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floof-reppu · 4 years

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Winner Takes it All (Camie Edition)

This is my part of the BNHArem server collab! I’m sure none of you are surprised that I wrote for Camie, although I am surprised that I ended up being the only one who wrote for a girl! I ended up procrastinating a lot on this fic but I’m proud of it nonetheless! Gotta give my girl some justice, fam.

Full Masterlist of Characters!

Word Count: 2.2k

“I won?”

Camie Utsushimi stared at the screen in front of her, holding her controller in one hand while the other had let go to point at the screen. “I can’t believe I actually won!”

She only wanted to enter for a bit of fun. It was a weekend night, after all, and she had absolutely nothing better to do with her time… well, other than sleep. She was usually seen on the streets as the pro hero Maboromicamie, but she didn’t mind that the media was going to know that she entered a contest just to get a stranger to sit on her face.

“Congratulations!” The announcer recited Camie’s chosen anonymous username. By this time, Camie was already standing up, posing for pictures and the like as she started walking over to retrieve the key to the hotel room. When one finger had been placed on the key, the screen had changed over to a picture of the girl she was going to be intimate with… Y/N.

I’m totes excited to see her in person. She’s so hot… I can’t wait to eat her up.

“The Maboromicamie won? I would have never guessed!”

“I can see it for sure. She seems like the type to be into girls like Y/N.”

“I wonder why she entered, though?”

They don’t need to know that, she thought.

Tonight was going to be a lot of fun.

You had been watching the stream for a few hours, watching each name carefully and seeing exactly which username was in which spot of the game. You honestly didn’t have a specific preference for men or women, but you really did wonder who the faces were behind all of the usernames cycling through.

After what seemed like forever, however, the television in front of you displayed the username of the winner. It was mostly just a string of random characters, so you didn’t really have a clue as to whom this mysterious winner was. As soon as you heard the buzz of your phone, you looked at the text message you received from the lovely host.

They are coming up to your room now.

Internally, you panicked. The anonymity of the entire situation was starting to get to your nerves, but you had to keep a brave face on for whoever the person was, boy or girl. All you knew was that tonight, you were going to get up close and personal with the winner.

As soon as you heard the doorknob click, your head turned to see who exactly it could be. The door opened fully to reveal an attractive woman wearing a crop top sweater with a pair of high waisted jeans in two inch heels. Her fawn colored hair reached just below her shoulders, and she possessed the most full, plump lips that you had ever seen in person. Was this supposed to be her?

“I hope this is the right room. It would be a total bummer if I accidentally ended up in the wrong place.” Closing the door behind her, the woman turned around and locked it, having finally locked eyes with you. “Bingo. Looks like I am in the right spot.”

You recognize her immediately as Maboromicamie, the pro hero who could create visual and auditory illusions with her breath. She’s the one who won? There’s no way...

“Are you here for the-”

“Yeah, I won that game. You know, you’re just as hot in person as you are on the big screen.” Her eyes lit up when she spoke, approaching you on the bed as she continued. “It would be totes rude of me to not introduce myself properly, sooo… you probably know me by my hero name, but cause we’re gonna be doin’ the nasty in a bit, my real name is Camie Utsushimi!”

You raised an eyebrow at her questionably when she sat down beside you, kicking off her heels and laying back on the bed. There was just something about her that made you want to get to know her more, whether it was her utterly carefree attitude or the way she was… playing on her phone? Was she really blowing you off like this?

“What are you doing?”

Camie looked up from her phone for just a second before returning her attention back to the screen.

“Gotta let my fam know I won in case I’m not back at my apartment tonight, ya feel?” The lingo and slang was making it pretty hard for you to understand exactly what she was saying, but you knew that she was texting someone. This was not how you expected this to go. She seemed completely uninterested in you in every way, as if she only won just for the hell of it and not because she actually wanted you to sit on her face. “Gimme a sec.”

Before you could even turn around to fully face her, a single hand was placed on your cheek, your lips captured in an affectionate kiss. You weren’t prepared for Camie to come onto you so soon, yet alone at all. She had her phone placed aside in a matter of milliseconds after she spoke, her other hand reaching to grab tufts of your hair and her teeth lightly tugging at your bottom lip. This girl clearly knew what she was doing.

You couldn’t just let her affections go unnoticed though, so you pushed her back into the mattress and took charge. Your right hand went to grab her clothed breast, your left hand trailing down her waist and stopping right at her ass. If this woman- Camie Utsushimi- wanted you to sit on her face and leave without your own bit of fun, she was sorely mistaken. Knowing that you were going to be both pleasuring and getting pleasured by one of the most attractive women you’ve ever come face-to-face with made your mind go in all different directions, but one thing was for certain: you wanted the room to be filled with only the combined noises the two of you would be making.

Separating from each other, a thin trail of saliva still kept you connected to her lips.

“Betcha didn’t expect that one, did you?” Camie grinned, licking her lips and breaking the string that kept you together. She kept her hand planted on your cheek as she moved her head over to whisper seductively in your ear, something that seemed so characteristic of her, “I’m eager to start, if you couldn’t tell.”

“I’m glad you feel the same way that I do.” Your hands slid under her sweater, pulling it up and over her head and tossing it to the side. Clearly her sweater was hiding how well-endowed Camie was, as her breasts were something to marvel at. Her black, lacy bra was holding them in place, but not for long, Instead of going straight for her bra, however, you chose to unbutton and unzip her jeans, pulling them down to reveal a matching set of underwear.

From the way that she huffed, Camie was a bit irritated at how slow you seemed to be going, at least for her liking. Was she really that excited about this?

“Well? Aren’t you gonna like… take the rest of my clothes off?”

“As far as I remember, the only thing that I’m supposed to be doing is sitting on your face, so I don’t even know why I’m taking off your clothes.” Her lips were pursed now, clearly unamused by your statement. Good. You wanted her to get riled up, mad even, to the point that she couldn’t take it anymore.

“As the winner of that little game, I think that you’re the one supposed to be listening to me, yeah?” Camie gripped at the oversized shirt you were wearing, pulling you back down into another kiss while simultaneously pulling it over your head. This was exactly what you wanted her to do; you didn’t want to be the one to undress yourself, after all. As soon as your naked form was finally exposed to the chilly air in the room, she pushed you away and had your back against the mattress.

“I don’t know if you’re supposed to be-”

“I don’t care if this isn’t want I’m supposed to be doing. Did you really expect me to control myself around you? You’re such a delicious woman, and I’d hate to not have a taste of all of you.”

Camie’s mouth latched on to one of your nipples, sucking the bud and running her tongue over the tip. Involuntarily, a moan sat at the back of your throat. A small bite from her end was all it took for you to finally relax and release it, although it only lasted for a second. The expression on her face changed drastically, showing her enthusiasm after her accomplishment of making you moan.

Then you felt it.

Her hand had been creeping its way down your side the entire time and you had just now noticed, her hand slipping down to rub your clit. Was she going to make you orgasm before you had even sat on her face? You were utterly helpless in this scenario, Camie having full control over you and your emotions.

“You know what? I’ll do you dirty just like you did me,” Not even a minute after touching your most sensitive parts, she backed away. “I tried my best just for you to sit on my face, and we still haven’t done that yet… so you’re gonna come here, sit on my face, and we go from there, m’kay?”

You nodded, not really able to argue with that. After all, she was technically your priority since she was the one who won the tournament in the first place. The company would not be happy if they got a complaint from her later. When she finally laid back on the bed, you positioned yourself over her face, juices from earlier teasing dripping out of you.

To Camie Utsushimi, you looked like an entire meal, and she was ready to eat you up.

“Just as you won and requested… one order of face-sitting goodness coming right up.”

As soon as you began lowering yourself, she had already met you halfway, tongue gliding over your labia and stopping right at your clit, collecting your juices and swallowing them. You visibly shook, the sensation feeling absolutely amazing; she definitely knew how to use her tongue. Before you knew it, she pushed your thighs away from one another and spread your legs apart as far as she could before delving straight into your pussy. Each time she moved her mouth, her nose would graze over your clit, causing extra stimulation.

You couldn’t quit making noise. Moaning, small screams, and yelps continually poured out of your mouth and into the open room. Giving Camie no attention probably wasn’t giving her any pleasure, and since you figured that she deserved to come as well, you bent over and pulled the fabric of her soaked panties down her legs enough so that her womanhood was on full display. Your index finger rubbed at her clit as she continued to pleasure you, but now she was moaning into your walls.

You never thought in a million years that you would find pleasure from letting a complete stranger eat you out, but yet here you were, coming completely undone at the seams. You were extremely close to breaking. Usually it was never this quick. But this was Camie Utsushimi- Maboromicamie- you were talking about, someone that you yourself found extremely attractive, even before today.

That's when your overwhelming desire for her to orgasm at the same time as you took over your senses, and your hands were now lifting up Camie’s ass in order to position her entrance in the best position you could manage to get her in. Your tongue delved deep into her pussy, tasting her most intimate parts as you gripped on to her for dear life.

To you, this was truly what bliss should feel like.

Just a few more seconds and you would be utterly broken.

At least, that’s what you said right before releasing your grip and gasping, grabbing instead for the bed sheets. Your fresh juices flew out of you like a waterfall, hitting your partner’s lips instantly. In no time flat she slurped it all up, down to the last drop. It wasn't long before Camie herself came as well, but you had no energy to return the favor.

You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, so you hopped off of Camie and laid beside her, breathing heavily.

“I-I had no idea someone like you could be so amazing at… this.” You stated, still trying to catch your breath.

“You’d be surprised…” She smiled, laughing a little. “I had a ton of fun with you… so I don’t think I’d mind doing this again with you, Y/N. You were totes amazing too.”

The two of you laid in silence for a few more seconds before Camie spoke up again.

“Wouldn’t mind giving me your number, would you? It’d be great if you did.”

“Well, since I’m technically done for the day… I’d love to give you my number. Tomorrow.”

“Oh, so you do want me to stay, huh?”

“I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t mind at all.”

#camie utsushimi #camie utsushimi x reader #utsushimi camie #mha x reader #bnha x reader #utsushimi camie x reader #camie x reader #mha camie #bnha camie #camie smut

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collecting-stories · 4 years

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Test Drive - t. 01 - Sarah Cameron

Summary: After a bad breakup you convince your roommate and best friend to go to one last party with you where she makes an unexpected move.

A/N: I love Emily Burns’ EP/Album Seven Scenes from the Same Summer and I get serious Sarah vibes whenever I listen to it.

7 Scenes from the Same Summer Masterlist | Outer Banks Masterlist

♡don’t make me your test drive for the weekend♡

“I hate to be the one to say this but I think you need to get out of this room and do something. It’s been almost a week Sarah-” You commented, rummaging through the suitcases of already packed clothes for something to wear to the party you’d been invited to.

The comforter on the other bed moved, Sarah’s head peeking out as she wriggled around to look at you. “We were together for three years! Three years of birthdays and holidays and dates and vacations-“

You rolled your eyes. It was no secret that you were not a fan of John B and his whiny ‘pay attention to only me’ attitude that demanded all of Sarah’s time when he was visiting. When they broke up you had practically thrown yourself a party. “I know, I know. But you aren’t gonna move on from that laying under your blankets. When was the last time you took a shower babe?” 

“Is my personal hygiene really all that’s important to you?” 

“No, my best friend not totally losing it over a guy is though. You’re 3 hours away from home Sarah and he’s acting like you live on another continent. If he ‘can’t handle’ you going to college then why do you wanna be with this guy anyway.” It was the same argument you had with her every time that she fought with him about their schedules, the only difference this time was that they were totally broken up. A screaming match that you were forced to endure too.

“I love him.” 

“I know you do,” you said, trying not to sound sarcastic, “but let’s push all the love down and just focus on what kind of douche calls you two days before the biggest final of the year and tells you that you’re selfish for asking him to come out to visit for the weekend.”

“He knows I can’t leave during finals! I never focus when I study with him!” Sarah complained, pushing the blanket down a little bit further.

“Why’s that?” You asked though you knew the reason. You were desperate to get Sarah to this party with you and you needed her to actually get out of bed to do that.

“Because,” she said, “because he doesn’t let me! It’s always ‘I’m bored’ and ‘can’t you do that later’ and ‘aren’t I more important than stupid books’ like I’m supposed to drop everything for him!” 

“What a dick.”

“He is a dick...” she agreed, trailing off as she flopped over onto her back and pulled the blanket up.

“Oh my god, you were so close.” You cried in frustration.

“I said-“

“Yeah, I got the train of thought that just happened.” 

“What am I gonna do? What if we never get back together?” Sarah asked, sitting up in bed and brushing her hair out of her face.

“I can’t imagine.”

“I just want him to call me and tell me he changed his mind or something. Like it was all a dumb fluke.” She face was blotchy from crying and she was picking at a tangled piece of hair near the end.

“Sarah,” You stressed.

“I know!”

“Listen, that girl from the third floor, Annie, is having a party tonight. Why don’t we go? It’ll be nice.” You finally said, defeated that you couldn’t bribe her out of bed and trying it the straight forward way instead.

“I don’t wanna go to some lame party, I just want to be left alone.” 

