#I CAN GUSH ABOUT HER LATER GET IT TOGETHER MARGARET

[scarletinkthelibrarian]

TMNTVDAY (Week 1) - Leo and Ginny

(Thanks @tmnt-tychou for creating this event!)

1. In which TMNT universe does your pairing exist?

I grew up mostly with the 2003 series and used to think the 2007 movie was a continuation of it, so they exist in a universe that is a mixture of the two.

2. Introduce us to your OTP.

He is our Leonardo, leader of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, a double katana wielding ninja suffering from Atlas complex and very devoted to his family. She is my Ginny Truscott, German-American law student who lost her parents in a car accident and grew up with her aunt and cousin. Unknown to her and to what remains of her family, though, she's also a descendant from an ancient order of warriors, the Valkyries, and inherited a ring that contains both the battle memories of her ancestors and a pair of magically engineered steel wings. She still has a lot of training to go through to learn how to use them well, though.

3. How did they meet?

Leonardo saved her from some thugs that had cornered her into an alley and was curious - and a bit enthused - that she seemed amazed by him rather than scared. The rest is history.

4. How is the relationship now?

They had a lot of "will they, won't they" going on for about 3 years, but they finally got together sometime after Leo came back from Central America. They're now really solid, though Leo's overprotectiveness sometimes really grates on Ginny's nerves, especially now that she can actually defend herself. Aside from that, they find peace and solace into being with each other and they aren't afraid to confront each other when needed.

5. What is each other's love language?

Leo is the KING of acts of service: Ginny is his lady and his angel and he'll be sure to treat her as such. Ginny, on her side, is pretty big on quality time, appreciating enormously even just being in a room with him in silence, just enjoying each other's presence. Both are also really into words of affirmation, probably because so many of their initial problems derived from refusal to hearing each other out.

6. Do they get married or have any kids?

Through a series of circumstances, at a certain point they - and all their family - end up in Usagi Yojimbo's dimension and that's when Leonardo pops the question to Ginny and the two get married for the first time. Several years later, when mutants' rights gets finally recognized on Earth, they legalize their marriage and also the adoption of their two kids, a human girl named Margaret and a mutant turtle boy named Vincent (actually a clone of Leo saved from a lab, there's a whole story behind XD).

7. What is your favorite thing about this pairing? (Gush as much as you want!)

This pairing is basically as old as my love for TMNT and it evolved a lot through the years, ending up becoming part of a larger story I created as part of the TMNTverse, so it will always have a special place in my heart. Also because it's one of the very few oc x canon ships I ever created where I actually imagine them growing old together: not that others don't have their happily ever after, it's just that Leo and Ginny have a clear future together in my head and I can also see the way toward that future, instead of just a nebulous "and several years later they are still together and have kids and everything is okay". I just… I love these two so much, okay?

#tmnt #tmnt 2007 #tmnt 2003 #tmnt leonardo #tmnt oc #oc x canon #tmntvday

[solarcitymelodies]

me:

my stupid aro brain: soulmates AU....... But platonic?

me: OH YES

#what if . #w ha t if knight rider soulmates au......... #im so so on board with the idea of bein soulmates with your best friend #is this because im soft for my best friend irl #MAYBE #is it dumb that i lowkey think we're soulmates #but ive known her my whole life and i care her #like legit without her i Don't Know where I'd be rn #without her #fuck #i love her #anyways #I CAN GUSH ABOUT HER LATER GET IT TOGETHER MARGARET

[coralsgrimes]

Argh, I'm going to cling to the belief that J and her hubby had separated but not yet made it public, because I don't want to believe that Ben got himself into a home wrecker mess. And that's just because I don't want to believe that ANYBODY would willingly get involved with a married/otherwise committed person. I know it's incredibly naive and blue eyed of me, but I just don't understand people who cheat, nor those know that the person they're getting involved with is already in a monogamous relationship. It's so alien to me, I just can't wrap my head around it, and I desperately don't want to believe that other people can do such things either. I know, I know. Stupidly naive. (And you have at least two anons here, because I've sent you some asks, but not all of them!)

<3 would not say naïve and we know nothing for sure. And since I'm still somewhat bored I'm gonna do a lil quick timeline of the last years:

Mid April 2020 - Ben and Jules are papped by Backgrid (eheheheheeh) they been lookin like they just rolled out of bed. The photos were taken near her LA house and then they got into the same car and... all this while she was gushing over her hubby Brooks Laich on SM and selling her bullshit. MORE? She was in LA for weeks and Brooksy was on a farm in Idaho.

April/May 2020 - Jules and Brooksy are still 'fighting' for their marriage. She comments on his photos on IG and then couple days later...

28/29 May 2020 - joint statement for gossip mag about their amicable split ;c

July 2020 - Brooks and Jules celebrate her birthday together, Nina posted bout it obviously...

Late August 2020 - they were reportedly working on their marriage and having lunches together.

September/October 2020 - they were OFFICIALY reconciling on a farm or god knows where but there were videos of them, including some in her LA house... was looking good for them and poor Benny Boy was in Canada and UK (Shadow and Bone reshoots I think?) back then doing very sad 'please come back to me' covers.

November 2020 - Jules files for divorce which was actually going to be quick case cuz Brooksy was smart enough to get pre-nups.

December 2020 - Brooksy has a new girl in his life. Took the new flame to Iceland, Jules all but forgotten. She can’t bear that LOL Then a Blind Item comes out of nowhere about Jules using Benny to get back at her husband and Benny as the empath he is, follows his queen to the bottom.

Christmas 2020 - Benny went to UK to be with the fam. He posted and then deleted the ridiculous stories on 23th December. Clear the stories were meant for close circle and not whole IG.

New Year 2020/2021 - The Montana Shenanigans. He was in Montana most probably straight from the UK at least since 28th December. He was pictured in restaurant with Jules, Nina and her BF. Then we have Ninas stories where she ratted him out. Let me add that HE MADE SURE NO ONE FINDS OUT HE WAS IN MONTANA! 

Later when the news broke he was deflecting and blocking and deleting and being dickless per usual. 

Late January 2021 - Benny and Jules are papped second time. Ice cream FRIENDS outing where they exchanged... ekhem cones and fluids x.x

March 2021 - there was this family award show with Ann Margaret. Jules was posting about it constantly, hyping it up. Then the show happened and;

a) Ben was her plus one but made sure he was not pictured

b) she was seen being uncomfortable as fuck and Ann Margaret gave her some shit too

c) after the show she went silent on all socials, but before that she posted some sad stories where she cried and then deleted them. 

End of May 2021 - Benny had a rough day and fan videos made him feel better. Ppl been speculating that no label wanted his music or that his twin flame informed him about her upcoming trip to Italy where she will be keeping company to rich guys. 

June/July 2021 - Jules goes with Nina to Europe to do some good ol' yachting and husband shopping. (numerous blinds about the second one...) and more importantly the dreadful emoji shitshow starts while they are ocean apart. 💖Star-crossed lovers one might say 💖

There was this one time too when some fans though that he was in France with her because she was somewhat quiet on social BUT our lovely Benny Boy posted another sad cover song (video was from his house) and not suspiciously at all added in the description that it was recorded over the weekend that ppl were speculating he was with Jules. 

There might be some more stuff in between I forgot about but that's the gist, courtesy of twitter/ig/some other places detectives. Do what u want with it but it stinks AF if I might say so.... Not the John Mulaney & Olivia Munn kind of stink where he explains the timeline on live TV but still. 

#ben barnes #julianne hough #the rono adventures ask

[spartanguard]

For the WIP... Numbers, yes plural- 8, 9, 13, 15, 17, 19 and 20. Very excited!!

Dang, girl!! haha thanks for asking!! I've already talked about 8 Evil Twin and 19 Davy Jones, but as for the rest...

9. Suck It ICE

This one is still just a collection of ideas, but it's a take on the immigration marriage trope: David and Killian are ex-boyfriends who get married so Killian can stay in the US. But, along the way, they meet Mary Margaret and Emma, respectively, which throws a wrench into their plans.

13. GLOW au

Another bunch of random ideas, but this one would be an OUAT AU of the series GLOW (RIP). [If you don't know what the show is, it's a dramedy about the start of an all-women wrestling program in the 80s and it was FANTASTIC.] But their ring personas would be based more on their fairytale counterparts—so, Regina would be the Evil Queen, Emma would be the Swan, Mulan would be—well, Mulan, etc. And Killian would be the disgruntled producer behind it who falls in love with one of the stars.

15. Parent Trap AU

Pretty much what it sounds like: Emma and Killian meet, have twins, split and take a twin with them. Only for said twins—Henry and Alice—to later meet at summer camp. Shenanigans ensue, but obviously a happy ending as well.

17. A League of Their Own

@kmomof4 sent me an ask for this one, too, so I'll elaborate in reply to her ;)

20. Storybrooke Brewing Co

Soooo this was supposed to be a birthday present years ago for @annytecture but I think I rewrote the beginning three times and then got distracted by other things once I'd finally settled on a direction. But it involves Killian, David, and Robin starting a brewery together in Boston; and David and his wife Mary Margaret eventually introduce the other two to their friends Emma and Regina. So you can probably figure out how that ends ;) Here's a bit, though!

“Papa, look!” Roland’s high-pitched shout took Robin out of his moment of reflection, as the curly-haired little boy dashed behind the bar to show his father his creation.

“Oh, it's fantastic!!” Robin gushed at the crayon drawing of Killian’s ship, which had all the right colors and details despite obviously being made by a kid. “Why don't you go show this to Uncle Killian?”

Roland dashed through the open doorway to the brewery, picture in hand. “Uncle Kill’n! Uncle Kill’n!”

Immediately, Killian turned away from what he was doing and directed his attention to the boy. “What is it, lad?” he asked, crouching low.

“Art! For the pub!” Roland answered, proudly showing off his masterpiece.

Killian took it. “You did this?” Roland nodded proudly. “No way! This had to be the work of a fine professional artist. Dave, what do you think?”

David, their (so far) sole employee, looked from the machine he was hooking up to examine the picture. “That is a damn fine work of art, young sir.” No one commented on David’s language; Roland had basically grown up in a bar and heard far worse by the time he could toddle.

“I shall have it framed post-haste, Master Roland, and then we’ll hang it in a place of prominence. How does that sound?”

“AWESOME!” Roland shouted with glee.

well, that took a bit, haha. but I'm glad to hear you were so interested in my chaotic WIP folder! Thanks!!!

WIP ask game

#wip ask game #teamhook

[hrina]

Serotonin

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M for mature WORD COUNT: 23.7k REQUESTED: nope!

hi everyone 🥺🥺🥺 she’s here 🥺🥺🥺 please be kind to her 🥺🥺🥺 i poured my heart out into this fic. it’s the longest (and probably the best) standalone piece that i’ve ever written. if you want to let me know your thoughts, reblogging and sending feedback to my askbox would mean the absolute world. 

p.s. since this fic is extremely long, it may cause the tumblr mobile app to glitch. if that happens to you, i suggest opening it up in google chrome or safari instead. enjoy 💕

~*~

September 4th, 2019

You always sit in the middle.

The front makes you feel far too exposed. It’s more likely that you’ll be called upon by chance, and your professors are liable to notice your absence if they’ve grown accustomed to seeing you sat squarely before them during every class.

The back is riddled with too many distractions. You know that you’ll end up watching the shows playing on the laptop screens of the students in front of you. You might not even be able to hear the lecture all that well. Despite your aversion to sitting at the front, you still want to pass with a decent grade.

The middle of the lecture hall serves as a happy medium.

Margaret and Mateo agree. That’s why the three of you push through the door and make a beeline for the trio of free seats located directly in the middle of the room. They seem to be calling your names. You nudge past a pair of girls who are absorbed in a hushed conversation, taking the time to apologise for the inconvenience. A moment later, you plop down into your chair; Margaret takes the seat on your left, while Mateo slumps against the one on your right.

“You’d think that with the thousands of dollars we pay each year, they’d be able to afford more comfortable chairs,” Mateo mutters, resting his chin on a closed fist. You snort in response.

Margaret flips her silky hair over her shoulder. “It’s because they’re too busy offering ridiculously-high salaries to profs who can’t even teach.”

You shoot her a look, cocking one eyebrow teasingly. “We all know that you want to namedrop Allende. It’s okay—you can say it.”

“She’s horrible,” Margaret groans, burying her face into her hands. “She speaks the language perfectly, but she can’t fucking relay the knowledge in an effective way. Isn’t that the entire point of teaching?”

“That’s what you get for minoring in Spanish,” Mateo mutters.

You laugh and nudge him with your shoulder. “Oh, like your minor is any better? How do you say ‘dumbass’ in Latin?”

“It’s the root of most European languages!” he protests.

“It’s a dead language!” You and Margaret say at the same time. You turn to face each other with wide eyes; an incredulous giggle slips past your lips. Mateo opens his mouth to form a rebuttal, but then the door to the lecture hall slams shut, and every head in the room snaps in the direction of the sound.

“Glad to see that trick still works.” Dr. Renault claps his hands before rubbing them together excitedly. Subconsciously, you sit up a bit straighter in your seat.

Dr. Renault is a short, balding man, with a face framed by thin gold spectacles and a belly that bulges slightly over the waistband of his suit bottoms. He fiddles with his red tie as he makes his way over to the podium at the front of the room. You’ve heard good things about him; almost everyone who has taken his class has left shining reviews and gushed about his skills. The buildup has set your expectations high. You don’t think that you’ll be disappointed.

Your eyes drift away from your professor, drawn, now, to the person walking a few paces behind him. The man has wavy brown hair that curls just behind his ears. He’s wearing a patterned green sweater and black trousers; a pair of dark brown loafers adorn his feet. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up slightly, and you can’t help but to notice the smattering of dark ink that decorates his left forearm. Big, bulky rings cover nearly all of his fingers. Tortoise-shell glasses keep his dark hair pinned back—you think that the strands would flop over his forehead if left untamed.

“Welcome, everyone,” Dr. Renault starts, and you turn your attention back to him. He’s standing behind the podium now; there’s a small stack of papers in front of him. “First things first: can you all hear me properly? Or will I need to use a microphone for the duration of this course? I don’t mind.”

A low rumble of responses travel across the room. You shake your head; Margaret and Mateo do the same. You can all hear him just fine.

“Alright,” your professor clears his throat. “My name is Gabriel Renault, but you can call me ‘My Lord’.” He smiles, and the class laughs weakly. Dr. Renault holds out his arm, gesturing to the tattooed man that you’d been studying before. “This is my assistant, Harry. He’ll be grading most of your work this semester, so if you’re looking for someone’s ass to kiss, it should be his.”

Everyone laughs a bit louder this time, including you. Harry steps forward and offers a small smile but doesn’t say anything.

Margaret leans into you. “He’s kind of cute,” she mumbles, shrugging. “In an old-man sort of way.”

“Oh my God.” You cover your mouth and shake your head at her words, but you have to admit that she does have a point. Realistically, Harry can’t be more than four or five years older than you, but the clothes he’s wearing don’t exactly fit the dress code for someone his age. In fact, his outfit looks like something that you could probably have pulled from your grandfather’s closet.

Margaret giggles quietly and recoils, sitting up properly again. When you look back up, your eyes lock immediately with Harry’s. Even from thirty feet away, you can see the mossy green of his irises and feel the intensity of his gaze. A lump forms in your throat, but nonetheless, you shoot him a faint, barely-there smile. He looks away.

Your brows knit together in confusion, but you force yourself to shrug it off. “Bit of a prick,” you breathe to no one in particular.

Mateo looks over at you inquisitively. “What?”

“No, nothing,” you whisper, waving his question away. You turn to face the front again, watching conscientiously as Dr. Renault takes hold of the stack of papers in front of him and splits it into two. He gives one half to Harry before addressing the class.

“Harry and I will be handing out the syllabus for this semester,” he announces. “There will be a short quiz at the end of each class. Don’t worry,” he smiles wryly when quiet murmurs begin surfacing amongst the seats, “They’re only composed of five multiple choice questions. They’ll each count for two percent of your grade; I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, but I find that sometimes students will need that two percent to stay afloat in the course.”

“Me,” Mateo mutters quietly. You and Margaret snicker.

“There will be a quiz at the end of today’s lecture,” Dr. Renault continues. “I’ll be going through the syllabus with you for the first half of the class, and then we’ll do a quick review of the content that you should already know.” He and Harry begin distributing copies of the syllabus to each student, coaxing your classmates to pass the papers down their rows.

“So today’s quiz should be relatively straightforward. An easy two percent,” Dr. Renault says, before casting a glance at his assistant. “Wouldn’t you agree, Harry?”

Harry nods. “Yes, sir.”

You balk at the huskiness of his tone. The words are impossibly deep and throaty. Margaret stares at you with wide eyes and leans in closer.

“If I could fuck a voice…,” she hisses.

“Shut the hell up,” you retort, trying not to laugh at her candour.

Something nudges your arm; you turn and find Mateo holding out a few copies of the syllabus for you to take. You slip one out from the pile and pass it on, but not before glancing up and spotting Harry standing a few feet away at the end of your row. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. The two of you make eye contact again, but this time, it’s you who turns away first.

“There will be a short paper due next week.” Dr. Renault is speaking again. “Don’t fret—it only has to be seven-hundred-and-fifty words. One thousand is the maximum, though I doubt anyone will want to be writing that much after only the first week of class.” He chuckles to himself. “I’ll go into more detail as we read through the outline of the course. Grades for any tests and assignments will be posted online, but we’ll always give the physical copy back to you so that you can use it to study for the exams.”

A girl in your row raises her hand. When your professor nods at her, she asks, “What exactly did you mean when you talked about a review? Like, what kind of information? Just the basics?”

“Yes,” he replies, his cheeks rounding out as he smiles. “Only the content you learned in the introductory course. I believe they taught a chapter on neuroscience, am I correct?”

Everyone releases a quiet murmur of affirmation. Dr. Renault pushes his glasses higher up on the bridge of his nose. “Excellent,” he says. “So that would be the basics of this course—the three main components of an axon, the chemistry behind an action potential, the parts of the brain and their general functions, etcetera. All of that serves as a foundation for neuropsychology.”

“Okay, thank you,” the girl says. You recognize her—you’ve had a few classes with her, but her name escapes you.

“You’re very welcome.” Dr. Renault beams, and you fight to suppress a smile. He seems so nice—you find yourself predicting that this will quickly become one of your favourite classes.

“Is anyone missing a copy?” Harry pipes up, holding the remaining papers aloft. Your spine stiffens at the guttural rasp of his voice, and you take note of the slow drawl that crawls past his lips.

He has an accent. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Margaret fanning herself in small motions, and you roll your eyes with a soft snort.

When nobody raises their hand, Harry lowers his arm and turns to make his way back to the front of the lecture hall. You train your eyes on him, studying the way his shoulder blades protrude with every slight swing of his arms. His back is broad, tapering off into a narrow waist and long legs.

He’s probably six feet.

You cross your thighs over each other.

“Alright.” Dr. Renault resumes his initial position at the podium. “If you all look at the first page of the syllabus, you’ll find my email, as well as Harry’s. I’ve also taken the liberty of including our office locations and the hours during which we’ll be available. Please don’t hesitate to come in for extra help; it’s what we’re here for.”

“Maybe I’ll head on down to Harry’s office for some extra help,” Margaret murmurs. You don’t miss the suggestiveness lacing her words. You scoff and bump her gently with your elbow. Mateo peers over at the two of you, but you just shake your head.

“She’s being gross again,” is all you say.

He puckers his lips and nods knowingly. “Of course.”

“Are you guys down for a latte at Grounded later?” Margaret pokes her head into the conversation, her voice a bit louder than it should be. You and Mateo shush her; she pouts.

“To answer your question, though,” Mateo says, “Yes.”

“I’ve missed their coffee,” you say wistfully, staring off into nothing. The three of you fall silent, instead deciding to tune in and listen to what Dr. Renault has to say about the layout of the course. Despite your sharp concentration, your ears tingle with the feeling of being watched, and your eyes reflexively fall to the side.

You catch only a glimpse of green, and then it’s over just as quickly as it had begun.

  September 11th, 2019

“How much are you willing to bet that Mateo wrote exactly seven-hundred-and-fifty words?”

Margaret cackles. “He probably didn’t even reach the minimum.”

“You’re so mean!” you laugh, turning the corner and zeroing in on the door of your lecture hall. “Have a little faith in him.”

“Let’s wager an iced coffee from Grounded,” she suggests, lifting an eyebrow. You nod and push open the door. The room is full of students buzzing around and chatting. A quick glance upward reveals that Mateo has already reserved three seats in one of the middle rows. You and Margaret climb the steps of the hall and squeeze past a few students sitting right next to the aisle.

“Sorry…excuse us,” you murmur.

“Hey.” Mateo smiles when the two of you finally reach him. You drop down into your chair, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of your face and yawning loudly.

Margaret doesn’t waste any time. “How many words did you end up writing for the paper?”

Mateo grimaces. “Like…seven-hundred. I’m hoping Renault doesn’t actually count them all.”

“Oh, fuck yes!” Margaret beams and points a finger at you. “You lose. I like my iced coffee with a shot of vanilla bean, bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” you groan, batting her hand away before turning back to Mateo. “And technically it’s Harry who’ll be grading them. Hopefully he’s lenient with that stuff.”

Mateo doesn’t seem to have registered your last two sentences; in fact, he disregards your correction completely. His gaze bounces between you and Margaret, creases weaving into his forehead. Eventually, it dawns on him, and he releases an affronted squawk.

“You guys bet on me?”

“I gave you the benefit of the doubt!” you protest, lifting your hands in the air. “Margaret’s the one who—”

“Good morning, everyone!”

Dr. Renault is at the front of the room, standing behind that same podium from last week. He’s wearing a bright red polo shirt and a pair of blue jeans, which makes you smile for absolutely no reason. The colour of his top brings out the rosiness of his cheeks, and when he offers up a bright grin for the class, his teeth appear to be even whiter than normal.

Behind him, Harry’s standing off to the side with his hands clasped at the small of his back. He’s clad in a black button-up and black trousers. The outfit would have been completely appropriate had it not been for the suspenders striping up his sides; the silver buckles on each strap glint teasingly in the light.

“Why does it look like they swapped closets?” Mateo mumbles. You giggle softly.

“The first thing we’re going to be doing this morning,” Dr. Renault says, “is giving back your quizzes from last week. They’re short, so Harry had no trouble getting around to marking all of them. He’ll be handing them back to you in just a moment.”

You wait with a bated breath as Harry pulls a stack of sheets from his messenger bag. He begins calling out names, and each person quickly scrambles up from their seat in order to retrieve their grade. Mateo’s name is one of the first to echo around the room. He grimaces offhandedly at you and mutters something about wishing him luck. You and Margaret make a show of crossing your fingers and holding them up as a proclamation of your support.

Mateo clambers down the steps, graciously accepts his quiz, and folds it up without looking at it. He makes it all the way back to his seat before thrusting the sheet into your hands and averting his gaze. “Tell me what I got,” he pleads. “I can’t look.”

You chuckle at his theatrics before opening up the paper and letting your eyes rake over the mark circled in red. “Perfect,” you say quietly, a small smile playing on your lips. Your friend’s eyes go wide, and then his cheeks split apart with the force of his grin.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighs, slouching back in his chair and rubbing his palms over his face. “That two percent is going to keep my ass from failing. I’m calling it now.”

“You’ll be fine,” you scoff, swatting at him half-heartedly with the hand clutching his quiz. Mateo thanks you as you hand the sheet back, pleating it once more and tucking it into the sleeve on the inside of his binder.

Margaret’s name is called a moment later, and yours follows immediately after. You both look at each other and shrug, standing from your chairs and stumbling through the row. Margaret ends up in front of you; you stare down at your shoes to make sure that you don’t trip down the stairs. Your face heats up at the mere thought of humiliating yourself in front of the class, in front of Dr. Renault, in front of Harry.

In a matter of seconds, you’re standing before him. Margaret moves out of the way and treks back up to where Mateo is waiting, subtly flapping her page around to indicate her mark. You stare at Harry evenly, your gaze never leaving his face—he’s looking down at your quiz, and he’s hesitating.

His apprehension makes you nervous. Had you done poorly?

Eventually, he pulls the paper out of the pile and looks up. His eyes meet yours.

The green of his irises is even more vivid up close. It knocks the wind straight from your chest. You can see the flecks of hazel dotting the area around his pupils, and the way his eyelashes brush along his browbone when he lifts his head. There’s a small mole beneath the corner of his mouth. His lips are full and pink; they look soft.

“Here you are,” Harry says, and for a moment, you’re confused. Here you are, stationed in front of him. Had he been waiting specifically for you?

Then, you realise that he’s got his hand outstretched, offering you the marked quiz clutched between his long fingers.

You’re an idiot.

“Thank you,” you say dumbly.

Your hand brushes his when you pluck the sheet out of his grasp. There’s a cross tattooed on his hand, right above the divot of his thumb. You turn around, and for a moment, you think you hear him say something from behind you—it sounds suspiciously like “good job”—but you shake your head free of the thought. He doesn’t seem like the type.

On your way back up to your seat, you allow yourself to glance at the grade scrawled across the top of the page. A perfect score. You exhale in relief. Your attention is drawn to where a small, messy smiley face has been drawn in red pen. Beneath the doodle, there’s a few words of encouragement:

Well done. Keep it up. H. x

You gnaw on your bottom lip, so focussed on the note that you nearly pass your row. Margaret hisses at you, and you stop cold in your tracks, silently berating yourself. After a few painful moments of squeezing by the other students sitting closer to the aisle, you drop back down into your chair and fold up your quiz quickly.

Had there been a note on Mateo’s quiz?

You can’t remember. Maybe there was, and you’d merely skimmed over it. You don’t want to ask him about it right now, though, because the room is silent save for Harry calling out names and your peers shuffling forward to received their tests.

You lean forward and pull a brand-new notebook from your bag, sneakily slipping your page inside the knapsack and zipping it back up. Neither Mateo nor Margaret make inquiries regarding your grade. It’s like an unspoken rule: you always do well.

The three of you settle into your seats and wait for the lecture to begin.  

~*~

“Hi.” You lean forward and shoot the barista a friendly smile. “Can I get a medium iced coffee with one sugar and a shot of vanilla bean?”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Um…” You say, biting your bottom lip. “Actually, can you make it two? That’s it, thanks.”

“That’ll be five dollars and ten cents.”

You fish your wallet out of your bag and produce the correct amount of money. Margaret grins from beside you; you both move down the counter as you wait for your drinks.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I can tell you want to brag.”

“That’s what happens when you come to expect too much from Mateo.”

You laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”

“But you’re the one who’s friends with me,” she shoots back, lifting an eyebrow teasingly. Her straight brown hair is braided today, draped over her shoulder and cinched at the bottom with a sparkly pink hair tie. You reach out and play with a loose thread on her sweater before yanking your fingers and snapping it off cleanly. She yelps, but the sound quickly dissolves into laughter.

“How’s Spanish?” you ask wryly, mostly because you’re in the mood to see her fly off the handle.

She scoffs. “Allende is…a demon. It’s only the second week and she’s already fucking killing me.”

“Just drop the class,” you suggest, shrugging your shoulders. “You can always take it next year—maybe she won’t be teaching it, then.”

“I thought about it,” Margaret says, sighing. “But Valentina would murder me. She wanted me to be able to speak the language fluently so I could learn more about our culture and shit. Even if I tell her that I’ll retake the class next year, she’s still gonna flip.”

“That sucks.” You pout and shoot her a sympathetic look. “Valentina should learn to trust her daughter’s judgment.”

A low, hollow laugh echoes in the back of your friend’s throat. “Not likely.”

You try a different approach. “Well, at least you’ve got me—since you’re stuck taking the course, I promise that I’ll listen to all your rants and complaints.”

“Oh, really?” Margaret grins. “Is there an expiration date on that offer?”

“Nope,” you reply, popping the syllable playfully. “This coupon is valid until the end of time.”

“Two medium iced coffees, one sugar and one shot of vanilla bean!”

You and Margaret accept your drinks, sending out quick spiels of gratitude. The barista smiles and tells you to have a good day. As you walk away, your friend guides her straw into her mouth and takes a lengthy, obnoxious sip of her drink. She throws her head back and moans dramatically at the flavour.

“Mhm,” she says, smacking her lips. “It tastes so much better when it’s free.”

“Fuck off,” you laugh, shaking your head. You fix her with a begrudging smile, but something behind her catches your eye. Stupidly, you freeze right in the middle of the basement corridor, the straw of your coffee resting against your parted lips.

Inside the room, Harry’s sitting behind a desk, his tortoise-shell glasses perched on his nose as he rifles through a sizeable stack of papers. There’s a red pen nestled between his fingers, and the sleeves of his black button-up have been rolled a handful of times, leaving his forearms exposed. His tattoos are much clearer now that there’s less distance separating the two of you. You spy an anchor, a rose—

“What are you—?” Margaret scowls and spins around. “Oh.” She turns back to you. “His office is right here? That’s convenient.”

You reluctantly tear your gaze away from Harry so that you can look at her properly. “How so?”

“Well, if he wants to get coffee, he doesn’t exactly have to go very far.” She smirks before taking another sip of her drink. “Plus,” she swallows, “It’s convenient for me, too. I can grab a latte and then pay him a visit right after for some of that extra help.”

She wiggles her brows. You snort.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell her earnestly. She just giggles, shouldering the strap of her purse and angling her chin to the left.

“Let’s go,” she says. “I really don’t wanna get stuck in traffic again. Last week, it took me, like, two hours to get home.”

