garage. It is a simple statement but it costed me my peace of mind. I always thought of you as an enigma, but I never imagined you would be this complicated. When we first met I couldn’t divert my eyes from you, you’re a very pretty man with an even prettier heart but you waste so much time on looking for the gaps. It is no secret that I like you very much, there is around six letters crumpled next to this one and there will be even more if I tried to describe how kissing you felt like. You helped me more than you could ever imagine, and thanks to you I am capable of resigning and working in a respectable company. I can provide you with reasons that are legitimate and pass them as excuses but I will say this: I can no longer be around you and pretend that it doesn’t hurt, that I don’t like you badly, or that I don’t dream of your lips on mine. I would never say this to your face but this is my chance. Harry, you know how shy I am and that I tend to be a people pleaser but at the end of the day I am a human as well. I don’t have to mention all your sentiments, smiles, or warm touches for you to realise how we led each other on but know that I can no longer bear it. I wish you all the best in your life and I hope you find someone who understands you for who you are. Please take it upon yourself to keep my Grandad’s car as a memoire from me and take care of my beloved friend Snowy.

-Y/n.

After ten more minutes of intense gazing, you folded the letter and headed to H’s garage on your rented bike that you slowly adored so much it made you wonder how you will part from it once you buy a new car.

Obviously you wouldn’t go if you knew Harry would be there, he takes his sweet time in checking on the garage during Fridays, which is why you sneaked to the front of the shop so early in the morning.

The letter (wrapped with a white bow) was placed on poor Meena who was yet to be fixed. Harry never gave you a copy of the keys to the shop because he never asked of you to open up especially since he does it so early.

You walked for a decent distance to make sure that the letter can be seen. It would be embarrassing if he didn’t notice it.

You don’t want to think about embarrassment, unless you wish to come back and snatch the letter so you walk towards your bike with an intention to flee quickly.

“Y/n, sweetheart wait up!” The voice caught you off guard and sent shivers down your spine as you turned around with a silent cry for help.

It was just Uncle George.

He strolled slowly with a small box in his hand and a cheerful smile planted on his wrinkled but wise face.

“Good Morning Uncle George, how are you today?” You tried to appear as subtle as you could.

“I’m well darling, I’m glad I caught you before you left!” He spoke with relief as if he has been waiting a thousand years for you.

You glanced to the small wooden box he’s holding in his hand and your apprehension took over before any rational thoughts came in.

“Sorry Uncle if you want me to hand over something to Harry, I believe it is better if you do it.” You tipped him a light smile, as your cheeks burned red from shyness.

“And who said it is for him?” He placed the box in your hands before patting on them.

“Harry asked of me to make this necklace for you as a gift over two weeks ago. It took a while but I assume you know that good things take time?” Your expression was blank and you’re aware that he could probably feel the slight tremble in your hands.

“Sorry sweetheart, my wife is waiting for me.” He walked away toward his shop, something that you didn’t register until you felt the cold wind caressing your cheek, a gesture that Harry used to do.

Uncle George left you speechless as you stood on the pavement, the same way his wife did a while ago.

You no longer cared if Harry was going to show up, your hands immediately opened the box revealing a gold necklace whose design is a circular watch.

You had an inkling; or some sort of urge to turn it, something that your hands did without an order from your brain.

Shiny engraved words into gold stared back at you.

“To a delicate shortcake”

You returned to your apartment shortly after feeling the blood in your legs flow again. You’re not sure how you made it in one piece, not with how foggy your brain was.

Harry had a gift for you?

Delicate shortcake?

The more you try to unfold recent events, the more you get confused.

He did joke once about getting you a watch since you arrived late but you didn’t expect him to be so serious.

The necklace rested on your bedside table, stopping you from going to sleep with a peaceful mind.

To a delicate shortcake.

You huffed and changed your sleeping position to try and divert your attention. You had forgotten all about the letter. You’re not even sure if he read it or if you should come back just in case he didn’t.

A small part of you hoped that you would come back tomorrow and find the letter untouched, yet you had a weird intuition that made you feel unsettled.

You can’t recall when you slept or what your last thought was but the continuous ringing of your phone woke you up.

It took you a bit to register what was happening as you lifted your body up and picked up the phone.

It was one in the morning and Harry was calling you.

It might as well be a dream since you can no longer decipher anything. You waited a couple of seconds before answering just to prepare yourself mentally.

Why was he calling you at this hour?

“Hello?” You pressed the phone to your ear as your heart skipped a beat.

“Y/n— It’s me,Niall! I’m so sorry to call you this late. You’re the only one I could call. It’s about Harry.”

Let me know what you think!!

Taglist: @matildasatellite @xxrosebunny @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @novasblogofstuff @gem1712 @miasdelicatepov @jessitpwk @tiaamberxx @peacheskiwi @tenaciousperfectionunknown @tbsloneely @namelesssaviour @20031990s @prettythingsworld @st-ev-ie @slut4marvelmenn @swiftmendeshoran @missmielyhoran @a-strange-familiar @wandas-lawyer @fullofstyles @cherrycokeslay @blepskies @that-daydream-look@hslt-2809 @ivegotparticulartaste @itslottiehere @harryssideboob @malwtilda @harrysficreblog @hsonlyangelxo @adachhi @tpwkkkkk @kiwilikesmeow @sagggy @epidxte @indierockgirrl @annesauriol @leenameh @scottisantman@grapejuicebluesrry @summertime-pills @lhhrryismyhome @marzhshaim @harrystylessslut @nysworld @keepdrivingkisses @rideeonstyles @rueluvsharry @lomlhstyles @infinatetatie @igglepiggle22

If your tag is red then it didn’t work.

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hotvintagepoll · 2 months

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Propaganda

Tita Merello (Mercado De Abasto, La Morocha, Amorina)— Was she pretty? Probably not. Was she hot? Incredibly so. She said it herself: "I was seen as ugly... Then I realized you don't need to be pretty. It's enough just to act like you are". With a highly recognizable voice and manner (which immortalized her in countless drag shows, just look her up performing "Se Dice De Mí"!), she was THE Argentinean icon during the fifties. As with so many artists she began with really humble origins (she didn't learn to read until she was in her twenties), and she was one of the few that kept truly being humble and thankful for all the luck she had and everything she worked so hard for. Despite being a proper diva Tita was a woman of the people first and foremost, portraying almost exclusively working-class women who by the strength of their determination and guts manage to keep themselves afloat in all manners of difficult situations. She openly talked about her uterine cancer at a time it was considered taboo, had the sharpest wittiest tongue in the business, was a greatly renowned performer and comedian, was notably kind to everyone who ever worked with her, but was also very much famous for taking no shit... She feared nobody but God and even that might be debatable.

Natalie Wood (West Side Story, The Great Race)—She went through so much shit which I know can be said for all these women but Natalie really was a star and her death often overshadows her career and life. She could make you cry, but she also had the capacity to be incredibly funny which I think is lost on people.