“Okay, well I’m gonna...Victoria’s gonna be there, from my econ class, so I’m gonna head up there.” You confessed.

“You’re ditching me for a hook-up?” Sarah practically screeched looking at you in annoyance.

“You said you wanted to be alone!”

“Yeah like, go in the other room and watch tv while I sulk not abandon me for Victoria from econ!” She hated Victoria from your econ class. And she hated that you were thinking about some girl while she wanted you to be thinking of her.

“Well...depending on the night I might very well be in the next room before the parties over.” You said, offering her an awkward smile.

“Hooking up with her is worse than abandoning me for a party.” 

You groaned and stood up, walking over to bed and laying down next to her. “I haven’t dated in months babe, and I endured countless weekends sitting on that couch or going to Starbucks while John B ‘visited my you. The least you can do is let me have this.” 

“Fine but I’m coming with you. The last thing I need is Victoria from econ thinking I’m a loser cause I’m moping in bed on a Friday night.” Sarah said, climbing out of the bed.

“That’s the spirit!” You cheered, raising your arms in the air and fake cheering.

“Seriously?” 

“Whatever gets you out of bed.” You replied.

“I’m still upset!” Sarah snapped, digging through the suitcases you had just been crouched in front.

“I know, I know.” You insisted, sitting up, “wear the leopard print dress.”

“I’m not trying to hookup with anyone. I’m only going because I have a reputation to maintain and Victoria from econ is the worst!”

“Maybe, but I heard she’s really good in bed.” 

“Is that all you care about?” She laughed for the first time in two days.

“I literally cannot explain to you how little sex I have had all year. Besides the last party I went to that kid from Poly Sci grabbed my boob...and only because he tripped and put his hand out accidentally. That was the highlight of the last three months.” 

“I’m not wearing the dress.”

“You look so good in it!” You said, already imagining Sarah in the spaghetti strapped leopard print mini dress.

“Really? I think it’s a little tight across my butt.” She confessed, pulling it out and holding it up.

“It’s tight everywhere, that’s the point. Besides, you have a great ass so who cares.” 

“Oh tell me more.” Sarah teased, turning to the side and popping her leg to pose for you.

You grabbed her pillow off the bed and threw it at her, “get a shower! We’ll do praise Sarah Cameron hour later.” 

“Fine but your starting with how great my ass looks.” She said, grabbing her toiletries bag off the back of the door.

“Super! Get a fucking shower and let’s go! Victoria-“

“From econ awaits. I get it!” The door slamming behind her was the last sound you heard as you flopped back onto the bed and tried to figure out what you were going to wear to the party.

“Did you find her?” Sarah asked, sitting on the arm of the couch, turned in toward you, knees almost touching. You were sitting on the windowsill scoping out the party.

“Yeah, Annie snatched her up, literally. They are already in Victoria’s room by now I’m sure.”

“Annie does not wait.” Sarah commented, taking a sip of her drink.

You groaned, looking down at your chest. “God, I should’ve gotten like breast implants or something instead of the nose job.” You grabbed your boobs for a second, squeezing them and then crossing your arms under your chest to push them out more.

“I don’t think fixing a deviated septum constitutes a nose job.” Sarah teased, casting a look down at your mostly exposed boobs. The top was low-cut already and when you sat like that it offered up more of them to look at. “And besides, your boobs look fantastic.”

“You really think so.” You pouted at her, leaning so she was almost forced to look at them.

“Oh my god, yes now get them out of my face.” She laughed, pushing you away from her.

“Ugh whatever. You’re no fun.”

“I’m loads of fun.”

“Incorrect. I dragged you all the way here to this banging party-” You said, bobbing your head on the word banging.

“You’re so embarrassing, why are we friends?”

“-told you how great your ass looks and you can’t even flirt with me to make me feel better.” 

“Were you that invested in Victoria?” Sarah asked.

“No, I just really need a good hookup or something. A girlfriend preferably.” You sighed, slumping against the window.

“Those are two different things. And I heard Victoria only does hookups.”

“Is it so wrong to imagine Victoria from econ going down on me and then realizing what a fucking hot girlfriend I would be?” You asked. You could definitely imagine it, even if it wasn’t Victoria that you wanted to have as a girlfriend.

“How would that work?”

“Forget it, you’re not bringing me down to your level.”

“My level?”

“Yes, your level, of being in a shitty mood. I’m going to remain hopeful that Victoria from econ will come back to the party, sweep me off my feet and, preferably, fuck me into oblivion.” You said, matter-of-fact.

“Amazing.” Sarah replied.

You sat up a little straighter when you noticed the door open and two girls enter the party, going their separate ways. “Ha! Look, I knew it.”

“What? Oh my god, they’re back already?” Sarah caught sight of Annie going over to a group of friends and whispering. One of the guys in the group put his arm on her shoulder and for a second Sarah imagined herself at a party like this with John B. Dancing and drinking, his hands on her.

“Annie has the stamina equivalent of a goldfish’s attention span. She never lasts and she barely reciprocates.” You informed, not noticing your best friend’s distracted state as you watched Victoria from across the room.

“How do you know?”

“We hooked up in September.” You shrugged. Your first college hookup.

“You never told me that!”

“We weren’t friends yet! You were just some weird straight girl with a hobo boyfriend.”

“Wow.” Sarah exaggerated the word, rolling her eyes at you.

You smacked Sarah’s thigh when Victoria glanced your way, turning to your roommate and best friend, trying not to look too excited. “Oh my god, she looked over, act interested in me.”

“We’re already talking?” 

“Like, pet my arm or something.”

“Pet your arm?” Sarah asked in disbelief.

“Just-“

Sarah grabbed your face in her hands, throwing her last bit of caution out the window, crashing her lips to yours. Quite literally, she pressed herself closer to you as she kissed you and you somehow pulled yourself enough out of the haze to kiss back, eyes closing without even looking to see if Victoria was still paying attention. All you could focus on was Sarah’s tongue wetting your bottom lip before slipping inside your mouth. Her tongue caressed yours and her hand ran down your neck and over your back before she was groping your breast in her hand, squeezing the soft skin through your bralette. She captured your bottom lip between her teeth, tugging gently as she pulled away.  

When you opened your eyes, she was staring at you, wide eyed, hand still holding your breast and the other cupping your cheek. “I-“

“Dorm?” You chanced asking.

“Yes.”

She stood up, straightening her dress with one hand while you held the other, leading her through the crowd of people as if you were trying to make it back to your room before the momentum wore off and you were just roommates again. Victoria called your name when you got close to the door, having seen the entire kiss from her spot. 

“Sorry, can’t talk.”

Sarah cocked an eyebrow at her as she passed, throwing up the middle finger before she was totally out the door. She had always been annoyed by Victoria and it always had everything to do with how much attention you paid the girl in your econ class. But now you were pulling Sarah along and Victoria had subsequently lost. 

Sarah felt for the handle, back against the door, as she kissed you. Her other hand was in your hair, pulling you as close as she could as she tried to get the door to the dorm open. She didn’t want to think too much what this meant for your friendship or her relationship with John B or herself, all she wanted to do was enjoy this moment and the feeling of you against her. She finally got the door, tumbling through it and almost losing her balance but your arm around her waist caught her.

“Holy shit,” she laughed and kissed you, not wanting to lose the moment as she walked both of you backward through the small common room to your bedroom.

“Maybe you should open this door the right way,” you teased, your hands on her waist gently guiding her to turn around.

She stepped back just enough to press her ass against you, looking back over her shoulder and smiling, “does that only work on straight guys?”

“No, that definitely working.” You laugh.

Once you were both through the bedroom door and had it swinging shut behind you Sarah resumed kissing you, hooking her hands around the back of your neck and connecting her lips to yours. She walked backwards until her knees hit the bed. You pressed your body against hers, hands on her waist trying to bunch her dress up from there.

She disconnected from you for a second, pulling the leopard print dress over her head, hair flying over her shoulders, and leaving her in nothing but a nude colored thong. You choked down a laugh and she frowned at you. “Not the reaction I was expecting,” she said as she grabbed at the hem of your dress.

“We have the same underwear on.” You replied and Sarah looked at you, eyes sparkling with laughter. She could remember when you’d convinced her to impulse by half the collection of Skims and then you’d both spent weeks flashing each other at random points during the day to tell the other how comfortable your clothes were.

“I fucking hate you.” She mumbled as she kissed you again, pulling you down onto the bed with her.

When you propped yourself up on your elbow to look down at Sarah you could totally understand why John B wanted so much of her attention, though you’d spent an entire school year with her so it wasn’t something you were clueless to before. But she looked beautiful, laid out on the bed with her hair fanned out around her. She smiled at you and you leaned down to kiss her, lips brushing against her and then moving along her jaw to her neck and collar. You kissed the underside of her chin down to her clavicle while your free hand ran up her side, running your fingers along the underside of her breast and feeling goosebumps rise on her skin.

Sarah’s eyes drifted shut at the sensation of your lips sucking a bruise into the skin above her right breast while your hand grasped her left, brushing your fingers over her nipple and then twisting it between your thumb and finger. She moaned, running her hand through your hair and holding on at the base of your neck. She guided you further down her body, your mouth pressing kissing all around her right breast.

She moaned when you finally licked across her nipple, flattening your tongue against it and then sucking on her breast making her dig her nails into your arm. Sarah had a way of making a person dizzy with her. She could make you forget everything but her just by smiling or biting her lip but feeling her under you, getting to taste her slightly sweaty skin had you more in awe of her than you’d ever been before.

“It’s cool with me if this is just a rebound or whatever, I get it. But we’re friends and I should be totally honest with you.” You said, staring at the ceiling so you didn’t have to meet her eyes. “I’ve had feelings for you pretty much since August when we started texting. I didn’t say anything cause I didn’t want you to feel weird or to think that I was trying to encroach on you and John B cause I would never but...after what just happened, I feel like whatever you choose to do, you should know.” 

“That you like me?” Sarah asked, laying there with you in the afterglow, her fingers brushing designs into your stomach and sides. She had never even really thought about being with a girl before...not really. Sure, Kiara had a girlfriend and when they first started dating Sarah had wondered what it would be like but not seriously.

“Yeah.”

“Since August?”

“Oh yeah, hardcore.” You nodded as best you could laying down. She hadn’t let go yet, that had to be a good sign.

“What about Victoria from econ?”

You shifted, sitting up so you could look at her. Sarah sat up across from you. Finally you explained, “She’s hot and the exact opposite of you and that was definitely the point. But hooking up with Victoria wasn’t going to change the fact that I liked you. It might’ve lessened the blow of ya know, not seeing you all summer. This definitely won’t do that.”

“I don’t really know what to say.” She admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything, I’m just telling you, to be up front and cause...I want you to feel comfortable and I know you’re going through a lot with John B right now and the year is over. I also wanted to tell you that I totally understand if you want a new roommate next year.” 

“No, no, are you kidding me? Kiara’s roommate was a fucking psycho all year! I am not rooming with a stranger! My luck I’ll get stuck with fucking Victoria from econ!”

“You really hate Victoria.” You laughed.

“Of course, I do! With her fucking stupid ‘I’m summering in Portugal’ and ‘once I made out with an ambassador’s daughter at a fundraiser for poor kids’ and ‘I speak three languages’.” Sarah said, mocking the way Victoria’s voice always sounded, “she’s the worst.”

“How many times have you talked to her? I’ve never heard any of those things.” You said, trying to think of how much you actually knew about Victoria.

“Spring break that you bagged on! She fucking showed up and spent like three days telling me dumb stuff about herself, like, bitch I don’t care about you.” 

“Okay,” you laughed, “I think we’re getting a little off topic, let’s revisit the conversation we were actually having.” 

“I don’t wanna go back to the eight.” Sarah moaned, leaning over and pressing her face close to her ankles. “It’s gonna be Kiara feeling conflicted about who to hang out with and everybody being weird about parties and seeing John B pop up every five seconds because that would be my luck!” 

You bit your lip, weighing the options of asking Sarah back with you for the summer now that the two of you had just had sex. “Well I’m not sure how enticing it would be but, you could come with me back to Philly for the summer.” 

“What would we do in Philly?” Sarah asked, looking up at you.

“We can go to museums or head to the shore for a day or go eat a 14oz burger or get cheesesteaks and giant slices of pizza or recreate the Rocky scene or go to a farm or see Amish people....” you listed, “any of these.”

“Eating. The cheesesteaks sound good.” 

“Philly has banging food.” You said, nodding.

“Okay.”

“Seriously.”

“Yeah, okay, I mean we’re friends.” Sarah shrugged.

“Yeah, of course, and we can stay friends.” You agreed. You knew you had feelings for Sarah and now she knew that too but you weren’t going to let them come in the way of your friendship.

“Yeah. So, yeah I‘ll go to Philly with you.” 

“Okay.”

Sarah sat there for a moment before, looking around the room, before looking back at you and pouting. “Hey, do you think we could still cuddle cause I could really use it right now.”

“Yeah, totally, I’m coming in for a cuddle.”