“Yikes.” You grimace at the thought, but Margaret’s already pedalling away.

“Come on,” she calls over her shoulder. You follow her, but not before deciding to spare one last glance into Harry’s office.

Your breath hitches in your throat when you find a pair of grassy green eyes staring back at you intently. Harry’s gaze is unwavering; there’s a certain peculiarity about it. It’s searing, like he’s taking you apart piece by piece, unravelling every layer to study what lies beneath. Your skin crawls with the humiliation of getting caught, but something else, too. Anticipation? Exhilaration?

The exchange doesn’t even last a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Your lips curl up into an uneasy smile as you try to quell the nervous frothing in the pit of your stomach. For a moment—a foolish, optimistic moment—you think that he might actually return your friendly expression.

Harry merely blinks, twirls his red pen over in his fingers, and looks back down.

  September 18th, 2019

“Shit,” you mutter to yourself, looking down at your phone. Your class starts in five minutes, and you’ve just made it onto campus. You’d texted Mateo already and kindly asked him to save you a seat, but your eyes are drooping and you’re absolutely exhausted. Before you can even weigh your options, your feet are carrying you down into the basement of the building to retrieve a cup of coffee from Grounded. You can’t even be upset about it—your body clearly knows what it needs, and right now, that need is manifesting itself in the form of a massive dose of caffeine.

You hop in line, pulling up Mateo’s contact and composing a quick message regarding your whereabouts. Before you send it, you ask if he or Margaret would like for you to buy them anything. A short moment later, he replies, assuring you that they both already bought their coffees and are as awake as ever.

You guys didn’t even offer to get one for me? How rude, you type back, a small smirk on your face.

Mateo’s response is instantaneous, like he had already rehearsed what he was going to say.

In our defense, we thought you were dead.

You snort softly and shake your head as the message sinks in. Your phone clicks quietly when you lock it, but as you lift your gaze, you catch sight of an intricate drawing and freeze. Your eyes nearly bulge out from their sockets when you register that the left arm of the person standing in front of you is littered with tattoos.

An anchor.

A rose.

A mermaid, whose chest is on full display in all of its naked glory.

There are countless others, but you don’t have enough time to study each one, because just then, Harry is stepping up to the counter to recite his order.

“Morning, love,” you hear him greet the barista. She blushes profusely and grins at him in return. Your shoulders tense at the gruffness of his voice, and you briefly wonder just how deep it can get.

You don’t catch the rest of the trade, trying to focus instead on anything other than how good Harry’s ass looks in the khakis adorning his legs. He cracks a low joke, and the barista laughs. Smiling slightly, he casts a casual glance over his shoulder, and you stiffen when his eyes land squarely on you. His pleased expression fades.

“Also…,” he says, keeping his gaze on you for a moment longer before turning back to the counter.

You don’t tune in to the remainder of his sentence, mostly because your ears are ringing and your heart is hammering wildly beneath your ribs. Harry pulls a crisp bill from his pocket and hands it over before moving to the side and waiting for his drink. It takes all of your willpower to look at everything except for him. The barista abandons her post at the cash register to prepare his coffee. You stand awkwardly at the beginning of the line, waiting for her to come back.

She finally does after a couple of minutes, greeting you cheerily and subconsciously leaning in so that she can hear your order properly.

“Hi,” you say. “Um, can I get a large vanilla latte with an extra shot of espresso?”

“Sure,” she replies, but as soon as you begin to pull your wallet from your bag, she stops you. “Actually,” she says, “The man who was just here paid for you. He gave me a ten and told me to keep whatever was left over.”

“I’m sorry?” You blink.

“The man in front of you,” she elaborates. “The one with the accent.”

Your lips part in surprise. Instinctively, you whip your head to the side, just in time to watch as Harry disappears around the corner.

~*~

You end up being a few minutes late. The sound of the door being pushed open is painfully loud, and you have to conceal an embarrassed cringe when your entrance is met with dozens of faces staring down at you. Dr. Renault is in the process of speaking, but when you walk in, he injects a quick, “Welcome, good morning, pull up a chair!” into the middle of his sentence. You try for a sheepish smile and hope that it comes across as sincere.

“That was humiliating,” you mutter when you finally collapse into the seat next to Mateo. He’d saved you a spot right beside the aisle; you send out a silent prayer of thanks. “This is why I’m never late.”

Your friends both shoot you knowing looks, their features soft with compassion. You sigh quietly, taking a long sip of your latte and trying to shrug off the mortification looming over your head.

“As I was saying,” your professor continues, unperturbed by your brief interruption. “The midterm is next week. It will cover chapters one through three; I trust that everyone has begun reviewing?”

Low murmurs are all that he receives as a response. Dr. Renault chuckles and pushes his glasses further up his nose. “I’ll be going into further detail regarding the exam during the last twenty minutes of today’s class. As for right now, Harry will be handing back your quizzes from last week, as well as the assignments that you all submitted. There were a few bumps, but overall, I think most of you did well.”

And just like that, all eyes fall on Harry. He steps forward, a stack of sheets balanced in the crook of his left arm. He clears his throat and licks the pad of his thumb to effectively grasp the corner of the first page.

“Morning, everyone,” he says huskily. “I’ve paired your quizzes from last week with your papers, so you’ll be getting both at the same time. If you’ve got any questions regarding your grades, please feel free to consult me at the end of today’s lecture.”

That’s the most that you’ve ever heard him speak, you realise.

Harry peers up at the class, his eyes skimming over the rows of students before landing on you. You’re not sure if it’s real, or if your mind is just playing tricks on you, but he seems to stare at you for a beat longer than anyone else. You swallow heavily, hoping that he can’t see the violent bobbing of your throat from down below. A moment later, he calls out a name. The girl in the chair in front of you jumps to her feet, and the spell is broken.

One by one, each undergraduate stands and ambles down the stairs of the lecture hall to retrieve their marks. Margaret’s name is called; Mateo’s follows a few moments later. You smile encouragingly at them and watch as they descend the steps.

You grow nervous as the stack of papers nestled in Harry’s arms begins to dwindle. It’s silly, but whenever your work happens to be located near the end of the queue, you always feel a niggling sense of paranoia biting at the back of your brain. Realistically, you know that your assignment will most likely be present in that pile, but there’s always that small what if.

Finally, though, you hear your name ring out.

You immediately decide that you love the way it sounds exiting Harry’s lips.

You stand, grateful that you don’t have to squeeze past anyone. Maybe you should aim to sit in a seat next to the aisle more often—it’s awfully convenient.

Your heart is thudding wildly in your chest, and as you make your way down to where Harry waits, you grow afraid that he’ll be able to see it pulsing through your shirt.

Don’t trip, don’t trip, don’t trip.

Fortunately, you reach the bottom stair without a single misstep. Harry’s staring down at your papers, his lips tucked into a thin line. When you clear your throat gently, he looks up at you. Twin pink spots dot his cheeks when he realises that you’ve been standing in front of him for a moment too long. He holds out your assignment and your quiz, the pages held together by a skinny silver clip.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. You hesitate for a second before adding, “And thank you for paying for my—”

“Evan Ross.” Harry cuts you off without blinking, the next name rolling off his tongue seamlessly. You blink in surprise, stiffening. Your mouth pops open as a mixture of shock and hurt washes over you.

Your chest grows tight with emotion, and your eyes burn as you whip around and hurry back up the stairs. You keep your head low as you slide back into your seat; Margaret and Mateo are too absorbed in a hushed conversation to notice the distressed expression on your face, but you don’t mind. In fact, you’re thankful for it.

Your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. Needing a distraction, you unfold the small pile of papers in your hand and glance down at your grades. You’ve achieved a perfect score on your quiz. At the top of the sheet, scrawled in red pen, there’s a smiley face and a brief note:

Well done. Glad to see that somebody’s been paying attention. H. x

You direct your awareness to the written assignment in your other hand. A bright 95% stares back up at you, along with another few words of encouragement:

Very insightful. Great job. H. x

Your eyes narrow. You sit back in your chair; a quiet, incredulous laugh bubbles up in your throat. Luckily, it’s faint enough to avoid being detected by anyone else. You shake your head in disbelief, skimming over Harry’s comments one last time before angrily shoving the pages into your bag. They crinkle loudly—you know that they’ll be all bent out of shape by the time you’ll need to retrieve them, but you don’t care.

You straighten up and risk a glance down to where Harry is still handing assignments and quizzes back to last of your classmates. He smiles at one boy and gives him a reassuring nod before his green eyes stray upward, as though drawn by an invisible magnet. His gaze locks with yours, and the mild curl of his lips quickly flattens out. You clench your jaw and look away, huffing petulantly through your nose.

What a fucking dick.

  September 25th, 2019

“I’m not ready,” you declare, slapping your binder down onto the small foldable desk attached to Mateo’s seat. Your friend jumps in surprise, his eyes growing ludicrously wide, and Margaret cackles loudly from beside him. Despite the panic coursing through your veins, you crack a small smile.

“Good morning to you, too,” Mateo grumbles, his shoulders still hunched from your sudden intrusion.

You groan and collapse into the chair next to him, massaging your temples in hopes of avoiding an oncoming headache. The sensation tends to creep up on you, and you’re sure that it’s due to the measly amount of sleep you’d acquired only a few hours prior. Margaret leans over, extending her arm and offering you a sip of her coffee. You take it and flash her a grateful (albeit pained) smile. Her latte is still a bit hot, but that doesn’t stop you from swallowing down a large gulp.

“What’s wrong?” Margaret asks as you hand the cup back over to her. “Did you not study enough?”

“Yeah,” you say, scowling deeply. “The proposal for my experimental psych class was due last night, so I spent pretty much all my time working on that.”

“Don’t worry,” Mateo says. “You always do well, even when you think you won’t—you’ve got this.”

“Thanks,” you mumble nervously, blowing him a meek kiss. You shift closer to him so that you can scan the contents of his open textbook, hoping to memorize a few final facts before the exam starts.

Dr. Renault and Harry walk in a few moments later, both carrying intimidatingly-tall stacks of paper. A hush falls over the classroom—the abrupt silence makes your professor laugh.

“Don’t worry!” he says. “It’s not that difficult, I promise.”

Somehow, you don’t believe him.

In a matter of minutes, the tests have been distributed, and all of the students in the room are sitting with one seat separating them from their neighbours. Dr. Renault announces that he and Harry will be perusing up and down the aisles, ready to answer any questions regarding the exam. Subconsciously, your toes curl in your shoes—you definitely won’t be asking Harry for further clarification, no matter how badly you need it.

“You will have one-hundred-and-twenty minutes to complete the midterm,” your professor says. His smile is supportive, but it does nothing to soothe to anxious knot in the pit of your stomach. “Good luck, everyone.”

With that, you flip to the first page of the packet. The next two hours are filled with the sounds of pencils scribbling on paper, the hushed whispers of Harry and Dr. Renault, and the occasional lone, hacking cough.

  October 9th, 2019

You’re sitting in the library with Mateo when your phone buzzes with the notification. You glance down at the screen and gasp loudly when you read the words:

Harry Styles has posted to the forum.

“Mateo!” you hiss. He doesn’t reply. Looking up, you see him bopping his head along to the music playing through his white earphones. He’s twirling a pencil through his fingers absentmindedly and skimming through his neuropsychology textbook. You kick his shin underneath the table.

“Ow!” he yelps. The sound is far too loud, considering that it’s only nine in the morning and you’re both situated in an establishment that demands silence.

“Shh!” you say, frowning slightly. He pulls out one of his earbuds and stares at you with bewildered eyes. You choose to stay tacit, simply holding up your phone and letting him read the notification lighting up the glass screen.

“Okay…,” he whispers, glaring at you. “Why the fuck did that warrant such a hard kick?”

“I’m sorry.” You wince. He’s right. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s fine.” He waves off your apology before fishing his own cell phone out of his pocket and unlocking it swiftly. Together, the two of you pull up a browser tab and type the name of your school’s website into the search bar. You log into your student accounts and click on your neuropsychology class. The link takes you to the collective forum, and your eyes sweep over Harry’s name at the top—the most recent post. You tap it gently and begin to read.

Hi all,

Attached to this post is a spreadsheet containing your scores on the midterm. In the first column, you’ll find your student number. In the second, I’ve provided your mark as a percentage. As always, I will be available after class today if you have any questions regarding your grade.

See you soon.

Sincerely,

Harry

You hold your breath as you scroll down and open up the spreadsheet linked below his message. After a few prolonged, painful seconds of searching, you find your student number and zero in on the percentage located right beside it. You swear that your heart stops.

62%.

Sixty-two percent.

Your lips part in surprise. You take a long, hard look at the spreadsheet, wondering if maybe you’d landed on the wrong row, but no. Your number is there. And a few pixels away, a dark, insidious 62% stands out in black. You inhale deeply, trying to keep yourself from hyperventilating.

“I got a seventy,” Mateo breathes, looking up from his phone and closing his eyes in relief. A moment later, they pop back open. “How about you?”

“A sixty-two,” you whisper, unable to tear your gaze from your screen.

He balks. “Come again?”

“A sixty-two,” you restate, a bit louder this time. “I—”

“Don’t panic,” Mateo says immediately, holding up his hand. You finally manage to focus on him, your eyes growing damp with anxious tears.

“Hey,” he says sternly, reaching over and laying a comforting palm on your forearm. “Don’t panic. It’s only worth twenty-five percent, okay? You’re doing really well on the quizzes so far, and you did great on that first paper, too. That was, like, another five percent or something, right?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding weakly.

Mateo chews on his lips, but his expression is determined. He mimics your nod, though his appears to be a bit more assured. “Okay,” he tells you. “So, here’s what you’re gonna do: you’re gonna go see Harry after class today and set up an appointment so that he can go over the exam with you. And then you’re gonna take in all that information, and you’re gonna ace the final at the end of the semester, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you repeat, but this time, there’s a bit more conviction behind the word. Mateo knows how bad your anxiety can get—he’s caught you in the middle of an emotional breakdown more times than you’d care to admit. But he also knows how to keep you grounded, and he’s almost always able to bring you back down when your thoughts take you elsewhere.

“Thank you,” you tell him, swallowing heavily. “That’s a good idea, I’ll do that.”

“Yes, you will,” he says, and then he sits back and flips his textbook shut. “Come on, let’s go grab a coffee before class. My treat.”

~*~

When you get your exam back, there’s another haphazard note scribbled at the top in red.

It’s okay. I know you’ll do better on the next one. H. x

~*~

As your fist lands the first perfunctory knock on Harry’s door, you find yourself wanting nothing more than to spin around and speed away as fast as you can. Harry lifts his head from where it’s buried inside a book, fixing his gaze on you and cocking his head to the side.

“Hi,” you say nervously. “Um, sorry to bother you. My name is—”

You’re shocked to hear it escape Harry’s lips before you can say it yourself. You clamp your mouth shut and nod silently, too afraid to utter anything else.

“Hi,” Harry replies. His voice is the epitome of a lazy drawl. “What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering,” you start, pausing to clear your throat. “If—um—if I could talk to you really quickly about my midterm?”

“Sure,” he says, shrugging indifferently. “You can sit.”

As you step forward to position yourself on one of the padded chairs in front of his desk, Harry shuts his book and stands. You can’t stop your eyes from following him. He tucks the hardcover back into a vacant slot on the tall shelf located in the corner of the room.

“You have a lot of books,” you note. Immediately, you want to strangle yourself for letting the observation slip out.

He simply bobs his head. “I like to read.”

“Me too.” God, why the fuck won’t you just shut up?

But when Harry turns back around, you’re shocked to find the smallest hint of a smile playing on his lips. His gaze locks with yours, and it fades just as quickly as it had come. You swallow forcefully; your mouth feels like a desert.

“Do you have your midterm with you?” Harry asks, crossing his arms over his chest. You look away immediately to keep yourself from ogling his biceps. He’s wearing a dark green crewneck and a pair of khaki pants again. His hair is tousled, like he’s been raking his fingers through it incessantly, and his glasses are tucked into the collar of his shirt. There’s a slight shadow of stubble scattered across his jaw. His lips are flushed a perfect shade of pink; they look smooth and soft.

“Yeah.” You snap out of your stupor and answer him quickly. Leaning down to unzip your bag, you say, “Sorry. It’s right—”

“Why’re you apologising?” Harry asks, creases of confusion etching themselves into his forehead. You pause and peer up at him, your hand buried in your knapsack.

“Sorry?” you ask, afraid that you hadn’t heard him properly.

The corners of his lips jump only slightly. He repeats his question with the same amount of ennui. “Why’re you apologising?”

You blink. “Er…I don’t know, sorry. I mean—!” You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head, feeling your cheeks grow warm. Eventually, you give up on searching for the right words, instead pulling your exam out of your bag and thrusting it forward. “Here you go.”

Harry takes the packet from you, bringing it up to his face. He grabs his glasses from where they hang on his chest and slides them onto the bridge of his nose. You look away when his eyes land on the shameful grade scribbled at the top of the first sheet.

“I didn’t do too well,” you say, training your gaze on the floor. “As you can clearly see.”

Harry hums in response. He flips through your midterm quickly, spending only a few seconds on each page. “That’s odd,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

You peek up at him through your lashes. “What’s odd?”

He shrugs. “If I’m remembering correctly,” he begins, fixing his green eyes on you, “You’ve been doing well on the weekly quizzes. So…what went wrong this time?”

You swallow heavily, bringing your hands together in your lap and fiddling with your fingers. “I was working on a research proposal that was due the night before the exam,” you explain timidly. “So, I guess…I just wasn’t able to study as much as I should’ve.”

Harry nods. Quiet ensues. Your attention stays glued to the ground.

“Well—,” he clears his throat. “I can go over it all with you now, if you’d like.”

“Oh, no,” you say, shaking your head immediately. “I’ve actually—I’ve got to be somewhere after this.”

It’s a complete lie. You don’t have anything scheduled for later on. But your heart feels like it’s about to give out any second now, and the hairs on your arms are tingling apprehensively. You feel like an idiot, tripping over your words and second-guessing every syllable that leaves your lips. Harry’s unwavering, unforgiving stare is making you want to curl up into a ball and sink into the floor. You can’t imagine any torture greater than spending another minute in this office.

“I see,” Harry says. A long moment passes as you wait for him to say something else; when he doesn’t, you jump in to fill the awkward silence.

“I just came by in hopes of scheduling an appointment,” you rush out. “Is that okay?”

“It’s what I’m here for.” There’s no humour in his tone. You nod, gnawing on your bottom lip.

“What day works best for you?” you prod gently. The air is thick; you don’t think that even the sharpest of knives could slice through the tension. Harry rubs his nose with two fingers and taps his thumb against his lips, lost in thought.

“How does ten in the morning on Monday sound?” he says at last.

“The one coming up?”

“Yes.”

“That’s fine,” you tell him. “Thank you so much—I really appreciate it.”

He doesn’t reply, choosing instead to return your exam to you and retire to his chair. You zip your bag back up and sling one strap over your shoulder, standing from your seat and subtly trying to wipe your clammy palms against your thighs.

“Send me an e-mail on Sunday,” Harry says suddenly, drumming his fingers along the smooth surface of his desk. Your eyes are drawn to the gaudy rings on his hands, the jewellery glinting alluringly in the light of his office.

“Regarding what?” you ask, your brows knitting together.

“The appointment. Just as a reminder,” he states, shrugging his shoulders placidly. “I’ll put it in my calendar too, but you can never be too prepared.”

“Right,” you say, nodding. “Okay, I will. Thank you again.”

“It’s no problem.” Harry pauses for a moment before adding, “Take care.”

A bit of the stiffness in your body trickles away at his words—is it possible that he’s beginning to warm up to you?

“Have a good rest of your week,” you say as you start to back away toward the door. Against your better judgment, you offer up a small, friendly smile.

Your feet carry you a few steps further; you attempt to restrain yourself from shooting him one last glance before you turn to face the other way (though of course, you can’t resist.) You think you see the corners of Harry’s lips twitch, but you don’t stay long enough to reflect on it.

Only once you leave his office do you decide that it was merely your eyes playing tricks on you. If majoring in psychology has taught you anything, it’s that humans are extremely unreliable creatures.

Sometimes, we only see what we want to see, you think. The words tumble through your head in the form of a dynamic mantra, echoing continuously until you stagger outside and into the comforting hold of the cool autumn air.

  October 13th, 2019

No matter how many times she tries, Margaret cannot down a shot without cringing after swallowing. She always declares that this time will finally be it, that she’ll throw the alcohol back without so much as a grimace, but both you and Mateo know by now that it’s all just nonsense. Her countless attempts are the main reason for her eventual, inevitable inebriation whenever you all decide to go out for drinks.

“Fuck!” Margaret yelps, squeezing her eyes shut and wincing radically as the vodka burns its way down her throat. She reaches for the glass of water standing a few inches away and takes a desperate swig. You and Mateo laugh as she pounds her fist against the table in frustration. You’re sitting across the table from your two friends, the three of you nestled comfortably in one of the booths lining the wall of the pub.

“Told you,” Mateo says dryly, shooting Margaret a wry smirk. She shakes her head and smacks her lips together.

“No, let’s do one more,” she says, her voice taking on a pleading quality. “It’ll be this next one, I swear.”

“Slow down,” you tell her, holding your hand up. Even from a few feet away, you can see the dilation of her pupils and the rosy flush on her cheeks. She’s never been good at pacing herself, and you really don’t feel like ending the night with your hands in her hair as she retches over the toilet.

Margaret pouts; Mateo grins knowingly at you, the thin gold chain around his neck glinting against his dark skin. You’re all a bit buzzed, and though your friends want to continue, you don’t intend to get plastered tonight. There’s a nagging voice in the back of your mind, reminding you that you’ve got your appointment with Harry tomorrow morning, and you want to be as alert and attentive as possible.

You’d sent him an e-mail earlier this evening, right before the taxi had pulled up into the parking lot of your apartment complex. The correspondence had been simple, just a quick verification of the day and time, followed by a short closing remark and your name. You’d snapped your laptop shut as soon as the message had gone through, willing yourself to tuck the thought of it away into a dark, incognizable corner of your brain.

“Did—?” Mateo hiccups quietly and swallows. “Did you guys hear that Grounded is closing down?”

“What?” You and Margaret both nearly snap your necks to gape at him.

“Not permanently!” he backtracks, throwing his hands up in the air. “Just for a couple of weeks! They’re doing renovations in the basement, remember?”

“I knew that,” you say, cocking your head to the side. “But I didn’t know they were doing them there—I thought they’d just closed off the area near the biology labs.”

“I guess not.” Mateo purses his lips, and Margaret pouts.

“How am I gonna survive without their coffee?” she moans, her shoulders deflating.

You shrug and trail your finger around the rim of your water. The glass is clouded with condensation, drops trailing down the side and dampening the coaster lying underneath. “There’s always Starbucks,” you say, though the suggestion is lackadaisical, unenthusiastic. “But the closest one is halfway across campus.”

“Exactly.” Margaret sulks, placing her elbow on the table and propping her chin up on her fist. “How the fuck am I supposed to stay awake in Spanish, now?”

“Pop some modafinil,” Mateo mutters under his breath. You look at him with wide eyes and burst into laughter a second later. He grins; Margaret elbows him in the ribs, but even she can’t suppress the small smile that creeps up onto her face.

“I’m serious!” she says, her voice shaking with the ghost of a giggle. “Even for neuro, like…I don’t know how I’m gonna get through it.”

“Neuro is at ten in the morning,” you stress, lifting your eyebrows in disbelief. “Just be grateful that it’s not an eight o’clock class—if that were the case, you’d really be fucked.”

Margaret raises one shoulder lazily and rolls her eyes. You lean forward and take a sip of your water, humming appreciatively when the cool liquid runs down your throat and fans out across your chest.

“Speaking of neuro,” Mateo starts, running a hand through his dark, kinky hair, “How did you guys do on the quiz from last week? The one on cognitive processing and perception.”

“I only got one right,” Margaret snorts, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I was kind of zoning out during the lecture, to be honest.”

“Shocker,” you tease. She scoffs in mock-offense, and you flash her a smile to tell her that you’re only joking. You turn to Mateo. “I think I got, like, three out of five,” you say, squinting your eyes and puckering your lips. “Not my best work.”

“It’s still a pass,” he replies, winking playfully.

You chuckle and nod. “True. Plus—,” you tap your nails against your glass and make a vague gesture with your other hand, “—Harry’s nice little notes are always a bit of a confidence boost, you know what I mean?”

When your question is met with silence, you look up from the table with cinched brows and puzzled eyes. Both Margaret and Mateo are gawking at you, their lips parted and their expressions ripe with confusion. Subconsciously, your mouth twists down into a frown; you sit back against the padded material of the booth.

“What?”

“Harry…,” Margaret shakes her head, tucking a silky strand of hair behind her ear. “Harry doesn’t write nice little notes for us.”

“What?” you say, creases digging into your forehead. “No, I mean—the comments he leaves on the quizzes and stuff! You know, like, right at the top of the page?”

“He’s never left a comment on any of my quizzes,” Mateo tells you. He turns to Margaret. “Has he done that for you?”

“No,” she says, pursing her lips. “Not at all.”

Something inaudible passes between them, and when they both look back at you, they’re trying to hide their amused expressions. The scowl on your lips deepens, pulling at the muscles in your cheeks and making your face grow sore.

“Why the fuck are you guys looking at me like that?” you ask, fed up with their cryptic behaviour.

Margaret scoffs loudly and barks out your name. It’s enough to grab your attention, and when you glare at her, she beams wickedly and hisses, “He’s trying to fuck you!”

You can’t help it—you laugh. Margaret’s grin fades, and Mateo cocks an eyebrow at you, waiting for your glee to subside. After a long moment, your giggles dwindle, and you smile across the table at your friends. They remain frozen, still as bewildered as ever. Their silence aggravates you; in a matter of seconds, you’re glowering at them.

“You can’t be serious,” you deadpan, looking at them with blank eyes. “The only time Harry’s ever really spoken to me was when I went to schedule that stupid appointment! I swear to God, he avoids me like I’ve got the plague.”

“Maybe’s he’s avoiding you because he likes you,” Margaret suggests. Her brown irises twinkle with mischief.

A disdainful sound bubbles up in your throat and flops out of your mouth. “Not likely.”

“Why else would he write you little notes, then?” she demands, and you hate to admit it, but she has a point. You’ve got no idea why Harry’s trademark scribbles are always at the top of your tests and assignments, especially since he seems to intent on evading you whenever the two of you happen to cross paths. You chew furiously on the inside of your cheek, only able to offer up a half-hearted shrug.

“We don’t even know if I’m the only one,” you say. “He could be doing it for some other people, too—let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Margaret and Mateo snicker. You glare daggers at them. Mateo is the first to fix you with a semi-apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he tells you, his teeth gleaming in the low lighting of the bar. “It’s just—Margaret might be onto something.”

“She’s not,” you say flatly.

Margaret releases an offended squawk, pinning you beneath her stern gaze. “Hey!” she squeaks, pouting indignantly and pointing her index finger at you. “Just because you’re in denial doesn’t mean—”

She breaks off right in the middle of her sentence, her eyes growing outrageously wide when they land on something behind you. You tilt your head to the side and scratch your cheek, afraid that maybe she’s noticed a spot or a new blemish blossoming on your face. But then she squeals, her hand shooting to the side so that she can deliver several excited slaps to Mateo’s arm.

“Holy shit! Speak of the fucking devil!”

Everything clicks into place, then, and your jaw drops. You spin around in your seat so quickly you’re surprised that your vision doesn’t go blurry. After a quick sweep of the room, you find the thing—or rather, the person—that has Margaret losing her mind.

Harry’s dressed in a simple black t-shirt and a pair of black, high-waisted, extremely baggy trousers. The pant legs are comically wide, but somehow, he makes it work. His hair is fluffy, and his sneakers are pristine, not a speck of dirt in sight. Something shiny glints near his waist and catches your attention; you find the patterned frame of his glasses peeking out of one of his pockets. Briefly, you wonder if he’s cold—it’s a bit of a chilly evening, and he doesn’t appear to be sporting a jacket.

“He looks good,” Mateo notes.

You and Margaret swivel your heads around and stare at him. He shrugs. “What? It’s just an observation!”

And despite the panic simmering in the pit of your stomach, you laugh softly. You’re about to settle back into the booth and hope for the best, but then Margaret lifts her arm in a frantic wave and shouts, “Harry!”

Your lips part in shock. She must be drunker than you thought.

“Margaret!” you whisper furiously, ducking down and gaping at her. You’re no longer facing Harry, but you get the feeling that he heard his name, because Margaret giggles, twiddles her fingers, and curls her hand in a beckoning gesture. You place your elbows on the table and bury your face into your palms, too embarrassed to look up.

“Oh my God,” Mateo mutters. “He’s coming over here.”

And sure enough, after a few long, painful moments, Harry is standing in front of the table.

“Er, hi,” he says, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly.

Mateo offers him a small smile; Margaret beams widely.

“Hi!” she says cheerily. “Sorry, this might be weird because you don’t know us. I’m Margaret, this is Mateo, and this is—”

Just as he had done in his office, Harry breathes your name before it’s uttered. Margaret stops speaking immediately and mashes her lips together to suppress a giant grin. Mateo catches your gaze from across the table; his eyes are the size of tennis balls. You want to groan—subtlety is most definitely not their forte.

“Um, yeah,” you reply. You glance up at Harry momentarily before looking away. “Hi.”

A beat of silence ensues.