This is round 3 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Tita Merello:

Natalie Wood:

#natalie wood #tita merello #hotvintagepoll #fuck that old woman #ladies 3

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milksuu · 1 year

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Second Magic

Pairing(s): Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III & II / witch!fem!reader

Word count: 2.OK

Content/Warnings: soulmates, reincarnation, immortal, soft magic, slice of life, fluff, minimal use of y/n, minor angst, implied sexual themes, minor blood

Summary: Death claims everyone at some point. Unfortunately for you, your gift of magic cursed you with eternal youth and an ability that has shunned you from the village of Berk. More than one-hundred years later, memories resurface when you’re visited for a potion from Berk’s next chief.

He was the spitting image of your long-lost love—your soulmate—Hiccup Horrendous Haddock II.

a/n: hello there everyone! I'm back with something new to add to the hiccupxreader tags. still on my mythical/magical kick. I do plan to have about three parts to this. so please stay tuned for updates, or let me know if you'd like to join a tag list. thank you and please enjoy.

There came a knock at the door. No one ever knocked on a witch's door by accident.

From the bedroom window, you peeked through the muslin curtain. Below the two-story cottage, grew a garden of lush greens and wild flowers. Where the weeds and dandelions led a trail to your front porch, a figure stood at your door. More pestering thuds bothered the home and the skin of your nose wrinkled. Muttering a thing or two, you ambled down the aching stairs. Before reaching the door, you rummaged through a decorative drawer, procuring a gray river rock. It was enchanted with one of your magic spells—a screeching stone, you called it.

“You can stop trying to break down my door,” you said, pressing the stone against the entryway. “Didn’t you read the sign posted on the oak tree outside? Clearly, it said no trespassing.”

“No—think I might’ve missed it,” the muffled voice of a young man answered, and it seemed honest enough. The stone hummed at the response. “Are you [Y/N], by chance?”

“There’s a chance I could be,” you said with soured lips. “Not many people come this far into the woods. And fewer people know of me, let alone my name. Which leads me to ask, who exactly sent you?”

“Gothi sent me. She mentioned you two knowing each other,” he replied in truth, and the stone continued its soft hymns. “She said if there’s anyone who could help me, it would be you.”

She’s still alive?

“That all depends. I trust Gothi, but I’ll need to trust you as well. You can start by telling me your name.”

There was a beat in the air. “It’s Hiccup.”

The ghost of your breath trapped itself inside your chest. That name—it had been buried beneath over a century ago. Yet the stone sang sweetly, and your heart squeezed in a haunting delight. A part of you wished it would scream. Wretched and revolting as it was, it would give you reason to cast the stranger away.

To your grief, he wasn’t so much a stranger as you thought.

Pocketing the stone, you opened the door with a creak. Meeting the green meadow of his eyes, your magic dug its fiery claws between your ribs. With all your power, you tried not to let his familiar freckles unsettle you. Fearing if you did, your magic would spring out of control. The windows would shatter. The roof would crumble to dust. The fireplace would spark and scorch the floors. Or something much worse. Touch him, and reveal when death would knock on his own door.

You wouldn’t let that happen. Not again. Not ever.

With a deep breath, you pushed the door open wider. “Come in,” you said, "we can talk more inside.”

He tipped his chin and thanked you for the invitation. When he stepped through, his gaze swept about your home. Dried flowers, herbs and spices hung from every inch of ceiling by twine. Sunlight spilled from the white-painted windows, and warmed the cushions of two chairs perched near the fireplace. Bookcases stood on either side of the mantle, stretched tall enough to touch the rafters, and wide enough to cover the entire walls. At the back of the home was the kitchen and brewing space. With emerald cabinets and honied-countertops, stacked with jars and vials, scattered petals, and corked potions.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you said. “I’ll prepare us something warm to drink.”

With a blink, he tore his gaze from the foliage and oddities. “Sure, I would appreciate it.”

When you left for the kitchen, he absently traced a hand against the chairs upholstery. Although it matched its counterpart, there were subtle differences; the legs were built taller, and arm rests crafted higher. When he took a seat, it felt made for someone of his stature—an odd thing to notice. His gaze raised to a row of books on one of the bookcase shelves. One particular book stood out among the jewel-toned backs of scarlet, green, and yellow. A simple spine of leather, softened over-time with use, and streaks of charcoal staining the edges.

Like a cool breeze, a sense of familiarity swept through him, touching the marrow of his bones. It begged the question.

“Have you always lived here by yourself?” Hiccup asked.

“You could say that.”

For a moment, you lost yourself in the fragrant pools. When was the last time you served someone tea? It may have been the day before a young man's mortal fate—the same day you couldn’t convince him to stay. Leaving you to join the collection of things he left behind. Your throat tightened around what felt like a ball of hot wax. Searing as it was, you swallowed its entirety.

Balancing the trembling porcelain, you returned to the next room and took a seat of your own.

“I’m sorry if I was rude earlier. I’ve…never welcomed visitors. It’s always been safer that way.” With a smile, you offered him a cup. “But between Gothi sending you and your genuine nature, I’d like to help you.”

“Thanks—and you don’t have to apologize to me. I’m the one who decided to come here unannounced. So…” Hiccup trailed off, taking a drink. He stared at the ripples with solemnity. “My father isn’t doing so well. And you know Gothi, she’s the best Seer we have on Berk. She’s done all she can, but it’s not going to be enough. When I asked if there was anything more I could do, she recommended that I seek you out.”

“I’m sorry about your father,” you said, lowering your own cup. “If Gothi wasn’t able to help him, then he must be very sick.”

“I’m trying not to think about it too much.” He worked the tension of his lips between his teeth. Then pitched a sincere look your way, and said, “So you know, I’m not worried about you being a witch. If anything, I find myself pretty lucky to ask for your help. Even if that does mean I have to sell my soul for it.”

“I have some good news for you, then. I won’t be needing it. Quite frankly, I wouldn’t even know what to do with yours,” you said with a laugh. “But most spells and potions require something of personal value. At least, the stronger ones do.”

Setting your tea cup aside, you hopped onto your toes. Approaching one of the bookcases, you trailed a finger against the backs of countless titles. Your search came to an end when you plucked one out; dense with musky pages, a silver lock clasped at the side, and a small wooden door carved into the cover.

Peering over your shoulder, you found your nosy company arched forward in his chair. You cleared your throat, “Don’t think about peeking over here. A witch never reveals her secrets.”

He apologized under his breath, and shifted his chin away. But like a child snuffed out of his curiosity, he wore a pout of disappointment. You smiled in amusement, and brought your attention back to the book.

You knocked against the small door in a melodic tempo. The little door sprang open, revealing a tiny ear inside. You brought your mouth close, whispering the incantation with the smallest voice you could muster. Too loud, and the door would snap shut against your lips.

An unpleasant experience you remembered from childhood.