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maybankiara · 4 years

Text

PHONE SWAP (DREW STARKEY)

14: FRIENDS

summary: Addie Mallory is just your average economics student when she meets Drew Starkey at her local Target in Atlanta. This is where the story is supposed to end – a short meeting and a picture to go – except Drew accidentally leaves with the wrong phone, and the story begins, instead.

w/c: 4k

a/n: this is compensation for ch 12. also check if you’ve read the previous chapter bc apparently tumblr didn’t notify people??? also check this out before reading!!!! it’s a cute reference for later on in the chapter and will 107% enhance your experience ok

read on wattpad

previous part | series masterlist

Drew is late. Obviously.

According to the time displayed over a candid photo of Drew grimacing (she still hasn’t changed it back to normal, not even after Holden noticed it), it’s only thirty-five minutes past noon. Addie sits at the corner table of Waystone with a cup of warm coffee sitting in front of her, trying to kill time.

On a shelf behind her, there’s a nice green plant. Addie doesn’t know anything about plants, but she does like the way this one looks – it fits the creamy brown of the coffee shop walls. It was actually Marianne who introduced her to the spot, and Addie hadn’t been a lover of staying in for a coffee until then, but the girl made her fond of the European tradition. She was only happy that Drew seemed to be fond of it, too.

Plus, there aren’t many people inside with her right now. Most already came in the early hours of the morning or will come in the afternoon or evening, after work. Addie presumed that’ll make Drew feel less worried about being recognised.

Before she met him, Addie didn’t think Drew would be a little… awkward, to put it that way. She spent some time thinking about it, then chalked it up to the circumstances of their meeting. As much as she’s still aware that he's an actor, and not an unsuccessful one at that, she reckons he must be aware that she is someone who’s seen his work. That’s the whole reason why they met in the first place.

So, Addie has decided to take it upon herself to eradicate that barrier between them, one way or the other. She banned Marianne from acting like Drew is the Drew Starkey from Outer Banks instead of Addie’s acquaintance Drew, and she asked the same from her other friends.

It sounds easy. It’s supposed to be easy.

When she sees Drew walk into the coffee shop and smile at the waitress, then glance around, looking for Addie, she takes a deep breath and gives him a small wave.

Addie will make it easy.

‘Hey, sorry I’m late.’ Drew plops down onto the chair with ease. He’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt and a light blue baseball cap that he takes off and puts on a table, throwing around a subtle glance, before his eyes set on Addie.

She smiles at him. ‘Don’t worry, I expected you to be.’

His shoulders visibly relax a little, and he nods at the cup in front of her. ‘So, you got coffee already?'

‘Yeah. Sorry, I wasn’t sure how long I’d be waiting here and I didn’t want to seem rude by just sitting here, not buying anything. I wouldn’t want the girl to get in trouble because of me.’

‘No, it’s fine, don’t worry. Is there a menu?’

‘Yeah.’ Addie leans over and reaches for the menu that’s propped on a holder on the empty table next to them, then hands it to him. ‘We didn’t get one.’

‘Right.’

Drew shuffles through the pages of the menu with a slight wrinkle between his brows. Addie notices how they’re almost straight, one a bit thicker than the other, and something about that makes the corners of her lips tug ever so slightly upwards.

‘Are we getting just coffee or do you want something to eat, too?’

‘I planned on getting food when I’m back at my place,’ Addie admits. ‘But you’re more than free to get something, I won’t mind.’

‘Alright. I’ll be right back.’

He gets up with a tap to the table, and he’s off to the counter. The girl working behind it doesn’t freak out when he approaches her, so Addie figures she doesn’t recognise him.

Not too long ago, Addie was working in a small coffee shop, back in Denver. That’s what she spent most of her summers doing – travelling was something that was for after she’s done with all her studies, and working was what gave her the money she needed for both. She wonders if a celebrity—or as much of one as Drew is—ever approached her and she didn't know.

Maybe. So far, she hasn’t recognised any of the faces, and Denver isn’t really a place for celebrities as much as Atlanta is.

The sound of chatter fills the space. Drew is making the waitress laugh, half-leaning against the counter as he rests his hand on it.

It’s not flirtatious, at least not as far as Addie can tell. He ends up waving to the girl and comes back to the table with a wide grin.

‘That’s Nikki,’ he answers Addie’s unasked question as he takes a seat. ‘One of my friends used to date her, she hung out with my group a few years back. Didn’t know she works here now.’

‘Oh, cool.’ Addie remembers her promise not to make things awkward, so she relaxes into her chair, takes a sip of her coffee. ‘What did you order?’

‘Latte and strawberry pancakes.’

‘So you’re a latte and strawberry kind of dude.’

Drew lets out a chuckle, lifting an eyebrow in amusement. ‘Judgy much?’

‘Nope. Just thought you’d be, hm…’ Her thoughts trail away, and she rests her elbows on the table, placing her chin on her palms. She looks at him, at the rough lines of his face – the high cheekbones, the long eyebrows, the kind, intelligent blue eyes, and lips that seem oddly soft. ‘Black with a sprinkle of milk. And, like, a croissant or something. Strawberry’s good, though, I approve.’

Drew’s pose mimics hers, and it takes all in her to keep herself from laughing. ‘Your pronunciation of croissant is very... French.’

‘My roommate is half French. You bet she made sure I knew how to pronounce croissant.’

‘Ha. Knew it.’ At this, Addie quirks an eyebrow. Drew sighs. ‘Fine. I didn’t. I thought you were French.’

‘Wrong. Denver, born and raised.’

‘Well.’ The smile he gives her is playful, and a whole lot more open than any she’s seen on him before. ‘Guess we read each other wrong.’

Just as Addie is about to reply, the waitress—Nikki—greets them, placing a mug identical to Addie’s in front of him. Drew thanks her and she tells him the pancakes will be in a few minutes, then walks away.

‘Hey, Drew,’ calls Addie. She raises her mug and nods at him to do the same. When he does, she clinks the mugs together. ‘To getting to know each other.’

The actor repeats the word with a smile.

They chat, for a bit, mostly about coffee preferences. Addie tells him how she started with having straight black every morning back in high school, switched it to afternoon in college, then to drinking cappuccino in her senior year. He tells her how he drinks straight black when on set, a habit from college, and latte is what he rewards himself with when he's not working.

A bit later, Nikki comes back with a tray, as promised. Drew makes small talk as she puts a pancake plate with chocolate poured over the strawberries on top, and then she places another one in front of Addie.

‘Thanks, Nikki,’ says Drew before Addie gets a word in. The girl walks away, and he eyes the plate in front of Addie. ‘You said you like these, right?’

Addie just stares at him, for a moment. She thinks she should say something, ask why he got one for her, too, and then— ‘I do. Thanks.’ A beat. ‘You didn’t have to.’

‘Hey, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.’ His mouth is already full, fork and knife in one hand each.

Of course Addie can’t help but smile.

She takes the cutlery herself and dives into the pancake, making sure he can see her roll her eyes. ‘This better not be another way to apologise for stealing my phone.’

‘Nah, that’s not it. I just didn’t want to be the only one eating.’

The wide grin on his face is enough to tell her that he’s being honest about this.

Addie ends up teasing him a little more as they eat their pancakes and finish their latte and cappuccino. It gets easier, talking to Drew. She doesn’t even notice when the starting awkwardness turns to laughter and jokes, all caution and reservation either of them might’ve had, thrown out of the window.

Time goes by, and Addie doesn’t notice.

They end up deciding to go on a walk around the neighbourhood. There’s a nice park nearby that neither of them has been to in ages, so that’s on the agenda for the rest of whatever their time together. Addie snaps a quick photo of the coffee shop before they leave. She’s planning to do just the interior, when Drew leans into the frame, squirming a little.

Addie laughs and focuses the camera on him, taking a quick shot. ‘Already missing being in front of the camera, huh?’

‘Always.’ Drew makes a grimace at the camera, looking twenty-six and six at once. ‘Want me to take one of you?’

‘Nah,’ says Addie, shaking her head. She then turns her camera off and puts the phone into her back pocket, ready to leave.

Drew follows suit. He puts the plates one on the other, cutlery, too, and brings them to the counter. Addie follows his example and brings the cups. Nikki thanks them and Drew just waves her off, both of them saying goodbye to the waitress.

The air that blows into their faces as they leave the place is fresh and welcoming, a slight chill present even under the October sun.

She feels Drew bump into her. ‘What’s the deal with the photo?’

They take a turn around the corner as Addie gathers her thoughts, hands finding their way to her pockets. ‘I just like having evidence of the things that happen, I guess.’

‘But not posting it,’ he says. He lets out a nervous laugh then, scratching his nose. ‘Sorry, I stalked you a little.’

‘Fair. ‘Cause, you know, me too. Obviously. But yeah, I like my privacy. Putting shit out there is a bit... I don’t know, iffy, I guess.’

‘So you just take pictures of everything?’

‘Pretty much. It’s a great way of keeping memories.’

Drew takes a turn earlier than Addie would’ve expected, and she takes a second to follow. He waits for her to catch up to him, sighing as he does, as if doing so is a great bother.

Addie rolls her eyes again. ‘Don’t give me that face.’

‘What face?’

She points at him. ‘That face.’

They fall into step and it’s as easy as breathing. Drew’s presence at her side stops being something she’s aware of like a summer breeze, and more like the stability of summer warmth, instead.

‘What do you do with the photos?’ he asks.

Addie chuckles, a cheeky smile stretching over her face as she glances at him. ‘I print them. Put them in an album. Basically the exact thing our parents used to do.’

‘Why not just get a film camera, then?’

‘Because it’s weird to carry a film camera wherever you go. Or any camera, for that matter. Using your phone is just convenient, I guess.’

‘You’ve got a point.’

They turn another corner. Addie recognises the road – it’s about half an hour’s worth of walking back to her apartment, and in about five minutes, they’ll be at the park. Around them, birds chirp, high up in the skies. She hears a faraway plane, cars that pass by them speeding past over the limit, and kids screaming at one another in one of the back alleys, game or not.

The silence between them isn’t heavy. She hears their footsteps, too, hers faster than his. Drew’s close enough for her to just feel him at her side.

‘How long have you lived here?’ asks Addie.

Drew glances at her. ‘I moved here after graduation, so... about four, five years, now? It feels longer than that.’

Addie chuckles, hands in pockets. 'Yeah, I get that. How come you picked Atlanta?’

‘Job prospects, mostly.’

‘Ah, yes. The blooming film industry of Atlanta.’

‘It’s true! It’s no Hollywood, but it’s easier to find gigs here than in LA,’ he admits. ‘If I ever move to LA, it’ll be because I’ll think I've got enough of a resume to pick up some bigger roles.’

‘So no toilet commercials, then?’

Drew gives her a look that’s part disbelief, part amusement. It comes with a smile, so Addie gives him one in return.

At the point of walking into the park, Drew’s telling her about what his first experience of Atlanta was like. The girl finds herself laughing a lot – he’s a good storyteller, motioning with his hands a lot more than she’d expect him to, and a lot of the story benefits from the way his voice carries the words.

The bench they sit down on is in the middle of the park, right in front of a modest fountain. It used to be the pride and joy of the neighbourhood, Drew tells her, but someone kept trashing it and they eventually stopped trying to repair it.

‘It’s still kind of cute,’ Addie notes.

It makes him chuckle. ‘Right. You’re allowed to dislike it.’

‘Okay, it looks absolutely nothing like a park fountain and I’ll file a complaint to the major.’

‘That’s more like it!’

Addie gives him the same look he’d given her a couple minutes earlier, and he breaks into a big smile.

‘Stay like this,’ she tells Drew. ‘You're getting in front of the camera again.’

‘Oh, boy. As if that’s a problem.’

He begins to move in place almost immediately and Addie grunts, taking a quick snapshot before he’s able to ruin everything. She takes another one, and then another one, and before she knows it, they’re laughing their hearts out as Drew makes the oddest faces at her, tugging at his hair and saying some of the weirdest shit she’s ever heard.

Before she puts her phone away, she scrolls through the photos they’d taken. Drew leans closer, their shoulders touching, and watches them with her.

Addie is aware of his proximity in a way that she hasn’t been before. She feels his breath on her shoulder and his hand on the bench is dangerously close to her thigh; her thumb trembles a little and she really hopes he doesn’t notice.

Drew puts his finger on the screen just as she’s about to scroll forward. ‘I like this one.’

She chuckles.’'It’s not bad.'

‘Right? It should definitely be in one of your albums.’

The feeling that brushes over Addie in the moment after Drew says that is like a smile, but filling out the entirety of her body. Whatever barrier they had between the two of them, it’s gone now, as if it had never existed.

Addie composes herself, hoping Drew won’t think much of her hesitation. ‘Obviously. That’s where all photos of my friends go.’

Friends. The word hangs between them like a soft exclamation mark, an unspoken promise.

When Drew moves a little, Addie feels the sudden lack of heat at her side as if someone had blown cold air into the spot. ‘Good.’

Despite its ugliness and age enhanced by vandalism, the fountain has running water. The stream is just loud enough to notice if one is listening, as some of the machinery pushing the water upwards seems to be out of function. It’s a nice, soothing white noise – Addie feels as if time doesn't flow according to the same rules here.