“So, Harry,” Margaret jumps in. Her tone is a bit too loud, but it’s not noticeable over the mindless chatter echoing in the pub. “What brings you here?”

Harry shrugs, clasping his hands behind his back. “Just out for drinks with a few of my mates.”

“‘Mates’,” Margaret parrots, lowering her voice and putting on a horrible accent. You gawk at her as she giggles. “That sounds like fun—we’re doing the same thing! What’s your favourite type of alcohol? I like vodka.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, shaking your head imperceptibly. When you look back up, you find Harry’s eyes sweeping across your face. A coy smirk dances on his lips.

You take note of the dimple that carves itself into his cheek and groan inwardly. Just when you thought that he couldn’t get any more attractive…

“I’m more of a whiskey guy, myself,” he says. His shoulders relax a bit; the tension in his body visibly melts away. Though Margaret is the one who had gotten you into this mess in the first place, you suddenly find yourself thankful for her presence. It’s easier to socialize when you’re around someone who makes it their mission to inject comedy into a conversation.

“I’m going to go grab us another round,” you announce gently, making a move to slide out of the booth. Before you stand, you look over at your friends. “What do you guys want?”

“I thought you said we had to slow down,” Margaret says, shooting you a confused frown.

“I changed my mind. What do you want?”

“Just a root beer for me,” Mateo says, trying to hold in a laugh.

“Another shot of vodka!” Margaret cheers, throwing her arms up. She sighs and leans her head on Mateo’s shoulder; he pets her hair, humouring her. She hums and speaks the words that she promises before every drink. “I’ll do it this time. I won’t even wrinkle my nose.”

“Okay,” you say with a curt nod. You stand and face Harry, hesitating only for a second before murmuring, “Well, it was nice to see—”

“Harry!” Margaret suddenly cuts in, drowning out the rest of your sentence. “Would you be a doll and go with her? I don’t think she’ll be able to carry all of our drinks back by herself.”

“I—,” Harry glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, sure.” His throat bobs when he turns and asks you, “That alright with you?”

No!

You want to scream your refusal at him, and then leap across the table and pummel Margaret with hard, closed fists. But instead, you merely purse your lips and bob your head once. “Yup. Let’s go.”

~*~

“Hi.” You smile at the bartender and lean your forearms against the counter. “Can I get a root beer, a shot of vodka, and a vodka cranberry, please?”

She nods, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder and giving you a thumbs-up. You exhale deeply as she bustles away to prepare the drinks. Your skin is prickling with nerves, hyperaware of the fact that Harry is standing right next to you. Casting a furtive glance around the pub, you gnaw on your bottom lip. Harry’s friends are sitting on the other side of the room; they’ve claimed a booth as well. A few of them are piled atop each other as they all struggle to squeeze in. The sight makes you chuckle.

“So,” you hear from beside you. Harry’s gaze is steady as he rubs his fingers against his chin. “What did your friend mean when she said that she wouldn’t wrinkle her nose?”

The question is so arbitrary and out of the blue that it pulls an involuntary laugh from your mouth.

“Oh, Margaret?” you ask. When Harry nods, you continue. “She just sucks at taking shots. She pulls a face every time, so whenever we drink, she always tries to stop herself from doing it. It never works, though.”

Harry smirks. You look away. A few long seconds draw out before he speaks again.

“They seem nice,” he tells you. When you cock an eyebrow at him questioningly, he elaborates. “Your friends, I mean.”

“Oh.” You dip your chin. “Yeah, they’re great.”

He opens his mouth to say more, but just then, the blonde bartender returns with the drinks you’d ordered, setting them down onto the counter in front of you. “Anything else?” she asks, drumming her fingers on the surface of the bar. Your eyes are drawn to the low cut of her top.

“That’s all, thanks,” you declare, but then you pause. “Actually…,” you decide, and you turn to Harry. “Do you want anything?”

He balks, slightly stunned. His eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, and you suppress a small smile—that’s probably the most expressive you’ve ever seen him.

“No, no,” Harry assures you. “I’m alright.”

“I insist,” you say, and there must be something powerful in your gaze, because he just purses his lips and forfeits his repudiation.

“Er, I’ll just have a coke, then.”

You and the bartender both nod simultaneously. In less than thirty seconds, she’s got his drink standing alongside the others on the counter. “That’ll be eighteen dollars,” she tells you. You unzip your wallet and hand her the exact change before taking a quick sip of your vodka cranberry.

“I’m surprised you didn’t order whiskey,” you joke lightly, peeking over at Harry. He lifts the rim of his glass and takes a hearty gulp of his soda, licking his lips once he swallows.

“I—,” he begins, shaking his head. “Actually, I don’t drink.”

“Oh, really?” You cock your head to the side. “Why not?” A moment later, you backpedal hastily. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“It’s fine,” he says. “I used to drink a lot while I was doing my undergrad. Like, a lot. Shit happened, and I ended up needing to get my stomach pumped. After that, I just kind of…made the decision to lay off.”

“I see.” You falter. “Was it difficult?”

Harry nods, but only barely. He suddenly seems much more interested in the shiny floorboards of the bar. “Yeah, it was. But it was for the best. I’m here now, and I’m a teaching assistant for two classes, so I’d say things worked out pretty well.”

“Two classes?”

“Yeah. Neuropsychology, and then Doctor Chen’s psychopathology class,” he tells you.

“I was actually thinking of taking that,” you confess. “It looks really interesting.”

“It is.”

Though your mouth is dry, you hold up your vodka cranberry. “Well, then…cheers to you. That’s definitely something to be proud of.”

Harry gazes at you through his lashes and lifts his own drink, clinking your glasses together. The two of you take a sip at the same time; his eyes hold onto yours over the rim of his cup. You’re the first one to look away, your heart hammering as you reach out to grab Margaret’s shot. Harry mimics you and wraps his fingers around Mateo’s root beer.

“What’s your favourite drink?” he inquires, his grassy eyes alert. You pause.

“Probably tequila,” you say eventually. “It goes down smoother than anything else, I’ve found. Plus, it doesn’t take much for it to fuck me up.”

A low chuckle slips from Harry’s lips. Your thighs clench together at the sound.

“Guess I’ll have to buy you a shot of tequila later,” Harry tells you, leaning against the bar. “To repay you.”

You can hear the blood thundering in your ears. There’s an odd, fluttery sensation in your chest. You aren’t sure of whether it’s excitement, or anxiety, or perhaps both. All you know is that this is uncharted territory for you. You think that maybe it’s because of the pub and the atmosphere it provides: something laid-back and nonchalant. Harry has never spoken to you like this—like you’re a friend. You have no clue how to feel about it, so you settle for simply hoping that you won’t accidentally say the wrong thing and dash all of the progress you’ve made.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” you answer, shaking your head. “I think that this was me repaying you for that coffee you bought me a while back. Do you remember?”

Bringing up his previous act of generosity makes you nervous; he’d swiftly cut you off the last time you’d tried to thank him for the latte. But—much to your surprise—his features don’t harden when your words sink in. You watch as his brows knit together for only a moment before a spark of recognition flickers in his eyes.

Harry’s expression opens up as the memory dawns on him, like petals from a rosebud. “I do.”

You shoot him a tight smile. “See? So now we’re even.”

He smirks. “I guess we are.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat and lift your chin in the direction of where your friends are still waiting. “Shall we?”

He nods, holding out his arm and inviting you to take the lead.

Your feet have only carried you a few steps when you hear someone call out, “Wait!”

Instinctively, both you and Harry spin around. The blonde bartender is back, raking her fingers through her hair and sliding a napkin across the counter. She’s looking at Harry, a roguish smile twisting her mouth upward. When he leans forward to accept her offering, you catch a glimpse of a series of numbers written across the serviette in black ink. Something in your stomach drops grossly; you turn to avoid witnessing Harry’s reaction and hastily speed away.

Margaret claps her hands excitedly when you return with her drink. Mateo looks at you inquisitively.

“Where’s Harry?”

“He’s coming,” you mumble, refusing to meet your friend’s eyes. You remain standing as you take a long sip of your vodka cranberry. Mateo’s lips curve down into the smallest of frowns, like he can sense that something is off with you. Thankfully, he doesn’t pry.

A moment later, Harry appears beside you, holding out the glass of root beer in his left hand. “Sorry, mate,” he apologises to Mateo. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Okay!” Margaret exclaims, rubbing her hands together and staring intently at the shot of vodka resting on the table in front of her. “I’m gonna do it!”

Mateo grins at her, giving her the type of smile that you’d offer to a child who’s just done something endearing. You snicker silently.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up when Harry turns to you and lays a large hand on your forearm. You stop breathing as he leans in close and whispers against your ear, “Is this the part where she…?”

The words are warm against your skin. A violent shudder races down your spine. In response, you can only muster a nod and a high-pitched, “Mhm.”

He chuckles lowly before pulling away.

Margaret downs the shot, and you, Harry, and Mateo all laugh when her face collapses into a vicious grimace. She’s still grumbling about her failed attempt when Harry states that he should be getting back to his friends on the other side of the bar.

“Have a nice night, you lot.” He shakes Mateo’s hand and shoots Margaret a small smile. He then turns to you, his gaze locking with yours. Your cheeks tingle hotly.

“And, you…,” Harry murmurs, the corners of his lips twitching. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nod, swallowing with some difficulty. When the words finally make it out of your mouth, they’re wobbly and forced.

“See you tomorrow.”

~*~

Around one in the morning, you and your friends have decided that it’s time to put an end to the night. Even Margaret is ready to go home.

“I’ve got to be up early tomorrow, anyway,” you explain to her. “My meeting with Harry is at ten.”

“Right.” Margaret nods knowingly and wiggles her brows. “Your meeting. Are you guys gonna fuck in his office?”

“Margaret!”

“What?” she laughs, gathering her hair into a low ponytail. “That would be so hot!”

You shake your head. Mateo pinches the bridge of his nose. The three of you head toward the exit of the pub, passing by the large group made up of Harry’s friends. They all seem to be having a great time, absorbed in a flurry of conversation and laughter. You scan each face quickly, frowning when you note that Harry isn’t among them. He must’ve gone to grab another soda, you decide, or perhaps he had to use the washroom. Either way, you don’t dwell on his absence.

You wrap your windbreaker around your body as you step out into the chilly October air. Beside you, Mateo sighs—his breath emerges as a small, foggy cloud.

“Do you guys want me to call an Uber?” he asks. He shoots Margaret a pointed glare. “Or are you gonna do it this time, you cheapskate?”

“Excuse you,” Margaret protests, still sloshed. “I’m not a cheapskate!”

“You’re literally the stingiest person I know,” Mateo deadpans. She squawks.

While the two of them bicker, you glance around and take in your surroundings. The road in front of you is dark and quiet, disturbed only by the occasional car. There are squished wads of gum, burnt cigarette butts, and haphazard attempts at graffiti littering the sidewalk. The streetlights bathe you in a warm, orange glow. About twenty feet away, a man and a woman are engrossed in a series of heavy kisses.

You pause. Your eyes narrow.

Holy shit.

“Fine!” Margaret yells, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll call the Uber!”

She’s too loud.

Her voice carries through the air.

Lips parting, you watch in horror as Harry detaches his mouth from the bartender’s neck and turns his head toward the noise. His eyes land on your face, and your chest seizes up in panic. In the millisecond that passes before you look away, his features morph from an expression of surprise to that of shame.

You whip around, nearly snapping your neck.

“Actually,” you say shrilly, interrupting Margaret and Mateo’s squabble. “Let’s hit up one more place. I’m not ready to head home just yet.”

Your friends stare at you, mystified.

“Okay…,” Margaret says slowly. “Why don’t we just stay here, then?”

“No!” you blurt before you can stop yourself. The divot between Margaret’s eyebrows deepens. Her pupils bounce from side to side in drunken confusion, but then her gaze lands on the person behind you that you know is Harry, and she gasps.

“Fuck,” she whispers. You glue your eyes to the floor.

Mateo is gawking, too, now. You shake your head and reach for the pair of them, wrapping your fingers around their arms and guiding them further away from the scene. “Let’s just go,” you murmur quietly. The words taste sour on your tongue.

“What—?” Margaret turns back to you, her nostrils flaring angrily. You find solace in knowing that she’s equally as upset as you are.  “What do you wanna do?”

You shrug, too overrun with humiliation to meet her eyes. Mateo wraps a protective arm around your shoulder, and you busy yourself with ogling the buttons on his coat. Your throat is tight with emotion, ears ringing relentlessly.

“Can we go somewhere else?” you ask weakly—your friends are nodding before you’ve even finished the question. “I want to get fucked up.”

  October 14th, 2019

Your head hurts.

Standing in front of Harry’s office, you wish that you’d forgone that final shot of tequila. Your stomach churns uneasily even now—hours later—and you find yourself struggling to recall certain points from last night. You don’t remember much, but what you do know is that Margaret hadn’t ended up being the one hunched over the toilet at three in the morning.

Where the fuck is he?

The door is locked, leaving you no choice but to stand outside in the hall and lean against the wall for support. Your eyes are puffy and red from lack of sleep. You’re fairly certain that your cheeks are swollen, too. You’d cried yourself into a fitful slumber just as the sun began to rise.

You touch your face; your skin feels grainy thanks to the tears that had escaped your eyes and soaked through the cotton of your pillowcase.

You check your phone and bite your lip. It’s a quarter past ten.

Harry is never late.

You’ll wait another ten minutes, you conclude, and if he doesn’t show up, you’ll just go home.

Only a minute after you settle on the decision, the squeaky sound of shoes slipping against polished tiles reaches your ears. You turn toward the sound just in time to watch Harry skid around the corner. Before you can stop yourself, your brows shoot up in dry disbelief.

He’s a mess.

“Hi,” Harry says, slightly out of breath. “Sorry to have kept you waiting.”

He’s wearing a pair of brown corduroy trousers that sit lopsided on his hips and a white button up tucked beneath a tan-coloured sweater vest. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up unevenly, and the vest itself is wrinkled near the hem. His tortoise-shell glasses are crooked on his face; his hair is disheveled. That same messenger bag is slung over his body, but there’s also a disorganized, rumpled pile of papers in his arms. A loose sheet slips from his grasp and flutters to the floor.

“Shit,” Harry mutters. Silently, you bend down, pick up the page, and hold it out to him. He grunts, wrestling one hand free to accept it. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Your words are monotone; you refuse make eye contact with him.

Harry digs his fingers into his pocket and produces a set of keys. They jingle cheerfully as he jams one into the lock on the door and twists it to the side—you wince at the loud noise. A telling click echoes through the air. With a gentle push, the door swings open.

“Ladies first,” Harry mumbles. Forcing your chin up, you walk into his office.

The room is very different compared to how it had been a few days ago. It’s emptier. A couple of boxes are strewn across the floor, packed up with supplies. All that’s left on Harry’s bureau now is a red pen and a desktop computer. Even the tall bookshelf in the corner of the room is bare, void of all the novels that it had previously housed. You cock your head to the side, nibbling apprehensively on your bottom lip.

“Sorry about the mess,” Harry says, shutting the door and staggering over to his desk. He plops the pile of papers onto the corner of the table and collapses into his rolling chair. “Renovations start the day after tomorrow, so I’ve been clearing out my essentials.”

“All of your books are essential?” you mutter, gingerly taking a seat in one of the cushioned chairs across from him. You don’t intend for him to hear the question—it’s actually more of a taunt, if you’re being honest—but he does.

“I like to read.” He shrugs.

You unzip your bag and rustle around for your midterm. “Me too.”

When you finally retrieve the exam, you pull it out and look up at him for the first time that day. His lips twitch almost indiscernibly, and it’s a soft, mocking lilt when he says, “I know.”

It dawns on you, then, that you’ve already had the same conversation in this exact spot. Your face grows hot, but you compel yourself to shake off the embarrassment. Clearing your throat, you slide your midterm onto his desk in hopes of changing the subject. “Here you go.”

Harry’s eyes fall to the packet.

“Right,” he says, tucking himself in closer. He licks his lips, turning it to the side and opening it up to the first page of questions. “You can see it like this, yeah?”

You nod, placing your elbows on his desk and slyly trying to massage your temples with two fingers—your headache seems to have only gotten worse.

“Okay.” Harry shifts in his seat and points to the third question on the sheet. “This answer here was B. The common name for fluoxetine is Prozac.”

“Got it,” you say, nodding solemnly. You feel silly for having forgotten something as simple as a type of medication.

Harry’s eyes skim the paper before he shifts his finger to the bottom of the page. “And this one here—,” he starts, “The motor cortex is located in the frontal lobe, just before the central sulcus.”

“Oh, shit.” You cringe, pinching the bridge of your nose. “The one in the parietal lobe is the somatosensory cortex, right?”

“Exactly.”

You shake your head, and then immediately regret doing so—it feels like someone is drilling screws into your skull. “What a stupid mistake.”

“It’s not, really,” Harry says, scratching the underside of his jaw. “The parietal lobe tends to be responsible for processing sensory information—some of it is visual, but most of it is tactile. And because of that, it’s really easy to get it mixed up, because we tend to associate touch with movement.”

“That’s exactly what I did,” you admit, pursing your lips.

He shrugs. “It’s okay. You’re learning—that’s the point.”

You glance up at him and find his eyes trained on you. It’s like he’s trying to convey something unspoken, but you don’t quite know what it is. Your throat bobs with a heavy swallow, and you force yourself to look away.

“Next page,” you urge softly. Harry obliges.

He places his finger beside the first question at the top. “This answer was D—all of the above. Because yeah, cerebrospinal fluid is produced by the ependymal cells, but those are located in the choroid plexuses, which, in turn, are found in the ventricles.” He puckers his lips. “It was a bit of a trick question.”

“No kidding.”

Harry’s lips curl grimly.

He’s in the middle of explaining the next error on your exam when your stomach flips and the top of your throat pulses dangerously. You sit back in your seat, one hand flying to your belly while the other shoots up to cover your mouth. Harry looks up at you quizzically; his expression softens when he absorbs your wide, terrified eyes and your hunched shoulders.

“Are you gonna be sick?” he asks quickly, straightening up.

At that exact moment, the nausea passes. The tension melts from your body, and your chest visibly deflates. You exhale quietly; your hand drops from where it had been shielding the lower half of your face.

Nervously, you peer up at Harry, only to find him regarding you with a blank expression. His lips are tucked into a thin line, and his stare is shallow and emotionless. You open your mouth to say something, but he beats you to it.

“You’re hungover,” he states flatly. There’s no humour lacing the words.

“I—,” you grit your teeth. “Yeah, I am.”

Harry sighs regretfully, sinking back in his chair. He hooks his finger into the collar of his shirt and twists it around to loosen the material. Your lips part in shock, eyes nearly bulging out of your head.

“And you’re marked up,” you exclaim before you can stop yourself.

Harry’s brows knit together in confusion. As soon as the realisation strikes, though, he sits up straight, his nostrils flaring with a sharp inhale. His hand flies to cover his throat, but it’s too late—you’ve already seen them.

A number of dark, splotchy purple marks stand out against the smooth, tan skin of his neck. You’re not sure how many there are in total, and you don’t think that you want to know. Harry’s staring at you, his expression severe. You can’t tear your gaze away from his face—it feels like an eternity passes before either of you says anything.

“I think…,” Harry speaks slowly, his eyes flitting from side to side as he studies your features. “We should reschedule.”

“Good idea,” you breathe.

“And I think,” he adds, still using the same tone, “That we should both agree to keep this entire ordeal…confidential.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Deal.”

You can’t help it, then—you snort once before dissolving into laughter. Though bewildered creases dig into Harry’s forehead, the corners of his lips slowly curve up into a smile. Before long, he’s joining you in your amusement, his chest vibrating with deep, rumbling chuckles. His blocky front teeth latch onto his bottom lip, and he covers his mouth with his fingers in an attempt to subdue the sounds.

Deep in your abdomen, you can feel a tight little ball of jealousy festering. It had been conceived yesterday upon seeing the bartender slip Harry that napkin, and it had grown once you’d witnessed him kissing her outside of the pub. The hickies on his neck should be sending you into a downward spiral, but the hilarity of your current situation is enough to overshadow the ugliness—at least for the time being.

Later, you know that you’ll probably feel sick to your stomach, but you’ll just choose to blame it on the surplus of alcohol from last night.

“Wait, wait,” you say, rubbing your palm over your cheek. There’s a small smile on your lips, and your shoulders tremble with silent giggles. “What—when do you want to meet, then? Didn’t you say that renovations are starting soon?”

“Oh, shit.” Harry’s face falls immediately. He frowns in thought. “Does tomorrow work? I’ll be here in the afternoon.”

“I’ve got class until noon, and then I’ve got to leave for a dentist appointment at one,” you say mournfully.

Harry curses under his breath. You rub your hands together anxiously, watching him come to the realisation that you’re both out of options. He pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, gazing down emptily at the exam still splayed out on the desk.

“Okay,” he murmurs. He looks up at you, speaking with a bit more conviction. “Come over to my place on Wednesday, then.”

The look of unapologetic shock on your face must be priceless, but Harry holds his ground. The gears in your mind immediately kick into overdrive; you try to quell the noise—it’s only going to make your headache worse. You look at Harry, hoping that he can’t see the way you’ve just swallowed down the hard lump in your throat.

“Your place,” you echo dumbly. “On Wednesday.”

Harry nods assuredly. “Yeah.”

It’s taking everything in you to steer clear of an overreaction. Harry’s suggesting it because he wants to help you improve in time for the final exam—he’s just trying to do his job. You don’t want to be the one to make it weird. There’s a certain kind of maturity to his idea, you think, and you want to show him the ease with which you can meet him on that level.

“Are you sure?” you ask. “I don’t want to, like, impose.”

“I’m sure.” His reply is firm. “You’re not imposing. I told you that I’d go over the midterm with you, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

You nod, rubbing your clammy hands against your thighs. “Okay.”

“Perfect,” Harry says. He reaches forward and folds your exam closed before sliding it back to you. “Can you make it for, let’s say, six in the evening?”

“Um, alright.” You hesitate. “Where exactly do you—?”

“I’ll e-mail you my address,” Harry promises before you can finish your question. You clamp your mouth shut, nodding again. You don’t miss the delicate curl of his lips, or the shallow, nearly invisible crinkles that appear at the corners of his eyes. You stand up, slipping your midterm back into your bag and tugging on the zipper to ensure that it stays secure.

“Okay, well…,” you look at him through your eyelashes, too afraid to fix him with a proper stare. “Have a good day, then.”

He shoots you a tight, pained smile. You wonder if he’s already regretting his offer.

“You too.”

And for the second time in less than a week, you find yourself exiting Harry’s office with a muddy mind, sweaty palms, and a racing heart.

  October 15th, 2019

“You’re going to his house?” Margaret shrieks.

You wince and bury your face into your palms. The half-eaten plate of gnocchi that you’d ordered is pushed off to your right, abandoned. Margaret stabs her lasagna with her silver fork, shovelling a piece past her lips and chewing frantically. “What were you thinking?” she demands through a mouthful of pasta.

In the dim lighting of the restaurant, her gaze is piercingly judgmental.

“I was thinking about my grade!” you retort defensively. You groan, squeezing your eyes shut. “And I didn’t want to be the one to make it awkward. Like, if he’s suggesting it, that obviously means that he doesn’t see anything wrong with it. So, if I get all freaked out, then I just end up looking like a child.”

Your friend turns your words over in her head, tilting her chin from side to side in acknowledgement. “I get that,” she says, swallowing her food. “But I’m still fucking upset about the other night.”

“You and me both,” you mumble, averting your gaze.

“Hey,” Margaret says sternly, fixing you with a strict glare. “You’re not allowed to feel embarrassed about that. You did nothing wrong—he’s just a dick.”

“He’s not a dick,” you tell her, a hint of admonishment creeping into your words. “And it’s not like he asked me out before hooking up with her. There’s no valid reason for me to be mad about this.”

“Say that again,” Margaret warns, pointing her fork in your direction, “And I’ll punch you straight in the tit.”

You snort.

“I still want you to sleep with him,” she says casually, popping another bite of lasagna into her mouth. “But if he wants my forgiveness, it better be a phenomenal fuck.”

“Margaret!”

“What? I’m just telling it like it is!”

“Jesus Christ.”

  October 16th, 2019

You had been looking forward to today’s lecture. It’s all about memory processes and mnemonic devices, retention and phenomena regarding recollection. You’d been hoping to integrate some of the information into your study habits—though you already know all about the spacing and testing effects, you’re always open to learning new tricks.

Yet you don’t find yourself as immersed in the class as you thought you’d be. Margaret and Mateo are beside you, giving themselves to Dr. Renault with rapt attention, but you can’t seem to devote to him that same level of focus. A small, naïve part of you wonders why, but deep down, you know the exact reason for your lack of concentration.

And that reason is currently standing off to the side of the room, his tattooed arms crossed over his chest and his olive eyes fixated shamelessly on you. You have to suppress a smile—he’s not even trying to hide it.

Around thirty minutes ago, Harry had returned the quizzes that you had all written last week. You’d looked down at your paper to find a perfect score, along with a messy red scribble in the corner.

Well done, love. See you tonight. H. x

You don’t think that your heart has ever swelled so rapidly. Even now, sitting in the middle of the room, you can hear the blood rushing through your ears. Sometimes, when you glance down at Harry, he’ll look away—other times, he just stares at you evenly, refusing to be the first to give in. You’ve witnessed his lips twitching with a forbidden smirk on multiple occasions. It takes everything in you to keep from grinning like a maniac.

What the fuck is going on?

He must be in a good mood, you decide. You peek down at him one last time—to your surprise, his attention is elsewhere, eyes trained on his watch to check the time. When he lifts his head back up, you deflect your gaze immediately and try to ignore the giddy warmth that erupts across your chest.

You refuse to look at him again, but in your peripheral vision, you swear that you see his shoulders rumble with a silent laugh.

~*~

Harry’s building is really nice. The floors in the lobby are shiny and polished, and glass chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Actual chandeliers! The windows are large and clear, letting in just enough natural light from outside to make you feel like you’re starring in an episode of Gossip Girl. You shoot a timid smile to the woman sitting behind the front desk—since when do apartment complexes have receptionists?

Even the elevators look like they’ve been recently renovated. The buttons light up when you press them, a thin ring of red surrounding each number. You find yourself humming along to the music playing softly from the speakers.

The elevator dings when you reach your level. “Fourth floor,” an automated voice announces. You chuckle incredulously as you step out into the hallway. How the hell is he living here?

Your eyes narrow as you scan the plaque on each door that you pass. 4A, 4B…

4C.

You stop short, running your fingers through your hair and tugging on the sleeves of your denim jacket. You pull your phone out from your pocket and glance at the time—it’s exactly six o’clock.

Before you can lose your nerve, you lift your fist and rap gently on the wood. The sound is drowned out by the ringing in your ears. You swallow heavily and shove your hands behind your back, waiting with a held breath and a racing pulse. The passing seconds feel like eons; you’re about to knock again, but then there’s a faint click, and the door is swinging open before you can blink.

“Hey,” Harry says, not unkindly.

You offer up a nervous smile. “Hey.”

The first thing you notice is that his outfit looks nothing like the usual ensemble he wears to your lectures. You were beginning to think that all he owned in his closet were slacks and button-ups and any other articles of clothing that make him look about twenty years older than he really is. But here he stands before you, sporting a light grey hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants. Cute little ankle socks cover his feet, and—as he had on the first day of class—he’s pinned his hair back using his glasses. His eyes seem brighter than usual, and his lips look slightly swollen, like he’s been chewing on them continuously. The prospect of him being antsy to see you makes your stomach flip with anticipation.

You force the thought out of your mind and silently berate yourself. He’s not eager to see you, and there’s nothing here for you to dissect—you’re reading too much into this.

“Come in,” Harry says, stepping away from the door and making room for you to pass through. You thank him softly, gliding past the threshold and taking a short moment to toe off your shoes.

“How are you?” you ask him, though you don’t meet his gaze.

“Good, thanks,” he replies. “You?”

“I’m good.”

“Good.”

You snicker hollowly—the playfulness he’d channeled today in class has clearly faded away. Harry turns on his heel and pads down the hall; unsure of what to do, you simply follow. You take advantage of the fact that he can’t see you, allowing your eyes to rake over his broad, muscular back. Your mouth waters when you cast only a momentary glance at his ass.

“I figured we could set up in the kitchen,” Harry tells you matter-of-factly.

“Sounds good.”

He nods and stops in front of another doorway. Just as he had done before, he steps aside and motions for you to enter first. “After you.”

You hate the weak articulation of your response. “Thank you.”

Everything in the kitchen is white, save for the black marble countertops and the sleek grey refrigerator standing proudly in the corner. On the table sits a bowl of bananas and a small stack of letters and bills. When you glance at Harry with a puzzled look on your face, he just shrugs.

“I really like bananas,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. His sudden awkwardness makes you smile.

“I prefer pomegranates,” you reply, a hint of teasing evident in your tone.

Harry nods. “Those are good.”

“Right?” you say, setting your bag down onto one of the kitchen chairs. “They’re a real bitch to peel, though.”

“I know,” he hums, rolling his eyes. “It takes forever.”

You chuckle and look up at him properly for the first time since he’d opened his front door. His irises twinkle with mischief, and the sight makes your heart flutter in your chest. You’re not used to seeing him like this—with just a few short sentences, it feels like he’s let down his guard and is allowing you to see a new side of him. You like it. You don’t want to screw it up.

“Have you got your exam?” Harry asks, snapping you out of your thoughts. You blink and nod quickly, unzipping your bag and pulling your midterm out of a random binder.