The lock clicked open, and you breathed a sigh of relief. Page after page, you mumbled and zipped through each recipe. A couple more turns, you tapped against the right one. Breezing through the ingredients, you had all but one. Oh buttercups, you blushed.

“What is it?” Hiccup furrowed his brows at your dawning expression. “Everything all right?”

“It’s a bit hard to explain. I—I don’t have one of the ingredients any longer. But maybe you still do,” you exclaimed, taming the warmth of your cheeks. “Come with me.”

With a tilt of your head, you gestured to the kitchen. Your guest rose from his seat, following your footsteps. With instructions for him not to touch anything, you scrambled to find your proper ingredients; mugwort, newt tail, bog water, and a strand of witch hair. Tossed and muddled by mortar and pestle, you poured the mixed contents into a glass jar.

“Time for the last ingredient,” you said, picking up a kitchen knife, “hold out a finger.”

Although hesitant, he lifted a hand. “Tell me you’re not going to cut it off. I’m already down a leg, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Not at all. That would be more than what I actually need,” you answered, albeit a little too plainly. With your other hand, you touched the stone tucked in your dress pocket. “You only have to be honest when I ask you this question. If you’re not, then we’ll both hear about it.”

He nodded carefully. “Go ahead.”

“Have you ever—Oh, how should I put this?” Calming the storm of embarrassment brewing in your chest, you exhaled the words in one breath. “Have you ever committed the coupling act?”

There was a gulp. Then a twitch of his lips. Followed by a blush that bloomed from nose to ear. “What? No, I—I haven’t. What kind of question is that?”

Without a word, you sliced the tip of his finger. A hiss sizzled from his mouth when you squeezed it open. Aligning the bottle underneath, you caught the blood falling in pitter-patters. Once enough dripped into the brew, a plum of red smoke burst into the air. Both of you coughed and waved your hands around the space. When the pungent cloud faded into wisps, you corked the bubbling potion.

“A warning would’ve been nice.” He wrapped his finger in a handkerchief you provided. He went on to mutter, “Not sure why you couldn’t use your own finger.” By the delivery, the last part was meant to stay in his head.

Embarrassment washed through your veins, and painted every inch of your skin posy pink. The sight of it colored his own complexion.

“I didn’t mean to say that, honestly,” he apologized after the realization struck him. “It just sort of came out.”

“Absolutely no tact at all,” you chastised, snatching back the handkerchief. “Gods, you’re just as bad as him.”

He blinked with mystification. “Him?”

A slip of the tongue had the back hairs of your neck bristling. Magic pulsed like coils of lightning in your stomach. Crackling up through your chest, wanting to burn deeper holes in your heart. The roof groaned and creaked. Grains of wood dust fell onto your nose, dispelling the awful feeling.

“You have to go. Please, take it and leave. And don’t worry about repaying me.” Before he could argue, you forced the potion into his possession. With a clap of a hand, the wood beneath his feet shifted, motioning him out the front door.

“Wait a second.“ He wedged his prosthetic between the shutting door and frame. “Right bookcase, third shelf, leather back.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“There’s a book that belongs to my family. Ask me how I know.” The question was rhetorical, and in your bafflement, he continued. “My families crest is sealed in its spine. And the only way you could have it is if someone gave it to you. You said you never had visitors. Sorry to say, but I’m not buying it.”

“That book has nothing to do with you or your family,” you glowered, and the stone screeched and howled from your pocket. You clapped your hands against your splitting ears, with your company mimicking your movements. Over the prevailing wails, you cried, “You’re right—I lied and I’m sorry for it! It belonged to your great-grand uncle. And that’s the truth of it.”

The screeching stone fell to whispers. But the thumping of your heart continued to beat in your ears.

“Wait. My great-grand uncle?” He caught a breath in his throat. “You don’t mean—there’s no possible way you’re talking about—”

“I am.” Your voice dropped to a whisper. “My only visitor before you; Hiccup Horrendous Haddock II.”

#hiccup x reader #httyd #hiccup httyd #hiccup horrendous haddock iii #how to train your dragon #hiccup horrendous haddock ii #reader insert #httyd fanfiction #httyd 2 #x reader #fanfiction #hiccup x you #httyd book references #you bet we're going to get some flashbacks of hiccup the second #buckle up dragon riders #we're expecting some angst in this fanfic

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teejaystumbles · 3 months

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Against all odds (part 2)

Part 1

Dream unmakes the latest nightmare he's been working on for the umpteenth time and heaves a humiliatingly human sigh of relief when the glass dissolves back into sand again. This is not working. Perhaps confronting his fear head on is not a good idea. Instead of continuing his work he casts out his awareness, looking for a certain someone.

Hob Gadling is not currently asleep, but he seems to be daydreaming quite a lot. As much as Dream tries not to pry he can’t help but curiously skim over his friend’s imaginings. Has Hob read Dream’s journal entry yet? How has he reacted to it? Dream is prepared for resentment, disgust even, for Dream’s failure to meet with Hob, and his flimsy excuses. What he perceives instead are snatches of misty, rainy skies that blanket a multitude of wistful and fragile thoughts Dream does not dare look closer at. Hob seems to be lost in nostalgic memories, both sad and fond. The lack of rage or hurt makes Dream relax a fraction. Later, when Hob sleeps, he will visit his friend’s lodging again to try and see if he has written an answer to Dream’s entry.

Dream steps out of the shadows of Hob’s curtains and gazes at the sleeping man. This time Hob has put on appropriate sleepwear and has pulled the blankets over himself. His sleep is restless, his dreams having a certain sense of urgency Dream can feel, but he does not intend to be here long.

He steps up to the desk and looks at the notebook. It lies open again, pen by its side, as if in invitation. Pulse thrumming with excitement, Dream eagerly bends over the pages to read the newly added words.

June 8th, 1989

Dearest stranger, my friend!

I can't believe I am allowed to call you that! Let me tell you that I nearly fainted when I found your message in my notebook this morning. I've read the words you've written a hundred times by now and still I almost can't believe them to be real. I can’t believe I’m touching the pen you must have held, that I missed your presence in my room

As devastated as I was after you didn't come yesterday, as happy am I that you chose to contact me after at all.

I'm quite embarrassed about my drunken ramblings that you must have read. There's no lie in them, but I would try and put the truth into less desperate words if I could. I must seem like a fool, fixating on you like this, after all we've only met six times so far. Still, what I wrote, that you are my one constant in life, is nothing but the truth. Our meetings are fixed points in time that I measure this immortal life of mine by now. I try not to, but meeting with you has often felt like the start and finish of an era of Hob Gadling, despite it being probably more in the middle of several. Every centennial meeting with you was the most important appointment that I would plan and prepare for (as best as I could) for months, sometimes years. So if writing to you like this is the only way I get to speak to you then I will gladly take it, and thank you for it.

But make no mistake, dear stranger - I would love to see you again and I hope you will be ready and willing to meet me in person again someday. Because

Dream stops reading to collect himself for a moment. Hob is not angry at him. He still wants to meet Dream, in fact eagerly awaits him. Dream feels himself flush with strange longing and can’t help a rush of power escaping him, the equivalent of a shudder, of goosebumps. A mistake, he realises, as he hears a sudden gasp come from behind him.