The feeling inside her chest is something she’s never felt before, yet she can’t put it into words. It’s like trying to catch a thought without thinking about it – here and there and nowhere at once.

She wonders what Drew is thinking about.

He sits with his back against the wooden backside of the bench, one arm on the metal armrest. His eyes are fixated on the fountain in front of them, eyebrows slightly furrowed, lips parted in thought.

She looks at him, and he’s Drew. Not an actor; not a stranger.

Her friend Drew.

She sees him run his tongue over his lips, right before he turns to her. ‘I’ve got a film camera. I should bring it sometime.’

Sometime – a promise of this not being the last time. A promise of this happening again, when he’s back from LA.

Addie faces him with a bright smile, her fingers fleeting in her lap. ‘You should also get an album. So we can keep the photos somewhere.’

‘Or we use one of yours,’ he suggests. ‘I don’t know anyone our age who still keeps albums.'

‘Physical copies are more secure and permanent than whatever we keep on our phones or in the cloud. It’s just the maths of odds.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yep.’

‘How long have you been collecting photos?’

Addie ponders about it for a second; the hum of water running fills the moments in-between. ‘Ten years, give or take.’

‘You’ve got the albums here?’

‘Some. Most are back in Denver, but I’ve got the ones I took here.’

‘Can I see them?’

The “now” is silent, but Addie hears it nonetheless. It sounds like the water running; it sounds like the “friends” they'd just declared themselves.

His eyes are looking into hers, deep and gentle; Addie is astonished at just how blue they are. She’d thought they’d be a clear blue, like a crystal glass, but they’re muddied with sprinkles of green and yellow, even some grey around the irises.

She nods. ‘Sure. My roommate is going to be out ‘till late, anyway.’

He nods, too, and smiles a little. ‘Cool.’

It’s settled – they’re going to Addie’s.

About half an hour later, Addie feels like she’s bringing an old friend to a new home. Their conversation feels up the walls of the building as they climb up the staircase – his laughter does’'t feel out of place here, even when they enter the apartment and Addie makes him take his shoes off.

‘Leave your coat here, shoes there, and feel free to take those slippers if you want. The albums are in the living room, underneath the stack of French books,’ Addie instructs as if she were reading it off a list. Drew chuckles and does as told, following her into the living room like a really tall puppy. ‘Want something to drink?’

‘You got a beer?’

Addie grins. ‘You bet.’

‘Thanks.’

She nods, already halfway to the kitchen, and holds herself still against the doorway to nod at him. ‘Which one?’

‘What you got?’

Addie hears him plop down onto the couch with a sigh of comfort and makes a mental note to tell Marianne that Drew Starkey enjoys the couch the French-Brit picked. She opens the fridge, eyes glancing over the assortment of beers (mostly courtesy of Marianne’s boyfriend, Tom). ‘Heineken, White Claw, Corona—’

‘I’ll take White Claw.’

‘Basic bitch!’

‘I like a reliable drink, alright!’

In the end, Addie walks back into the living room with two glasses, a can of White Claw, and a can of Heineken. She finds Drew on the floor instead of the couch, surrounded by a heap of albums that Addie recognises in a heartbeat, a familiar stack of French books shifted to the side.

The sight of Drew hunched over photos she took at her friend Leanne’s twenty-third birthday party last year makes her laugh, and the sound startles him.

‘Sorry,’ he says. His cheeks redden in an instant and he rests his palm flat on the album. ‘I didn’t mean to just start rummaging through your personal stuff.’

Addie shakes her head. ‘I told you where they were for a reason, Drew.’ She joins him on the floor, gives him a glass, fills it up to the brim, then pours Heineken into hers. ‘These are from a birthday party, the first one I attended in Atlanta. A little over a year ago. I met Leanne’—she points at the brown-skinned girl on one of the pictures—‘literally, like, a month before this. She was friends with Marianne’—points at the plump ginger-haired girl—‘before I met her.’

‘You met Marianne in Atlanta?’

‘Kind of. Give me a second.’ Addie leans over the album Drew’s got in his lap and reaches for the one furthest back. She flips the pages until she’s gone through about a fifth of the album, and the first photo that pops in the left upper corner of the page is a selfie of her and Marianne in no place other than Waystone.

Addie smiles at the picture with a fond smile on her lips. ‘This is when I met her for the first time, at least in real life. We’d spoken beforehand for about a week or so, a lot of the move and everything happened suddenly for the both of us. Marianne spent her first week here with her boyfriend, Tom, who’d moved to Atlanta a few months prior. She suggested Waystone, we hit it off, and that’s how it all started.’

‘That’s a nice story,’ comments Drew. ‘How’d you meet her?’

‘Mutual friend. Iona. Marianne’s friend from back home, she went to Berkeley with me.’

‘Damn.’

‘Yeah’'

Drew raises eyebrows at Addie as if asking for permission, and she nods at him. He takes the album and flips through it, slowly, asking questions here and there, commenting on Addie sometimes.

There is something irrevocably intimate about sharing your life with someone like these. Addie’s always thought physical albums carry more weight than any other form of memory collection, and she’d always collected them for herself first. It’s different from social media, where everything is curated to be nothing short of perfection, for others to see.

Now, Drew is seeing into Addie’s past in a way that’s as close to partaking in it as possible. Her friends, her experiences, her dumb photos – with a glass of beer in hand, music playing on Marianne’s speaker in the corner of the room.

She tries to remember if she’s ever so openly shared her life with anyone before this, and she can't.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Drew. The corner of his mouth is curled into a permanent half-smile, moving only as he remarks a photo he’s looking at in the moment. His hair is still messy from their impromptu photoshoot, and it looks dark brown under the apartment light. Addie notices he’s got freckles, all around his nose and under his eyes.

She doesn’t know the exact moment they became friends, but they did. Now, Addie can’t picture a life where Drew isn’t a part of it.

Some time later, when they’ve gone through two albums, a dozen more stories, and two more beers, the door opens with Marianne just about screaming bloody murder. Addie answers to her name with a calm, inconspicuous voice, and motions to Drew to be quiet.

In the end, it’s a bit of a ruckus, when Marianne just about faints at the sight of Drew Starkey chilling on the floor of her living room, surrounded by cans of beer and a heap of albums. It’s over soon, with Marianne calm and managing to find out that Drew likes goulash because his old neighbour was Hungarian and would make it for the Fourth of July, and that he is a basic white bitch who loves White Claw (Marianne gives him a lecture on buying alcohol in bulk, aka the British binge-drinking practice).

In the end, Marianne doesn’t consider him a celebrity anymore, either. He gives Addie his phone number (‘It’s simpler than Instagram, I’ll see it faster.’) and promises to let her know when he’s back. It’s two promises in the form of one, both verbalised this time, and they reassure Addie that she isn’t the only one considering them friends now.

He leaves, and she cleans up after themselves, getting Marianne up to speed with their hangout.

Addie could get used to this.

◇

15: ALCOHOLISM IN HOLLYWOOD

tagging. @jjmaybanksbaby @taiter-tots @sacredto @snkkat @drewswannabegirl @yeslifeofateen @rudypnkw @stfukie @x-lulu @drewstarkey @butgilinsky @solllaris @hyperactive2411 @chasefreakinstokes @surferkie @jroseron @k-k0129 @starlightstories

#drew starkey #outer banks #obx #drew starkey fanfiction #drew starkey x oc #phone swap series

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mnthpprt · 3 years

Text

Chapter 51: The First Step

William has been distant since I gave him the note. At first, I thought he was being cautious, that he was worried about me getting involved with Vlad. As the days went on, however, my perspective shifted. I’m pretty sure he’s jealous, but what I don’t know is who he is jealous of.

Despite any reserves he might have had, he gave Vlad the note, and returned with a response the next morning. That was a good start to setting my plan in motion, and then all I had to do is wait.

And wait I did. Less than a week of patience shouldn’t feel as tedious as it did, but I managed. Since Will was being insufferable, I stopped going to his rehearsals, to the desmay of the troupe. I liked those guys, but the tension between me and their director was palpable enough to dampen everyone’s mood, and I prefered to let them work without that unsavory distraction.

I also met Zola again. It happened the day I first walked out of rehearsal. I had ended up at the high street, browsing shops witout any intention of buying anything, just to kill the time. Émile bumped into me near a display stand and realized we were both eyeing the same notebook, a beatifully crafted one bound in marbled fabric.

“All yours, I’m just looking,” I said, making his eyes go wide when he looked at me. It appears he did not recognize me until I spoke.

“Mademoiselle Anaïs, fancy seeing you here!”

“Good morning, monsieur Zola,” I smiled politely.

“Please, call me Émile. Care to promenade with me?” When I nodded, he continued, offering me his arm. “How’s that talented painter friend of yours? Any new works to look forward to?”

“I, uh.. I have not seen Vincent in a while, to be frank.”

“Oh, how come?”

Our conversation was cut short as we arrived at the registry, where the bearded writer paid for the notebook. I slightly regretted not getting it for myself, but shook away that desire with the reminder that I have no use for it anyway.

“Nevermind that,” I nonchalantly changed the topic as we stepped out into the street. “What are you working on at the moment?”

“Well,” he started, adjusting his hat, “that portrait of yours struck a chord within me, mademoiselle. I have been hunting down other visionary artists, but none come as close as your friend. I can feel it in my bones, naturalism will be the new artistic revolution!”

“I’d love to hear all about it,” I chuckled. “On one condition: stop with that ‘mademoiselle’ nonsense. Familiarity goes both ways, Émile.”

“You pose an excellent point, Anaïs.”

After that encounter, we had lunch together in a nearby restaurant. Luckily, I had been getting better at managing my bloodlust, so I only had to excuse myself once, with some lame line about ‘powdering my nose’ or whatever. We talked about his work, mostly. He asked about Vincent a couple times, but didn’t pry. He probably thought it was some lover’s quarrel, and I couldn’t exactly correct him on that. The truth was too complicated.

On the days leading up to my ‘date’ with Vlad, I steered clear of the mansion, as well as all the places in the city the residents liked to frequent. Meeting any of them, whether it was accidental or not, would have raised suspicion. I spent a large part of my time in the townhouse, reading and playing with Puck. Will came in and out and mostly went about his business as usual, making me feel like a bit of a housewife. I hated it, but it gave me the chance to focus on my academic research.

After almost a week of uneventful boredom, the day has finally arrived. William woke me up with a curt knock on the door, telling me to get ready. He said he had rehearsal today and would drop me off near the flower shop.

The carriage ride is awfully quiet. Finally, my patience with William reaches its limit and I snap, nudging his leg with mine.

“What’s going on with you lately? I thought you’d want me to get along with Vlad.” I kick my legs up onto his lap, hoping the familiar gesture will provide some comfort. “You know, since you introduced me to him and all...”

“Right,” he mutters. That tone is not like him at all.

“Seriously, what is it?” I nag him further, but he just responds by pushing my legs off of his lap. “Will, come on. Talk to me.”

“This is where we must part ways.” The annoyed retort never makes it out of my mouth, as I realize the carriage has come to a halt. How convenient. I scoff. “Follow the main street and turn left at the statue,” Will continues. “Thou knowst where to find me after, but I shall be finished with the troupe in three hours.”

There is no time to argue, so I jump off the carriage and stare at him through the open door.

“Bye, William,” I finally sigh, closing it shut, and knock on the side, signalling the driver to move. William lazily waves me goodbye, but the usual glow of amusement does not shine in his eyes this time.

“Whatever,” I mumble to myself, turning away from the road once he’s gone. “He’s just being a brat.”

Despite the pleasant weather and the morning sun, I feel uneasy as I walk. I follow Will’s directions, but stop when the flower shop comes into view. Pressed against the corner, I take a deep breath and shake my head, mentally readying myself for the negotiation that is to come. I am in way too deep now, there is no turning back.

With my brave face on, I finally emerge from behind the stone wall. My steps are certain, purposeful, and I hope that my fear is overshadowed by the appearance I am projecting: a woman on a mission.

#Ikemen Vampire #ikevam #IkeVamp #ikemen vampire shakespeare #ikevamp shakespeare #ikemen vampire fanfiction #ikevam fanfic #ikevamp fanfiction

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let-it-raines · 4 years

Text

another kind of green (10/10)

Emma Swan spends her days in pretty white dresses and heavy layers of makeup. Day after day and dress after dress, she poses for pictures and acts like she’s in love and having the happiest day of her life with the man standing next to her.

It’s not. This is all a gig, and at the end of the day, she’s no longer the girl in the pretty dress who’s faking getting married for a magazine cover or a wedding convention. Instead, she’s the girl who probably never wants to get married.

Little does she know, she already is.

Rating: Mature

a/n: I’m going to post this a few days early per a few requests, and I hope you all enjoy the ending! To those who were waiting to binge read the entire thing, now’s your opportunity! haha.

Thanks to @xemmaloveskillianx choosing | forgotten first meeting + accidentally married | as her fic giveaway choice! It was difficult to figure out at first, but I had a great time writing it for you 💚

ao3: beginning | current

Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

-/-

“So,” he starts as Emma clasps her bra and adjusts the straps until they’re in place, “that was – ”

“A one-time thing,” she quickly says, not allowing him to finish. “I’m not interested in anything more.” “Aye, neither am I.”