“Here we go,” you murmur, handing it over to him.

He hums gently before motioning for you to take a seat. You lower yourself into the chair at the head of the table, and he chooses to occupy the one adjacent to you. The skin on your arms prickles when he shifts a bit closer. He unfolds your exam, opening it up to the second page.

“Right, then,” he says, clearing his throat. He points to the top of the sheet. “We ended off with this question the other day, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Harry mumbles. He slides his index finger to the very bottom of the paper, where your next error is circled in red. Your attention is glued to the small cross tattooed on his hand.

“For this one,” he starts, tapping the page softly, “Sleep spindles become apparent on a monitor during the second stage of light sleep, not the third.”

“The third stage consists of delta waves, correct?” you ask. Harry nods—you think that there’s a trace of pride in his expression, but you can’t be sure.

“See?” he tells you, pinning you with a serious look. “You know this stuff. You just had a bad morning that day, that’s all.”

His words make you want to lean over the corner of the table and tackle him in a hug.

“I—thank you,” you stammer instead. You focus your attention on your exam, praying that he doesn’t catch the stupid smile that spreads across your face. Your cheeks are aflame, and your heart feels like it’s only seconds away from giving out. You adjust your position in the chair, crossing your legs and shoving your hands beneath your thighs to hide the way that they tremble.

The two of you work through most of the remaining questions together—you’re shocked at how many of the correct answers you actually know. You feel like an idiot for having gotten them wrong; when you mutter as much under your breath, Harry shoots you a stern glare.

“You’re not an idiot,” he tells you, a hard edge to his voice. You shrink beneath his piercing gaze. “This is why we encourage going to bed early the night before an exam. You know so many of these, but a lack of sleep can really just screw you over.”

“Yeah,” you say, sighing softly. A second later, you add, “Thanks for bearing with me.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Harry responds. He flips to the last page of the packet. “We’re nearly done,” he reveals, and you have to fight to hide your surprise when he smiles teasingly at you. “Then you’ll be able to get me out of your hair.”

You scoff and emit a nervous laugh. “If anything, I’m the one in your hair.”

“Not true,” Harry says. His shoulders shake with a cool shrug. “I wouldn’t have been doing anything tonight, anyway. Your presence is a welcome distraction.”

You snort, though the sound rapidly dissolves into a violent cough. Harry’s eyes widen, and he rubs his palm over his forehead when the realisation hits him.

“Fuck,” he murmurs before speaking up. “I didn’t even offer you something to drink, Christ. What can I get for you?”

“Um,” you choke out, placing your hand on your chest. “Water—water’s fine.”

“Brilliant.” He shoots up from his chair and darts around the counter. You curl your fingers into a fist and deliver a few gentle pounds to your sternum. When the hacking fit passes, you swallow heavily and squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassed beyond belief. You busy yourself with staring at the last page of your midterm, skimming mindlessly over the words on the sheet.

Lost in your humiliation, you don’t look up when the loud clinking of glass reaches your ears. It’s only when you hear the deep baritone of Harry’s voice that you lift your gaze.

“Er…would you mind?”

Your jaw drops.

“How the hell did you manage to do that?”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Harry protests as you stand. His features contort with concentration. “They all just fell down at once!”

You laugh and scurry around the counter quickly. Harry’s standing in front of an open cabinet, his forearms acting as the only barrier between several cups and the floor. He wrinkles his nose as he shifts, only to freeze immediately when one of the glasses slips further down. You pause beside him, looking for a way to provide help without causing anything to fall and shatter.

“Why’re you just standing there?” he demands, but the question is laced with laughter.

“I’m trying to find a way to get in here!” you say, giggling. You gnaw on your bottom lip to suppress a smile, stepping closer to him and placing your fingertips delicately onto his elbow.

“Okay, maybe—lift your arm a bit for me.”

“What?”

“Lift your arm!”

“Alright, shit!” Harry obeys.

You hunch your shoulders and slip in between him and the counter, ending up with your back pressed against his chest. His breath washes out onto the shell of your left ear—a shiver races down your spine. You bite down harshly on your tongue as you lift your own arms, carefully plucking each glass from its teetering position and placing them all safely back onto the shelf.  

“There we go,” you murmur, holding out your hands in front of the cabinet—one last act of caution. His arms fall from where they were outstretched next to yours. You give yourself a mental pat on the back, smirking proudly and turning around.

Your breath gets caught in your throat.

Harry hasn’t moved an inch.

His expression is unreadable, features stony. His eyes stare at you with such intensity you feel as though he’s pulling you apart layer by layer and scrutinizing everything that lies beneath. You watch anxiously as his tongue dips out to wet his lips—the action is over just as quickly as it begins. His strong chest moves against yours, rising and falling with shallow, sporadic gasps. You swallow roughly, refusing to make the first move.

But then Harry lets out a defeated sigh.

“Fuck it all,” he says.

A pair of large hands fly up to grip the sides of your face, and he covers your lips with his.

~*~

If someone had told you a week ago that you’d end up like this, you’re pretty sure that you would have cackled right in their face. Hell, if someone had told you ten minutes ago that you’d end up like this, you would have considered it to be the grandest comedy special of the century.

But there’s nothing funny about this situation.

You fail to see any bit of humour in the way that Harry presses his lips to yours with a bruising force. You don’t laugh when he steps closer to you, trapping you against the counter and sliding his fingers into your hair to keep you near. And you’re not fucking around one bit when you melt against him, your hands slipping past his waist and your fingers interlocking at the small of his back. A soft, pleased sigh escapes your lips.

Finally.

“I’ve thought—,” Harry breathes against your mouth, cutting himself off so that he can pepper hard kisses to the corner of your lips. “—thought about this so much, you’ve got no idea.”

“Shut up,” you murmur, digging your nails into his back through the thick material of his sweater. He presses a forceful kiss to the curve of your jaw; you can feel the way his cheeks lift with a smirk.

It’s frenzied, it’s feverish, and it’s been a long time coming. Harry doesn’t waste a second, hiking you up onto the counter and tugging your denim jacket from your shoulders. You whimper delightedly at the action. His fingers find the hem of your white t-shirt, slipping beneath the soft cotton and rucking it up your sides. His nails scrape gently across your skin, leaving a searing path behind. Your top falls to the floor, leaving you in a plain, nude bra.

Your face heats up in embarrassment—of course, you’re wearing the foulest undergarments you own. You hadn’t exactly expected to wind up here.

“You too,” you protest breathlessly, trying to turn his attention away from the sheer ugliness of your intimates. You ball the fabric of Harry’s hoodie up in your fists; his body rumbles with a faint chuckle. He steps back, fixing you with an intense stare as his grip curls into the collar of his sweater. You watch with hot cheeks and dilated pupils, clenching your thighs together when he finally rids himself of the material.

He’s got a few dozen more tattoos hidden beneath the sweatshirt, designs littered across his shoulders and his chest. You’re not even surprised. Your gaze falls to the intricate butterfly inked across his abdomen. Harry moves back into your space, and you reach out to trail your fingers along the insect’s ebony wings.

“It’s gorgeous,” you mumble softly.

“I want you,” he replies.

You look up at him with wide eyes. “Have me, then,” you say, lunging for the knot on the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Wait.” He stops you, his long fingers circling around your wrists. “Not yet. First, I’ve got to—”

“What is it?” you ask, somewhat impatiently. You duck your face down, intending to sponge kisses up and down his neck. Your urges are dashed, however, when you catch a glimpse of the marks already scattered across his throat. The hickies aren’t as dark as they had been a couple of days ago (they’ve faded into a light brown, now), but the mere sight of them still leaves you paralyzed with resentment.

You sit back on the counter, your features hardening. Harry watches you in confusion before it dawns on him. One of his hands shoots up to cover his neck.

“She—it didn’t mean anything,” he tells you quickly.

You choke on a dry laugh. “And this does?”

His eyes grow dark. He cups your face in his palms, leaning forward so that his lips brush against yours when he speaks.

“You have no idea,” he says lowly, “how much this means to me.”

You gulp. Your voice shakes when you say, “Prove it.”

Harry kisses you urgently, wrestling his way in between your legs. Your thighs fall open easily, welcoming him closer. He growls gruffly when you hook one of your calves around his hips, drawing him in. His fingers dance up your spine, playing hesitantly with the clasp of your bra. You arch your back, silently encouraging him to take it off.

He makes quick work of the ordeal, undoing the three little hooks in a matter of seconds. Your lips detach from his with a loud smacking sound when the cups loosen around your chest and the straps slide from your shoulders.

“Lemme see, love,” Harry rasps. “Please.”

You swear that those four words are enough to have you soaking through your jeans.

You pull your bra from your body, tossing it away mindlessly. Harry diverts all of his attention to your breasts, reaching up to caress them in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your skin. Your nipples grow tight with arousal, and you’re about to beg him to just do something, but then he bends down and engulfs one of them into his mouth.

“Shit,” you breathe, tilting your head back. “That feels good.”

Harry continues to fondle your other breast with his left hand, while the right slips down so that he can plant a firm grasp on your waist. He rubs his fingers soothingly along the space just above the waistband of your bottoms. You’re torn between pushing your hips back against his touch and curving your torso forward into his mouth.

He pops off of your chest, licking his lips and scattering a haphazard trail of kisses along your cleavage until he reaches the other side. He’s quick to pamper your other nipple with the same amount of attention, sucking avidly and swirling his tongue around it. You whimper, his actions unearthing something wild buried deep in the pit of your belly.

“Harry,” you moan, gripping the edge of the counter tightly. “Please.”

“My hair…,” he mumbles quietly, moving away from your chest and leaving a path of wet kisses up your neck. You sigh when he bites down gently on your collarbone.

“What?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut. Harry snickers.

“Pull—”

He kisses your throat.

“—my—”

He kisses your chin.

“—hair.”

He kisses your lips.

Your fingers twine immediately through the wavy brown tendrils at the back of his neck. You stroke his hair zealously, your nails bumping against the glasses that are still perched on top of his head.

“Take these off,” you mumble, giggling against his lips. Harry smiles, removing the frames. Instead of folding them up, though, he slides them onto the bridge of your nose, his cheeks dimpling with a smug smirk.

“You look hot,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’d love to fuck you while you’re wearing my glasses, but I think you’d just end up with a headache afterwards.”

“My God,” you mutter, shaking your head softly and pulling them off. His words are intended to mock, but they’ve only succeeded in turning you on beyond belief. You leg tightens around Harry’s waist, and you place your hand on his right shoulder to guide him down for a kiss.

“Are we—do you wanna—?” you inquire between soft smacks of your lips against his. Harry seems to catch on to what you’re trying to ask. He nods vehemently, winding his arms around your waist and squeezing you tightly. Your breasts squish against his bare chest—the contact sends a shiver down your spine.

“C’mere,” Harry says, helping you stand from the counter. You reach out for the knot on his sweatpants again, but just like before, he interrupts the act.

“Stop that,” he instructs, his lips twitching in amusement when he registers the pout on your face. “I wanna do something else, first.”

“What is it?” you whine. Harry flips your hands over and traces small circles into your palms. He plants a few chaste pecks on your lips before guiding your fingers into his hair once more.

“Keep them there,” he murmurs as he kisses down your neck. “You’re gonna need something to hold onto.”

You open your mouth to question him, but then he’s dropping to his knees and fiddling with the button on your jeans, and your voice betrays you. Harry tugs your zipper down slowly, peering up at you through his eyelashes and fighting to mask a conceited grin. You wiggle your hips as he jerks your pants down your legs, eventually stepping out of the material once it pools at your feet.

“I can smell you, love,” Harry whispers, groaning wantonly and pressing his forehead against the top of your left thigh. You swallow violently at the pure lust coating each syllable of his sentence, arranging your feet so that they’re planted a bit further apart.

“Can I have it?” Harry asks, looking up at you for permission. His fingers hook into the fabric of your panties.

You nod feebly, choking on the word. “Yes.”

With that, he yanks your underwear smoothly down your legs, throws one of your thighs over his shoulder, and goes to town.

You tilt your head backward as he licks a wide stripe up the length of your folds. His plush, swollen lips pepper kisses against the innermost parts of your core. Your clit throbs when he pulls it into his mouth and sucks gently. He grunts appreciatively when you tug on his hair.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut. The cold edge of the marble counter presses into the small of your back, but you pay it no attention. Harry places one hand on your waist, while the other snakes around to cup your ass. He pinches your bum lightly, chuckling when you squeak and twitch in response.

“How’s it feel?” he asks, sticking his tongue out and flicking it rapidly against your clit. Your lips part with a lewd moan, and your fingers tighten in his curls. You feel him smirk against your cunt, evidently satisfied with your answer.

“Harry,” you breathe, your chest heaving. “You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Good.”

He doubles his efforts after that. You can’t even be embarrassed about the sounds that leave your mouth. It feels like he’s everywhere at once, pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs and lapping fervently at your folds. You jump when he circles your entrance with the tip of his index finger, and whimper as he slowly sinks the digit inside of you. He probes around, cursing at the sensation of your walls bearing down on him.

You can’t believe that this is happening. Never in a million years would you have predicted that you’d be standing in Harry’s ridiculously expensive kitchen, stark naked, with his lips and his tongue guiding you to the brink of an orgasm.

Things have a funny way of working out, you suppose.

Harry hooks his finger inside of you, petting a rough, sensitive spot. You cry out and fall over the edge. The muscles in your legs shake so violently that you have to lean against the counter to keep yourself upright. The heel of your foot digs into Harry’s back, and your grasp on his hair grows unbelievably strong. He continues to pump his finger in and out of your cunt, his thumb rubbing against your clit as he pulls back to watch your features contort in pleasure.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, kissing the skin just beneath your navel. “So fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Damn,” you whisper, inhaling deeply. You pause when you realise that you’ve still got an ironlike grip on the wavy tendrils atop his head. Releasing his curls, you flex your fingers and wipe your sweaty palms against the sides of your bare thighs. Harry’s eyes glitter.

“You’re good at that,” you say breathlessly. He grins, and you swoon upon spotting the deep crevice of his dimple.

“Can I kiss you again?” he requests.

A winded laugh falls from your mouth. “You didn’t ask me if you could before.”

“I should’ve.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you seriously saying that right now?” Your eyebrows climb up your forehead.

A low grunt escapes Harry’s lips when he stands. You watch, amused, as he places a hand on his lower back and stretches. His nose wrinkles in contempt.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Back problems.”

“Why’re you apologising?” The corner of your mouth quirks up. Harry pauses, looking down at you before an incredulous chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest.

“You’re something else,” he says, shaking his head. You smile, winding your arms around his neck and steering him in for a long, lazy kiss.

He tastes like you. The realisation makes you moan.

Sneakily, you run your hands down his back, taking only a moment to marvel at the way his muscles shift beneath his skin. You stop right above his bum, gliding your fingers over the elastic of his bottoms and circling back to the front. Harry scoffs when you begin tinkering with the tie on his sweatpants, and you giggle. Despite his slight jeer, though, he allows you to continue.

You pull at the string, and it promptly comes loose. “Wait,” Harry says.

You groan.

“I swear to God,” you exclaim. “If you don’t let me get you naked—”

He grabs your face in his palms and cuts you off with a bruising kiss. Your empty threat dies on the tip of your tongue.

“I just meant—,” Harry mumbles, the words hot and sticky, “—maybe we should take this to my room.”

You pull back and blink. “That’s awfully forward of you.”

His face is vacant until your sentence sinks in, and then he laughs. The sound comes from deep in his diaphragm, capping off at the end with a high-pitched squeak. It makes you want to grab him and cover his lips with yours until you’re both struggling to breathe.

“C’mon,” Harry commands, tangling his fingers with yours.

He leads you out of the kitchen and down the hall, stopping at the last door on the left. As soon as you step into his room, you note that his bed is preposterously big. That’s the only observation you’re able to make, though, because then he’s picking you up in all of your naked glory and flinging you onto the mattress.

You yelp in surprise, scrambling up to where a mountain of pillows is propped against the headboard. Harry watches you as he saunters over, his eyes hungry and voracious. His tongue swipes over his teeth as he joins you on the bed. You giggle eagerly.

Once your lips convene again, the atmosphere shifts. The playfulness is gone, replaced by something deeper, something greedier. Harry licks into your mouth, ravenous. You whimper, wrapping your legs around his waist and subconsciously bucking your hips up off the duvet. You can feel his cock inside his bottoms, hard and heavy and waiting to be freed. Fed up with the numerous delays, you grab onto material covering his thighs and yank it down. He notices your struggle, and he sits back on his knees to help you in your quest to get him undressed.

“I’m not—,” Harry begins, but he’s too slow.

Your eyes grow wide when they land on what lies beneath his sweatpants.

I’m not small, he might have started to say, or perhaps, I’m not wearing any underwear.

You’re not sure which statement it would have been, because both are true. He’s now equally as naked as you, his cock swollen and curved against his stomach. The tip is flushed a light pink, dotted with clear drops of arousal. A prominent vein runs along the underside—you’re suddenly overcome by the urge to feel it against your tongue. A few inches lower, there’s a tattoo of a tiger’s face inked on his thigh. You feel your stomach tighten as an entirely new wave of desire washes over you.

You look up at Harry with unreadable eyes. He stares back at you, and—for what may be the first time ever—you think you see a hint of insecurity brewing in his gaze. He swallows; you get the feeling that he’s going to say something, but you beat him to it.

“You’re so sexy,” you tell him earnestly, and then you kiss him again.

He ruts against you, his cock sliding along the inner crease of your thigh as the two of you move together. His hands slither up your body to squeeze your breasts, and you arch into his touch. After a few minutes of him devoting his attention to your chest, he reaches over and pulls open the top drawer of his nightstand.

“I’m clean,” he says, panting. “But…just in case.”

You nod once. “Agreed.”

He fishes out a condom, the foil packet crinkling loudly in his grasp. The sound snaps you out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

You’re really about to have sex with Harry.

Harry, who grades your papers.

Harry, who is employed by the university that you’re currently attending.

Harry, who ignored you for weeks.

All of those things should send off warning bells in your brain. They should remind you that what you’re doing is wrong, and the two of you could get into an unbelievable amount of trouble. Your academic career might very well never recover. Harry could lose his job.

But you don’t care. Because though he’s the same Harry who grades your papers and who works for your university and who ignored you for weeks, he’s also Harry, who writes little notes on all of your tests and assignments. Harry, who bought you a coffee just because he felt like it. Harry, who was willing to devote a hefty portion of his free time to reviewing your midterm with you and showing you where you went wrong.

“You good?”

His innocent inquiry pulls you out of your haze. The condom has been rolled on.

You nod firmly, your legs falling open with a surprising amount of ease. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Let’s do it.”

When his cock first enters you, it takes a minute to get used to the intrusion. Harry watches your features for any sign of discomfort; you find it sweet. You pulse around him, and his hips falter as he swears softly.

“Sorry,” he says. “It feels good.”

“Glad to hear it,” you say wryly. He smirks.

You take deep breaths as you try to grow accustomed to the way he’s spreading you apart. He leans down, balancing on his forearms and sprinkling dozens of kisses across your face. His lips land on your forehead, your nose, your cheeks, your chin. The small displays of affection help you loosen up.

“I think it’s okay, now,” you whisper, pushing his hair out of his face. Harry seals his lips against yours, gradually pulling out and thrusting back in. His pace is still slow, cautious, wary; you cup his jaw and skirt your thumb over the small mole by the corner of his mouth.

Steadily, he begins to pick up speed. Within minutes, you’ve got your lips parted and your back curved, your little mewls of pleasure filling the air. Harry curses, sitting back on his heels and searching for a secure grip on your waist. He pistons his hips, pulling you onto his cock with each drive forward. Your fingers dig into the duvet.

“Fuck,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “It’s so good.”

Harry reaches forward to pull your hands away. “Don’t,” he gasps, his forehead gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. “Lemme hear you, I wanna—,” he groans, “I wanna hear you.”

You moan in response. The headboard creaks incessantly, but neither of you pay the noise any attention. Harry’s chest is flushed a dark shade of pink, matching the blush on his cheeks. His hair has flopped over onto his forehead; he doesn’t even attempt to move it out of the way. You can feel his thighs flexing against your bum as he fills you to the brim with every thrust.

“Bloody fuck.” He grits his teeth, a vein in his neck popping. “So fuckin’ tight, love. You’re squeezing me.”

At that, you deliberately clench around his cock. One of Harry’s hands splays out over your navel abruptly. The next drive of his dick inside of you is hard and sudden—a form of admonishment. It makes you gasp.

“Don’t,” he warns softly, sliding his palm upward and pinching your left nipple. “Be—be good for me.”

His hand continues further north, and your eyes widen when you feel him wrap his fingers around your throat. He doesn’t apply much pressure, but you moan loudly anyway. His thumb strokes over the gentle curve of your jaw, and his middle finger prods gently at your mouth. Without hesitating, you take the digit past your lips, laving your tongue over his knuckle.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers. He stares at you—completely awestruck—like he can’t fathom that you’re real. You whine and buck your hips against his, urging him to resume his previous pace.

“Filthy,” Harry mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. He releases your neck, trailing his finger down your sternum and leaving behind a damp path of your own saliva.

“I’m almost there,” you tell him, biting on the inside of your cheek to keep your sounds from increasing in volume.

“Yeah?” he asks breathlessly. “Gonna cum for me? Please, darling—I wanna see it.”

“Fuck me,” you gasp, twitching at the lewdness of his demand.

Harry grunts, and with the finger that was just inside of your mouth, he rubs frantic, messy shapes against your clit. The sudden onslaught of stimulation catches you by surprise, and you shriek when your orgasm crashes into you unexpectedly.

“Holy shit!” you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut. Your climax is powerful, splintering through your entire body. Your toes curl into the mattress and your thighs quiver pugnaciously. Harry continues to fuck you, alternating between deep, languid strokes, and short staccato pumps. He digs his fingers into your skin as his rhythm wavers.

“Fuck, I’m cumming,” he groans, his face screwing up in pleasure. You grasp at his wrist with shaky hands, stroking over the anchor on his arm when he releases a string of cusses. Harry snaps into your cunt one, two, three more times before stilling and collapsing on top of you, utterly depleted.

The two of you lie there for eons, it seems. Your bodies are hot, spent, and slick with sweat. He sighs, nuzzling into you and delivering a gentle kiss to your temple. Your chest rises and falls unevenly as you struggle to regain your bearings. The room is silent, except for the shifting of limbs and the sound of Harry’s breathing in your ear.

“Was good,” he croaks, lifting a hand and tucking your hair away from your face with feeble fingers.

You hum and turn to the side, the tip of your nose brushing his chin. “Yeah. It was.”

“We’re fucked,” he adds weakly.

You purse your lips. “Yeah,” you repeat. “We are.”

  October 23rd, 2019

The next week, Harry isn’t in class. Instead, settled in the corner of the room, there’s a short Korean girl with dark silky hair and a bright shade of red daubed on her lips. She’s wearing a brown knitted-sweater that looks awfully cozy, and her feet are covered by a clunky pair of combat boots.

Who would transfer into a class this late in the semester? You wonder. Is that even allowed?

At that exact moment, Dr. Renault clears his throat. His announcement makes all of the blood in your body run cold.

“Good morning, everyone. Unfortunately, Harry will no longer be accompanying us on our exciting quest to learn about the brain.” He gestures to the Korean girl standing off to the side. “This is Hana. She will be my new assistant for the remainder of the course.”

November 13th, 2019

“Oh my God, here it comes!” Margaret squeals, her nails digging into your bicep. You laugh at her excitement. Mateo leans over to pull her painted claws out of your skin.

“Jesus, woman, you’re gonna draw blood,” he berates her. Margaret rolls her eyes and faces him with her hands on her hips.

“I didn’t see her complaining!”

“I was about to,” you pipe up, shooting her a dry smile. Your friend turns on you, her features warping with an expression of betrayal, but before she can say anything, the barista sets three tall cups of coffee onto the counter and calls out your orders.

“That’s us, bitch!” Margaret exclaims. “Thank you,” she adds in a softer tone. The barista just smiles, giggling quietly and wishing you a good day.

You reach out for your latte, taking a small sip and humming appreciatively at the taste. “I fucking missed this place,” you say. “Nobody does coffee like Grounded.”

“Agreed.” Mateo nods.

The three of you make your way down the hall, the sounds of whirring espresso machines and jingling coins growing fainter in the distance. The corridor is teeming with students, people engrossed in animated conversations as they head to their next class. Margaret is rambling about how she can’t wait to resume her routine of drinking three cups of caffeine a day, and Mateo is marvelling at the spotlessness of the basement floors.

“They really cleaned this place up,” he says. “I guess renovations aren’t useless, after all.”

“Mhm,” you hum in response.

You balance your coffee in one hand as you rifle through your bag for the little pot of lip balm that you know is hidden somewhere in the smallest pocket. You’re so absorbed in your search that you don’t notice a tall figure walk right out of the door in front of you and into your path.

“Oh, shit!” you hiss, bumping into a solid body. A few drops of coffee spill from your cup and run down your fingers. The liquid is still hot; you whimper.

“I’m so sorry,” you ramble, lifting your gaze as you apologise to the stranger. “I wasn’t looking where I was—”

You stop in your tracks, and the rest of your sentence fizzles out. Harry’s peering down at you with piercing green eyes, seeming to stare through your soul. He’s wearing a maroon crewneck and a pair of dark brown trousers, and his glasses are tucked securely into the collar of his shirt. His hair has grown since you’d last seen him all those weeks ago, wispy tendrils curling just beneath his ears. Your skin tingles with the memory of running your fingers through the soft strands, and you have to hold back a sigh.

“Hi,” Harry says, the greeting deep and guttural. You swallow heavily, gripping your coffee with both hands.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He buries his knuckles into his pockets, his brown loafers squeaking against the floor. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” Your answer is curt. “You?”

“I’ve been alright, yeah.”

“That’s good.”

A beat of silence passes before someone beside you clears their throat. You jump; you’d forgotten all about your friends.

“Okay, well, we’re gonna go…,” Margaret says slowly, drawing out the last vowel of her sentence. She’s only referring to Mateo and herself, but you put your hand on her forearm to keep her still for a second longer.

“I’ll come with you,” you tell her quickly, refusing to look at the man standing in front of you.

“Actually,” Harry pipes up. “I was wondering if I could talk to you about something.”

You force yourself to meet his eyes. Margaret and Mateo step away leisurely. “What is it?”

“It’s about your midterm,” Harry says, even though both of you know that it’s not. Everything on his face reveals to you that his words are a lie, from the pursing of his lips to the furrowing of his brows. Despite your irritation, though, you find yourself nodding apprehensively.

Harry steps back, holding out his arm and motioning for you to walk into his office. You don’t bother shooting your friends one last glance before you oblige.

They’ll be fine; you’re not worried about them.

You’re worried about yourself.

You don’t miss the sound of the lock on the door clicking into place. You busy yourself with studying the office—Harry has begun moving his supplies back into place. The bookshelf in the corner is half-full; a few boxes—each of them are filled to the brim with novels—sit on the floor as they wait to be emptied. There’s a tall pile of papers on Harry’s desk. Your brows furrow in confusion for only a moment before you remember that he’s also serving as a teaching assistant for Dr. Chen’s psychopathology course.

“Er…,” Harry says from behind you. You keep your back to him, choosing instead to run your fingers over the smooth surface of his desk.

“What’s up?” you ask, trying to keep your voice level.

He sighs. “I quit my position in Dr. Renault’s class.”

“Really?” you say. Your tone is light, but the sarcasm in your words carries a harsh bite. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Your name leaves Harry’s lips in a quiet plea. It shocks you so much that you instinctively turn around to face him.

“Don’t be like that,” he implores. “Please.”

“Like what?” you snap, scowling at him. “What exactly am I doing?”

“You’re upset with me,” Harry states weakly. A dry, hollow laugh falls from your mouth.

“Maybe I am.” You shrug, the corners of your mouth curling disdainfully. “Wouldn’t you be upset if the person you’d fucked just decided to ghost you for a month?”

“I didn’t—,” he starts, but you cut him off without hesitating.

“Yes, you did,” you say, a hard edge creeping into your voice. “You kissed me, we fucked, and then you fell off the face of the planet.”

Harry remains silent, because he knows that you’re right. You grip your coffee tightly in one hand, the other coming up to rub tiredly at your forehead. Your heart is about to beat out of your chest, but there’s an odd, gratifying sensation spreading through your body. It feels good to tell him off, you realise. The anger and resentment brewing within you for the past month has made you astonishingly bitter.

“Why did you bring me in here, Harry?” you ask, sighing. “To tell me you quit Doctor Renault’s class? Because I already knew that.”

The words hurt as they exit your mouth. Hana seems like an absolute sweetheart, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss the little notes scrawled in messy, boyish handwriting at the top of your weekly quizzes. You blink rapidly and will the reflection out of your mind, drumming your fingers against the side of your latte.

“Bloody hell,” Harry mutters, shaking his head. “Why the fuck do you think I quit?”

“Excuse me?” Your brows knit together.

“Why do you think I quit?” Harry demands, his lips twisting into a frown. You balk, hating that the question has caught you by surprise.

“I—,” you start, growing frustrated. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

“God, you really are quite dense, aren’t you?” Harry asks, chuckling sardonically.

You narrow your eyes. “I didn’t come here to be belittled.”

“What did you come here for, then?” he shoots back. “Why’d you agree to speak with me?”