He freezes.

“My friend? Is that you?”

The urge to not acknowledge Hob and simply disappear is so strong that Dream feels his form already dispersing. Hob’s desperate tone of voice, cracking at the end, stops him.

“Please wait! Please…”

Dream waits, frozen, unable to turn around and face his friend. His form is trembling, rattling, whisping around him like smoke and Hob makes a keening noise.

“You don’t have to- I won’t-”

A sigh, a calming intake of breath.

“Look. I don’t want to pressure you, and if you want to leave I obviously cannot stop you. But…maybe. We can talk? A bit?”

He sounds so hopeful, so sincere, it tugs at something inside Dream and makes him shut his eyes. Hob has not moved from where he sat up in bed but Dream can feel his restlessness, his daydreams of reaching out, of hugging Dream-

“There’s- there’s phones now, you know? You don’t have to look at me at all, we could talk no matter where you are, it’s amazing really-”

“Hob.”

The man immediately stops talking and Dream draws in a deliberate breath before turning around to face him. Strange, how such human mannerisms help him calm down now. After his imprisonment, the act of breathing feels like a luxury to him, a comfort all in its own.

Hob gasps again when he looks at him and Dream wonders what he sees. The man swallows heavily and his fingers nervously grip his bedding. His eyes are red-rimmed and Dream can see tears gathering at the edges, in the tiny wrinkles created by a life full of laughter. The wrinkles deepen as Hob breaks into a grin.

“Hello, old stranger. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Dream very much doubts that. He knows he still looks emaciated, despite all the power returned to him. His form echoes the unease he still feels a lot of the time. He is closer to a nightmare than a dream. Yet Hob seems to genuinely delight in seeing him and Dream feels himself flush with warmth, and embarrassment.

“I- it is good to see you, Hob. Apologies, for not-”

“Accepted. Forgiven. Forgotten,” Hob interrupts him eagerly, “You’re here now.”

“I am...”

He is, and he feels at a complete loss for words. Hob cocks his head slightly, his expression sobering.

“But you were rather…not…?” he asks with a small frown. Dream twitches, caught out. Why it is that this human can see through him so easily he will never understand. It is slightly…terrifying.

Hob looks at his hands gripping his blanket and says quietly, “Look, if talking isn’t- if you’d rather continue the writing, that’s fine. I will accept that. I-”

He stops and Dream can see him grind his teeth. He still feels unable to respond, caught in watching Hob Gadling go through several inexplicable emotions. Then he breathes harshly through his nose and looks back at Dream with a tense but genuine smile.

“I don’t know what happened to you, but I know something did. You wrote as much, and I can see it in your face. The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable. So if it’s me-”

He swallows again and blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to hold back tears and Dream takes an involuntary step forward.

“It is not. You. Hob. It’s…”

Dream subsides, again unsure how to voice his insecurities, unbecoming as they are of one such as him.

But Hob does not know what you are, a small voice whispers inside his head and Dream shivers.

Hob does not know who he is. Has Dream not confessed that that is exactly why he enjoys the man’s company so much? Without knowledge of Dream’s power and function, Hob will not judge him for being…frightened. Of tight spaces. Of glass. Of people. He will only see his friend, in need of comfort.

Dream suddenly wants nothing more than to let Hob comfort him, knowing that the man before him, with his eyes full of hope and tenderness, would not send him away. He can finally speak.

“My friend. I have tried to work through some issues I have…accumulated over the last century, due to very. Unfortunate events. Yet exposing myself to these uncomfortable sensations again…has not had the therapeutic effect I wished for. I am at a loss how to overcome my reluctance to…mingle. Once again.”

Hob looks wide-eyed at him, frowning again. “Wait. Are you saying. You tried to treat yourself with exposure therapy? To what, exactly? If I may ask,” he adds hastily.

Dream shifts nervously.

“...Claustrophobia. Among other things.”

“Jesus,” Hob gasps and wipes a hand over his face, “yeah, I don’t know if, I don’t know, shutting yourself in is really helpful with that. How fast have you been taking things? Have you tried being in larger rooms first, or…” he trails off and looks around his bedroom.

“Are you fine in here? Do you need me to open a door or window?”

Dream is perplexed. Instead of asking what happened Hob’s immediate concern is for his comfort in the current situation. He relaxes a fraction at the realisation that he made the right choice. His friend will not judge him for his weakness.

With a small smile he says, “No. I am alright. Your rooms are. Not uncomfortable to me.”

Hob almost glows at his words and also relaxes a bit. Dream has basically admitted to feeling safe in Hob’s presence and clearly the man has understood that immediately. He is a lot smarter than Dream ever gave him credit for. Hob Gadling has learned a lot about people in his life, it seems. Even if Dream is not exactly people, his current troubles are very human, he supposes.

He sees the moment it hits Hob, when he puts two and two together and realises what Dream has been telling him.

“You said, issues you’ve accumulated…over the last century. Which means, you weren’t claustrophobic before- my friend,” he exclaims and scoots closer to the edge of the bed as if barely holding himself back from approaching Dream.

“What happened? Can you- would you-” Hob asks, his voice trembling a bit, his eyes wide. “Tell me? Please? I want to help,” he says in a very small voice that makes Dream again feel sorry for how he treated his friend in the past. He looks at the notebook, contemplating.

“It is. Hard for me, to speak about these things. Maybe…I can borrow this book? To-”

“Yes! Absolutely! Take it! Sorry, I mean, please, feel free to write to me, I would be delighted. If it makes it easier for you to talk about things…I understand,” Hob says, nodding vigorously. Then he hesitates.

“Does this mean…we won’t see each other again? Until 2089?”

He looks so openly horrified and sad at the idea that Dream immediately dismisses any thoughts he had of saying goodbye for a hundred years once more. In truth, he does not think he would have managed it himself. Writing to Hob is preferable when it comes to confessing what happened to him, but Dream has to admit to himself that he has missed seeing his friend, and he has not looked his fill.

“No. I would like to meet you again. Earlier. I am not sure when, but…I wish to. Introduce myself. After I have given you a more detailed account of my century. I would also like to listen to your own tales. In person.”

Hob beams at him and nods.

“Yeah, I’d love that. My friend,” he says, taking a steadying breath, “I am so very happy to see you. I hope you know that you coming back to talk to me, or write to me, means everything to me. Because I do not take our friendship for granted. Far from it. It is…very precious to me.” He swallows heavily and his smile wobbles a bit. Dream nods awkwardly, feeling embarrassed by the way Hob’s words make shadowy, star-speckled butterflies escape from the back of his coat. He hopes Hob doesn’t see them.

“I…yes. Thank you, Hob,” Dream says awkwardly and then takes the book from the desk. He carefully tucks it into his coat and turns to leave. He looks one last time at his friend, taking in his sleep-mussed dark hair and his gentle smile and feels again a strange pang of longing in his chest.