It’s been awhile since a had a one-night stand. They used to be more common for him, even if they did usually turn into month-long flings, but not so much lately. Tonight is an outlier, a what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas kind of cliché, and no matter how much he’d like to pull Emma back into bed with him for another round, she seems ready to go.

Good. That’s likely for the best for both of them.

No strings attached.

“Good. We’re in agreement then. Thanks for the – ”

“The best orgasm of your life?”

Emma throws her head back with laughter, her tangled hair cascading down, and she quickly brushes through it with her fingers. God, her hair was soft. “Don’t flatter yourself. It was good, but I’m not giving you the best title.”

She reaches down and grabs her leggings, and he decides he should get dressed, too, pulling his jeans back on. “You going to give me another chance to try to take that top spot?”

“Huh. You wish.”

“I obviously do.”

She’s got to be one more cheeky statement away from slapping him.

They both keep getting dressed, falling silent in their conversation, and then all of the sudden they’re standing in front of his hotel room door. When did they move? Maybe the champagne affected him a little more than he thought if time is blurring together like that.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Emma rasps.

“Going down to the casino.”

“You can’t go to the casino. I’m going to the casino.”

“It’s a big city, love. I imagine we can both go. There is quite the selection of casinos.”

“I’m going to this one, though. I do not want to have to go to another hotel when I have a bed here.”

“Well, then, I guess we’ll have to manage to share the same space. We’ve been sharing a rather close space for the past hour, so I think we’ll be right as rain.”

Her eyes roll, and she quickly turns away, grabbing the rest of her belongings and opening his door. Killian follows, keeping his distance behind her, but they easily fall in step with each other. It’s weird walking with her now, hostility running between the two of them in the very hallway where she practically had her hand down his pants an hour ago. Killian tries not to think about it, to think about how damn good that felt and how frustrating it is to have Emma be so put off by him now.

This woman doesn’t make any sense.

Then again, who spends time together after a one-night stand? You either get up and leave right afterward, sneak away in the middle of the night, or have awkward conversation in the morning. Or possibly morning sex, but that’s the best case scenario.

They’re having awkward conversation right now. He should have stayed in the room. Instead he’s standing in an elevator with the woman he just fucked, and he’s never felt quite so claustrophobic.

As soon as the doors open, he’s going in the opposite direction of her. That’ll fix all of these problems.

“Hey,” someone yells when the doors open, “you two got married earlier!”

“Wrong people,” Emma mumbles as she steps out of the elevator.

“No, no, it was the two of you,” another girl says. It’s an entire group of them, all in matching outfits. Bloody hell. It’s a bachelorette party. Why do women insist on dressing alike when someone is getting married? “You had on the most gorgeous dress. It made me want to throw out my dress and buy a new one.”

“Oh, don’t say that. Your dress is gorgeous.”

“But it wasn’t like hers!”

“Yours is better. No offence.”

“None taken,” Emma laughs, looking over at him and smiling before quickly turning away and crossing her arms over her chest. Well, at least she smiled. “I’m sure your dress is gorgeous.”

“Thank you. I’m Anna, by the way. Can we buy you two some drinks? We’ve got a package with the hotel, and I’d just love to hear a little about the wedding.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Emma begins, nibbling on her lip. “I, we – ”

“That sounds great, Anna,” he interrupts. “Emma and I would love that.”

He knows Emma is shooting daggers at him with her eyes, and honestly, he doesn’t blame her. He’s just roped them into spending more time together as well as spending time with an overenthusiastic bachelorette party. If the woman didn’t already dislike him for everything outside of sex, she’d hate him now.

But honestly, it’s not bad. The women are nice, if not a bit loud, and he and Emma manage to string together some kind of fake story about their wedding and their courtship. Neither of them discussed actually telling them the truth, but he has a feeling they would all be absolutely devastated if they learned the truth. They’re very much a group who are in love with love, and if the drinks they’re getting weren’t so damn strong, he’d be bitter about it and say something about being engaged not being all it’s cracked up to be.

He couldn’t tell anyone what marriage is like. But engagement? He knows enough about that, and his certainly wasn’t like this.

“Do you want another one?” Emma asks him.

“Aye.”

She raises her hand over the bar, her sweater rising to show off her toned stomach, and orders them two more drinks. They might as well take advantage of the free drinks while they’re here.

“So, how long are we going to keep telling these women that we’re married?” she asks as she takes another sip of her drink. It’s mostly ice now, but she can’t seem to stop. “As long as we’re getting free drinks? Does that make us horrible people?”

“It makes us opportunists.”

Her eyes roll. “If it wasn’t one in the morning, I would probably protest.”

“It’s a good thing it’s one in the morning then, isn’t it, love?”

The drinks keep flowing as they move away from the bar and move toward the casino, spreading out to slot machines and poker tables. It’s been awhile since he played. Liam used to love the game, and everything Killian knows about it is from him. That’s a good thing when Killian starts winning a little money. It’s not such a great thing when security comes over because they suspect he might be counting cards.

His brain is not functional enough to count cards right now.

He’s definitely drunk. He knows that he is, and at some point today he should have had a little more water. This has not been his most well thought through day.

“Who knew you were such a rebel, nearly getting kicked out of a casino?” Emma asks, walking up to him and poking him in the chest after security finally lets him go. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Darling, you barely know me.”

“True,” she slurs. “What do you say we get out of here since I don’t think security is going to let you keep playing?”

She stumbles, just briefly, and Killian grabs her waist, squeezing her hips. “I thought you said you didn’t want to leave the hotel.”

“Did I?”

“I think so.”

“Huh. Well, I’ve never been to Vegas. I’d like to explore. C’mon, Jones. Let’s go. It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

“No, love, I suppose I don’t.”

One minute he’s standing in the middle of the casino floor only inches away from Emma, and the next they’re walking hand in hand around the Venetian as Killian weaves some kind of story about how they’d tell Anna and her friends that they honeymooned in Italy and how they would absolutely eat that story up. He keeps thinking this isn’t real, that Emma shouldn’t still be standing next to him and that this is all a dream fueled by their sex, but she feels real.

She is definitely real.

And he’s very aware of how she’s clinging onto him in the small room that they’re in.

Wait. Weren’t they just outside? They were. They were also thinking about getting a gondola to ride, but now all of the sudden they’re in a room with the two of them, a few other people, and an Elvis impersonator.

What the fuck?

“You may now kiss your bride.”

Killian looks at Elvis before looking at Emma, and all the sudden he remembers walking into this chapel and remembers that he and Emma are getting married. She’s so pretty like this, her smile so bright, and he can’t quite believe she agreed to marry him. He thought he already had the one woman who would say yes to marrying him, but she eventually changed her mind. Now he’s got another chance.

This is a bloody brilliant idea.

Quickly, Killian bends his knees and dips his head down until his mouth is pressing against Emma’s.

-/-

Emma Swan is kissing him.

Emma. Swan. Is. Kissing. Him.

Killian knows how she kisses. He remembers how she moves her lips and how she knows how to perfectly move between aggressive and careful, and he knows that’s exactly what she’s doing right now.

The thing is, he can’t quite believe it’s real.

That she’s real.

He hasn’t seen her in two weeks. The Academy has been kicking his ass six ways to Sunday, and all he’s done is go to training, come home to eat and study, fall asleep, and then wake up and do it all again. He’s been awful at keeping up with his relationships and with his runs with Emma, and he kept meaning to call her. It was killing him that he kept blowing her off, but then he’d get called away and the thought would slip his mind.

How could Emma Swan have ever slipped his mind?

That’s something he’s been asking himself for months now as he desperately tries to remember every single detail of the day they met and the hours following. Only bits and pieces have come back after they slept together, and as much as he wants to know what happened, maybe it’s better if he never remembers.

Maybe it’s better if he leaves in the here and now because Emma is doing this particularly delicious thing with her tongue that has his heart pounding.

This is about the last thing he ever expected to happen when he told her they were married and that they’d need an annulment.

God, they were supposed to go out to celebrate the annulment.

Emma starts to move away, her mouth fleetingly leaving his, but he doesn’t let her, wrapping one arm around her back and pulling her toward him while his other hand grabs onto her ponytail and gently tilts her head in the way that he wants to. She got to kiss him the way she wanted, and he damn well intends to get the same opportunity.

Now that the initial shock of her being here is over, now that he knows with complete certainty that this is real, he can feel the softness of her lips and the glorious way that her breasts press into his chest. He’s felt all of these things before, but it wasn’t like this. The last time was different. It was in a buzzed haze of lust and champagne, and while he feels the slightest buzz now, it’s nothing that would make him forget.

How could he ever again?

“Emma,” he whispers as he pulls back, resting his forehead against hers while they both pant, trying to catch their breaths, “what’s happening?”

And then he’s being shoved backward until he’s stumbling back into his apartment and Emma is following behind him. She’s strong, but she shouldn’t have been able to shove him backward as much as she did. Then again, showing up and kissing the holy hell out of him is the exact way to catch him off guard so that he’d stumble over practically anything.

What the hell is happening?

Now that he’s looking at her, he can see the fury in her eyes and the way that her hair is falling out of her ponytail. She’s covered in a light sheen of sweat, and when he looks down at her feet, he sees that she’s in her running shoes.

In the weirdest way, he’s missed those shoes.

She ran here.

“It takes five seconds to text,” Emma pants. His body is having a difficult time ignoring the rasp of her voice and the sweat on her skin, especially as it trickles down between her breasts. “It takes five seconds for you to tell me whatever the hell has been going on that you haven’t been able to go on our runs or get dinner or do whatever the hell it is that we do. Because do you know how it looks to me when I tell you about how shitty people have treated me only for you to practically disappear the next day? Do you know how shitty it felt to get our annulment papers and then have you disappear? Because I thought – I thought we – ”

“We did. We do.”

Her brows shoot to her hairline. “We what?”

Killian takes a step forward, close enough to grab Emma’s hand, but he doesn’t. “We were friends. Are. We are friends, love. I also thought that we might possibly be more. You kissing me kind of confirms that for me.”

Her cheeks turn the prettiest shade of red, and the corners of Killian’s lips tug up. He bets she hates herself for blushing right now. “I’ve kissed you before. You don’t know that it means something.”

Impossible. She’s absolutely impossible.

He rather likes that about her. Quite a lot actually. Definitely more than he ever expected to when he met her.

Definitely more than he ever expected to like anyone again.

“I do.”

“How?”

He braves the next step and moves closer to her, tucking a lose strand of her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t move away, and he has to hold in his exhale of relief.

“Don’t you know, Emma? It’s you. You make me sure of things I’d otherwise be unsure of, and you give me hope I haven’t felt in a long time.”

Her eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them, and unlike so many other days in his life where there’s nothing extraordinary happening, he knows that this is one that could change so much. “Your eyes are so beautiful, sweetheart. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like them before.”

“Do lines like that work on all of the girls?”

“I really only care if they work on you.” Emma huffs, and Killian dips his head down to hover his lips directly over Emma’s. He can feel her breath and the heat of her body. He can feel everything. “I’ve been having my ass kicked by training. I’m so exhausted day in and day out that I barely remember to eat. Not being able to run with you, not being able to have you take the piss out of me over my smoothie choices, has been torture. I didn’t want to leave you when the papers came in. I – ”

For the second time in five minutes, Emma slams her lips into his. She’s a force of nature, this one, and he’s not sure what to do.

Well, besides kiss her.

He’s completely blindsided by her being here, by her doing this, and somewhere in a small corner of his mind, he knows they should talk. He’s been burned enough times by physical relationships that he knows exactly how things like this go, but this isn’t that. This is a bloody confusing relationship that he couldn’t put into words if he tried.

“Are we – ”

“Yes.”

“Do you – ”

“Yes.”

Killian laughs into Emma’s mouth as she pushes him back into his apartment, his feet nearly tripping over Will’s bloody out of place shoes. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

Emma stops kissing him, pulling back as he chases her lips, but he stops right before he captures them once more. “You were going to ask if we were going to have sex.”

“I was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner. A man likes to be courted.”

Her brow raises. “Are you serious?”

It’s nearly impossible for him to hold back his laugh. “Swan, there is literally nothing in the world I want more right now than to have you, but I need you to know that this isn’t going to be just sex for me, not like it was the first time. I know you now. I know the sound of your laugh and how you act when you don’t have coffee or food. I know, well, I know you more than I think either of us expected to get to know each other, and I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.”

He knows Emma well enough to know there’s a chance she’s about to walk back out his front door, but saying that was worth the risk. He doesn’t want to start something that’s going to end up hurting them both.

God, he should have found the time to call her this week. And last week. He’s got to apologize to her again.

Her chest heaves, the sweat there beginning to dry, and she opens her mouth only to snap it closed. “It’s not going to be a one-time thing. It means more to me now, too.”

“Good.”

He can’t seem to stray far from Emma, his hands running along the sides of her neck before falling down to her arms, and the way she’s working a spot on his neck is absolutely divine. She’s intoxicating, and every breath is not enough. That should terrify him. Hell, it should have him running out his own front door. This spark that runs hotly between them isn’t entirely new to him, and the last time it blew up in his face.