“Because I wanted an explanation,” you say, feeling your chest grow tight. The words are thick when they leave your lips. “But if you’re not going to give me one, then…”

“Fuck, wait,” Harry rushes out. He blocks the path to the door as you try to sidestep his broad frame. “Please, just…lemme figure out a way to say what I’m thinking.”

You cross your arms over your chest and glare at him.  “You’ve got two minutes.”

He scratches the back of his neck, pulling gently on the collar of his dark sweater. You watch him turn phrases over in his head and hate that even now, in the middle of an argument, you still want to kiss him. Your lips prickle as you recall what it felt like to lick into his mouth, and how he swallowed up every single one of your moans.

“We had sex,” Harry finally says carefully. “That’s against the university’s policy.”

“I’m aware,” you say. You’ve realised this—why is he reiterating what you already know?

“I’m not allowed to be involved with a student in the classes where I’m…,” he continues and shakes his head, “Basically, if I’m a teaching assistant for a certain course, the people enrolled in it are off-limits.”

“I know.” You’re growing impatient, now. Harry’s mouth twitches.

“But I’m no longer the teaching assistant for Doctor Renault’s class,” he says softly. His stare is earnest, like he’s trying to tell you something without actually saying it.

You pause, allowing his words to sink in. Your lips part when the situation dawns on you, and you suddenly understand what he chose to do—what he’s done. You look up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, your fingers constricting so tightly around your coffee that the cup nearly dents under the pressure.

“You—,” you initiate, but Harry interrupts you before you can continue.

“Have dinner with me,” he requests with prudence, approaching you slowly. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go. We can even see a movie after, if you’d like.”

Despite your dispute from only a few minutes ago, a small smile creeps onto your face. Harry takes another step toward you, and your stomach flips in anticipation. You gaze into his eyes, taking note of the way his green irises glimmer with hope. He lifts his hand and runs his thumb over your jaw. You find yourself leaning into his touch.

“You want to take me out on a date?” you ask, fighting to keep your eyelids from drifting shut. Harry smirks, his dimple popping on his cheek.

“I do,” he confirms, pinching your chin gently. “Will you let me?”

“I guess,” you say dreamily, and then your lips are on his. He exhales in relief, wrapping his arms around your waist as yours loop behind his neck.

Sparks are whizzing around in your brain. You’re sure that, realistically, they can be attributed to some sort of neurotransmitter, but you choose to believe that it’s just The Harry Effect.

You eventually pull apart for air, gasping hotly and scattering kisses anywhere you can reach. “As much as I’d love to continue this,” you say, sighing delicately as Harry delivers several hard pecks to your lips, “I need to head home and finish up a research report for my experimental psych class. It’s due on Friday.”

“Fine.” Harry drags himself away from you but keeps your face nestled in his hands. He runs his index finger along the seam of your mouth. “Go on, then. Congratulations on being a responsible student, I suppose.”

You smile and hold out your hand. “Give me your phone,” you order. His lifts an eyebrow teasingly; you mirror his coy expression and elaborate. “Let me put my number in. That way, we don’t have to e-mail back and forth like we’re in our fucking fifties.”

“I like to think that e-mailing is a very efficient way of sending messages,” Harry says.

You laugh. “Are you saying that you don’t want my number, then?”

“No, no,” he backtracks quickly, fishing his phone out of his pocket and unlocking it before handing it over to you. “Here, by all means.”

“That’s what I thought,” you simper. You key your information into the device, grinning as you pass it back to him. “There we go.”

Harry leans down, stealing a chaste kiss before you can even register what’s happening. He pulls back, humming impishly at the stunned expression on your face. “There we go,” he repeats, flashing you a crooked smirk.

He escorts you out of his office, down the hall, and up onto the main floor. Every so often, your hands brush as you walk. When you reach one of the many exits in the building, you turn to him.

“You’ll text me, right?” you check, succumbing to the small sliver of doubt that nags at your brain.

He nods. “I promise.”

“Okay.” You chew on your bottom lip. Your mouth subconsciously lifts into a doting smile. “Have a good day, Harry.”

His eyes are full of tenderness. “You too, love. Take care.”

You turn and push through the doors without looking back.

When you finally find your car in the winding maze of the parking lot, you feel your phone vibrate in your back pocket. You dig it out and open it absentmindedly. A soft laugh slips past your lips when you discover a text sent from an unknown number.

“He’s cute,” you murmur to yourself, your eyes scanning over the message.

It was really nice seeing you. I look forward to having dinner with you soon. H. x

~*~

thank you for reading 💖 and thank you to @all-things-fic, @emotionally-imbruised, and @imethiminthemorning for being my betas! i love you guys [masterlist] [askbox]

Dopamine (a Serotonin extra)

if you enjoyed this piece, please consider donating to my ko-fi! thank you bunches <3

#harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #i really hope you guys love this #TArry #harry writing

[claudiasjeancregg]

I hope this helps with the stress at least just a little bit <3 and I do understand wanting to write but not being able to, so if you want, write as much as you want with (specially 12!). So. Here we go! 14, 13, 12, 10, 1!

hey ariel thank you so much this literally made my entire day, i wrote a fucking essay so here goes.

1. favorite episode

EVIDENCE OF THINGS NOT SEEN, institutional memory, the supremes, drought conditions, holy night, the inauguration episodes, the midterms, noël... all of them. just. ALL OF THEM

10. something you wish had happened

oh my god SO MANY THINGS!!! cj/toby kissing in the 7.21 scene would have saved my entire soul, or really just a kiss at any point. i just wanted them to ADDRESS THE CHEMISTRY IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?? just confirmation that they dated at one point, or hooked up occasionally... god. ANYTHING! more canon specific, i really wanted a scene of donna in therapy or talking to josh about the ptsd / trauma she undoubtedly faced after gaza. when they F I N A L L Y got together, i wish they had more of a conversation about why she quit! because she HAD GOOD REASON to do it, and i wish had talked about how he had treated her after gaza. also, seeing how cj and toby had dealt with rosslyn, and more conversations about cj getting the COS role over josh and how he forgave her for that. just. MORE FOUND FAMILY CONTENT GODDAMNIT i could watch entire episodes of the senior staff + donna just hanging out, i love them to death. LAST ONE I PROMISE- CJ HAVING FEMALE FRIENDSHIPS. or friendships, period. god, i would have died for some amy + cj content swapping stories and making sarcastic jokes, cj helping amy to adapt to the white house after being in a different environment her whole career. CJ AND ANDY! i mean i ship the ot3 and cjandy to death, but even as friends! donna and cj!! the assistants all being friends! just. let these tired women have friends, that’s all i want.

12. headcanon(s)

yeah, i’ve... basically covered these BUT i always have more!!

first off- BISEXUAL CJ. bi cj!!!! it’s canon in my heart. this next one is less of a headcanon and more of a dream, but the ot3! cj/toby/andy is my favorite thing in the world and i love the three of them.

i think cj and josh were a lot closer than we see, and i have many feelings about them sort of being siblings.

also, hc that cj and toby ended up together after the show BECAUSE I NEED IT.

um, donna went to therapy! i feel like the show largely ignored the fact that she was the only one in the car who survived!! and so did josh, especially after he realized a part of the way he treated her after gaza was bc of his guilt about sending her there in the first place, and then donna almost dying.

okay let’s see... 50% of my brain is thinking of tww headcanons at any given moment so-

huck and molly grow up with auntie cj, who wishes she could be more of a parent but is so, so, so thankful for what she gets. i didn't really think cj wanted to get pregnant and have kids, especially with danny, but the show really threw that in there at the last moment lol. the reason for this is NOT “she’s too focused on her career,” trust me. i actually think cj’s mom died from breast cancer when she was pretty young, about 13. it’s heartbreaking, and miserable, and cj doesn’t smile for a month after. her dad was at a complete loss as to how to help her, since he was still dealing with it too. so for about half a year they co-existed in the same house, barely speaking. cj’s passion for politics and journalism eventually led her to come out of her shell more, about a year later, but she didn’t come back to the joyful person she used to be until college. she’s deathly afraid of passing the cancer gene onto her kids, which is why in my brain, the ot3 always had plans for kids but andy was going to get pregnant. (i talk about cj’s thoughts on actual canon andy’s pregnancy so much in my fic, so i should probably shut up now.) also i really think cj works herself to the bone after becoming COS, especially after toby leaves. he was the only thing keeping her from self-destructing, making her sleep and eat and remember to function. i can’t get over allison janney’s acting, the way you FEEL cj’s exhaustion. she has... no self- preservational instincts when it comes to doing her job as well as she can, and that really hurts her mental health, and like. SANITY. charlie and margaret know this and this duo practically running the white house might be my favorite thing about season 7.  also HOW DID THIS TURN INTO ONLY CJ HEADCANONS i have so many other ones!)

QUEER ELLIE BARTLET how could i forget? my random desire for ellie/mallory has no canon basis but i’m obsessed with them. tbh, i’m obsessed with all f/f west wing ships.

josh definitely has anxiety, that’s kind of canon. donna helps him manage it but after she leaves, his panic attacks become a lot more frequent and he forgets to take care of himself. also, i think cj has anxiety too.

WAIT WAIT WAIT IS THIS A PLACE FOR ME TO TALK ABOUT DONNA AND TOBY?!! aleena has a soapbox and she can’t stop, i’m sorry. okay so donna and toby are my favorite unlikely tww friendship, and i’m going to limit this to a few sentences but i will talk about this whenever anyone gives me an opportunity to. BASICALLY donna is the only person who doesn’t take any of toby’s bullshit, (who isn’t in love with him) and he underestimates her at first, yeah, but he is one of the first people to realize donna’s potential. and they have some very good, very small moments where he really sees her strength and she sees that he’s more than the stubborn grump he pretends to be.

i have so many headcanons about josh and toby, and cj and toby, and josh and donna, and cj and donna, and TOBY AND DONNA. josh teasing toby about cj. toby making fun of donna for being in love with josh because he says she’s too good for him but he loves josh like a brother despite what he says. HE SHOWS HER BABY PICTURES AND SHE GUSHES OVER THEM i don't make the rules!!!! anyways that’s NOT all of my headcanons, i just don't want to make you guys read any more lmao. thank you so much for indulging me, i would be thrilled to talk about more of these or to hear more of your headcanons! (this goes for anyone btw) THAT WAS SO LONG AHH.

13. character you wish you could be / aspire to be

cj cregg

14. on-screen crush

yeah, i’m a simple bisexual. cj cregg.

THAT WAS INSANELY LONG BUT SO FUN FOR ME, THANK YOU!!!

#aleena answers #tww #tww headcanons #tww ideas #the west wing #ariel tag #aleena rambles

[roc-thoughtblog]

Sense and Sensibility Readthrough Part 10

Chapter 13, Pages 54-61

Today I actually paid attention to the meaning of the lyrics to Rolling Girl, and couldn't stop myself from crying. Then, like a sucker, I looked for English covers, and cried again. Oops. Song hits too close to home. Anyways.

Previously, Margaret was the best character. Marianne x Willougby now confirmed beyond reasonable doubt to Elinor, and Mrs. Jennings and everybody else now knows that Elinor has a secret beau. Poor Elinor, and probably poor Edward in advance, too.

Relatedly, two old friends dragged me out last night to witness the rare event of yours truly drinking, which mostly involves me pulling entertaining faces at weak cocktails after a single sip, because alcohol tastes as powerful and godforsaken as nuclear fallout to me, and lingers just about as long on the poor blasted wasteland of my helpless tongue. I don't have a secret beau, but they still did insist on dragging out of me every plausibly hypothetical detail, and then proceeded to try to set me up with the waitress of the night when there predictably turned out to be none. I dearly love my friends, but, Elinor, my point is that I want you to know that I feel for you.

I feel like sometimes I turn these preambles into diary entries. I'm entirely okay with this, though I should probably tag them somehow.

Also, oh my lord, this chapter sure happened, wow.

Readthrough below.

Chapter 13 Apparently things start really evolving now. Exciting. (EDIT: THEY SURE DID)

THEIR INTENDED excursion to Whitwell turned out very differently from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued and frightened;

Aha, Austenism coming up, first thing.

but the event was still more unfortunate,

Yess called it. So how was it worse? Were there floods? Surprise Edward & Mrs. Jennings meeting?

for they did not go at all.

... my expectations got double-subverted. Well, something is about to happen. I see now why all the details of the coming trip were attached to the last chapter instead of opening this one. They're out to picnic, and;

eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.

I love this line. Anyway, while they're eating, Colonel Brandon receives a concerning letter though; his faces changes colour and he has to leave temporarily, like a really important phone call.

I guess this will be the impetus for change?

Haha, Lady M tries to stop her mother from prying into Brandon's personal business but Mrs Jennings is just not that type of person. Brandon's not really forthcoming and says it's just business in town, but he does have to leave immediately to attend to it.

It sounds really urgent. Him not being present means they can't go to the venue Sir Middleton wanted to use, which was an estate Brandon was related to. He's effectively cancelled the whole party for a business that where apparently, "I cannot afford to lose one hour." He's still not forthcoming on what though.

Willoughby and Marianne make snide comments betting that Brandon has invented the excuse himself to cancel the party because he's a spoilsport. Guys, please. :(

Sir M is very accomodating of Brandon regardless. He's a good-hearted fellow, really, if a little dim occasionally. Aww, Brandon says goodbye to Elinor. That's sweet, I really enjoy their friendship. Help I teared up slightly, I think I'm still emotional from the song. Marianne gets a silent nod. Yeah, I understand.

Anyway, now that he's gone, Mrs. Jennings starts eagerly speculating the reason for his urgency. A "Miss Williams" supposedly.

WHAT

SHE'S HIS DAUGHTER? BRANDON HAS A DAUGHTER? His NATURAL DAUGHTER? She's good enough at least to only reveal the daughter part to Elinor, but, damn. Wow, uh. Wow. People sure gonna bug him about Miss Williams now.

Wait but he's 35 right, so how old is Miss Williams?? When do people have kids again?? Oh my gosh, is Margaret going get a FRIEND HER OWN AGE?? AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!

"Oh yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune."

But WHAT HAPPENED? Why aren't they together right now? Why is he attending random parties alone? aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Though I do wanna say that does make the Mrs. Jennings' hypothetical Marianne/Brandon pair a bit stranger. Beyond just a man who could be her father, a daughter who could be her sister? That's something alright.

after some consultation, it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell,

HAHA, I really enjoy these lines. It's the kind of thing where it's not what anyone is intending on meaning, but it's accurate to what's happening in a roundabout way. Anyone everyone goes on a drive instead and presumably Willoughby and Marianne have a very romantic time on theirs.

Another dance in the evening? Is that just what rich people do all day? ... Do rich people still do that all day? Wow, there are like 20 Careys, a family who has now been mentioned twice that I recall and I don't know if they'll be important or just filling up the numbers.

Also I admire and yet detest the seating arrangements haha.

Mrs Jennings -> Elinor -> Willoughby -> Marianne. Willoughby, why you separate the sisters? You don't seem to talk much to Elinor anyway. ... are you trying to hog Marianne? Is that the play? I'm not judging here, I'm just curious. Would be sneaky play.

Despite the general pattern of narrative voice, it is abundantly clear that Elinor is the primary focus here as all the information is exactly and only what passes through her ears; makes the seating arrangement of Mrs Jennings on the other side very clever too, beyond just the charming blocking of having her lean over two people to harass Marianne with her mysterious Romance Sleuthing Acumen. Apparently she has figured out exactly where Marianne and Willoughby have gone on their "drive", and thanks to seating Elinor will now hear too.

HAHA SHE CALLS WILLOUGHBY MR. IMPUDENCE. This and Willoughby calling Elinor saucy, the dialogue really doesn't pull punches sometimes. Apparently Willoughby took her on a tour of his to-be-inherited estate. Elinor pieces together that Mrs. Jennings got the beans spilled from the servants. I told you two! Don't discount the servants! Mrs Jennings sure doesn't! Treat your groom a greater friend, Willoughby, and mayhap the seal of loyalty might have affixed his lips. :'D

Ah, but Elinor is still worried about propriety. Elinor, I love you dearly, but this is most harmless romanticism really. It's not like the horse thing. Haha, aww, Elinor's tactitly acknowledged Marianne’s relationship and intentions with Willoughby, and Marianne does that thing where she sort of lost the argument but is too pleased to really turn it around.

Haha, Marianne returns later to describe the actual house she saw with great enthusiasm. She's just that excited, how very Marianne to gush so; she might also be gloating juuuuust a little over having seen the house and expecting to inherit it. :'D Very amusing; poor Elinor to have to listen to it though, deliberate or not. Her own beau is so far away, and his own inheritance dicier. Must sting a bit.

AaaaaAAAAAAAA this has been my hour but I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT MISS WILLIAMS. I would have continued onto the next chapter, hour be damned because it's saturday, but skimming through Brandon doesn't come back. I don't want to skim too far ahead but as far as I can tell he doesn't come back for at least 10 chapters noooooooooooo you can't just spring that on me and leave me hanging aaaaaaaaaaaa. :'(

Ahh well, I suppose if I were any of the Dashwoods I wouldn't expect to see him until "after winter" anyway, whenever that will be. That'll be it for today then, I suppose. :'D

I think with the addition of Miss Williams, Colonel Brandon and his DAUGHTER are now the most intriguing characters to me. Not being able to find out their deal for weeks is gonna drive me nuts. I hope he's not an absent father though...

Miss Williams is also an instant favourite for just existing, because as you can see with Margaret, I have a soft spot for children caught in an adult world.

#1300 words #Jane Austen #Sense and Sensibility #readthrough #novels #Margaret = Brandon > Elinor = Mama Dashwood > Marianne > everyone else #Diary Preamble #also if you caught the pesterlog reference #that was deliberate and its one of my favourite pesterlogs

[exkernal]

Philosophy Class for Rock Bottom Demons: 1/3

A/N: I don’t know why I’m finally getting around to posting this old fic now, but I’m in a hellstrop mood

As Michael watches the humans snipe and scurry about (he doesn't care what Eleanor says, that cockroach analogy was on point) he thinks, this is rock bottom. A demon begging his torturees for help; that's as low as it gets.

Then Eleanor tells him he has to take philosophy class.

Does she forget whom she's dealing with? He's not some zit-speckled check out boy who will "remember" that he already scanned her margarita mix if she yells enough. Despite his appearance of bespectacled innocence, at his core he is pure immortal evil that has been torturing humans since before her grandmother's grandmother's grandmother's grandmother was even conceived, thank you. Does Eleanor know how much force is needed to pry the nail from a grown man's big toe? Does she know the sound a human makes when tossed into a giant juicer? No--but Michael does, and she'd best not forget it.

Except maybe he's the one who's forgotten whom he's dealing with, as Eleanor throws his words back in his face until he's well and truly cornered.

So now he's taking philosophy class.

Now this, this is rock bottom, Michael thinks, as Chidi, in all of his sweater-vested glory, hands out their neatly printed syllabi.

"Right. Now that we all have our syllabi--"

"Oh, dip," Jason says, his eyes impossibly wide. "Are you sure that's safe?"

Chidi blinks. His forehead scrunches up in that way it does.

"Pardon?"

"I mean aren't those those weird monster thingies that make you like mad horny?"

Michael catches Eleanor's eye, and they quickly look away.

"I--you're--no. Jason, you're thinking of a succubi. These are syllabuses." Chidi winces, as if the improper grammar physically pains him.

It doesn't clear things up.

"Chidi, man, if you need to see a doctor I know this dope one in Jacksonville. She accepts food stamps as payment and doesn't ask questions if you come in with jellyfish stings around your ding dong--"

"Jason, you're thinking of--you know what, never mind."

Then again, maybe it won't be so bad if he gets a front row seat to Chidi being tortured by his students.

                                                                                               * * * * *

The syllabus is garbage. Human philosophy is garbage. Every higher being knows that, even the stuck up angels farting around in the real Good Place.

(Not that Michael's actually met an angel before, but still).

He'll just have to fake it. Put on his best face, lure the humans into trusting him.

It'll be easy.

                                                                                                * * * * *

This is rock bottom, the knowledge of existence's fleeting nature. Of the expanding, gaping maw of the abyss that will devour them all as easily as dog-spiders devour human eyeballs. How can anyone expect him to go on like this, knowing the fate that almost certainly awaits him (because let's be real, Shawn will find out eventually)? Why was he even created all of those eons ago if this is his ultimate fate? How can existence even continue without Michael, who's always existed before? How can--?

It's okay. Eleanor's showed him. If he can just push those feelings down, and keep pushing and pushing and--

Eleanor's towering above him. Huh. Usually she's not because she's so ridiculously tiny. He remembers the reboots where she got so angry she physically attacked him--it was hilarious, like a chihuahua barking at a grizzly bear. Her eyes are more blue than green tonight, maybe because of her dress.

"All humans are aware of death," she says,"so we're all a little bit sad, all the time. That's just the deal."

"Sounds like a crappy deal," he mutters.

"Well, yeah, it is," she says, sitting down, "but we don't get offered any other ones."

Eleanor's gaze is absent of any judgement or mockery or disdain. He can't recognize what he sees, because no one's ever looked at him that way before, not humans or demons or Janets. It's not sad but not happy either; it's more like she somehow knows what he's feeling even if he doesn't say it, and that's okay. Her eyes tell him that it's okay.

It doesn't make it better, exactly, but maybe it's not rock bottom either.

                                                                                                 * * * * *

"It's so forking stupid! 'How can you tell if an action is good or bad blah blah blah?' Because of the points, dummy! The points tell you if it's good or bad, Professor Know It All."

"I feel you, bud," Eleanor says, lounging with her feet on the coffee table, a notebook propped up against her legs. "But--and don't rip my head off or whatever you guys do--"

"It's rip your head off," Michael says.

"Right. I'm just saying, maybe things would go a little better if you didn't rip the pages out of every book Chidi gives you."

She might have a point there.

                                                                                               * * * * *

"In this experiment, people continued 'shocking' patients even after they heard them beg and scream. The influence of authority was too strong, and overrode their moral instincts. So the question this possess is how do we stick to our morals in the face of conflicting authority? Yes, Michael?"

"I don't understand the problem. When your superiors tell you to up the voltage, it's a good thing. Why wouldn't I want to use the shocks--why are you all looking at me like that?"

All four humans stare at him like his human disguise just slipped.

Chidi squints. He rubs his hand against his forehead. Michael can see the sweat beading on his face.

"Michael, you're still thinking like a demon. From a human perspective, we don't want to torture people. I think you need another ten lines."

Michael sighs, but he doesn't question it.

"People good," he mumbles, as the chalk screeches against the board.

"Keep it up, bud," Chidi encourages. "You'll get there eventually."

                                                                                             * * * * *

"Why did you give me Les Miserables? That thing's almost as long as your stupid thesis!"

Chidi frowns. "Thank you, once again, for casually insulting my life's work."

"Come on, man, you gave Jason Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret."

"Did you seriously just compare your intellectual abilities to those of Jason Mendoza?"

"...fair point."

                                                                                           * * * * *

What was Chidi's problem?

Michael searches for Eleanor's eyes. She's good at explaining things; out of all of the humans, she makes the most sense. But Eleanor won't look at him. She actually looks away from him, following wordlessly after Chidi.

Michael doesn't understand.

                                                                                           * * * * *

"I can't high five that!" Eleanor shouts. "No matter how much I want to."

Michael turns away, laughing. She seems like she's mad at him too, but then he gets her laughing with the reddit story. Things can't be that bad if he can still make her laugh.

It doesn't last for long.

Eleanor tells him that this is entirely up to him to fix, then leaves, before he can think of a retort. He's left alone to wonder how the here he can worm his way back into Chidi's good graces.

Wait, what? Why does he even want to make it up to Chidi? He should be thrilled; he didn't want to attend those stupid, worthless, stupid, boring, stupid classes to begin with! Now he can have his proverbial cake (teaming up with the humans) and eat it too (no dumb classes). This is perfect.

Now he has more time to write fake torture reports instead of reading up on those old farts. Or complaining about reading with Eleanor and Jason and sometimes Tahani. Or seeing Tahani's shocked delight whenever he shares some surprising tidbits about her celebrity pals. Or trying not to laugh at the expression on Chidi's face during yet another of Jason's long winded anecdotes. Or sitting besides Eleanor, occasionally cheating off of her, each doing their best to make the other laugh. Now he doesn't have to waste any more time with any of that nonsense.

It's perfect.

                                                                                           * * * * *

There's something wrong with his chest as he watches Tahani clutch her diamond and Eleanor gush over her shrimp dispensary. It's warm, not warm like whenever he got too close to the fire pits, but softer, and not exactly unpleasant. He still doesn't get Chidi's deal, not entirely, but he's back on Team Cockroach, so everything's fine.

                                                                                           * * * * *

He's on his best behavior for his first day back to philosophy class. He doesn't rip the pages out of his book, doesn't talk about torture or mention humans' stupid anatomy. He doesn't even laugh at Eleanor and Jason's many jokes about happiness pumps, though that's partly because he doesn't get most of them.

                                                                                          * * * * *

Chidi passes back last week's philosophy papers. "Everyone's made great progress since we've started. You should be proud."

Eleanor leans over to Michael. "What did you get, bud?"

He shows her.

"Dang, A. Good for you, Michael."

"Well, I am a superior being," he says, rubbing his leg and smiling like a dope.

"Hey, we should celebrate. Do demons celebrate? Or is that just torture for you guys?"

It's just torture. He knew better than to ask Eleanor if he can have a go at one of them (like forcing Jason to listen to a blow-by-blow recap of every Jaguars defeat). Besides, he doesn't really want to, anyway.

Huh. Imagine that.

Instead he says, "In some of the other reboots, you would try to distract me from investigating the neighborhood anamolies by doing fun human stuff. We played aracade games, sang karaoke, went bowling--"

Suddenly, Jason jumps into the conversation. "Laser tag! Did you play laser tag?"

Michael thinks. "No, we never got around to that."

"Yo, homies, we have to play laser tag. I am a beast at laser tag. Me and Pillboi would do a bunch of shrooms and then go crazy all over the place. Also, I think I shot a mall cop once. Or maybe that was a dream."

Eleanor nods. "Laser tag could be fun. Don't know about the shrooms part."

She eyes Chidi, silently asking him.

"Definitely not," he says.

Twenty minutes later, thanks to Janet, Michael finds himself wearing purple plastic strapped over his chest and carrying a fake gun, surrounded by enough multi-colored smoke to fork up the humans' vision but not his. Without ever explicitly agreeing to anything, he and Eleanor have formed an alliance. He saves her from Jason's sneak attack, and together they shoot him in the chest twenty times.

"Yes!" Micheal shouts.

"Eat that!" Eleanor screams.

"Aw, man," Jason says, with the same dejected look as when he popped Pikachu.

He and Eleanor high five.

Then his chest lights up.

"Ooh," Tahani says, smiling like she can't believe her luck. Michael can't either. "I'm starting to get the hang of this!"

She notices the murderous glint in Eleanor's eyes, and bolts into the smoke.

"Don't worry, I'll avenge you," Eleanor tells him, then she shouts after Tahani, "You're going to die, you sexy skyscraper!"

That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to him.

                                                                                    * * * * *

So he can't marbalize Janet. And also may have teared up in front of her, despite no known demon ever crying before. So what?

                                                                                    * * * * *

Eleanor Shellstrop is an enigma. Nothing about her behavior on Earth indicates she should be able--or willing--to sincerely change, and yet she has. She has a limited human brain yet she keeps outwitting him. No one can rile him up like her, yet no one understands him quite like her, either.

Also, he made him a paperclip bracelet that one time.

That's why he visits her instead of Chidi when he's feeling frustrated with ethics. Because even if she is a human, she understands him more than his own kind ever did.

They sit across from eachother. In the artifical light, he can't tell if her eyes are more blue or green.

They talk a while, and in the end, she tells him that she believes in him. That she believes it will all work out. He doesn't fully understand why, but the words stay with him long after he leaves, keeping a smile on his face that he can't wipe away even if he tries. He's still smiling when he walks into his office and sees Shawn at his desk.

                                                                                   * * * * *

Shawn tells him it's everything he ever wanted, and he can't disagree. Because it is. As an apprentice, toiling away on others' designs, he dreamed of the moment that his own work would be recognized. Micheal the Architect, senior staff member, exhalted in the Bad Place.

It would be so easy to snatch the pin, place it on his lapel, and pretend that the last few months never happened.

He's not sure what will happen to Janet, though. It's not like they can realistically sneak her back to the warehouse. Maybe they'll reboot her, and reuse her for a replica neighborhood. As for the humans, he knows exactly what will happen to them; they'll be tortured forever. He tries to imagine it. For some reason, he keeps going back to the moment that Trevor threw his arm around Eleanor, prepared to take her to the "Bad Place," and the way she looked, resigned and disgusted all at once.

He remembers stretching his hand out to her, and her accepting. He remembers leading her back to the fake Good Place.

It turns out he's already made his choice.

He doesn't even regret it.

                                                                                    * * * * *

He collapses into Eleanor's arms like a puppet whose strings were cut, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"I was so worried for you! You're my friends and I wanted to save you!"

Eleanor whispers that it's okay. He wishes he could believe her, he really does, but he can't escape the fact that they're completely and utterly forked. The humans still think he can get them to the real Good Place, but he knows that they don't have a chance. They're at the end of the road. They've seemingly run out of options.

But maybe he can figure it out, if he stalls long enough. He's done it before when he thought he hit rock bottom, and he can do it again. He always figures something out.

                                                                                    * * * * *

He doesn't figure it out.

                                                                                    * * * * *

The Shellstrops are right about one thing: drinking really does help.