“Take all the time you need,” Hob says softly, and Dream knows he means it; means that he will be waiting for Dream, no matter how long it takes. Dream can only nod silently again and then, with more reluctance than he would like, leaves Hob Gadling’s bedroom behind.

Part 3

#dreamling #the sandman fanfiction #teejay writes #1989 au

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the-kipsabian · 1 year

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#just your usual poll nbd #im also just kinda scouting interest with these ngl. but also cause im indecisive as shit when i want to write but have no clear #inspiration for a specific thing #i will eventually do all of these. just throwing this out there for tonights activity after chores are done. which idk how long thatll take #my kitchen is maybe one third clean right now so. its gonna be a while lmao #anyways yeah heres this concept once again #ALSO IMMORTAL FEARS WOULD FINALLY HIT CHAPTER 4 this one should be easier to write than the last one lol #shouldnt take me a month to get it all done ajskdjasn #but anyways im going back into my kitchen cheers fellas please vote for something!!#even if you have no intentions of reading!!#i mean that would be nice but yeah lol #night is an absolute mess on main #polls

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writing-with-sophia · 8 months

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30 writing prompts about dark magic

Write a story about a young apprentice who becomes entangled in a forbidden form of dark magic.

Explore the consequences of a character who uses dark magic to resurrect a loved one.

Create a world where dark magic is the only means of survival, and the protagonist must choose between embracing it or resisting its allure.

Write about a cursed artifact that grants immense dark magical power to anyone who possesses it.

Imagine a society where practitioners of dark magic are feared and hunted, and a protagonist must hide their abilities to survive.

Tell the story of a character who unintentionally unleashes a powerful and malevolent dark force upon the world.

Write a tale of a group of individuals who use dark magic for noble purposes, challenging the conventional notions of good and evil.

Explore the psychological toll on a character who delves too deep into dark magic and loses their sense of self.

Create a magical academy where students are taught both light and dark magic, and follow a student's journey as they grapple with the temptation of the dark arts.

Describe a character who discovers an ancient book of dark magic and becomes consumed by its power.

Write about a protagonist who must make a pact with a dark entity to save their loved ones, at the cost of their own soul.

Imagine a world where dark magic is the dominant force, and a small group of rebels fight to restore balance using light magic.

Explore the origins of dark magic in a mythological world and the tragic events that led to its corruption.

Write a story about a character who is wrongly accused of practicing dark magic and must prove their innocence.

Imagine a character who uses dark magic to exact revenge on those who have wronged them, only to discover the consequences are far greater than anticipated.

Create a protagonist who possesses the ability to absorb and manipulate dark magic, struggling to control their powers and resist its corrupting influence.

Write about a character who discovers a hidden society of dark magic users and must decide whether to join them or fight against their destructive ways.

Explore the moral dilemma of a character who uses dark magic to save lives but must sacrifice their own humanity in the process.

Describe a cursed forest filled with dark magic where a group of adventurers must navigate its dangers to retrieve a powerful artifact.

Write a story about a character who seeks out forbidden knowledge of dark magic to gain immortality but finds that eternal life comes at a cost.

Imagine a world where dark magic is outlawed, and a character becomes an underground practitioner, fighting against oppressive forces.

Create a protagonist who is born with an uncontrollable dark magic that threatens to consume them unless they find a way to harness and control it.

Write about a character who becomes possessed by a malevolent spirit and must find a way to break free from its control.

Describe a character who uses dark magic to manipulate time and alter the course of history, leading to unforeseen consequences.

Imagine a protagonist who discovers a hidden society of benevolent dark magic practitioners, challenging the notion that all dark magic is inherently evil.

Write a story about a character who accidentally curses themselves with a dark spell and must find a way to reverse it before it's too late.

Create a world where dark magic is a natural force that must be balanced with light magic to prevent catastrophic events.

Describe a character who must navigate a labyrinth filled with dark magic traps and illusions to reach a coveted artifact.

Write about a character who is born into a prestigious family of dark magic practitioners but rejects their heritage, choosing a different path.

Imagine a character who discovers a hidden library of ancient dark magic spells and becomes obsessed with mastering their power, regardless of the consequences.

If you want to read more posts about writing, please click here and give me a follow!

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fkinavocado · 7 months

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put a price on emotion

The Honourable Judge Styles has a dark secret. He prides himself on being notorious for his cutthroat sense of justice. But is he really any better than the ones he imprisons? Or is he a victim much like the ones he acquits?

Put a price on emotion - Masterlist, Author's Notes & Warnings / alternatively, read on wattpad

Prologue (word count: 1.1k)

“All rise. The court is now in session. Honourable Judge Styles presiding. Please be seated.”

The imposing man nodded to the bailiff and the other members of the courtroom as he took his seat at the bench. “Thank you, you may all be seated. Call the case.”

“Your honour, criminal case number 23234- People of Chicago, Illinois versus Grace Gwyneth Cohen for homicide.”

The judge did a quick scan of the courtroom as he opened up his notebook for his case notes, and landed his gaze on the defendant. She’d waived her right to a jury trial, which didn’t make any sense to him. It made much more sense for her to want a jury trial. Her chances of convincing that many more people of her innocence were exponentially higher than persuading the state’s notoriously cutthroat judge.

The man usually presided over hung jury cases. It was his expertise, mostly because he was known for being just and, yes, cutthroat. In all the cases he’d presided over, not once did he have even a shadow of a doubt over who was in the wrong. He’d always served justice, he was sure of it, and as much as he’d have liked to have his innate judge of character take all the credit for it, he had to admit he’d not been this attuned before.

It was hard to tell anymore, mainly because, well, it had been such a long time since… before. If anything, he could attest that he’d always had an affinity towards justice, doing the right thing, advocating for the right cause, but now, well, he could read right through the bullshit.

He could read people like open books.

As could all vampires.

So, really, it was nothing special. What was special, though, was that not all vampires chose to put these sharpened abilities to good use. The fact that he’d chosen to do so was still something mind boggling to his… community. But Harry couldn’t fathom just doing nothing for all eternity, like they did. Sure, after a couple hundred years everyone kinda gets tired of trying to spruce things up. But he’d done it all- tried everything in the book- and at one point, you just need to try and give your existence meaning. And this, judging, was a way he could put his abilities to good use, in a meaningful way, giving him a sense of purpose.

And that was pretty valuable when you were immortal.

And besides, he couldn’t lie; the added bonus of making humans squirm- particularly those that deserved to be crushed by the law- under his gavel, albeit metaphorically, was quite thrilling.

But most of all, he enjoyed ensuring a bit of balance in this unfair world- the world that chose this existence for him. He’d not chosen this for himself, after all. He was a victim. He’d suffered a great injustice, maybe the biggest of them all- he’d been robbed of his right of living a normal life. He’d been forced into immortality, and there was nothing he could do about it. No one to turn to, no one to give him justice. There simply wasn’t any. And that had always bothered him deeply.