This has all the potential to do the same.

Or not.

“Is Will home?” Emma murmurs as they walk back toward his bedroom.

“At work.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want him walking out of his room and seeing this.” “It’d be quite the show.”

Emma pushes against his chest, but he easily grabs her waist and turns her around until he’s the one guiding her. She didn’t know where they were going anyway, was simply aimlessly guiding him until his back hit a wall and until her sweatshirt was left on the hallway floor. There’s so much happening right now that reminds him of their night in Vegas – the fumbling with clothes and heated kisses against walls as heat continues to simmer below his skin – but he knows this is different.

She knows it, too, which may be the best part of all.

A lifetime ago, he’d have despised himself for thinking things like that when a woman was undressing in front of him, but that was the past. This here and now? It’s better.

They’ve made it to his bedroom now, and his heart beats in a heavy pattern while his erection is tenting his sweatpants. It’s incredibly uncomfortable at this point, but he doesn’t intend to rush this. Not when things are so tentative and not when he’s been waiting for this moment.

“Oh my God,” Emma groans.

“Darling, I don’t think that’s the way you’re supposed to say those words in this particular situation. It’s supposed to sound a tad more…pleasant.”

“I can’t get my damn sports bra off.” “What?” Killian laughs, backing away from her to look at her as she tugs on her bra.

“I’m sweaty. Or, like, I was. I literally ran here. I can’t fucking get it off.”

His laughter keeps bubbling in his chest, mixing in with the heat between his legs and his focus on getting some kind of relief, but Emma is standing in his bedroom, half-naked, and she can’t get her damn bra off.

“I am probably the sexiest woman you’ve ever slept with, right?”

“Aye,” Killian says, completely serious. He steps forward and leans down to press his lips to her collarbone as he tugs the material of her bra up. It is stuck, but with a little willpower, he pulls it up and off of Emma until it’s falling to the ground so that she’s bare to him. “You are.”

Her cheeks flush red, and that flush moves down toward her breasts. It’s a beautiful sight with which he cannot wait to become more acquainted.

“Shut up and get on the bed.”

“So demanding, lass.”

She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know about you, but I ran a few miles to get here, and I think I’m running on limited time before my body decides to stop working.”

“I haven’t slept more than four hours a night in two weeks.”

“So this is about to be really good sex then?”

“Aye, absolutely.”

Emma falls back onto the bed, and Killian cages her in, moving his mouth of hers and licking into her mouth while his fingers trail down her body, one hand palming her breast while the other finds the slickness between her thighs. He groans at the feeling, at knowing this is for him, and it doesn’t take long before her thighs are quivering from his ministrations. She’s very nearly there, her back arched off the bed, and this is better than any and all of his memories.

“Condom,” Emma pants. “Get a fucking condom.”

“I – ”

“Please do not make the joke I know you’re going to make.”

Killian huffs and curls his fingers inside of her once more before pulling out and leaving a soft kiss to her inner thigh, watching as her skin twitches with his touch. He quickly gets the condom from the box in his bedside drawer, rolling it on and wondering why the hell that takes so long, before he moves to hover over Emma again. She doesn’t let him, though, encouraging him to lay on his back as she straddles his hips and curls her fingers into his chest hair.

“This is a new side of you, love.”

“I’ve got a few of those.”

He arches a brow. “Really, now?”

“Hold your horses, tiger. One at a time. I’m not some kind of contortionist energizer bunny.”

He bites his cheek, a comeback on the tip of his tongue, but then Emma is guiding him into her, the warmth of her surrounding him, and all of the breath leaves his body at the feel of her.

Bloody hell.

He can already feel his release licking at his spine, but it’s too soon. There’s so much left to be done, and he’s not some teenage boy who’s going to fall apart at first touch.

Emma looks ethereal above him, even under the harsh lighting of his bedroom, and he watches as her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks and a smile curves at her lips. And then she starts moving. It’s slow and steady at first, the both of them testing each other out, but then his hands grab onto her hips and she really starts moving.

It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before. “You’re absolutely everything,” he breathes. “Bloody magnificent.”

“Killian, I – ”

He nods and leans up to wrap his arms around her back, pulling her toward him so their chests brush together, and then he’s carefully flipping them around, slipping out of her for a moment before slamming back in. They’re both almost there, bodies shaking and breaths gone, and he’s purposeful with his thrusts and with the way he moves his hand where they’re joined until Emma sucks in a sharp breath and begins to fall, becoming more glorious by the second. He works her through it, letting her wide out the waves, but then he starts fucking her in earnest until his own release is thrumming at the base of his spine and working through him.

Killian collapses on top of her, crushing her with his weight before propping himself up on his elbows so he can look down at her and the absolutely goofy grin on her face. He’d like to see that more often.

“Better than the first time, aye?”

Emma laughs and reaches up to push his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. “It’s not a competition, but yeah, better than the first.”

Killian huffs and falls to her side, quickly pulling off the condom and tying it before dumping it into the trash. “You should show up to my apartment more often then.”

Emma turns on the bed and reaches around to pull the comforter up over her. He grabs it and helps tug it up over both of them while Emma inches closer to him, leaning down and kissing his collarbone. He could go again if his body would let him, the adrenaline giving him more energy than he’s had in weeks, but it’s not going to last long.

“Was it really just that you were busy?” Emma asks. “It wasn’t – ”

Killian adjusts his arm under her shoulder and trails his fingers down her back while his other hand tries to smooth back some of her hair. “I should have made time for you. I wanted to. I will from now on. Love, I promise that it wasn’t because the annulment papers came in. I, well…”

“What?”

“I was happy when they came in. It felt like a weight lifted off my shoulders, but a part of me was also terrified that you’d have nothing to do with me now that we had no reason to still be talking.”

Emma’s lips fall open before snapping shut. “I felt the same way.”

“Yeah?”

She nods her head, looking at him with a small smile, before letting her head fall back against the pillow. Their noses are so close they’re almost touching.

The freckles on her cheeks are mesmerizing.

“If you haven’t worn me out, because I definitely plan on the two of us doing that again, I will go running with you in the morning.”

“What about training? Aren’t you exhausted?”

“Aye, but I think I’ll be able to survive. I’m a survivor, Swan. I also think I owe you a smoothie.”

“You owe me about ten smoothies.”

Killian chuckles and closes his eyes before opening them back up to the brilliant shade of green of Emma’s eyes. “I think I can handle that.”

“So, Jones,” she whispers, her own lips threatening to turn into a smile far brighter than the small one she’s been keeping since they started talking in the afterglow of it all, “I think we should go on a date.”

His brow arches. He wasn’t expecting that. He should have been, but they’re all sorts of messy right now. He’s not even exactly sure what he should be expecting when it comes to Emma.

He can’t wait to find out.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one asking you out?”

“You are so old-fashioned.”

“Now, darling, I believe I fucked you, married you, annulled that marriage, fucked you again, and then agreed to date you. In that order. What could possibly be old-fashioned about that?”

Emma chuckles and leans forward to kiss him again. He wants to get used to that. “Did you agree to me asking you out? I don’t remember hearing that.”

Her eyes roll. She’s exasperated by him, but it’s not like it was at the beginning. It’s not true annoyance. It’s something entirely different.

Better.

Definitely, definitely better.

“I’d love to go on a date with you, Emma Swan.”

“Good.”

-/-

They get married three years later.

It’s pouring down rain, a July storm coming in and surprising everyone, and Killian can barely hear David officiating the ceremony over the sound of the water hitting the ground around him and flooding into the Charles river. They wanted to do it by the damn bench that’s paint was messed up from the man sitting on wet paint all those years ago, had planned on it for a few weeks now, only to show up today and find that the city had finally fixed the bench after three years of it being messed up.

All of the signs were there for them to cancel these plans. There’s no special meaning to today, simply a date they picked on the calendar that was close enough to the day they met and fit their schedules, and they could have changed it when they found out it was going to rain.

Emma didn’t want to.

He didn’t either.

Killian’s wearing his dress uniform, and Emma has on a short, emerald green dress that hugs her curves and is driving him mad every time he looks at her. They were already dressed when it started pouring, and they both pretty much said what the hell. Why not? That’s kind of been their motto through the whole thing.

They’re both wearing wellies.

As are all of their friends.

They look ridiculous. He knows that they do, but he wouldn’t have it any other way when it comes to the love of his life and her happiness.

Neither of them ever wanted to legitimately get married, not after everything, but it’s funny how things change when you find the right person who’s willing to wade deep into the waters of life with you.

It’s funny how things change when you meet a woman whose eyes are another kind of green.

-/-

tag list: @xemmaloveskillianx @therealstartraveller776 @stahlop @shardminds @carpedzem @captainsjedi @galaxyzxstark @thejollyroger-writer @kmomof4 @tiganasummertree @xellewoods @idristardis @karenfrommisthaven @shireness-says @scientificapricot @captswanis4vr @a-faekindagirl @ultimiflos @jamif @dreameronarooftop15 @nikkiemms @resident-of-storybrooke @bmbbcs4evr @onceuponaprincessworld @jennjenn615 @mayquita @teamhook @kmomof4 @ekr032-blog-blog @superchocovian @ultraluckycatnd @cs-forlife @andiirivera @qualitycoffeethings @jonirobinson64 @mariakov81 @spartanguard @snowbellewells @onepunintendid @bluewildcatfanatic

#another kind of green #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #captain swan

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marvels-writings · 4 years

Text

Livewire (2)

Part 1

Request: Hey:) I absolutely love this blog. Your imagines are entertaining to read. Can I request a Carol x R? Endgame/post endgame (hate/love) scenario: Everyone is trying to deal w/ their grief, Carol always seems to target R when lashing out/or acting cocky/arrogant. R remains infuriatingly calm & ignores her or responds in genuinely friendly manner but says things that fluster/get under Carol's skin. After they win, Carol eventually realizes that while R drives her crazy, she is crazy about her ;)

Extra: Hey! regarding the Carol x R request in which Carol lashes out at the R a lot during Endgame events, just want to add: R-when being yelled/screamed at responds in a polite/friendly manner, their response either leaves others speechless/makes them want to scream in rage/frustration, not because their response was insulting, but because it was said in that calm friendly manner= basically this person does not feel provoked/threatened in the slightest by the other person's anger or rage lol.

A/N: this part was mainly inspired from a prompt that I read on pinterest maybe a year ago and it popped into my head yesterday so it inspired this entire part. I promise I’ll get back to the request soon.

“Someone’s pissed off.” you commented from your spot on the couch as Carol came in, completely drenched in sweat as she swatted hair out of her eyes.

“My hair got in my face and it’s just so much of a hassle.” She groaned, plopping down next to you on the couch. After the incident with her blasting you a few days back, she was mostly quieter and actively trying to be better. You noticed, and appreciated it a lot.

“I can cut it if you want.” You offered, Carol looked as if you’d just offered her a planet.

“You know how to cut hair?” Carol asked, crossing her legs and facing you, you pulled your book down and looked at her, nodding.

“I did a bit of work experience at a salon before life got weirder.” You answered, Carol opened her mouth to ask you but you cut her off. “Take a shower first, you’re making the ship smell like a sweaty gym.”

Carol rolled her eyes and got up, smacking your good arm lightly for the comment, you giggled but got back to your book.

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

“Cut it.” Carol groaned, sitting on the couch in front of you with her hair dried after 20 minutes with the blow drier, you’ve never seen it poofier, you couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m serious, please?”

“Since you’re asking so nicely.” You commented, and got up to get the scissors from the kitchen and a large cloth from your bedroom.

You put the cloth around her neck and told her to sit on one of the stools near the dining table, she complied, sitting in a relaxed pose as she skimmed the book you had been reading. It was one of your favorites as a teenager, Titan by Ben Bova.

“You know this is actual bullshit right?” She asked, the book still on her lap as she read and you came back with everything you needed, including a small comb. You even switched on a bluetooth speaker you’d gotten from Earth and let your favorite music play on it.

“Then why are you reading it.” You reached to take it away but Carol pulled it away from your grasp.

“I don’t have anything else to do.” Carol answered, you rolled your eyes, pondering how to cut it.

“How short do you want it cut?” You asked, Carol raised both her hands, pulling lightly at her hair until she showed you she wanted it cut so it was only about 3-4 inches long. “That short?”

“It’s too much of a hassle.” Carol complained, reading your book.

“Alright stop whining, you’re gonna be reading for some time.” You replied, starting with trimming her hair first.

For about 20 minutes or so, Carol was able to ignore the feeling of your hands in her hair and your soft humming as you cut her hair. When you started to get closer to her scalp, it got harder to ignore. You’d finished trimming the top so it didn’t get in your way of cutting the sides.

“Um, do you have a razor or a trimmer of some sort?” You asked, leaning away and hoping she did.

“Should I?” Carol asked, absorbed in your book, finally able to focus on the words without your hands in her hair.

“It would make my life a lot easier.” You muttered, sighing and trimming the last few ends of the top of her head before gently brushing it away from the back.

Carol’s breath hitched when she felt your fingers gently comb your hair, she bit her lip and tried to keep focusing on the book. You took your hands away and squatted on Carol’s side, causing her to let go of her lip instantly, making sure you didn’t notice.