He tells stories about past reboots that get everyone laughing. Someone (Eleanor or Jason, he can't remember which) suggest Never Have I Ever. Michael figures out the trick after two turns, getting everyone, even Janet, out with gems like "never have I ever been rebooted," "never have I ever smashed food holes," "never have I ever had a beating heart," and "never have I ever been to Earth." By the time they try to gang up on him ("never have I ever tortured humans," "never have I ever worn a fake human suit," and Jason's "never have I ever worn a bowtie", which gets both Chidi and Tahani fuming  because Micheal and weird turtle dealers aren' t the only one's who wear bowties, Jason) it's already too late.

"That's not, that's not even fair," Tahani says, swaying sligtly. "How do we even know--can you even get drunk?"

"I can," Michael says with dignity. "It just takes longer."

"Prove it!" Eleanor starts up the drunken chant, getting the others to all chime in. "Prove it! Prove it!"

So Michael downs an entire bottle of whiskey in one go.

In retrospect, that might not have been his smartest decision.

                                                                                   * * * * *

In the end, Eleanor's the one to come of with the crazy, bound to fail plan. The humans slowly trickle back to their beds, since humans need to be well rested before facing off against impossible odds, until it's just him and Eleanor left sprawled on the blanket, their legs stretching out before them. Eleanor rests against his side. Tonight, in the Michael-made starlight, her eyes look more green than blue. There's a pleasant buzz in Micheal's brain, leaving him light and (despite everything) happy.

"Micheal," Eleanor says suddenly. "Do you think there's something wrong with me?"

"Not particularly," he says. "Why?"

"You said that me and Chidi were 'in love,'" she starts to use air quotes but gives up halfway. "But now we're not. Or he doesn't feel that way, or can't decide what way he feels, I don't even know. I don't know if it's me--if there's just something unloveable about me."

Something about that statement hurts Micheal, but he's not sure why. He's no good with feelings talk--he only just learned what 'guilt' means. But Eleanor was there for him when he needed it (a smile across a table, a hand patting his back) so he gives it his best shot.

"Chidi's just Chidi," he says. "He's trapped in his own Chidi world, which, just between us, is what made torturing him so fun. There's nothing wrong with you. Whatever Chidi's dealing with, it's not beccause you're 'unloveable' or whatever."

They're quiet for a moment.

"Hey, Micheal? Do you really think kissing is that gross?"

His face twists in disgust. "Yes. But to be fair, I think a lot of human bodily functions are disgusting."

"Cuz we're like cockroaches," Eleanor nods sagely.

That's not...entirely right, but he can't figure out why.

"Sooooo," she says. He knows that look in her eyes. "Does that mean you wouldn't ever try kissing? Just to say you tried it?"

He barks out a laugh. "When would I ever get the chance to try it?"

"Well, we could. Right now. If you want."

Michael feels too warm again. He's having trouble meeting those more-green-than-blue eyes. He's suddenly aware of how close they are, pressed together like this.

"Why--would you--you, you actually want to?"

"Sure."

He's always trusted Eleanor before when it came to human things. And he can't lie to himself: he does like the feel of her in his arms, pressed so closely that he can feel her heart beat, away from everyone else. He doesn't want it to end.

"Okay," he says softly.

It's a little awkward at first, because Micheal doesn't know what to do while Eleanor shuffles around, positioning herself in front of him. She closes her eyes, so he does too. Her hands are on his back and her lips press against his. It's...nice. Her lips are soft and warm and not as gross as he expected.

She pulls away too soon. She leans forward, like she wants to sit on his lap, but loses her balance. He catches her before she faceplants the grass.

" 'm okay," she says.

A voice in his head, which sounds suspiciously like Professor Buzzkill, tells him she's not.

"Okay, it's time for bed," he says. "Sleep it off."

She lets out a disappointed whine, but she doesn't fight him. He pulls her to her feet and walks her back to the clown house. Just as they reach the door ("Ya know," Eleanor slurrs, "tonight I'm not even gonna mind the creepy clowns watching me sleep."), a terrible thought occurs to him.

"Eleanor? Was I a rebound?"

"What? Pff, no. You're not a rebound. You're...you're Micheal."

He pretends that he knows what she means.

                                                                                       * * * * *

Why didn't he grab another pin? Stupid, stupid. Eleanor watches him fumble through the jackets, trying not to freak out, but he can feel the tension radiating off of her from the seventh dimension.

It's too late. Shawn's on the balcony. He has two options. He could go through the portal after the others, leaving Eleanor behind to be torture. Forever. Or he could give her his pin, be retired for sure, while Eleanor has only a slim chance of winning her case.

Once, there wouldn't have even been a choice. He doesn't want to be retired. He remembers his existential panic when Chidi explained death to him. He thought it was the worst possible fate.

Now, peering into Eleanor's panicked face, he can think of another.

She doesn't understand as he explains the trolley problem, not until he removes his senior staff pin and pins it on her dress.

"No," she says.

"Take care of the others," he says. He is sad that he won't get to see them all on the other side, but he knows that they're all in good hands if Eleanor's there to guide them.

"Goodbye, Eleanor," he says, pushing her through the portal. He's tempted to kiss her before she goes, because that warm feeling is building up in his chest and it needs an outlet,  but there's no time. He hopes she understands all of the things he doesn't say, because he sure as hell doesn't.

She vanishes. She's safe now, he thinks as he waits for Shawn to reach him. He knows that he's facing rock bottom--in all of eternity, only eleven demons have been retired--but he can't find it in himself to care.

#the good place #hellstrop #michael x eleanor #eleanor shellstrop #michael (tgp) #fanfic

[michaels-blackhat]

A Ring Upon Return; A Holiday Spent Together

day 8/31 of my massive holiday project

for @bestillmyslashyheart, you are lovely and you’re so supportive of me and my silly fics. You were one of my first friends I made in this fandom. I still don’t remember how, but I do remember telling you about this secretly married fic I wanted to write... anyway months later it’s still not done, but have a ficlet from it instead. Part of the Something Dumb to Do verse.

Michael was on base, Margaret and Luke at his side. He was nervous, a silly thing to be when he was going to see his boyfriend for the first time since he proposed. But here he was, in New York with a ring in his pocket and his-- hopefully--  soon-to-be in-laws at his side.

He was yearly, those returning from deployment would finish their final check-ins and debriefs shortly. They arrived home in time for the base-wide holiday party the next day.

Michael bounced on the balls of his feet as he tried to ignore Margaret’s amused looks.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this antsy,” she commented, not even pretending to hide her smile. “Not even when you first met us.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t propose to you on the phone in the least romantic way possible,” Michael replied. He fiddled with in ring box in his pocket.

“You really think he’ll say no?” Luke’s voice showcased all of his incredulity.

“Well, no,” Michael admitted, hand still holding the box. “It’s more like I think I fucked it up the first time and I don’t want to fuck it up now.”

Margaret wrapped an arm around Michael’s shoulder and grinned. “I don’t think you have to worry about it. He’s already calling you his ‘fiance’, as if I don’t talk to you as much as I talk to him.”

Michael melted a little at Margaret’s words. “He’s already calling me his fiance?” He asked through a grin.

Margaret squeezed him in response as Luke just rolled his eyes.

Whatever responses they had to that was cut off by the sound of the heavy double doors opening. Any conversation halted as the Airmen were released from their check-ins and sent to their families. The Manes-Guerin trio stayed where they were, off to the corner but close to the doors, exactly where Alex said he’d meet them.

They didn’t have to wait long. Michael saw Alex break off from the group he was talking to, saw his face light up the moment he found Michael. He made his way over to them quickly. His bag was tossed to Luke as Alex threw his arms around Michael, and Margaret whose arm was still around Michael.

“Oh, I see, I’m the pack mule,” Luke laughed. Margaret laughed as well as she tried to untangle herself from the hug.

Michael didn’t let go for a long time.

“Missed you,” Michael whispered in Alex’s ear. He felt Alex move before he pressed a kiss against Michael’s jaw.

“Missed you too,” Alex whispered back.

Michael finally pulled away after a few long minutes.

“You should probably say hello to your family,” he said, arms still around Alex, but loosely. “I think they missed you too.”

Margaret laughed. “You say that as if you’re not family too.” She smiled as she and Luke trapped the two in a group hug.

Michael tired not to show his surprise at how long Alex and Luke lasted in the group hug, but he smiled through it. It broke quickly, with Alex grabbing his bag from where Luke had dropped it.

“You guys ready to head out?” He asked. “I’m starving.”

“Just one more thing,” Michael said. “I have something for you, before we go.”

Alex raised an eyebrow in question but stayed where he was.

“I asked you a question, while you were away,” Michael started before he was interrupted by Alex.

“And I said yes,” he replied with a smile.

Michael pulled out the box from his jacket pocket.

“I was going to be more romantic, this time.”

Alex laughed at Michael’s sheepish expression.

“I don’t need it to be romantic,” Alex said through his laughter. “All that matters is that it’s you. You see a future for us, you want to do this. That’s what matters to me.”

Michael didn’t hide his dopey grin before he pulled Alex in for a kiss. When the kiss ended Michael opened the box to reveal a simple, silver band. Alex placed it on his left ring finger.

They all left for lunch.

-

Michael had never been in the main hanger before, had really only seen the small hanger that Margaret works in once and had never been to the offices where Alex spent most of his time. The hanger was huge and drafty. Michael could feel the cold seeping through the walls and the main moving doors. His hands were cold, but it was worth the cold hand to have Alex’s in his.

Alex tried to explain Air Force patch trading while Michael smiled, not understanding in the slightest. They moved from table to table, from activity to activity, as Alex pointed out different customs and traditions the base had. Apparently the party was a yearly event that had barely changed in the 30-years the base had been running it.

“They added more Chanukah things a few years ago, I heard,” Alex explained as they passed a table full of kids coloring. “That’s about the most exciting thing here. Oh, besides the people from starbucks bringing coffee and hot chocolate.” He smiled as he lifted up his cup to take a sip. “Before it used to just be whatever coffee we normally have in the canteen. This is a vast improvement, I promise.”

Michael laughed as he took a sip of his drink, a mixture of the hot chocolate and coffee that the overly friendly volunteer had called a cafe and cocoa. He took another sip, enjoying the warmth of the coffee in the chilly space.

“Anything you want to do in particular?” Alex asked as they continued to weave their way through tables and around other groups.

The hanger was filled with families, with Airmen in uniform and children in their holiday best. There were entertainers moving throughout the space as well, jugglers and a man on stilts entertaining children. Michael eyed the photobooths, the line to meet Santa, and the line for the popcorn machines. None of it captured his attention as much as the man next to him.

“Nah, just enjoying the time with you.”

Alex smiled at that and squeezed Michael’s hand, though he only replied, “You’re sappy,” before he started to move towards a group of Airmen near the buffet tables.

Alex was greeted with smiles as they moved to join the group. He turned to an older man.

“Manes, so glad you could join us.” the older man said. Michael wasn’t familiar with the military, for all that Alex had been in it for years, so he didn’t know what the bars and symbols on the man’s uniform meant. He was a superior of some sort, that was obvious.

“Sir,” Alex said in reply. “This is my fiance, Michael. I wanted to bring him over and introduce him. Michael, this is my superior officer, Major Harris.”

“Hello sir,” Michael said as he shook the Major’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And I’ve heard a lot about you. We all have over the last few months.” He smiled at Michael and Alex. “Congratulations on your engagement.” 

“Thank you, sir. But you did already congratulate me.”

Major Harris laughed. “But I didn’t congratulate your young man!” He turned to Michael. “I’ve known him for years, he’s never been one for personal talk even after the repeal, but when he got off the phone with you? He wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

One of the Airmen laughed in agreement. Michael turned his head to see Staff Sergeant Jefferies, whom Michael had met many times before, nod in agreement.

“Man Guerin, you should have heard him. Every other word was ‘fiance’ or ‘proposed’. Frankly, it was a little embarrassing.” He winked at Michael for full effect.

Michael laughed and turned towards Alex.

“Is that true? You really couldn’t stop gushing about me?”

Alex’s ears turned red, he blushed so hard.

“They’re lying.”

“Margaret and Luke said the same thing too,” Michael argued, good natured grin on his face.

“They were lying too.”

“Oh no Guerin,” Senior Airman Scotwood. Michael had met her for the first time on his previous visit, had found her to be shy, reserved in a way that most of the other Airmen weren’t. “It was awful, if I hadn’t already met you I would have assumed he was lying, that’s how insufferable he was.”

“And we’re leaving,” Alex said before she finished. He tugged on Michael’s hand.

“It was very nice to meet you Major Harris,” Michael called as Alex dragged him away. The whole group just laughed as Michael hurried to catch up to Alex, hands still clasped together.

“You know,” Michael said as he caught up to Alex, “you don’t have to be embarrassed. It’s cute that you’re excited.”

“How could I not be?” Alex asked. “I get to marry you. I get to have you as my family, officially. I’ll be even more thrilled the day my military benefits roll over to you, when the country gets with the program. I just don’t want to be teased about it.” Alex said with a shrug.

“I don’t think they’re teasing you, at least not in a mean way. I think they’re just as excited as you are. I know them all, some of them I’ve known for years now. They’re teasing you because they’re happy for us and every single one of us is secretly an asshole.”

Alex laughed at that. “Ok, you have a point there.”

“Oh, I know I do.” Michael smiled and looked around at the still crowded hanger. “Now, how about we leave before the mad rush to get home starts?” He pulled on Alex’s hand until they were in each other’s space completely and Michael could wrap his free arm around Alex. “We’ll start to decorate a little, I’ll make you dinner, and we can spend the rest of the evening celebrating our engagement.”

Alex smiled up at Michael. “That sounds perfect.”

They left before the large moving doors opened to reveal a sleigh with a man dressed up as Santa. That was ok though, they both already got their Christmas wish.

#malex #malex fic #rnm fic #something dumb to do #alex manes #michael guerin #roswell new mexico #my fic #holiday fic gifts #bestillmyslashyheart

[benisasoftboi]

Gushing time.

Rune Factory 4 Special arrived a day early, so my entire day has been consumed in nostalgia. The original Rune Factory 4 was the first video game I ever bought on release day - I remember saving up all my money and making my mum drive me to like three different shops trying to find one that had it. I was already a fan of the franchise - before then, Rune Factory 3 had been my favourite video game, across the board. Aside from a playthrough of the first game last year, I haven’t played a Rune Factory game in a long time, certainly not RF4. But just starting up the game and hearing the music again, it was like it was suddenly seven years ago. Running around Selphia and seeing all the characters again - I love JRPGs, have played a lot of them, and I can think of very few that have characters that have stuck with me this long. And the aesthetics - the best thing about the Rune Factory franchise has always been the aesthetics, the music, the scenic and character design, just the general world. It’s a beautifully whimsical balance of urban and fantasy, and it’s the only JRPG world I think I’ve ever come across that I would genuinely want to live in. Rune Factory may no longer be my favourite game franchise - but I don’t think there has ever been another series that has felt so much like home to me.

Here’s a very long selection of personal highlights from the art book (by which I mean photos of the art followed by my rambling opinions):

Yeah, see, here’s the thing - Rune Factory 1 is not a good game. I could write an entire essay on why it’s bad (I actually started and got pretty damn far before realising no one’s interested in my two thousand word review of a game that came out over a decade ago - the short version is ‘Misty Bloom-fucking-Cave’. Anyone who’s played RF1 knows exactly what I mean). Don’t get me wrong, it has good qualities - excellent boss fights, for one, and also, as with the rest of the franchise, it is aesthetically wonderful. But ultimately, it feels less like playing a video game, and more like playing a proof of concept for a game. Which I guess it kind of was - and I can’t hate it because we wouldn’t have the rest of the series without it.

But it literally ends with a dragon spewing plant breath on a tank to make a turnip grow out of the gun. ‘Profound’, my arse. 

It’s Raguna! The “master sowrdsman!” (that is not a typo on my part that is a direct quote from the ending of Rune Factory 1 this game’s script had so many issues-). And Mist! My favourite of the ‘canon’ love interests!

Best girl! When I was a kid, my favourite love interest in RF1 was Rosetta. As an adult, it is Tabatha. I don’t know what it is about her that I find so likeable (she’s as lacking in personality as any other RF1 character), but... idk, I just like her a lot.

Camus’s big ambition is to leave town like even once. He will never achieve it

Fun fact about Melody is that she’s extremely depressed, a fact that comes up once in an optional side quest and is never addressed again. It’s incredibly dark for an RF game

Fun fact about Lukas is that he sucks (he’s one of those ‘obsessed with talking about how hot all the girls are’ characters, an archetype that thankfully doesn’t show up again in these games). But also, interestingly enough, thanks to one of RF1′s many, many script errors, if you marry Rosetta (the girl Lukas is the most obsessed with), he’s supposed to express disappointment that he lost her to Raguna - but instead, he implies that he’s disappointed to have lost Raguna to her. The translators typoed their way into giving him a sexuality change. Which is honestly kind of amazing.

LOOK AT THIS SLIME THIS IS SUCH A COOL SLIME LITERALLY EVERY OTHER JPRG SLIME GO HOME DRAGON QUEST GET FUCKED (jk I like Dragon Quest a lot and its slimes are cool too). Wish you could see in-game that this is what they’re meant to be like.

I just generally love the monster designs, they’re really charming

Rune Factory 2! The RF game with the most weirdly mundane protagonist name (Kyle. In the main four games of this franchise we’ve got Raguna, Micah, Lest, Frey... and Kyle). The two generations thing was actually very cool, but when they say ‘each chapter captures a different lifestyle’, what they really mean is ‘the first half is a weak Harvest Moon I’m sorry, STORY OF SEASONS game, and the second half is a pretty good Rune Factory game’  

lookit this little fuck

Yue Yue Yue! I love Yue so much, she’s great. She’s kind of like a much chiller version of Anna from Fire Emblem.

It’s really cool that we got to see grown up Cecilia (she was in RF1). I have this silly headcanon that if Kyle doesn’t marry Mana, Nicholas (her friend in 1) comes to visit Cecilia one day in the hazy-post game future, and meets Mana, and they get together. While Yue is my favourite, I do genuinely like Mana a lot, and I just want her to find love, I guess.  

Here’s original Barrett! There’s a reason he was popular enough to make a reappearance (well, aside from the whole grumpy pretty boy thing he’s got going on) - he was a great character in this game. His and Dorothy’s relationship is also definitely the most compelling of the rival romances. Bonus Max, who also has a little shout-out in RF4 (check the diary in what will become Dylas’s bedroom at the start of the game)

Ray is male, but apparently he was originally going to be a female character, as he has an unused portrait in a wedding dress. My friend and I agree that this makes him a Trans Icon

Monster designs remain excellent. Especially the goblins

Skipping over Frontier (and also Oceans later), as I never got to play it growing up due to not having a console, and still haven’t got around to it - might try this summer. Except I do need to point out that these guys should be memes. I don’t know in what way. But they should.  

Rune Factory 3! My first RF game. The transformation thing was very cool, even if it was basically useless outside the main story. My friend and I spent hours mucking about in the WiFi dungeon. I loved the desert settlement and all of the dungeon designs in general, and man, RF3 is just great. I hope it gets a remake one day.

Raven Raven Raven! I LOVE Raven (as do most). Her story with Micah is the first time I can remember getting genuinely invested in a video game romance. I’m so glad she cameos in RF4. I love her. She’s wonderful.

I have an odd fondness for Marian. When I was about twelve, I decided to do a playthrough where I deliberately romanced the least popular bachelorette. After poking around on forums, I determined that character to be Marian, and did a run with her. And... I actually came to really like her. I find her endearing. I get that people find her annoying and don’t like her... unethical medical practices, but doing that run has still made me a pretty protective of her. It’s been a long time since I played RF3, so maybe I’d change my mind if I replayed now, but currently, as far as I’m concerned,  Marian’s a good’un.

I think I also used to low key ship her with Collette lol 

Pia’s official art has always been super weird to me because it’s so not what her character is like in-game. She’s a ditzy airhead. This makes her look so serious

RAINBOW! Another character whose art makes them look way more serious than they actually are. Daria is great and would be a meme if this game was more popular. I think she’s also implied to be a relative of Margaret. 

I’ve always been super confused about what Kuruna’s skirt is meant to be. Is it fur? Is it part of her shirt? Is it even a skirt at all?

Check it out, it’s the guy everyone would ship Micah with if this game was more popular

I want Zaid to make a reappearance and interact with Doug. Pretty sure it’s canon that they’re from the same clan? Think it would be very interesting.

RF3 definitely had the coolest farm. Also, still love the desert settlement.

This is from Oceans, so I have no context, but it’s just so cool that I had to share

Rune Factory 4. Culmination of the series is right - when I was playing it for the first time, I remember being blown away by just how much it is a true love letter to the franchise. I have never come across another game series that so consistently grew and improved from entry to entry. RF4 was a perfect ending.

Not that I’m complaining about getting RF5. Quite the opposite.

But if it had been the end (as we all thought it was until about a year ago), well, like I say. Perfect. 

Well. Aside from soda can nipples. Can’t believe they didn’t fix those. Though in some ways, that would have made me sad too

Dolce has such a cool design, in both human and monster form. I’ve always kind of crack-shipped her with Margaret, for no real reason at all

Vishnal! I love Vishnal. Vishnal is pure as heck. Marrying him this time around.

Doug! My choice from last time around. Another character who looks more serious in his official art than he is in-game (well... most of the time)

And then there’s Dylas, who looks much happier here than he does most of the time. Kind of looks like he and Doug swapped bodies, actually. There’s a fanfic prompt for you.

Their ship name is Dyldo. I love them

Leon is nostalgic for me mostly because my friend and I used to get into a lot of arguments about whether or not he’s the hottest character in the game. She maintains that he is, because muscles. I maintain that muscles aren’t actually that attractive. It is a rift that divides us to this day

(He looks oddly... younger in this art though? Weird)

Sechs Empire is such an unfortunate name. Seriously. How rushed was RF1′s localisation team? All those script errors, and then this (the Sechs were the antagonists in the first game, and were only referenced in passing in the rest until RF4 - so it was a bit of a ‘sins of the father’ situation by then).

Seriously, try saying ‘Sechs Emperor’ out loud and tell me you can take this man seriously 

I??? Love??? Them???

I??? LOVE??? THEM???

Still confused as to why Kiel, Xiao Pai, Arthur and Margaret are on the cover now. Don’t get me wrong, I like them, but... Amber, Dylas, Dolce and Leon made way more sense? Even the Archival Cover makes more sense (Vishnal, Clorica, Forte), as those three are all kind of Lest/Frey’s servants (well, Forte for the whole town, but still). Of those first four, all but Arthur basically lift right out of the game with little-to-no impact on the story

NO HAT TABATHA NO HAT TABATHA

I’ve always really loved this Raven picture

And I am thankful for you <3

#rune factory #rune factory 4 #rune factory 4 special #rf4 #rf4s #rf4srelease #i love these games <3

[lilacmoon83]

Lightning in a Bottle

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 4: All Things Work Together For Good

Emma idly shopped for a few items in the store and picked up some essentials. Her attention was caught though when she heard his voice on a television playing nearby. She looked up to see Detective Killian Rogers giving a statement to the press about two missing girls. It seemed that her ex had made quite a name for himself while she was gone.

After paying for her items, she rode the bus back to her brother and sister-in-law's house and while the kids were playing a game, she managed to get his attention. She pointed to the backyard and he followed her, before she collapsed onto the swing.

"What's up?" he asked.

"Something happened today," she replied.

"Okay...what's going on Em?" he asked.

"This is going to sound crazy...but I kept hearing this voice. I was on a bus and it was my voice telling us to slow down. I tried to ignore it, but it just got louder then. And...when I screamed at the bus driver, he stopped, just in time for a little boy to run out in front of the bus," she explained. She saw her brother straighten his shoulders and she could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to process what she was telling him.

"You've always had good instincts when it comes to helping people. That's why you became a cop," he reasoned.

"This wasn't instinct, David," she protested.

"Even if it wasn't...keep it to yourself," he urged.

"I tell you and MM everything," she reminded him.

"You know I'm not talking about MM…" he said, as he leaned closer.

"But if the NSA hears that a passenger is hearing voices in their head...we'll all end up in some government lab somewhere," he warned. She wanted to refute that claim, but knew he was right. They were being closely watched; of that she knew wholeheartedly.

"You coming inside for dinner?" he asked.

"Uh...no I think I need some air. I'm going to take a walk," she replied. He sighed.

"Em…" he started to protest, but she forced a smile.

"I'm fine...save me some?" she asked. He rolled his eyes and then nodded.

~*~

After a nice, quiet family dinner together, they cleaned up the kitchen and then sat curled together on the couch, watching the kids play a board game at the table nearby.

"I never thought I'd have this again…" Margaret gushed, as she cuddled against him and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"I can't imagine what you've been through. If I had lost you...for five years, I think I would have lost my mind," he admitted. Her eyes sparkled like emeralds, as she gazed into his eyes and then kissed him tenderly. He kissed her back and felt the familiar passion that was always so strong between them lick at his every nerve.

"Hey Mom...do you still have my dinosaur Lego set?" Henry asked curiously.

"Sure sweetie...I think we packed most of that stuff away in the closet," Margaret answered.

"You kept it all? And Dad's stuff too?" he asked. She looked down a little shyly.

"Well...some people said I should pack it away or give it to Goodwill, but Ollie said we shouldn't. She said that you and daddy were out there somewhere and even though I had my doubts...I wanted so badly to believe her," she said, as she stood up and hugged him.

"Some people said it was unhealthy, but I left your room exactly like it was. Most of the toys are just packed away," she said, as he took her hand and pulled her toward the stairs.

"Can we get them out?" he asked. She chuckled.

"Of course we can," she replied, as she was happy to let him practically drag her up the stairs. David looked on happily, as he saw his daughter putting the game away.

"So...Mom says you're still playing soccer," he mentioned. She nodded and shrugged.

"Yeah...I have a game tomorrow," she replied.

"I'd love to come if that's okay with you," he said. She smiled.

"I know I'm kind of attracting a lot of attention right now so I'll stay away if that makes it weird for you…" he stammered, but she came over to him.

"Screw 'em dad…" she said and he looked surprised, but then probably shouldn't have. She was a teenager now and he chuckled.

"Okay...then I'll be there," he said, as they shared a hug.

"Thanks for never giving up on us, peanut," he whispered to her. She sniffed and snuggled deeper into his embrace.

"They said I was crazy and they pushed mom into sending me to therapy," she confessed.

"I'm so sorry that happened to you," he said.

"It's okay...therapy helped a lot and I stopped telling people that I thought Henry was alive after a while. I moved on...sort of I guess," she replied.

"Good...I'd want you to be happy if we really were gone," he told her. She nodded.

"Mom didn't move on though...people even got pretty pushy about it. I heard them say it wasn't normal," she confessed. He sighed.

"Well...your Mom and I have never really been normal. People have always had a hard time understanding our bond. It was always us against the world and looks like it still is...all of us though. We'll figure all this out together," he promised, as he kissed her hair.

What he said was true and it had really always been that way.

When Ruth died, David was only twelve and stepped up when his father didn't. Margaret had seriously been his rock and the bond they already shared deepened even more in a way that just didn't happen too often. They didn't often discuss the mystical feel it had, because most kids already thought they were weird, but they had always drawn strength from that bond and it had developed into a deep, all encompassing love that was very true and beyond incredible.

Even when life threatened to get in their way, they had refused to allow it and always joined hands to walk through it together. They adopted Ruth's mantra and favorite Bible verse into their lives and had never let go of it.

All Things Work Together For Good

They had done this when facing all adversity. They had done so on the playground and both had gotten into enough dust ups protecting and defending each other against mean kids or bullies.

They had done so when Eva died and then Ruth died just two years later. At both funerals, others around their families had tried to pull them apart or even expressed to their remaining parents that their closeness was inappropriate for their age. Leopold was never around to be concerned enough about Margaret, until she was older and by then she had told her absentee father where he could go. And neither Ruth or Robert, to his credit, had never been shy about defending them either. They considered Margaret as their own and even through all his struggles, that had never changed for Robert.

They had faced and navigated High School much the same way. Again, they were the weird kids, though they had a decent sized group of friends and other misfits they congregated with. Even among the misfits they stood out as an oddity and teachers viewed their closeness as inappropriate and frowned upon it. But even with all of that working against them and society constantly trying to conform them to its parameters, they defied everything that should have and would have torn most apart.

By college, Robert was in rehab and getting sober, while they found a freedom in college. They were no longer looked at as being weird for their close, loving relationship. They excelled in their classes, as they went to get their teaching degrees together. All the bad and uninspiring teachers they had drove them into that profession. They wanted to help kids navigate the difficulties in life. They had each other, but knew a lot of kids weren't as lucky as they were.

It came as no surprise to anyone that they were ready to get married during their second year and Robert, likely in his guilt and overcompensation, had thrown them a giant wedding. He stated that he knew that this would be their only marriage and that it should be celebrated as the true, real life fairy tale that it was. They appreciated his enthusiasm and let him do this for them, in honor of Ruth, because they all knew she would have relished the day they got married and knew she was there in spirit.

Their paths in the education profession diverted in a bit. Margaret always knew that she wanted to focus on early education and knew she'd likely go on to teach at the elementary level. David, being extremely gifted in mathematics, stayed in school an extra year to get his Master's degree. Upon graduating, he started in teaching advanced math at the high school level, but eventually became an associate professor at the University level.