Sure, they had a system. The vampire that had turned him did suffer some consequences. But, really, there wasn’t much you could do to an immortal being to make them really repent. It wasn’t like they were going to be put away for “life”. You couldn’t exactly incarcerate someone for all eternity. The prospect of a death penalty was more of a treat than a threat to most vampires. And so, outside of being ostracised by their community, which ensured an even lonelier existence, there wasn’t much else a vampire could fear in this afterlife. Most of them stayed within lines and regulations just so they wouldn’t have to face the rest of eternity alone, be it as it may in a state of the art manor and not some dingy prison cell.

So what had made this young woman waive her jury trial? Had she not heard of his reputation? Looking at her, he recognized she was an outspoken person, a very headstrong personality, from the way she didn’t seem to pay any attention to her lawyer.

He recognized the defence attorney. He was someone the state had provided the young woman with, so he wasn’t her own choice. Their body language told him all he needed to know. She was not going to heed her council’s advice. He wondered if the man knew it too, but if he had to guess he’d say he was suspicious of it at the very least.

This was going to be tricky, Harry thought to himself as he narrowed his gaze and decided to proceed.

“Is the accused in court?”

“Yes, your honour,” the bailiff announced.

“Alright, arraign the accused.”

The young woman was brought to the defence panel, the bailiff addressing her “You are the accused in the trial number 23234 entitled People of Chicago, Illinois versus Grace Gwyneth Cohen, and the information charges you of the crime of homicide committed as follows: that on the night of 27 of July, current year, in Chicago, Illinois, the above named accused, with intent to kill, did then and there, wilfully, unlawfully and feloniously attack, assault and employ personal violence upon the person of one Silvian Montgomery, by then and there stabbing him with a sharp silver switchblade on the right portion of his torso, thereby inflicting upon him a serious and mortal wound which was the direct and immediate cause of his untimely death as per the autopsy report conducted by the state appointed pathologist. Contrary to law. What is your plea?”

“Not guilty.”

“You will address the bench in doing so.”

The young woman cleared her throat and turned to face the judge who was watching her intently. She took a quick breath, meeting his icy glaze. “Not guilty, your honour.”

“The accused enters the plea of not guilty, your honour.”

The young woman rolled her eyes ever so slightly, muttering something about how she’d literally just said that. And she’d been subtle about it, but Harry was extremely observant. And his preternatural hearing capabilities didn’t hurt, either.

But he was willing to let it slide, because, well, he had an affinity for innocent people.

It felt a bit like cheating, this whole ordeal, a feeling he wasn’t accustomed to. Because he was about to preside over a case knowing the outcome from head start. He knew what his verdict would be. He knew before he’d even been assigned the trial.

Not guilty.

Chapter 1

A/N: well, well well. the day has finally come. i've been planning on this fic for over a year now! i was going to post the epilogue for halloween, but life got in the way. in a way i'm glad i didn't because, well, this isn't just another vampire fic to me. it's so much more than that. it's smutty (of course), it's angsty (duh, it's me), but honestly... for a guy whose heart stopped beating a long time ago Harry sure doesn't act like it. and as for the original main character this time around, Grace... well, we'll just have to discover her alongside Harry, won't we ❤️

beta'd by the lovely @adorebeaa ❤️

special bday gift for @freedomfireflies ❤️ btw the name i chose for the mc is coincidental 😅

💕 like & reblog if you’re enjoying this, lovelies, and most importantly, please come share your thoughts on it here 💌

🧛follow me on wattpad to get notified whenever i post something new/update!🧑‍⚖️

#harry styles smut #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles vampire #vamprry #judgerry #vampirerry #harry styles writing #harry styles judge #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #fanfiction #fanfic #harry styles #fkinavocado #prologue #put a price on emotion

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inhuman-obey-me · 4 months

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Solomon + 🙊 please and thank you!

"I've never found a way to be honest." - Solomon/MC

You run your fingers over the leather-bound spines of rows upon rows of notebooks crammed too tightly into the bookshelves lining Solomon's walls. Centuries of magical experimentation are recorded therein, thousands of pages of the sorcerer's past efforts and investigations -- and the only tangible glimpses you've ever gotten into his life before.

"You know, you seem like the type of person who would keep a journal," you say, looking back inquisitively towards him. "Do you?"

"What, here, in the Devildom? Not out in the open like that where anyone could find it," he answers with a teasing grin. "Why? Would you like to read it?"

"Would you really show it to me?" You're pretty sure it's not a serious offer, but you perk up a little despite yourself. You can't help it; it's been over a year since he took you on as an apprentice, yet still he dodges your questions every time you try to learn more about him.

"For my adorable apprentice? Of course," he says, his smile never leaving his face, "if I had one to show. But I stopped writing them, oh, a couple thousand years ago probably, so I guess not!"

"Solomon!" you yell in frustration, lightly tossing a stray tome at him that he easily deflects with a flash of magic. "Just say that then! Can't you be honest with me for once in your life?"

"Honest, hm? I wonder," he laughs cheerfully, though there's an edge to it that you're not used to hearing. You can't quite pinpoint what emotion is hidden inside -- sadness, bitterness? Emptiness, maybe, or something else entirely. There's a shadow of something almost dangerous in his storm-colored eyes -- but he captures your hands in his and presses a deep kiss against your lips before you have a chance to understand what it is.

His breath is warm against your face, his fingers intertwining their way tightly through yours, and you can feel the wave of raw, unspoken emotion from him. You start to melt into him against your better judgment, begrudgingly letting your annoyance slip away under his touch.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulls away, that unreadable grin wide across his face again. "How was that? Was that honest enough?"

You could murder this man, if he weren't immortal.

"You know that's not what I meant!" You sigh, then add, "Solomon...why don't you trust me?"

He gives another soft hum in thought, brushing his lips lightly upon your forehead without meeting your gaze. "Trust is a hard thing to give away with all these angels and demons around us," he murmurs finally. "I've never found a way to be honest."

You frown, squeezing his hand in yours.

"Well, I want to trust you, Solomon. So I need you to trust me. Please."

He falls quiet, then kisses you again, softer this time, more vulnerable than the first. When he lets go, his face lingers inches from yours. For the first time, you see a hint of fear in his eyes. They stare deeply into you, as if searching for any reason to back out, any excuse to pull away. His muscles are tensed, ready to run.

But you have always been honest with him. He owes you the same.

"Okay. I will."

#anddd here's the reason for looking up solomon's room for that last post...literally just those first couple lines #obey me #obey me!#obey me swd #obey me shall we date #omswd #obey me solomon #om! solomon #obey me solomon x mc #obey me solomon x reader #om! solomon x mc #om! solomon x reader #obey me fic #obey me drabble #writings #drabble #4000 follower celebration #mod chaos in the devildom

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fridayth13 · 2 months

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I just read your Zhongli reuniting with his wife fic and I absolutely adore it! Could I request a continuation of that where the two talk things out and forgive each other?

galaxies unseen in shavings of jade.