“Don’t move.” You said softly, focused on cutting her hair.

You put the comb right beside her head, capturing all of the hair longer than about a centimeter, then going to cut it off, trying not to touch Carol directly. For the most part it was working, but sometimes, your hand accidentally grazed her head or touched it directly while holding the comb, causing Carol to fluster a bit.

Soon enough, that side was done, you moved so you could cut the other side, doing the same procedure but a little neater, and touching Carol a bit less. You noticed Carol flipping the pages much slower than before and smiled a little before moving to the back of her head.

“This is gonna be a bit more tricky.” You muttered, dragging over another chair so you could sit.

You sighed and leaned forwards so you could see better, practically breathing on Carol’s neck. Carol clenched and unclenched her jaw when she felt your breath tickling her neck, she suppressed a shudder and flipped the page.

You did the same procedure as you did on the sides but on the back of her head, your breath on her neck as you barely touched her head. She could practically feel your voice as you hummed to the song that was playing. Carol’s jaw was clenched almost the entire time, your breath on her neck flustering her more than ever. You were just a friend to her, a really attractive friend who she practically lived with.

Finally, the back of her head was done, you pulled away, admiring your work before noticing half of the strands were still uneven.

“Almost done.” You commented, deciding to keep sitting while cutting the rest of her head.

This time, you gave up on using the comb and used your hands instead, deciding it was simpler. You gently put your hand on the back of her head, using it to even out the hair. Carol’s breath hitched and jaw clenched again when she felt your hands in her hair.

The next 10 minutes were pure torture for Carol, you noticed she hadn’t flipped a single page ever since you’d started using your hands instead of thecomb.

You shrugged, continuing to cut her hair, you couldn’t help but start singing when one of your favorites came on. Carol felt your voice and warm breath on her neck whenever you sang, her skin hypersensitive whenever you touched her, she stopped counting the amount of times she had taken a deep breath to try to calm herself.

Finally finished, and completely oblivious, you kneeled in front of Carol, trying to make sure the sides were even. You reached out with both hands and gently pulled on the hair on the sides, making sure it was even.

“Wha, what are you doing?” Carol asked softly, completely flustered as her jaw clenched again.

“Making sure it’s even,” You replied, repeating the motion on the sides of her head before going to the top. “Go back to my ‘bullshit’ book you’ve been reading for the past hour.”

Carol glanced at the clock, you were right, it had been an hour since you were making her impossibly flustered. You repeatedly ran your hands through her hair trying to make sure it was even.

You found one strand that wasn’t even And held it out on top of Carol’s head, almost like a unicorn horn. You smirked when you saw Carol get flustered but still hurried up with cutting her hair.

Finally satisfied with the work you did, you smiled, Carol looked amazing with the haircut, stunning actually. Still squatting in front of her, you started running your hands through it, trying to style it.

“Now what are you doing?” Carol muttered, trying to focus on the book, your warm hands running through her hair making it harder than ever.

“There.” You said, leaning back with a happy smile as you looked at her, the haircut looked great. You lifted up the mirror you had gotten and flipped it around to show her.

“Wow, this is really good,” Carol commented, running her own hands through it, it felt so light. She put the book on the side table and cocked her head to the side, measuring it. “Don’t you think it’s too short?”

“It looks perfect.” you answered, getting to your feet and untying the cloth as Carol got to her feet. Carol finally got enough courage and got over her blush and pecked you on the cheek before going to change.

“Thank you.” She said before heading off to change, hips swaying more than usual.

“Of, of course.” you stuttered, wondering if the gesture was friendly gesture or something else.

‘I've been pretending all my shots are blown

Cover my heart up never let it show’

Music played gently in the background as you cleaned up, overthinking everything that Carol just did, wondering if it meant something more.

Tag list: @capcarolsdanver, @versdan, @lesbian-girls-wayhaught, @lovebotlarson, @dhengkt, @5aftermidnight, @hstoria, @natasha-danvers, @veryfunnyal, @xxxtwilightaxelxxx let me know if you’d like to be in any of my tag lists!

Part 3

Part 4

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hvandenbrg · 4 years

Text

Have you seen HARRY VANDENBERG? This THIRTY-SEVEN year old is a TROPHY HUSBAND who resides in MANHATTAN. HE has been living in NYC for TWO YEARS, and is known to be EMPATHETIC and PROTECTIVE but can also be RECKLESS and VOLATILE, if you cross them. People tend to associate them with EXTREME SPORTS and GREEN SMOOTHIES.

I’M BACK BABEYYYY. i bet y’all thought you’d seen the last of me!! but... here i am! harry’s bio has changed a little bit so feel free to check it out if you want! other than that i am excited to be back and happy to be able to write with you all again!

thank you so much for all the support and the patience you’ve given me these past few months. y’all are the best, and i love you with all my heart.

about —

full name: harry bram vandenberg age: 37 birthday: august 9, 1983 (leo) sexual orientation: heterosexual gender: cis male pronouns: he/his

bio — tw: injury, infertility, cheating, pregnancy

harry has a younger brother and a half sister. his parents divorced when he was young, his father re-married and had one more kid, a girl. there was no drama between his parents, though… at least as far as the children could tell. they were civil in front of them, which is what mattered. harry and his siblings have always been friendly, even if the youngest wasn’t around as often — mostly because his mother didn’t want her around the house much. understandable, yes, but harry and his brother still managed to spend an ungodly amount of time with her growing up.

he was born in brighton, england (his parents were on a ‘last vacation before the baby comes’, and he just happened to be born during said vacation) but was raised in london. besides the abnormal family dynamic, harry had a decent experience growing up. decent in the sense that he often got himself in trouble for staying out too late, getting into fights — because he liked it. not that he was a bad kid, but he had an issue with constant boredom, which he learned to let out in strange ways such as those. in his teens, he decided to skip sixth form and join the british army as an infantry soldier.

still young and lacking tons of experience with real life, harry started a relationship with his neighbor — the girl who’d been his best friend ever since she’d moved next door. truthfully, as his mother had once said, it was only a matter of time until they started a relationship. and harry’s embarrassed protests eventually led to their marriage a year later.

it was a good marriage. they got along pretty well and loved each other pretty much. they had a flat in london where they lived. however, things began to get complicated when harry was deployed to afghanistan for a year, and after a lot of rigorous training, he got selected to join the special reconnaissance regiment — a promotion that posed a legitimate threat on his life. and this, in turn, gave harry the excitement and glee of a child with a new puppy. his wife, however, did not like this at all, and understandably so. his oncoming deployments back to afghanistan and siria really put a strain in their relationship, especially with how excited he always looked when he left, and so unenthused when he returned. this attitude of his sparked many arguments between the couple, which soon after escalated into cheating accusations, which harry both denied and ignored, for as long as he could.

INJURY TW. during a deployment to siria, harry received a bullet to the leg — during his adrenaline rush afterwards, harry kept going by foot, which ended up in a twisted knee and a ligament tear. despite many protests from the man, he had to be sent home and later on discharged from his role in the regiment, and the military altogether.

as the ‘glass half-full’ kind of person that harry’s always been, he tried to look at this sudden change in his life as an opportunity to reunite with his wife, fix his marriage. it seemed to work for the first few weeks as it was her who had to drive him to things such as rehab and therapy. but after a while, he began to realize that the two of them had very little in common anymore — and it was heartbreaking. after being a unit for the majority of his life, he suddenly couldn’t connect with his love anymore.

not to mention that, despite the fact he couldn’t do much for a while, the cheating accusations never stopped coming, even if they were slower and farther in between — he was always on his phone too much, it seemed.

INFERTILITY TW. so of course the solution was to expand the family! of course. what else could prove that he was loyal to his wife and save his marriage all at once? a child! it hadn’t been his idea, but he agreed. harry was personally terrified of fatherhood. being in charge of your own body is one thing, but being responsible of a completely new human being seemed like a nightmare to the man — but but his wife, he would do it. so they tried — and failed. and tried, and tried, and tried, and kept failing. harry had fully healed from his injury when they decided to maybe see a doctor about it, maybe said injury had done something to harry’s ability to procreate. but it turned out it wasn’t him — and the news devastated the woman. a product of grief and frustration, their relationship only kept on crumbling.

once he was back on comission, harry landed a security job in london with the royal family. it paid well and allowed for the couple to do more things together, things to keep them distracted from the state of their relationship. this glee, however, didn’t last very long; a year into his new job the accusations of cheating began again. now, according to her, he was cheating with diplomats and princesses and so on, so forth. he couldn’t stand it anymore.

CHEATING TW, PREGNANCY TW. sooner than later, something in harry snapped, and he decided to give his wife what she so desperately wanted. she wanted him to be a cheater, so he became one. it started with one of the maids in the palace, then a nanny, then a personal assistant. and sooner than later, he found out he had accidentally gotten someone pregnant. that, for harry, was the signal he’d been looking for. he confronted his wife with the truth, and in what seemed like a minute, she filed for divorce immediately, citing “irreconcilable differences” as the cause. to harry’s luck, it seemed that the other woman in question was either hiding from him or didn’t want him to be a part of the process, which harry respected. he had to, as he had no way of reaching out to her. he met his child the day they were born, and has helped with everything he was allowed to from a distance. after all, with the job he had, he barely had time for himself anymore.

these issues with the job made harry’s time at the palace somewhat difficult, but things stabilized once he was assigned to be princess cecelia’s husband’s bodyguard. harry had never liked cecelia. she seemed spoiled, air-headed. and the things her husband said about her only fueled these thoughts. however, said thoughts went away as he spent more time with the couple, and some, erm, tension built between him and the princess — which ended up exploding into a full-fledged affair. an affair that went way further than harry expected it to; he wasn’t expecting to fall in love with her, with her children, and just… anything that involved cecelia.

PREGNANCY TW. so when she came to him with the news — she was pregnant. with his child. his divorce wasn’t even finalized, but he did not care. it was just a matter of time, right?

when cecelia decided to move to new york following the divorce, harry knew he had to go with her. he requested to be assigned as her bodyguard for the move, which was granted. their secret was safe, and he would be able to move with her.

then it came to revealing their relationship and his paternity to the public — harry knew he was in a proverbial pickle. he had to get his divorce settled and secure a new job before the baby was born. the divorce part was the hardest of both, but it was resolved in the end. job-wise, harry needed to find a new job before the truth came out, as he wouldn’t last long in the United States without one, as a holder of a work visa. thankfully, the birth of his son would help his case and make it easier for him to live in the country. he received diplomatic help, as well as having his professional record speak for him, and he somehow made his way to the nypd’s emergency unit service, where he worked for only a few months before he was terminated for the public attention harry seemed to bring to the department.

PREGNANCY TW. cecelia told him they were expecting their second child together. he’s of course very happy, although not completely sure about how he feels about not being able to give theo his full attention — and extremely nervous about fathering a girl. the reason seems questionable even to him, as he’s raised penny (for the most part). just seems scary to have a baby so small again.

headcanons —

harry loves extreme sports and combat sports. rock-climbing is a big passion of his, boxing a close second.

he loves portraying himself as a MANLY MAN but ya boy cried at the end of toy story 3. he also cried when his son, theo, was born.

speaking of theo, henry was terrified of becoming a father. but he got some practice with jack and penny, so he thought he was out of the woods. tiny humans? easy! however, he was not expecting just how difficult caring for a miniature human would be. he still loves it, though. theo is his pride and joy.

he owns a collection of little trinkets he got from his different deployments, all in a shoebox. get a scrapbook, ya fool.

while he is slightly apprehensive about the baby, he was the same about theo, it really is only a matter of time until he warms up to the idea of being a father for the second time. what a move for a dude who didn’t want kids in the first place !

but also, scratch all that he’s married to @olliestonem :-)

#codintro #am i crying ? yes #cheating tw #injury tw #infertility tw #pregnancy tw

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heartofsnark · 4 years

Text

This Is Love (Chapter Four): Through The Gates

Notes: We’re inching closer and closer to the Seed’s arrival, I know it’s a slow burn to the game events, but I’m enjoying building up to it and hope it will make the impact of it all just that much more meaningful.

Word Count: 9098

Chapter Warnings: Cursing, Belligerent Drunk Man, Drug Overdose, Pratt and Dahlia being dumbasses

For chapter one and the warnings about this fics overarching themes, please click here!

For the previous chapter; click here!

A tall bearded man is on her porch; leaning against the railing. The familiar snake tattoos that curl down his forearms give him away; Lonny. The Eden’s Gate member who showed at the station to give her and Whitehorse a hard time. What is he doing at her trailer? There’s no reason for him to be here.

“Can I help you?” She asks, raising an eyebrow as she steps up onto the porch.

“Just figured I’d stop by, make a friendly visit to the new deputy,” he expression is somewhere between a smile and a predator baring its teeth.

“And, how exactly did you figure out where I live?”

“Small place, loose lips, word spreads fast.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, now, if we’re done with this ‘friendly’ visit-”

“Word spreads especially fast within our congregation, when someone starts arresting our members.”

“Maybe, your congregation members shouldn’t commit crimes?”

“The law of man matters little compared to the law of god.”