The twins had come along five years later, much to their incredible joy and even through all the years and Henry's cancer, their love had weathered every storm and they had come out the other side loving each other even more. And he knew it would overcome this too.

"Come on...let's go see how many toys your brother has managed to find already," he said. They shared a smile and went upstairs.

~*~

Emma wandered the streets, not really paying attention to where she was going and as she rounded another corner, she heard the voice again. But it was saying something different this time.

"Set them free…"

She stopped and saw two dogs locked behind a fence and heard the voice again. By now, she was really freaked out and so ignored the voice's command this time, before hurrying back home.

~*~

She was in heaven. Pure, sweet heaven, as he made love to her again. She couldn't get enough, not that she had ever been able to. But five years was far too long to

suffer through without his touch. She had thought this was lost to her. She thought she'd never feel him kiss her again. She thought she'd never feel his hands on her body again. She thought she'd never feel him inside her again.

After, they held each other and cuddled, exchanging soft kisses and soulful gazes.

"What are you thinking?" he asked, as he caressed her face.

"Mmm...that five years is too long. A day is too long for me…" she gushed, as she pressed a kiss to his bare chest.

"I'm never leaving your side again...I promise, for more than a few hours anyway," he promised.

"Then you're going to put your resume out there?" she asked curiously. He nodded.

"I need a job...I mean, we'll be okay for a while I think. We still have some of Mom's money left, right?" he asked. She nodded.

"Yes...the life insurance I got for you is mostly gone, but I paid off the house when I was finally able to pull myself together," she replied. He caressed her face.

"You're amazing...I don't know how you did it," he mentioned.

"I didn't for a while...I was a mess. Your father really came through. He lost his kids and didn't touch a drop. He pretty much took care of Olive, the house, me, the bills around here for like six months and never complained. I couldn't have done it without him," she admitted. He smiled.

"Yeah...dad I need to talk and I need to thank him for taking care of the most precious things to me," he said tearfully. She leaned in and kissed him again, but he pulled away suddenly when he heard a voice.

"David…?" she asked, as she saw him put a hand to his temple.

"Baby...what is it?" she questioned, as he heard it again.

"Set them free…" the voice, his own voice, insisted.

"It's crazy…" he said, not sure how to tell her.

"The plane you were on disappeared for five and half years and then came back. Obviously there is something bigger going on here and if embracing it is my price for getting you back...then I'm all in," she promised. He looked at her and nearly broke down in tears. God she was amazing and he was so lucky. Not many other people would react that way.

"Okay...earlier Emma said that she heard a voice on the bus. It told her to slow down and it was so insistent that she yelled at the bus driver. Before he could give her hell for making him slam on the brakes...a little kid ran out in front of the bus," he explained. She gasped.

"She saved the little boy?" she asked. He nodded.

"I told her to keep it to herself, except you. You know if the government thinks passengers are hearing voices that they'll lock us up in some lab," he replied. She nodded.

"And you just heard something?" she asked. He nodded.

"It said...set them free," he replied and he watched her get up and start putting her clothes on.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"It said set them free so let's go find them," she replied and he looked at her incredulously.

"David...whatever this is…" she said, pausing for a moment.

"It brought you and Henry back to me and if the price of that is doing something for it in return? Then I told you that I'm in. I may not be hearing the voices too, but we're doing this together," she replied and he couldn't help but grin brightly at her.

"Most wives would look at their husbands and tell them they're crazy after what I just told you," he said.

"I'm not most wives and you're not most husbands," she replied, as he started getting dressed.

"We've never been normal, baby...and this is just par for the course," she added, as he kissed her soundly.

"We were holding hands on the playground at eight. You were picking flowers for me at ten and all the rest of my life after that," she added.

"Snowdrops…" he said fondly.

"Only snowdrops," she agreed.

"We had our first kiss at twelve after your Mom died and endured no less than fifteen lectures about how we were too young and we didn't understand love, but that was, crap, as Emma would say," she said passionately.

"Definitely...I knew I was in love with you then," he said.

"We made love for the first time when we were sixteen and endured the glare of every teacher in High School for our closeness that no one else could understand," she replied, as she slipped her arms around his neck.

"I've always felt you in my soul...and that never left me, even when you were gone," she said, as her voice choked a bit. He kissed her tenderly.

"You remember when the study hall teacher caught us making out in the janitor's closet?" he joked. She laughed.

"Which time? And it was worth the detention," she teased, as they melted into each other again, until he heard the voice.

"You heard it again…" she said and he wasn't surprised that she could still read him like a book.

"Yeah...it's not going away," he lamented.

"Come on...Olive will be fine here with Henry for a bit," she insisted, as she led him out. Yes...he was certainly the luckiest man on the planet, he was positive of that.

~*~

Not long after she had left the scene with those dogs, the voice returned to plague her. She gave up on sleep, got dressed, and took a bus back to the fence where the dogs were locked up.

"Set them free," the voice told her. She groaned and put her hands on her head. She jumped though, as there were suddenly headlights on her. She squinted, as the car stopped and the doors opened. She was surprised and relieved to find her brother and sister-in-law there.

"Guys...what are you doing?" she asked.

"Set them free," David said, with a note of frustration in his voice.

"I told him that we had to find what this voice is trying to tell you to do," Margaret said. She looked at her in surprise and he shrugged.

"I know...her first reaction to me hearing voices in my head is that we should follow the voices and not that I might be crazy," he joked.

"You are not crazy...and neither are you, Emma. But this...it means something. I'm not hearing anything...but I feel it," she explained.

"You both came back to me...and there is something out there that had to help you do that. All things work together for good," she added. Emma and David exchanged a glance.

"You're a lucky bastard, you know that, right?" Emma asked. He grinned and looked at his wife fondly, before hugging her close to his side.

"Trust me...I know," he agreed. Margaret looked at him with a dreamy stare and then at Emma, before hugging the blonde.

"This has to be so hard…" she fretted and Emma shrugged.

"Killian and I...we're not you guys and I don't think we were ever going to be," she replied.

"That just means that your true love is still out there for you," Margaret promised.

"Yeah...let's not talk about that now," Emma deflected, as her brother heard the voice again.

"Set them free," Emma said. He nodded with uncertainty and got a crowbar out of the car.

"For the record...this is a felony," he said wearily, as they broke the lock. The dogs, instead of attacking, ran off down the street. Curiously though, the voice stopped.

"What the hell was the point of that?" David wondered.

"Dunno...but the voice stopped," Emma replied.

"Then I suggest we go home for now," Margaret said. Emma raised an eyebrow.

"For now?" she asked.

"I think we all know that whatever this is...it's not over," Margaret reasoned. They agreed and got back into the car, as David drove them home.

#Snowing #SnowxCharming #Emma Swan #Regina Mills #Henry #Mr. Gold #Manifest #with a Once twist #AU #romance #adventure #family #lightning in a bottle

[arianakristine]

@skagengiirl So, this has actually been sitting around in a word document since about 2015 (what I meant by cheating a bit). I’ve taken pieces of the ideas for other stories, but I hope you will enjoy anyway :)

Title: Girl Talk Summary: The Wonder That’s Keeping the Stars Apart collection. A few months after everything settles, a party is held at Granny’s. And Red has a question that’s been bugging her for a while. Some Frankenwolf mentioned.

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*

“Emma,” a voice calls. She looks up to see Ruby stumbling toward her, her drink sloshing around her glass precariously but not spilling. “There’s my godchild!”

Emma winces, but lets the woman hug her awkwardly in her seat. Ruby falls back into another chair clumsily, giggling all the while.

“You’re such a light-weight, Ruby!” Emma teases, denying the way her own voice came out in a cursive. She can barely hear over the din of people talking and music playing. Granny’s looked more like a bar than a dinner currently, but everyone looked in a good mood.

Ruby takes a sip of the cola-colored liquor and chances a glance behind her. “Emmy, you gotta tell me –“

“Uh, uh, no way, no Emmy. Nix it,” Emma corrects firmly. She points at her directly. “Emma’s short enough, no nicknames needed.”

Ruby cackles. “Fine! Though I’m sure you and your hubby have plenty for each other.”

Her eyes darken as she seeks out Graham from across the room. His hand is curled around the neck of a beer bottle, chatting amicably with David and Archie. He is grinning, that dimpled smile that sends heat straight to the core of her. She sucks in a bit of a breath. “Not my husband … not yet, Ruby,” she corrects. Then she blinks. She must’ve had a couple more whiskeys than she should have, to imply something like that. She turns back to Ruby sharply, but the damage has already been done.

“Are you guys engaged?!” she asks in a stage whisper, her eyes widening.

“Hush, no, we’re not!” she says as she bats at her. “We’re not even really talking about it.”

Unfortunately, even an inebriated Ruby can pick up on the things she’s saying. “’Not really talking about it’? Does that mean you’ve kind of talked about it?”

Emma’s nose crinkles. “God, Ruby, really?” she sighs. She peeks back up at Graham. She can see the way the muscles of his back move through his shirt as he gestures. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbow, his hands in plain view. She pictures a band around his left ring finger, trying hard to ignore the pleasant tingle that curls up her spine at the thought. “We only really mentioned it once we saw each other again. We’re not talking marriage for real.”

“Bree’s what, almost six months old? What’s the delay?” she asks, her bright eyes trained on hers as she twists a cherry stem between her teeth.

She huffs a sigh. “Nothing, it’s just … we weren’t really together together before he … you know. We’re taking our time.”

Ruby’s brow arches. “You guys have a kid. You’re true love. But marriage is a rush?”

She waves her hand, and then takes a thick swallow of the honeyed whiskey. “We’re doing fine right now; why worry about getting married.”

Ruby rolls her eyes, taking another sip of her manhattan. “Whatever. Anyway, what I was saying before: I gotta know something that has been bugging me for ages,” she gushes dramatically.

Emma gestures. “Shoot.”

Ruby’s gaze turns playful. “How in the hell did you wind up pregnant in the first place? I’ve been trying to pinpoint the timeframe.”

Emma grimaces. “Ruby! Seriously?”

Ruby nods enthusiastically. “Yes, seriously! Now, was it after the dart incident? You guys were pretty heated; did you guys have like some angry sex against the cruiser or something?”

Emma gapes at her, slightly insulted. “No! We didn’t have angry sex!”

Ruby presses further, the alcohol making her bolder. “Not angry sex? Did the tension just bubble over and he took you in the middle of the parking lot or something?”

“Ruby!” she hisses. “No! We didn’t have sex that night.”

Ruby is pensive. “Hmm, not that night, then? Was it before? Was that why you were avoiding him when you found out about him and Regina?” she asks.

“Ruby!” she moans out. She takes a gulp of her whiskey, downing it cleanly. “No. Not then, not before then.”

Ruby’s expression turns stunned, training on her in sympathy. It takes Emma a second to realize she just basically told her the day it happened. The same day he died. “Emma, it was that day? Oh, I’m so sorry. Tell me you at least had time to enjoy it.”

Emma buries her face in her hands. “Just enough,” she grouses.

The other woman’s face spreads into a wicked grin. “So, it was good?”

Emma scowls, her first reaction being just to straight tell her off and exclaim that she would never tell Ruby something like that.

Then, it hits her. Ruby’s a friend. A friend like she’s never had. Sure, Mary Margaret and she are fantastic friends, but it hasn’t been the same since the curse broke. They’re family, and things run smoothly like that and they are still closer. But it’s not like it is with friends; not like late nights in the bunks at foster homes or half-whispered convos between girls in coffee shops. She can’t exactly talk to her mother about how good her boyfriend is in bed.

To gather strength, she pulls the open bottle of whiskey from the counter behind them and pours a shot that she downs immediately. She pushes the bottle towards the other woman in invitation. “God, Ruby, you couldn’t have imagined how good,” she finally admits.

Ruby pours over the ice left of her drink and grins impishly. “Girl, we’ve all imagined it,” she says with a wink. “I mean, his looks haven’t exactly gone unnoticed in this tiny town, or even in that massive forest before.”

Emma feels something creep up inside her that feels suspiciously like pride. She pours another glass and smiles into her drink. “He’s even better out of uniform,” she says, feeling decidedly playful.

Ruby’s eyes widen slightly. She opens her mouth to reply when Victor plops down in the chair next to her, pulling her close with arm. “So, Ladies, what are we discussing on this fine evening?” he slurs dramatically.

Ruby frowns. “Girl talk, Victor.”

Victor pouts. “Am I not allowed in on girl talk? Ruby, I will have you know that I am very in touch with my feminine side.” He whips his hair back and then leans into Ruby, smiling widely.

Even though Emma still holds a bit of a grudge against the doctor even months of reconciliation later, she has to stifle her laugh against the rim of her glass. The man is a funny drunk.

Ruby presses a teasing kiss against his lips, just barely brushing them. “Be that as it may, this is private, mister. You may get a reward if you leave now.”

Victor locks eyes with Emma’s and raises a brow suggestively. “Then I should be off. Have fun, lovelies.”

Once he leaves, Emma smirks at Ruby. “So, how’s that going?”

Ruby waves her hand as if pushing away the implication. “Just someone I’m testing. Not making a big deal out of it.”

She laughs. “Testing? Haven’t you been ‘testing’ for two months now?”

Ruby snorts indelicately and raises her cup, the ice tinkling around the glass. “We’ve been dating for two months. I’ve been ‘testing’ for the past week.”

The girls giggle together, and Emma has a sharp feeling of poignancy. She’s never had this kind of friendship with anyone, amicable and teasing without being heavy with other emotion. She finds herself enjoying it. “And? He is …?”

She looks up thoughtfully, tapping a finger on her lips. “Acceptable,” she finally spouts. “A solid 8 out of 10. Room for improvement.” She picks a fleck of polish off her bright red nails. “Proportionate.”

Emma glances up at Graham again, almost shyly. Not-so-sober eyes trace the lines of his body, heat flicking in her as her memory looks past the clothing. She looks back at Ruby. “Not so proportionate. In my favor.”

Ruby gives a noise of approval. “Mazel Tov,” she quips with a coy nod.

Emma takes a sip of her drink, feeling a blush creep up her neck. “God, I must be drunk.”

Ruby grins. “Well, while we’re at it – how did it happen? Y’know, the first time?”

Emma purses her lips, considering. “Quid pro quo?” she asks.

Ruby nods enthusiastically. “Deal. I’ll even go first: we had a real date, you know, dinner, drinks, nice music. He was a perfect gentleman, and we closed down Tony’s. Then went to his place to look at this painting he just got, and once the door closed … well, I just kinda jumped him.”

“Sounds like you waited too long,” Emma chuckles.

Ruby smirks. “And you don’t think you and Graham waited too long?”

Emma rubs her temple. At the time? No. She had been worried that they had rushed things. Hindsight, however, did get her wondering about the what-ifs. “Yeah, well.”

Ruby chuckled and swiped lipstick from around the side of her glass. “So?”

She sighed and pulled her lip through her teeth. She glanced at him once more before meeting her eyes. “I had just had a fist fight with Regina after he broke up with her. He fixed me up, I kissed him, and somehow that ended up with us on the desk.” She grimaces slightly; it sounds subversive in such simple terms.

Ruby’s eyes widen considerably. “On the desk? In the office? Kinky, Emma! I love it!” She seems to think about it a second, shock crossing her face. “Hey, I’ve sat at that desk!”

Emma laughed and pulled up her hair. “Months later, I might add.”

Ruby shook her head with a grin. “I don’t think I’ll ever look at that office the same way ever again.”

“Why would that be?”

Emma doesn’t turn; the voice’s soft rumbling tones, the elongated syllables have alerted her to who exactly is behind her shoulder. She leans into him, and he helps pick up her hair, coiling it into a bun. He easily relaxes into her, the pads of his fingers lightly caressing the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

Ruby is looking at Graham with an openly appreciative glance. Her eyes are steadily focused above the belt, but Emma can see the restraint in the brunette’s eyes. “No reason that you don’t already know, Sheriff,” she teases.

Emma turns her head, pressing her face into his stomach and breathing in his scent. All this talk, the warmth of the liquor in her belly, the smell of him, his nearness … she is suddenly glad she left Brianna with Mary Margaret this evening. “Sorry, Ruby, but I think Graham and I have to go,” she says, giving the woman a pointed look.

Ruby hums an agreement. “We’re not done, just so you know. We’ll talk again tomorrow,” she says with a wink, rising slightly unsteadily in her sky-high heels. “I’ll just find Victor. Have fun, lovebirds.”

Emma stands and rolls into him, her arms crossing behind his neck. She presses a lingering kiss to his lips, which he responds to immediately. “You’ve been watching me again,” he says, a smile in his voice but worry in his eye.

Emma shrugs. “I was just appreciating the view.” She knows what he’s getting at, but this time she wasn’t watching to be sure he wouldn’t disappear.

Graham tightens his arms where they linger at her waist. “We should go home.”

She nods, grabbing her coat. Then, she turns, a different thought on her mind. “Or, we could go to the office. I think I remember something that needs to be fixed over there,” she says huskily.

He raises a brow and pulls her close. “Some desk work you need to finish?”

She nods enthusiastically. “Definitely. And I think I need someone to help me jog some memories about the last time the desk was worked on.”

He laughs. “Em, you must be drunk if you’re picking up my sense of humor. Maybe we should just get you to bed.”

She shakes her head, but sways as she takes a step forward, the room spinning slightly, and she wants to groan aloud. “Fine. But tomorrow, we’re going in early.”

He kisses the top of her head. “Let’s get you home, Emma.”

Emma’s seized with the sappiest feeling, and in her inebriated state, lets it come into words. “I’m already there.”

He looks down at her, those dark-blue eyes gleaming. “You’re my home, too, Emma. But let’s also get to a place where we can sleep it off.”

Hugging him, she nods. “The Reason, Graham.”

Slowly, he rubs her back. “The Reason, Emma.” He presses a kiss into her hair, tracing a line down her back.

#gremma #graham humbert #emma swan #gremma ff #ouat ff #wilding verse #that's right

[jedicollins]

Journal Entry #1

Based on the RP with @itsxlucifer

it’s a beast, hence the read more.

Sunday, July 26th. 

Hey Mom and Dad. 

I met the Devil. 

The real one. This isn’t a metaphor. Not some kind of flowery exposition. 

I met the Devil. 

Satan. 

Beelzebub,

The Prince of Darkness,

The Morningstar, 

The Lightbringer….

Whatever you want to call him. 

And honestly?

He’s not that bad. 

He’s not the evil guy I thought he would be. 

Sure, he’s into all the sinful stuff, and fuck if I can’t hear him say “naughty” in his accent… 

But he isn’t evil. 

At least, I don’t get the sense he is. I don’t know for sure. For all I know, he is manipulating the shit out of me and the entire club is demon invested. But right now? I don’t think the Devil is bad. 

No, not the Devil, I shouldn’t say that.

Lucifer, his name is Lucifer Morningstar. 

He owns the nightclub, LUX, and I can’t think of a better place of work. Bullshit isn’t tolerated. The security is top-notch. No-one gets the chance to fuck with the staff. The slightest hint of it, the slightest signal, and they’re on it. 

I’ve honestly never felt saver working for a club, and hell, I’ve already made a friend there, too. His name is Reese. He’s Latino, fucking gorgeous, and sadly, really fucking gay. Just my luck, right?

One of the other bartenders, Maze, is apparently a demon who works for Lucifer, handling his finances. Never thought the Devil would need a banker or whatever they’re called.

Things are fucking weird in my life right now. 

And I don’t know how to make heads or tails of it. how am I meant to process I’m dealing with the man who is meant to be the Devil? And on top of that, finding out I care about him, and he isn’t the bad guy everyone claims him to be?

What is my life right now? Seriously. How the hell do I unpack all of this?

I guess the best way to start is at the beginning, right?

This guy literally hired me straight out of my old job. Like, he took one look at me and decided I should work for him. Just like that. Saying he knows a good, hard working person when he sees one. That’s all he needed. Like, what? I didn’t believe him, at first. I thought it was some kind of scam or something.

But it turned out it wasn’t. LUX is a real club. Which, by the way. Fucking on the nose. LUX? Light in Latin? The lightbringer is a different name for Lucifer? 

He’s so fucking extra. 

Still, he hired me after a trial run and here I am. Working in Lux as one of the bartenders, listening to terrible, thumpy music all the livelong night and sometimes, if he’s in the mood for it, listening to Lucifer’s beautiful piano playing. And his voice… holy mother of fuck, his voice… his singing. I don’t even know what to call it. it’s like this rich- I don’t know what to call it. His singing voice is probably best compared to what Velvet feels like. Rich and soft and you just want to stroke it all the damn time. And even that likely doesn’t come close. His voice makes my spine tingle. And not just his singing voice, his normal speaking voice, too.

And best thing yet? Him singing “perfect the way you are”. I love that song so much, and hearing him sing it? Holy crap. For real, I would pay to have an MP3 of him singing it. I think it’s the accent that does it. there’s something sexy about it. I think what made it even more special was the fact it was just the two of us when it happened. Fuck, I shouldn’t be swooning the way I am thinking about it, but shit. For real, it was something special. Especially as in the few days working there, I haven't seen anyone else approaching the piano while he plays. Let alone singing with him. He invited me to sit with him while he played, seeing his fingers moving across the keys? his voice? And that song. Just wow. What else was I meant to do then sing along with him? 

The first night I met him at LUX, he was playing already, so he asked me what tune I wanted to hear. I told him that song. I admit, it was me being a little shit. Because I know there’s not a lot of people who know of it, or the band, Dead by April. So for him to know it, and to be able to play it perfectly? it was- something else. 

So sitting with him, singing the song together, watching him play? Man, it was special. It was something- I don’t know. It felt like there was some kind of connection there in that moment. 

If only I realized back then what the connection was, you guys.

So the whole point of me gushing on the piano playing? It was all caused by him asking one question I never thought I would have to answer. ‘What do you desire?” and the answer still hurts. And I don’t know, being made to answer it? It was like Lucifer’s hand was reaching down deep into my soul and dragged the answer out, kicking and screaming. 

I don’t want to repeat the answer, but it led to me avoiding him for a few days. Which spawned the singing moment at his piano. I eventually laid down everything. What happened to you, what had done it. and he just believed me. He said he would help me. I didn’t believe it, but he did. He kept his word. I fully expected to be fired for being crazy. But, he didn’t. 

We went back home. Back to Independence. 11 years passed since that night. 

And God… it confronted me with so many things I thought I’d pushed away deep down in the back of my mind. It all came rushing back. Things I never want to think about again. The worst part of it all was the fact Margaret still had some kind of hold over me. She still was able to manipulate me the way she did when I was little. She still had the power to make me pass out. Though, I admit, it might just be because shortly before? We had a conversation with a little girl and her mother… both of which reminded me of myself and you, mom, when I was little. 

Margaret, however? She’s not the person I thought she was. It turns out she was a demon. Something I never realized. To me, she felt real. She felt like a real person when I hugged her or held her hand late at night. And that’s because she apparently was? Apparently, she was a demon inhabiting the body of a little girl. How the hell she’s been able to hide all this time, I don't know. I can only assume there’s some kind of vent or crawlspace in the bottom of my closet she was able to get in or out through. 

There was a fight. Of course, there was. I want to say I was badass and kicked her ass, but that’s not what happened. She got in my head. She brought back all the memories of that night.  It hurt so bad, I thought my head was gonna explode. I thought I was going to die of the pain. I don’t know exactly what happened in between, but somewhere along the line, Lucifer got hurt. I remember seeing a hole in the drywall connecting my room to yours. When the pain subsided, Margaret came at me with a knife. She put it to my neck and I fought, as hard as I could, to hold her off. If it hadn’t been for Lucifer, I would’ve had my throat sliced. Fortunately, the only thing I’ve got left from is a little cut on my collar bone, when the bitch dropped the knife. It’s more annoying right now than really painful. The scab is itchy. 

In that moment, however? I found out who Lucifer really is. He commanded her to go back to hell, made her leave the little girl’s body.

That’s when I realized Lucifer had been telling the truth all along. He never lied about being the Devil, hell, if anything, he’ll flaunt it for all he’s worth. I was the issue. I was the one who didn’t believe him. I legitimately thought he was playing up some kind of bad boy, playboy persona he’d crafted for himself to be able to sound interesting and appealing to people. I was so fucking wrong. 

I want to tell you I was brave and took this in my stride, I didn’t feel anything about him being the Devil. But, the truth is? Well, I passed out. I’m not ashamed to admit it. I mean, it’s a culture shock, right? And combine this with the whole thing with Margaret? Can you blame me? The last thing I really remember is staring at him, then waking up staring at the ceiling of a hotel room, lying on the bed. 

Lucifer was kneeling on the ground, obviously hurt. 

I thought about running. I thought about running away as fast and far as I could while he was down. I thought about running away forever, leaving L.A. behind and pretend nothing like this had ever happened. pretend I didn’t meet the Devil and he had been kind to me. Hell, I was afraid. I was scared I’d somehow made a deal and sold my soul. All those damn clichés about him. 

Most of all though, I was scared because I had thought about having sex with him. Yes, I thought this about my boss, I know it's not professional, but come on… Mom, if you’d seen the guy? You would agree with me. Sorry, Dad, but that’s just the facts. Seriously though, his face and body, not to mention his fucking sexy accent? There is no way anyone is capable of resisting him. I can just barely resist jumping his bones. I really, really would like to meet the person capable of completely resisting this hot as hell man child. 

Point is though, I didn’t run. I couldn’t. How could I just leave him while he was hurt? Not after the things he’d done for me? The fact he’d gone so far to help me with something that’s been haunting me for a decade? I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know how to deal with this. From my understanding, he had broken ribs, and there was something wrong with his leg. But he refused to let me call for an ambulance, so he could get checked out. So I did the only thing I could think of. I ran to find someone to bribe for a medkit. 

When I came back like 15 minutes later?

He was fine. 

It was like he had never been hurt in the first place. 

That’s the moment he told me what was going on. He explained he can’t be hurt or damaged. If he gets hurt, it’s more like a tap. And if he does get hurt, those things heal in like seconds. that’s the way it works for a celestial, apparently. But this time? It was different.

And that difference was me. 

I was there when he got hurt. 

I make the Devil vulnerable. Fuck, for all I know, with me around? He can be killed. 

But why me? Why did I get picked for this curse? I don’t mean anything to anyone. Well, I mean, outside maybe the few friends I’ve made at the club, but beyond that? I don’t have anything or anyone, no-one gives a shit about someone like me? I’m a nobody, I’m just a bartender. I’m not special. You both weren't. I’m sorry, but, our family doesn’t have some kind of ancient special bloodline or like connections to famous historical figures or whatever. Not that I have found, anyway. You both didn’t pass anything special to me? 

So why the fuck did it get decided I’m the one to have this curse? Why me? I don’t want to cause anyone pain. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want Lucifer to get hurt because of me. And yes, I’m more than aware this is a fucking, crazy thought. He is Lucifer, he’s meant to be evil incarnate, and I’m sitting here upset about the fact him being close to me means he can be hurt. 

I’m really fucking scared. What does this all mean? Why did it get decided it’s me who has this? Why not someone else? Does this mean something’s going to happen? Am I meant to be involved into some kind of grand scheme God’s concocted? Am I meant to kill Lucifer to prevent the apocalypse or something? I don’t want this kind of responsibility. I’m not Buffy the Vampire Slayer? I barely know ow to make a proper Mojito, let alone how to fight? I’m not strong enough for something like that.

I don’t want this responsibility, I don't want this curse. I don’t want to be involved in some kind of major plot going on behind the galactic scenes. 

I don’t know what to do. 

Do I run away? Do I just keep going and see what happens? Maybe get the fuck away from Lucifer and find another job?

Thing is though, there’s something inside me telling me I shouldn’t run away. That I should stick with Lucifer. I don’t know what the feeling is or where it comes from, but I think it’s the same feeling that’s allowing me to accept Lucifer is actually meant to be the Devil, but at the same time making me believe he’s a decent person. 

Because he is. He’s a decent person. He’s not evil? Seriously, all the ‘sinning’ that goes on in LUX? That’s not him. He doesn’t have any hand in it in the slightest. It’s the humans walking around themselves who do it. They’re the ones cheating on their partners, they’re the ones getting drunk or snorting drugs or whatever the hell they can get away with inside the club. Lucifer doesn’t cause anything like that. He just mingles, he plays his piano, he doesn’t seek out people to make a deal for their soul. Sure, sometimes people ask him for a favor, but that’s it. There’s no scroll coming out of his pocket to dramatically unroll so people can sign on the dotted line to sell their soul? He’s just… well, vibing is the best way to put it, I guess. 

I know this because I’ve been watching him for the past week, watching the way he is around people, watching the way he acts. Lucifer is being blamed for so much stuff he doesn’t even do? “The Devil made me do it”. Yeah, how about no, pal? You just don’t wanna admit you’re a shitty person. 

Fuck, I’m rambling. 

The fact is, Lucifer isn’t a bad person. He can’t be with the way he is. How can anyone think this considering the fact he went this far for me? One of his employees, someone who shouldn’t really matter to him? Hell, if he wanted to, he could replace me just like that and not even bat an eye at it. I need to ask Reese if he did something similar for him. Whether he had some kind of problem Lucifer helped him with. 

Is it strange of me I hope that’s the case? It probably sounds horrible, putting it like that. I don’t want to wish ill on my friend, but I guess I’m just struggling with the idea he’s singled me out to help. I still don’t really understand why he did. I mean, he’s the Devil, isn’t that kind of his gig? Punish the wicked and all that crap? But still… why does he care about someone like me?