↳ zhongli × gn!immortal!artist!reader

↳ part one, part two

↳ genre: angst with a happy ending | wordcount: 2.8k | warnings: none that i can tell

↳ notes: HI 😭 god sorry that took so long. between the writers block and the anxiety i struggled to end it in a way that made sense. but i think im happy with what i made here. i really did enjoy writing both the first and second part of this :') so i hope you enjoy this one just as much

shoutout to @ad0rechuu for helping me out of writer's block :')

Truth be told, Zhongli had no idea how to talk to you. He was clumsy in matters of the heart. Despite all his years and experience, he could never have prepared himself for how thoroughly you bewitched him. He wondered if you noticed at some point and simply never told him. While embarrassing, it did relieve him in a way. It only meant you didn't mind it. The mere fact that you allowed him the grace of holding you close meant you might have even been enamored by his eccentricities. He would be lying if he said he wasn't terrified of you pulling away one day. What would he do with himself then?

Unfortunately, he'd gotten his answer.

Inexperienced as he was with the heart, the Geo Archon was steadier than the oldest rock formation; stubborn as a boulder that refused to break through the horrors of the Archon War, and through the deep ache of losing you.

He braved through it. Though not without the damage.

Five hundred years later, there was no more war in Liyue. No more strife and suffering tearing through his nation. But most strikingly, no you. He was plagued late in the night with the thought of giving back the era of peace if it meant he could have even a sliver of your presence in his life again.

He couldn't do that. He wouldn't.

But he thought of it. Frequently.

One day after the war, he couldn't find you anywhere. Sunrise had just begun to peek past the mountains, lightening the shadow of night, as if Celestia had descended to celebrate the end of the war. It had been a long night of fighting. Issuing orders among his adepti. Finding out what he should say to you when he got home.

You were both incredibly stubborn. It was a part of you Morax adored, no matter how many arguments the two of you went through because of it. But he feared the night before may have gone overboard. He'd thought you were being foolish, trying to risk your life on the battlefield. What were you thinking? Didn't you know how far everything would fall if you were to get hurt on his watch? Didn't you understand how much the guilt would consume him? How much he would crumble without you to steady him? You were his partner. His confidante. His everything.

He didn't understand you either. Didn't understand that you only wanted to help. That you wanted to prove he didn't have to be alone on the frontlines. That you would have his back as readily as he would have yours. Too late, did he finally think of it that way. It was only after the words have been said, like venom being spat. Morax had gone back to his war, exactly what you told him not to do. And as for you, it seemed you had followed suit.

He sought you out immediately. Days and nights of searching later, he found you speaking with General Musatas.

"I'm leaving."

All these years later, Zhongli knew how much of a mistake this was— he hid. Your words sent a chill through him, as if his blood had turned to ice. Despite the slight tremble in your voice, there was a bit of fire there. The one he recognized in you when you were set on a decision.

"Are.. Are you sure?" Yingda questioned. Her voice dropped to a hesitant whisper, and he had to strain to hear. "But Morax—"

"Forget Morax." You snapped. "I can't speak with him right now. Don't tell him where I'm going please."

"I don't even know where you're going." She exclaimed. "Yn.."

"I'll be safe. You know I can handle myself." Then, with some bitterness: "At least, someone does."

Yingda whined, unsure. "Will you return.. one day? Will we be able to see you again?"

The warmth in your voice made your lover ache.

"Liyue is at peace. I'm sure I will see you lot again at some point. Maybe even at the little harbor the humans have constructed. You spoke of wanting to go there with your fellow yakshas, haven't you?"

"Yes, but.. Are you sure? Truly sure you want to leave?"

You paused. Morax grasped at the silence with bated breath.

"Yes." You said.

Then all the wind was knocked out of him. The war was over. He'd been defeated. He couldn't even find it in himself to watch you go.

—

A moment of weakness was stolen in between the five hundred years of stubbornness.

You, wrought through nightmares of the Archon War and exhaustion weighing you down like an anchor, trudged through the harbor. Your arms wrapped around your figure in a feeble attempt to protect yourself from the cold night air.

It was a moment between moments— witnessed by only you and the swarm of stars in the heavens.

You'd stopped at the bridge, bracing yourself on the rail with a heavy exhale.

You missed him. His warmth. His voice.

Visions of spilled ichor and the ruthless clang of weapons filled your pained mind.

You wished you lost the argument all those years ago.

You hated that.

You hated him. You hated yourself.

You missed him more though.

For a mere second, slowed by fear and the precariousness of your hope, you opened your mouth, about to speak.

And then the second ended. Tears spilled from your eyes, warming your cool face. You thought only of bloodshed. From the war, and whatever it was that happened to your relationship after it.

You cursed yourself. You couldn't just call him now, could you? Not after deserting him and vowing never to come back.

You conjured the situation in your mind's eye. Rex Lapis, Geo Archon from even before the war— the most ancient and formidable of them all, summoned by his ex at the drop of a hat. It felt like a particularly unfunny joke made at your expense.

There was no way he'd want you anymore after all that.

And so that night remained a secret between you and the stars. And if you stayed at the bridge a few minutes longer with the unfounded hope he might see you there waiting for him, and still love you, then it was for only the stars to discuss.

—

The second biggest mistake of Zhongli's life was not running to you the moment he saw you again after all that time.

It was a little secret between him and the wind. And partially, Director Hu, who had accompanied him into the art exhibit in the first place.

It hadn't even been his intention to attend. A particular painting turned his head as he passed by— a meadow of glaze lilies. Not an uncommon scene portrayed by mortal artists. But there had been a certain feeling it evoked in him, catching his gaze a second longer than it ought to.

Hu Tao saw him looking at the painting and skipped inside despite his protest. And so, Zhongli breathed out a sigh and went after her.

"Was this the one you were looking at?" She asked.

"Yes." He eyed the painting with scrutiny. "Glaze lilies.."

Hu Tao hummed in agreement. "It is quite beautiful."

Zhongli agreed. But there was something else to it. Something that made him really rack his brain for the word— familiarity.

It had been centuries since a scene of glaze lilies bountiful enough to form a field so blue. He doubted any mortal would have lived long enough to have seen one, and yet, this particular depiction was spot on. Every azure brush stroke dashed over the canvas like rolling tides, perfectly recapturing the luster of seeing a glaze liliy's sparkling quality up close. Truly, a sea of them. Just as the poems of old described. Just how Zhongli remembered them before the flowers' numbers dwindled down to a rarity. Almost as if the painter themselves had been there with him to witness their bloom in spring.

Zhongli ended up enjoying the art exhibit, after all. He took extra note of the work by the artist of the glaze lilies. Whoever they were had a tendency for plain scenes. And yet, the depictions of things as mundane as jade shavings were as vibrant as galaxies, reflecting against the color of the harbor's light. He couldn't help but find a certain charm in the style. And the aforementioned familiarity. The longer he looked at each scene, the more he felt as though he was present when they were sketching out the shapes.