I’m struggling with the idea of this “curse”. I don’t know what else to call it. I don’t want to hurt people. I don’t want people to get hurt because of me. and yet? There’s something inside of me that allows one person to be hurt. This is so fucking fucked up. This is even more fucked up than someone sneaking into our room at night and leaving ominous messages about Lucifer being the Devil. 

Fuck. 

I don’t want this power. There’s gotta be some way to suppress it, or get rid of it, right? There just has to be. that’s how these things go, right? 

Maybe I can ask Maze? She’s a demon, she knows about this kind of stuff, right? Well, most likely. Maybe she knows where I can start finding answers to all this. I know I could and likely should talk to Lucifer about this, but what if it requires something big? Like a sacrifice or dying or something like that? Maybe I’m just being ridiculous now. But I don't want this curse. I want it gone. Whatever fucked up plan God or whoever the fuck decided I should have this power has for me? Fuck them. I don't want any fucking part of it. 

They can go straight to hell and fuck themselves. I won’t play a part in their game. I refuse. 

What am I gonna do? 

Can this curse even be beaten?

I’m really fucking scared.

I wish you are here. 

I miss you.

#Jedi's Journal #itsxlucifer #//man this is a beast #Jedi's got a lot to say about Luci #i mean #i can sum it up in 1 sentance what i think of him but uh... yeah #XD

[merryfortune]

A Fear Unfounded

Ship: Forte/Margaret

Fandom: Rune Factory 4

Word Count: 2,004

Tags: Love Confessions, Light Angst, OOC

  Forte was stunned when she arrived at the lake to the west of town. Margaret seemed to relish her surprise as Forte, clinking armour and swishing dress and picnic basket and all, drew in closer to where Margaret had set up not a camp but a picnic.

  She looked the perfect picture of hedonism, sprawled out as it were on a check stripe blanket, light and cottony with interlocking colours of white, pastel pink, and cherry red. She also had a woven straw picnic basket nearby, as well as her lute, all entwined with flowers and her love of music. She laughed blithely when Forte lugged her own basket towards her at the glistening lake’s edge; delicately so, her delicate hand in front of her lips.

  “I couldn’t stop Kiel; the moment I mentioned that you wanted to go on a picnic, he insisted on making some treats for me to share with you.” Forte sheepishly explained as she knelt down awkwardly and joined Margaret on the picnic blanket.

  “Now we definitely have enough to feed an army.” Margaret joked.

  “As Selphia’s sole knight, I will certainly prove that. I won’t let a single morsel go to waste.” Forte sounded as though she were taking some grim vow upon saying that but her earnestness only amused Margaret further.

  It also endeared her further. That was her ever so serious Forte, alright. She wouldn’t have this young woman any other way.

  “May I?” Margaret asked once the moment had cooled off from the japes and the like.

  “Of course.” Forte replied and she let Margaret have at her picnic basket. Meanwhile, almost gluttonously, Forte made her move on Margaret’s picnic basket. She glanced back towards the elf. “May I?” The words barely left her mouth, she was near soundless as her hands grappled the vine-stricken handle.

  “Yes, of course.” Margaret replied

  “Thank you muchly.” Forte beamed; even her happier expressions grave.

  Margaret was quick to find cupcakes stocked in Forte’s larder of a picnic basket. She was all to overjoyed to peel back the waxy casing and eat it. The plush cake’s sweetness danced on her tastebuds and was quick to disappear as Margaret had a swift appreciation for the flavour of it.

  “Simply scrumptious!” she crooned, clasping her cheek in her hand, crumbs splayed over her chubby cheeks. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “Kiel will be pleased to hear that, though let’s pray that he doesn’t develop an ego over it, I adore him but I’m certain he would be insufferable.” Forte smiled.

  “All boys - even men - are like that though but I truly do love Kiel’s baking, it is a very narrow second to Porcoline; he will be an excellent chef once he matures a bit more.” Margret continued to gush.

  “Yes, I agree.” Forte murmured, head dipping slightly as she contemplated whether the accent taste to the egg sandwich that she had taken from Margaret’s picnic basket was mustard or not.

  Unlike Margaret, Forte has opted for a savoury option first. She thought it was gauche to have sweets before something decent, but for once, not to protect her image. Margaret knee her too well for that which was why she could eat freely, without prettiness or essential etiquette making that maybe the order of food eaten didn’t really matter. But it was probably, no, almost certainly, mustard in her mashed egg sandwich which really was delectable.

  “It’s a splendid afternoon, don’t you think?” Margaret asked Forte quietly.

  “It is. Your foresight to pick today of all days for this get together is impeccable, Margaret.” Forte said.

  “Thank you. I did put a lot of thought into it. I chose today because it’s still summer but is nicely on the cusp of autumn, making for beautiful sunshine and crisp weather without being painfully warm.” Margaret explained; her face drew lines of concern. “I worry about you in summer, seeing you in all that armour. I understand why but still. I worry.”

  “I know but my constitution is vast.” Forte assured her.

  That bittersweet grimace didn’t disappear from Margaret’s face. That, in turn, concerned Forte. Margaret’s fist clenched by her side and Forte suspected that this wasn’t the saccharine outing which she thought that she had been invited out onto. It was just like Margaret to play games like this; to set the mood right, create a lull of false sense of security so that she may exploit emotional and conversational vulnerability. She didn’t like open confrontation, after all, as it was too violent for her. And it was just like Forte to fall straight into such a social faux pas of a trap. That was how she played Margaret’s games, after all. After all, she didn’t like underhanded means of working out aggression, preferring the simplicity which came with the swing of a sword against a foe.

  “I want to support you and your endeavours as a knight, but I worry about you.” Margaret said.

  “Fear not. I am strong.” Forte said with her chest puffed out. It wasn’t a boast, she possessed far too much humility to boast but it was not arrogance to be rightfully confident as her abilities as a swordswoman were without match, in Selphia at least.

  “I know. You are very strong but...” Margaret murmured. “But I’ve been thinking, with Frey as our acting princess, I fear that your glory is tarnishing as more people rely on her rather than you to keep our town safe. You patrol every night and just looking at you fills people with ease. People who are not me, at least.”

  “Margaret...” Forte didn’t know how to reply to that.

  “You work tirelessly, thanklessly. At least I, when I busk or when I perform at Porcoline’s, I get tipped but no one ever does so much for you.” Margaret continued.

  “I don’t mind. I don’t need to be paid or thanked. My pride is all that I need.” Forte gently rebuked Margaret.

  “I can wait endlessly, you know, but can you?” asked Margaret, tears shimmered in her eyes.

  Her sudden shift in conversation caught Forte off guard. “Can I wait for what?”

  Margaret was silent. Thinking. Grimacing. The sunlight overhead seemed far too sharp, all of a sudden, with an unbearable heat gracing them thickly. Yet a breeze blew around them, cooling them, nonetheless. It rustled the leaves of the trees and the grass too, toyed with their hair as Forte waited for Margaret to come to some explanation both in her head and in her voice.

  “Elves are very long lived compared to other humans...” Margaret murmured. “But normal humans are so short lived compared to Elves. I can wait, wait for you to retire so that I don’t have to worry about you being injured, or worse, but can you?”

  “Margaret, I do not follow what you’re asking of me.” Forte sounded like her heart was breaking, she was fighting back tears.

  “I love you, Forte.” Margaret confessed empathetically, placing a hand on her breast.

  Forte’s eyes widened as the words continuously rang through her head like an echo. Over and over. Her heart hammered in her chest.

  “Oh.” she murmured, gaping, really.

  Margaret looked away from Forte, “I love you now, I know I will love you in many years to come, but I just fear that our circumstances might keep us apart. I find it unideal, to merely pine for you until your duties are done.”

  “Why… Why do you think my duties as a knight have to be concluded for us to be together?” Forte asked.

  “Selfishness, mostly. I can’t distract our most dependable knight, after all.” Margaret was lying; though, there was likely a nugget of truth in what she had said, the way more tears streamed down the side of her face betrayed her. She pawed at them, hopeless. “You were an illicit affair, yes? Your mother had Kiel at an advanced age, compared to you, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry for your losses. Even all this time later, I am.” Margaret said. “But from them, I assumed that it was wrong for a knight to show that much emotion, attachment to people like that. I thought a knight, especially one as prominent and dear to us as you, were expected to uphold all values and virtues, including chastity.”

  Her explanation followed to reason. The underlying implication that Margaret perceived Forte as just and noble flattered her. But it was in that explanation that Forte saw where her dear companion faltered. Ever sure of her perceptions of her the world, it took a lot to convince her of contrary evidence and the like, completely unlike another elf who shall not be named, Margaret prided herself on the vision she carried and sometimes exerted over others.

  “Whilst it is true that a knight ought to be a paragon of virtue, there is no rule disallowing fraternising with the general populace. We have codes of honour for that too, my lady.” Forte told her.

  Margaret prickled to hear that, her lips pursed in surprise. It appears that she had wasted tears but Forte thought otherwise. She leaned in and wiped away what remained of those shed tears in Margaret’s forget-me-not coloured eyes. She smiled gently beneath her choppy and blunt fringe.

  “Thank you kindly for your consideration but you are mistaken, I am afraid. Your observations, whilst keen, have misled you. Though I will admit, I find it rather romantic that you are certain that you could wait for me but fortune smiles on your field, you do not have to wait a single second longer for me if you wish to court me.” Forte told her.

  Perhaps Margaret should have been embarrassed for coming to such conclusions, but she wasn’t. Only relief coloured her cheeks pink as she found her empathetic reply, replying with her whole chest.

  “I truly don’t want to spend a second longer, Forte, thank you, I love you.”

  Her words were sweet but her kiss sweeter. She caressed Forte’s face as she kissed her so swift to cross the middle of the picnic blanket, over the basket and over the distance of all those years alone that Margaret had envisioned would divide them, so lonely.

  Margaret kissed Forte ardently. Her passion was dulcet, and Forte could not crave it more. Margaret’s kiss was divine. Experienced and yet new; for the first time, in a way. Forte became intoxicated on the floral perfume which drifted around her lover. Her lover. It felt sublime to acknowledge that, even quietly in her own mind, as she was kissed. She felt as though she had become a new woman with a renewed sense of what she heroically owed her dear hometown.

  Forte broke the kiss. She wished very much that she didn’t have to but alas, she needed breath. But this was a breathlessness like she had never known before. She often felt satisfied with how she painted after a particularly challenging round of training, but this was different. Though it did set her heart racing, quite similarly. No, this was something more tender than steel blades and broken hilts. It was more precious, like flowers and cakes. She smiled though, unguarded and somewhat grateful.

  “I really enjoyed that, Meg.” Forte said.

  “I did too.” Margaret chortled. “Though you tasted like mustard and egg salad.”

  Forte blushed. “My apologies.”

  “You’ll just have to fix that then.” Margaret told her, both playful and uppity. So, on Forte’s behalf, she retrieved another cupcake from the picnic basket bearing sweets.

  Forte received it graciously and without her usual, and forced, bellyaching. “I suppose I shall.” She then sank her teeth into the treat.

  She smiled a little wider, a little bigger, as she ate the cupcake. Seeing that made Margaret happier than Forte could know, but what made her happiest of all was knowing that this was all happening in the present. And not some precarious far off future. It was good, even great, she thought, to enjoy things in the moment.

#rune factory 4 #rf4 #forte (rf4) #maragret (rf4) #forte x margaret #margaret x forte #writing tag #i might have some more rf4 fics up my sleeve depends #i've only beaten arc 1 lol

[redorblue]

Future Home of the Living God by Louise Erdrich

I was going to keep this blog Corona-free, but I read a book that I want to talk about and that touches on the current situation, so I decided to make an exception. The book is called Future home of the Living God by Louise Erdrich, and before I start gushing I might add that in the light of current events, the atmosphere especially in the first part can be a bit upsetting. I’m still not quite sure why I decided to pick up a book about the end of the world in the first place. But I’m glad that I did, because it’s just so good.

The story is about Cedar Hawk Songmaker, a young Ojibwe woman who was adopted and raised by a white couple. At the beginning of the book, she is about four months pregnant, which she sees as an opportunity to reconnect with her biological mother and assorted family members. That first meeting is a work of art on its own: it perfectly encompasses the entire spectrum of emotions that such a meeting might provoke, from instant connection and familiarity over awkwardness and stiffness to a feeling of complete alienation because of the stark difference in social class, and the scene jumps wildly between all of them. These dynamics alone would make the story work, but it’s also set in a not-very-distant future that quickly devolves into a dystopia. There are references to climate change, but the event that triggers societal collapse is the stop, or rather the reversal, of evolution, meaning that humans give birth to homo erectus babies, dinosaur-like beings hatch from regular birds’ eggs, dragonflies suddenly have a wingspan of a meter again, and even plant species change beyond recognition. It’s never explained why this happens because in the book nobody knows either, but it causes the collapse of the US as a unified state and the appearance of some of the staples of dystopian fiction: widespread violence, deeply immoral governments, desperate or simply malicious people doing bad things, but also people coming together on a local level and trying to save as much and as many as possible.

So far, so omnipresent. What makes this book such a rare find for me was that it consistently focused on the perspective and the life of this one ordinary person who is not caught up in some high-level political/military game with the powers of evil, who is not even a member of the resistance, but simply tries her hardest to bring her child into the world (and get to keep it afterward). I say this with love, but she’s quite possibly the most unremarkable character in the main cast: she doesn’t smuggle people out or helps to hide anyone; she doesn’t work to form a self-subsistent, safe entity out of the reservation where her mother lives; she doesn’t take the initiative to escape once she’s captured; and most of the time, she’s the least informed person in the room.

But that’s exactly why it works, and why it’s different from other stories out there (more on that later). The dystopia is the setting, and don’t get me wrong, it works - sometimes frighteningly so because it feels so similar to our current situation: most people feel something is coming/here, but since they have little information and no idea what to do about it, they just keep on living while things around them deteriorate. But the dystopia is only the setting, not the story.

The story is about motherhood, both with regard to Cedar’s navigating the now two mothers in her life and with regard to Cedar’s own approaching motherhood. It is told in the form of a diary, narrated by Cedar and addressing her unborn child, which makes it feel very intimate. This intimacy is contrasted ever more by the way that the new powers that be (some sort of Christian fundamentalist church-government) try to turn reproduction into a matter of state control and public interest. In the end, the story is about Cedar fighting to be the one in charge of this supposedly very personal experience: mostly against the new regime, yes, but also against the baby’s father and even her adoptive mother. This focus on the personal over the political means that we spend a lot of time in Cedar’s head listening to her philosophical/religious musings (she’s a Catholic) and that we don’t get explanations for a lot of things that happen to her. As someone who loves the intricacies of good worldbuilding, I understand if this is frustrating to some people. But there’s a lot of stuff with expansive worldbuilding and lots of action out there already, and the fact that this isn’t like that is precisely what made this one stick out to me. In addition to that, there’s probably also a lot to be said about the religious symbolism in this book, especially around female saints, which gave it a philosophical tinge that I liked a lot, but half of that probably flew right over my head, so I’m going to leave that for now.

On Goodreads I saw a lot of people comparing this to The Handmaid’s Tale, with some even going as far as saying that they’re basically the same thing and that Louise Erdrich just ripped off what Margaret Atwood did better thirty years before. I don’t think that’s true though. Sure, they share some basic tenets, like a decline in fertility bringing about societal collapse, women being forcibly recruited to have as many babies as possible, or Christian fundamentalists taking charge. But there’s nothing entirely new under the sun, and I think they took some similar ideas and made them into different things. First off, the writing is very different: The Handmaid’s Tale makes you experience the soul-crushing boredom that the protagonist suffers, while Future Home is switches between a meditative tone and more action-y scenes, and the effect of being addressed directly as a reader (remember, it’s diary entries addressed to “you”) changes the reading experience.

Second, it has different themes. While The Handmaid’s Tale depicts isolation and the effects it has on the psyche, Future Home focuses on connections (especially between women) - positive connections, for the most part, but it doesn’t simplify them to a mere “we’re all best friends now”-level. They’re still complex and sometimes complicated, especially when it comes to Cedar’s sister and mothers. Future Home also presents a more balanced view on religion, simply because Cedar herself is a Catholic (one who is even knowledgeable about theology, but has a liberal mindset), while Atwood’s protagonist isn’t very religious. Another thing that sets Future Home apart from The Handmaid’s Tale is it’s inclusion of Native (Ojibwe) elements like reservation politics, history, the importance of a Native female saint (Kateri) to people’s spiritual lives, or Cedar’s anxieties about being Native by blood, but not by socialization. I love The Handmaid’s Tale as much as the next person, but it really is very white, and Future Home isn’t.

However, what this book actually reminded me of was a short story by Ted Chiang that I read recently named “72 Letters”. It builds on the concept of the golem, a figure made out of clay and animated by a piece of parchment with a special word/name on it that was supposedly built by rabbis to defend their communities against antisemitic pogroms. In this story, the technique is adapted to animate all sorts of automatons and get them to perform menial tasks - if you manage to find the right name for the creature, something that comprises its essence and capabilities in 72 letters. The society-shattering crisis in this story is still a few generations away, it sets in when a handful of scientists find out that in a few decades, all men will turn infertile, but it already brings out the worst in some of those in the know. The idea is to use the golem-animating technique to sort of artificially inseminate women, but mainly those of the middle and upper classes because God beware people decide on their own how many children they have and the unwashed masses take over. It’s not a very long short story, sadly, but it shares a few themes with Future Home like state control over reproduction, the ethical limits of science, God’s role in evolution and reproduction, and the struggle between different groups of people - social classes for 72 Letters, species of humans for Future Home. 72 Letters tackles the issue of significant changes to reproductive abilities from a Marxist perspective, while Future Home’s approach is more feminist, but they’re both interesting perspectives. What they definitely do show is that it’s not an intrinsically religious problem to want to take control over who procreates and who doesn’t, but that the same drive can be found in secular and even supposedly “progressive” people/ideologies/institutions, and that’s a lesson worth listening to.

#future home of the living god #louise erdrich #the handmaids tale #margaret atwood #72 letters #ted chiang #book review #coronavirus #covid19 #covid-19 #covid 19

[blueboxesandtrafficcones]

The French Connection - Chapter 7

A HardyxMiller AU

Ellie Miller is left to go on her honeymoon alone after a devastating secret about her fiance comes to light - halfway through the wedding ceremony.  Sitting in St Pancras International in London waiting for her train, she runs into none other than her uni rival/best friend Alec Hardy, on the run from his own recent heartbreak.

They decide to make use of Ellie’s pre-paid trip, rekindling their friendship and escaping real life; yet, it turns out their years at uni are the hardest to outrun. Based on this prompt from @timepetalscollective  

Chapters will be posted every Wednesday and Sunday.  Beta’d by the wonderful @stupidsatsuma

Masterlist  |  AO3

---

“Hard to believe this is our last day in Paris,” Hardy noted, handing her a glass of wine before sitting down next to her.  “This trip has flown by.”

Ellie accepted the glass gratefully, taking a fortifying sip before agreeing.  “It really has.  Everything before running into you feels like ancient history, not a week.  To think-” she cut herself off, realizing that she didn’t want to talk about her almost-marriage with Hardy.  Though it had felt forced at the beginning, to ignore the elephant in the room, now it felt natural – almost out of place.

She didn’t want to talk about her past, but rather, she was considering her future and what she wanted.

Who she wanted.

She took another large gulp.  It’s just the wine and romantic sunset Seine riverboat cruise talking, she tried to convince herself.

“Anyway…” Hardy drawled, eyeing her curiously, “if nothing else, we’ve certainly gotten some distance from our troubles.”

“That’s for sure.”  Stretching her legs out in front of her, Ellie watched the setting sun play over the steel frame of the Eiffel Tower, captivated by the fiery glow.  “Thank you, really, for coming with me.”

He stayed silent for long enough that she didn’t expect a response, so she startled when he spoke.

“You probably don’t know this- I don’t know how you would as I didn’t tell anyone other than my professors- but a few weeks before the end of the fall term our last year, my mother got sick.”

Ellie’s stomach dropped, not having expected that.  “I’m sorry- what was wrong?”

“Cancer- everywhere, but it had started in her breast, near as they could tell.  By the time it was caught, it had…” Stretching his long legs out in front of him, he leaned back slightly on the bench to stare up at the darkening night sky.  “Well, at that point I dropped everything to return home to try to… keep her comfortable.  It only took ten days, then another week for the funeral and wrapping up her affairs, not that she had anything significant.  That… that’s why I missed the presentation.  The day she was diagnosed and I left to go to her was the night we were supposed to meet.”

Ellie’s breath caught, eyes widening.  She knew the night he was talking about; she’d spent hours in the library waiting for him, only he never showed.  She’d spent a good portion of that time cursing him and complaining (mostly to the empty study room she’d reserved), and now felt horrible about it.  “I had no idea,” she whispered, wincing in mortification at how she’d gone off the next time she’d seen him – which had been after the presentation.  “Oh, Hardy.  I’m so sorry.”

“Anyway,” he continued without acknowledging her, “I muddled through the last week or two of the semester, then went home and cried my way through the holidays.  That’s why I was so much worse after classes resumed – I’d just spent a month listening to my father complain about how selfish my mother’d been to go off and die and leave him alone.  He didn’t care that she’d died, only that she wasn’t there to play servant for him.”

“And I was a total bitch to you about it,” she moaned, grimacing.  “I didn’t have a clue, I thought you were just being… eccentric or something.  Fuck, I’m sorry, Alec, really.”  His first name slipped out, entirely on instinct, and it would’ve felt strange if she wasn’t so heartbroken for him.  “I don’t know what to say.”

He turned his head to face her, smiling softly.  “I’m fine,” he promised.  “And you couldn’t have known, because I didn’t tell you.  But you helped me anyway.”

Ellie snorted, angrily wiping away a stray tear.  “Oh, sure I did,” she snarked.  “By- by- by bullying you?  Constantly harassing you about things?  Competition?  Yes, I can see how that would be helpful.”

“Miller,” he sighed, an oddly affectionate inflection to her name that only served to make her lower lip tremble.  “Believe it or not, yes.  Spending time with you, competing with you as you put it… it all felt normal.  It was the only thing that did at the time.  My mother was just… gone.  The only family I had, really, in the sentimental people-who-love-you sense.  But bickering with you over test answers and working on projects… I could forget it, at least for a little while.  It kept me out of my own head.”

She twisted her lips, unsure of how to take that.  On the one hand she was glad to have been a comfort, even an unknowing one, but on the other, she felt absolutely rotten over how she’d treated him.  “I wish you’d trusted me,” she said, voice low, “and told me.  I could’ve helped, somehow.  I’m sorry you felt the need to struggle alone.”

“Of course I trust you.  There’s no one else on this Earth I trust more,” he shrugged, before wincing.  “That sounds a bit sad, but it’s true.  I didn’t exactly have many friends in my department on the best day, and now most have sided with my ex and her other bloke.  My father’s gone, not that he was ever worth a damn.  There’s acquaintances I’ve built a decent working relationship with, but… there’s no one who has shown me the same level of kindness you do.”  He grimaced again. “That still sounds awful.  Perhaps my point is- there’s no one else I’d rather be on holiday with.”

“It does sound pathetic,” Ellie agreed after a moment, making him roll his eyes.  “But… I know what you mean.  I… don’t have anyone either.  I do have a few decent mates, but no one I even remotely considered asking to come along.  The best friend I do have has a toddler, and so I barely see her, and when we do it’s all about Chloe- her daughter.  I mean, she’s absolutely precious and I adore her, I’m her godmother, but still…”

A server appeared then with a bottle of wine, and without a word both thrust their glasses towards him, waiting until he’d filled both and moved on to turn back to each other somewhat awkwardly, the moment lost.

“Well,” Hardy lifted his glass towards her, “here’s to us- the sorriest pair I’ve ever met.”

Laughing, Ellie clinked her glass against hers.  “Hear, hear.”

And, sipping at the ruby liquid, she realized that despite the epithet, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so hopeful.

-

They stumbled into the hotel bar arm in arm, still laughing at how the self-righteous holier-than-thou cow on the cruise had been so bloody anxious to be first off the boat and not have to wait for anyone she’d almost gone for an unexpected swim in the Seine when the boat moved unexpectedly as she’d clambered off.

“The way her arms were windmilling though!” Ellie howled, the copious wine not helping her regain her landlegs.  “Did you hear how she screamed?”

“I thought her husband was going to jump in, he was so embarrassed by her,” Hardy sniggered in response, his arm a solid weight around her waist helping keep her steady.  “And I don’t blame him- I’d have arrested her for disturbing the peace or something if I could’ve.  No question that she was overserved.”

They found a booth in the back corner, a horseshoe-shaped one that let them sit together, and Ellie didn’t think twice about sitting snugly against Hardy’s side.  “It’s cold in here,” she shivered for emphasis, smiling brightly when he rolled his eyes and removed his sport coat to drape it around her shoulders.  “Oh, thank you,” she gushed, batting her eyelashes at him.  “You’re too kind.”

“More like I know better than to get you mad when you’re drunk,” he smirked, stretching his arm along the top of the seatback.  “More wine, or something else?”

“Hmmm…”  Ellie reached for the drinks menu, humming idly to herself as she flipped the pages.  “What’re you having?”

“I’ll have whatever you have.”

“Oooh, whiskey!”

“No.”

“Hardy!”

“Miller!”

When glaring didn’t work she pouted, sticking out her lower lip.  “But why not?” she whined.  “I like it, and you’re Scottish.  You’re legally obligated to drink it.”

“Because whiskey makes you aggressive,” he smirked, shaking his head.  “Remember?  You had a double at Morgan Anderson’s, and single-handedly caused the party to get raided.  At Easter.  I had to do some very fast talking to keep what’s-her-name from pressing charges.”

“Margaret Finnegan,” Ellie sniffed, “and she was being a bitch.  We were clearly in the middle of a conversation!  She’s lucky that was all I did.”

She didn’t appreciate the amused curl to his lips, or the light in his eyes.  “Right,” he agreed, his tone mocking.  “You merely pushed her, and pulled her hair, and took a swing at her.  She got off easy.”

“Stop making fun.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he chuckled.  “You’re more Glaswegian than I am, I think.”

Ellie scowled, before turning and waving over the waitress.  “More wine, then?”

-

Two bottles later they were well and truly blitzed, and Ellie couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun with someone.  Probably with him, at uni.  The wine had well and truly relaxed her, and the gentle glide of his fingertips along her bicep didn’t hurt.

“What?” Hardy cut himself off to ask, looking at her curiously.  “All right?”

“Why didn’t we stay in touch?” she asked, unaware she’d been thinking about it until the words slipped out.  “After graduation- I never heard from you again.”

He paused, glancing down at his half-full wine glass before draining its contents.  “You were gone when I woke up,” he reminded her with a sigh. “I stopped by your flat later that morning.  You weren’t there but your sister was, and I left a letter for you with her with my contact information.  So I’m not sure how it’s my fault we lost touch.”

Ellie’s head jerked up from where it had been heavily supported by her elbow on the table.  “Wait, what?  You left me a letter?”

“Yeah, with your sister.  Well, she said she was your sister.  And she looked exactly as how you always described her.”

“I never told you what she looked like,” Ellie frowned, mind racing as she tried to remember if Lucy had ever given her a letter.  Maybe it got put in a box and forgotten?  She hadn’t gone through most of her stuff after moving home, and had moved most of them straight into her new house without ever unboxing them.

He snorted.  “You didn’t need to.  It was obvious from her personality.”

“Well, I never got it, not that I’m particularly surprised.  Though you could’ve called me; I’d already given you that information,” she reminded him.

“I’m no good with that,” Hardy said gently.  “And I figured… if you wanted to get in touch, you would.  That maybe I had ruined everything with… what happened.”

Ellie laughed at that.  “I wouldn’t say that,” she said coyly, the wine giving her courage.  “I thought… ‘what happened’… was actually pretty nice.”  She shifted in her seat, leaning slightly closer to him and grinning.

“Then why did you leave?”

“I was late for brunch with my family.  Wasn’t exactly by choice.  And when I went to see you later, you were already gone.”

Hardy licked his lips nervously, drawing her gaze as her imagination went into overdrive.  “So… it wasn’t out of regret?”

Heat pooled in her lower belly, eyes widening slightly as she realized, distantly, what would inevitably happen if this conversation continued.

“Decidedly not.”

He reached out a trembling hand, pushing a loose lock of hair back from her face.  “Glad to hear it,” he rasped, the lower pitch to his voice fanning the flame building inside her.  “I had thought it was… pretty nice too.”

“I suppose it’s like you said, we agreed more often than we knew.”  Is he getting closer?  Her breath caught, anticipation making her skin tingle.  “I wonder if you agree with what I’m thinking right now.”

His arm slipped down around her waist, palm warm against her side, and she was hyperconscious of how they were pressed together from hip to knee.  “Suppose that depends on what you’re thinking.  Can’t read minds, me.”

This is a bad idea, the little voice of reason in the back of her mind whispered.  Bad breakups, remember?  You haven’t seen each other in a decade.

“D’you want to know, though?”  Her hand settled on his knee, and she watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, waiting in nervous anticipation for his reaction.

“You know me, I’m a curious soul,” he murmured, squeezing gently at her waist.

Heart pounding, she let her lips curl as she leaned up and into him, whispering into his ear.

And, just to be sure he understood, she slid her palm up his thigh and over his zip, making his hips jerk up as he gasped.

“Check please!” 

#bbatcfic #broadfic #Broadchurch #HardyxMiller #Alec Hardy #Ellie Miller #AU #The French Connection #platonic honeymoon fic