"Do you reckon we could find the artist at this very exhibit?" Hu Tao piped up.

Zhongli took a moment to realize she was speaking.

"Ah. Perhaps." He nearly stammered, then cleared his throat as he turned to look at her. "It is not uncommon for them to go about and ask opinions of their work."

"You know, you've been particularly attracted to this artist." Hu Tao teased lightly. "We do need your portrait done for the directory. Maybe I could ask them?"

Zhongli chuckled, about to respond to her quip.

Then there you were, turning around the corner. There were earthquakes with less magnitude than the effect you had on him.

Suddenly, everything made sense. The paintings were all yours. They were in your style hidden under a pen name. They were yours. As comfortable a sight to him as the ones you used to make sitting next to him in Jueyun Karst.

Panic seized him then. What would you think of him? Here? At your work? Would you spare him a glance after the first? Would you shun him? Remove him from the premises? No one knew who he was but you, but you alone was certainly enough for him to listen.

Worse yet, Hu Tao was present. She was an inquisitive woman. She was quite smart when she wanted to be, and Zhongli did not want to divulge five centuries worth of heartbreak with her, or even himself.

With a similar sentiment, he didn't know if he could handle being rejected by you a second time. He didn't want to cause you trouble at work where you were clearly enjoying yourself.

You made a coward out of him. You reduced the Archon of Liyue to a fumbling boy with a crush, even back then. Especially now. And in that moment, it was your brilliant smile that intimidated him most.

You looked happy without him.

—

You didn't know what had possessed Zhongli to run after you as you crossed the funeral parlor's threshold.

Brow creasing in bewilderment, you turned to him. It was only a few steps, yet he looked out of breath. Frantic, even.

"..Mr. Zhongli?"

"Please." You didn't miss the way he reached out, hand inches away from your own. It fell back to his side as he steeled himself to speak again.

You readjusted your bag hanging over your shoulder. "Yes?"

"Allow me to walk you back."

You raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's quite late. It.." He clasped his hands together behind his back, hesitating for a moment. "..I only want to be sure you reach your home safely."

So there you were, begrudgingly letting him walk you home. Only he didn't mention the fact he had no idea where you lived, so neither did you. For the moment, you were content with watching the pitiful jerk walk you in circles around the harbor, panicking and relaxing every few minutes as he tried to surmise which street he's supposed to lead you through.

Reach your home safely. What a joke. What, was he going to buy you flowers now too? The two of you had shared but a few conversations after all that silence, and he just.. Ugh. Did he think you were kidding? Did he think you would come crawling back or something?

Though, the longer you watched him, the more you felt as though you missed the mark. Maybe you had been getting ahead of yourself. He might only be being polite.

The two of you were standing by Chihu Rock, at the very edge of the bridge. For a moment, he turned to you as if he'd finally let the facade drop and admit he didn't know where to go, then he turned away again.

"Mr. Zhongli?"

"Yn."

You heaved out a sigh, tugging your bag closer over your shoulder.

"You don't—"

"I need to talk to you." He uttered, swiftly cutting you off.

Your throat seemed to close, leaving you out of breath despite the leisurely pace you'd taken throughout the walk. Unable to say anything, you only nodded.

Zhongli looked at you, amber eyes pinched with worry.

"I am truly sorry for what happened between us."

"You said that already."

"I–" Zhongli shifted his weight between his feet. He still couldn't quite look you in the eye. "I know, I just.. I don't think I'll be able to say it enough to compensate for the time I had spent brooding instead of.."

It was your turn to look away then, fingers twitching nervously along your bag strap. You could only watch his approach through the corner of your eye. He stopped mere inches away from you, his own gloved hands coming up like he didn't know where to put them; wondering if they still fit against you; shaking with the trepidation of it not being so. Of the very real possibility that you had.. moved on. Outgrown him. That he had been too late.

You remained strong, crossing your arms over your chest.

But your voice caught in your throat trying to get the words out. Your still couldn't meet his eyes. Then it all came out in a fragile whisper meant only for him. Hidden in the pocket of silence between you, under the hustle and bustle of the mortal night life, you whispered:

"What are you trying to say, Morax?"

Entirely unbeknownst to you, the use of his true name sent a shiver across his skin. Like a rush of adrenaline to push him along, it flowed through him in a spark of warmth.

He reached for your hand. He didn't quite hold it, moreso just your fingers, as if testing the waters of your tolerance.

How badly he wished he could kiss along your knuckles as he once had. How he ached for the blankness in your eyes to cease. To make way for the affection he allowed to get away from him.

What he didn't know was what you were thinking of: the night you went out to that very same bridge, aching for him in turn.

Well, there he was.

And there you were.

"Allow me back into your life." He pleaded at last. "Please, Yn, I.. I cannot afford to have you so close only for you to slip through my fingers once again."

"Morax.."

"I intend to fight for you this time." Zhongli's grip on your hand grew firm. "I should've done that long ago. I should have stayed with you, or I should have chased after you. I should have begged for you to stay, and I was a fool for not doing so. Forgive me."

You blinked at him. Your hand gripped the rail, thumb running nervously over the night-cooled wood. You were suddenly aware of the passersby at the edge of the city. A group of curious children watched you from afar, and in your attempt to ignore them, you looked up, and were forced to notice the glaringly close proximity you and Zhongli drew yourselves in. His cor lapis eyes cut like amber shards. Still, sincerity softened his expression. In turn, his earnestness softened you. You cursed him for how malleable he made you to his whims.

When you left, you had to build yourself back up. You learned how to stand on your own. You were so determined not to reduce yourself into some crying, besotted ex-spouse that you had confused loneliness for independence.

It hurt to realize that so late. It hurt that you could only realize that now, inches away from him, wanting nothing more than to forget yourself and cry into your lover's arms. It hurt just to look at him.

All this time, you could have just asked. There was no one to blame for your loneliness but you and your own foolish pride.

You sighed deeply, turning your gaze to the mountain ranges carving against the skyline.

"I don't feel like there's anything to forgive." You mumbled. His fingers crept into the space between yours as you talked. You held onto his touch with your very life. "I feel like I should be asking you that."

Zhongli frowned. "To that, I am not sure what to say."

You hummed, feet scuffing against the wooden planks of the bridge.

"Walk with me then? We certainly have time."

Your chest was alight looking at the brightness in his eyes when you said that.

"Gladly." Zhongli nodded, lightly squeezing your hand. You could see the corners of his lips fighting back a grin.

He really did miss you. As much as your emotional turmoil wanted to refute it, you knew him better than you could ever hate yourself. And you loved him more than anything.

You were only thankful he seemed to love you just as much.

#mine #my writing #fics #requests #¡#genshin impact x reader #zhongli #gi zhongli x reader #gi zhongli #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #zhongli x y/n

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