“Well, I get paid to enforce the law of man, so unless god starts signing my paychecks, I’ll be sticking to that.”

“Greed isn’t a pretty sin.”

Goosebumps prickle and creep up her skin at the word sin, making her throat tight, as the word settles over her. Memories of her stepfather claw at the back of her mind, phantom pain of beatings past making her body ache, the guilt and shame of being a sinner pitting in her stomach. She digs her nails into the palms of her hands and grits her teeth.

“Yes, so greedy, as you can tell, I mean just look around, ” she gestures around the dilapidated trailer park, “the used needles a foot away from the kiddy slide cost me extra, but I think they really bring the place together.”

“Charming.”

“I do try.”

“Look, I’ll make this stupidly simple, for you,” Lonny creeps closer, nearly standing on her, glowering down at her, “don’t step on our toes and we won’t step on yours.”

“Is that so?” She grins and literally steps on Lonny’s toes, crushing her boot down as hard as she can, until he finally grunts in pain and takes a step back.

“Don’t make a problem out of yourself, deputy….” His dark eyes flicker around, until finally landing on the shed behind her trailer, “that where you keep your bike?”

“Maybe, maybe not, whats it to you?”

“You know, a little generosity goes a long way to mending relationships, deputy. That motorcycle of yours would be a nice little gift to the flock and most importantly, me.”

“Get bent.”

“It’s important that we all do our part, deputy. That everyone gives a little, so that we all can flourish. As we inch closer and closer to the brink; that becomes even more important. What’s yours is mine, so, which is more important, keeping your motorcycle or helping others?”

He’s in her space again, hand reaching out and squeezing her shoulder in a pseudo-friendly gesture; that not even almost friendly smile on his face again.

“I’d sooner watch the world rot than give up that bike. Now, get the fuck off my property.”

She shoves his hand off her shoulder and marches into her trailer; slamming the door shut behind her. Dahlia could scream, could tear apart her entire trailer in rage. Where the hell does that guy get off? Demanding her bike; the motorcycle she slaved over. Her and Lloyd rebuilt that thing from nearly scratch after his son wrecked it; left it abandoned in their shed, a muddle heap of metal left to gather dust. She helped rebuild it; just a project at the time, something to keep busy while she was waiting to see if she got accepted to the police academy, meant to stave off the anxiety. And when it was done, perfectly functional and shining like it was brand new, Lloyd told her to keep it, she deserved it.

There’s not a lot of things Dahlia’s felt she earned; feeling every success has been a fluke, a mistake, a moment of luck. But, she earned that bike. She nearly fought Lloyd’s son when he visited that holiday season; trying to reclaim the bike now that it was fixed and she refused. Lloyd sided with her; because she earned it. Because she put the work and hours into it. And she’ll be damned if she’s going to let some bearded zealot barge in and demand she give it up.

The more she learns about Eden’s Gate, the less she likes them. Stealing booze, trying to take her bike, trying to scare her. She needs a cigarette; she decides and pulls the pack from her pocket; only to find it empty. Damn it. Dahlia starts digging through tossed aside pairs of pants and jackets; she has to have a half empty pack somewhere. She grabs up her duffle bag, still mostly unpacked other than what she’s worn or used this week, rummaging through the pockets for a pack of cigarettes.

A crumpled piece of something brushes against her hand and she yanks it out; only to find a scrunched up white pamphlet. She straightens it out a bit and groans when she reads the front; Eden’s Gate, We Love You surrounding a cross like symbol. Why is this group all over everything?

Giving up on finding a cigarette somewhere in her mess; Dahlia changes into some comfy clothes and plops herself down on the couch, turning the small tv on as background noise more than anything. She finds herself fiddling with that pamphlet again, placed aside before she changed.

Dahlia opens it; if this damn group is going to haunt all her days here, she might as well read their crap. It seems to be fairly standard religious fare. Casted out? Rejected by society? Try Jesus. Take a leap of faith, wash away your sins, confess, atone, and become stronger by joining their family. There are mentions of how corrupt the world is and how it’s all going to end; nice appeals to fear mongering, always have to appreciate that approach. Every word of the dribble reminds her of darker days, of her step father and his asinine sermons. The type of people who’d probably make a PSA about how Dungeons and Dragons is satanic, Harry Potter should be burned at the stake, and Pokemon is an evil atheist agenda to push evolutionary theory on kids.

The leader; man bun guy, calls himself The Father. Those goosebumps and bad memories come back. She knows assuming that all strongly religious people are like her step-father isn’t the best practice. But mentions of sin and calling himself something regarding father, just… doesn’t help.

He calls his siblings heralds; a sister and two brothers.

Her eyes glaze over as she absorbs the same crap she's had spewed at her for years, thoughts of making a donation to planned parenthood in their name pass through her mind. She doesn’t know for certain if the group is pro-life, but one can assume. The picture on the second page of the little pamphlet catches her eye and she sputters out a laugh.

Who the hell runs the PR for this church?

First the creepy statue, then the serial killer-esque drawing on him to open their book, and now a family portrait so awkward she might cringe herself into a coma. Three men and a woman; siblings according to the text. Man bun is in a chair in the middle; not even making eye contact with the camera. The woman, Faith, the siren she’s seen at the hotel and accidentally grabbed outside the diner is on the floor beside the chair. She looks annoyed, like a teenager being dragged to an awkward family dinner. Behind them are the two brothers. One with slicked back dark hair in a coat that appears to be covered in planes; which is… a look. And the other a mountain of a human compared to his sibling; ginger hair with the sides shaved, in camouflage, holding a red rifle.

It all looks ridiculous, from their expressions to their poses. Whoever thought this was a good way to market them is the epitome of human stupidity. Dahlia crumples the little pamphlet and tosses it into the trash; thankful for a laugh to cap off her night. She spends an hour or so watching tv, drifting off to sleep on the couch as she’s done every night.. Eyelids growing heavier and heavier with each second, until black blankets her mind.

Her bladder wakes her up during the middle of the night, causing her to turn and flop around, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She stares at the ceiling contemplating if she has to pee bad enough to warrant making herself physically stand up; the effort feeling herculean in the bleary twilight hours of the night.

“What if I told you, you could be free of sin,” a male voice drifts from the tv and she groans; this shit again?

She sits up on the couch, sliding down onto the floor with the clumsiness of her sleep leaden body. On her tv, at four am, amid commercials for sexy single phone lines is an infomercial for Eden’s Gate.

One of the brothers; the one with slicked back hair in the plane coat, John Seed as the text on screen tells her. He dramatically talks about how all you have to do is say Yes, the power of Yes, walking around what looks like a red carpet covered in flowers; terraces laced with them around him, a crowd gathered around as he talks.

Is he the reason for the Hollywood style YES sign in the valley?

The crowd around him starts to chant the word yes; he’s saying ‘yes, I will be saved’, ‘yes, I will confess’, ‘yes, I will atone.’ And he gestures upwards; revealing a lit up sign of the word YES and she bursts out laughing; her stomach aching and her bladder upset with her for it. Once her laughter subsides, she does what any good decent young adult would do. She rewinds it to the start of the infomercial, grabs her phone from the table, and records the cringefest to post online before finally going to the bathroom.

She goes back to sleep after, still cracking up about this dumb religion and their dumb advertisement.

Dahlia wakes up around noon or so the next day, checking her phone while still curled up in the couch. The post of the religious cringe has gotten some traction; someone making a reaction gif out of the guy gesturing to the yes sign. Jokes about how the guy must get off on the word yes, how insane it must have felt to be working on this, ‘imagine having a grown man in a plane coat telling you to chant yes while he dramatically touches his own tit’. The internet truly is a beautiful place sometimes.

She stretches out her muscles and decides to call the clinic, the one she gave info about to Tweak. Dahlia wants to make sure he actually reached out and didn’t just use her good graces to avoid trouble and call it done.

“Hey, I’m Deputy Hale of the Hope County Sheriff’s department, I referred someone to contact your clinic about rehabilitation. I was calling to see if they contacted you.”

“Of course, could I have their name?”

“Aaron Kirby.”

“Yes, we did receive a call from Aaron Kirby, he’s been placed on our waitlist as our drug counseling services are currently at capacity and we can’t take on any more clients.”

“Understood, thank you.”

She sighs; she can’t fault him for that. Hopefully, they’ll be able to get him in soon. Dahlia stretches, making her back pop, now what to do with the rest of her day. Maybe it’s Lonny trying to take her bike or maybe it’s the mention of those Clutch Nixon stunts yesterday; but she has an itch to go riding and do some stupid shit.

A quick shower and change of clothes; then she’s grabbing her helmet.

Music reverberating in her skull, the rev of her motorcycle engine beneath her, the wind whipping around her, and she’s healed from everything if only for a moment. Dancing and riding her bike are the only things to do this for her; or maybe it’s the music itself that does. But when her blood is pumping, her ears are ringing, and her throat is raw from screaming along to the songs; nothing else matters.

She’s not lonely as she takes a sharp turn right at the chorus.

She’s not sad or pathetic as she cruises down the road, passing cars.

She’s not a disgusting sinner as she takes one of the paths that goes through the woods.

She’s not rejected, worthless, and tossed aside as she hits one of the many ramps across the county, catching air before hitting the ground again.

Everything is pure chaos and adrenaline in her veins; no room for guilt or doubt or

Deer. Big deer, in the road, it isn’t moving.

She hits the brakes; the sudden jerk of a stop, pushing her body forward, losing her grip and being ejected forward. Dahlia hits the ground in a heap, head rattling but thankfully not split on the road. She forces herself to roll over on her back, body aching in protest. Her eyes close and she takes deep breaths, trying to gather herself.

Something fuzzy pushes against her hand, glancing down to see the large deer sniffing at her. It’s no worse for wear, so that’s good at least. She forces herself to sit up, body protesting, and she peels her helmet off. The deer shuffles back a little but when she extends a hand it tentatively presses against it. She scratches its nose.

“You’re very lucky you’re cute.” She digs around in her pockets, finding a pack of crackers, she always has food on her if she can help it and she offers the deer a cracker. It eats from her hand. Maybe she’s just trying to avoid moving her bruised body, but she spends a few moments finishing the little pack with the deer before finally forcing herself to stand.

Her motorcycle is in good shape, a little scuff on the side, but nothing she can’t buff out if needed. Dahlia’s baby remains the most stable part of her life. She rides it back to her trailer, a bit more carefully. She’s managed to burn through most of the day with her reckless bullshit.

She calls Lloyd and Caroline that night; telling them about her first week, skirting around details that might sadden them. Going to the F.A.N.G Center is reduced to just going there, nothing of being overwhelmed and leaving. No mentions of Pratt tricking her when she talks about Peaches, just an old lady with a cougar Dahlia got to carry. No mention of being left out everytime Pratt and Hudson go to the Spread Eagle. No mention of Lonny, the threats, the religious group that seems much more involved with the community than she originally thought. Everything is fine, perfect, ideal.

The pain of her little crash has mostly faded by the time she shows up to work the next day; uniform properly on when she comes into the station bullpen.

“What the hell happened to you?” Hudson calls out and Dahlia can’t help the heat crawling up her face at the attention. Her forearms and some of her upper chest that’s exposed are covered in bruises; mottling blues and purples.

“Oh, uh, I had a little bike crash yesterday.” She shrugs.

“Jesus christ,” Pratt grumbles and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Rook, you need a hobby,” Dahlia starts to say something, but Hudson continues, “one that doesn’t injure you.”

She likes to dance, but dancing completely alone isn’t as much fun, not awful but not as fun. And there's not exactly dance clubs in Hope County. Hmmm. Unfortunate. She shrugs, if her hobby kills her, it kills her.

During patrol, Pratt and her don’t talk about the F.A.N.G Center, they don’t talk about him being angry at her. An awkward cloud hanging over them as they patrol. She doesn’t even bother to ask to give tickets when they pull people over; already knowing Pratt won’t let her and not wanting the conversation. An emergency call to what’s called Sergey’s place breaks up the monotony, suspected overdose.

She digs her nails into the leather of her seat as Pratt flips on the sirens; what if it’s Tweak? Doubts of if she did the right thing running through her head. She wanted to help him; but if he ended up just being put on a waitlist and overdosing right after, how much good did she do?

Sergey’s place is a wooded area filled with abandoned train cars where homeless people and drug addicts gather. Dahlia rushes to where she sees a group of them gathered around; screaming and crying coming from the center.

“Clear the way, so we can help,” Pratt tells them, the crowd dispersing, a woman is seizing. Her entire body jerking and drool pooling from her mouth; another woman holding her close, crying over her.

“Did she take anything?” Dahlia asks.

“We were shooting up and then she was on the ground, I, it’s all my fault, I-”

“Understood, we’re gonna do everything we can to save her.”

Dahlia holds the seizing woman as still as she can, getting out the syringe of narcan that's kept in patrol cars. She plunges it into the woman’s arm, forcing the medicine into her system, watching as her seizing slowly starts to lessen. Removing it, she notices the large bruise and cut on the woman’s forehead.

“Dispatch,” Pratt radios in, “we need an ambulance out to Sergey’s place, confirmed overdosed, head trauma, female early twenties. Junior Deputy Hale has administered a dose of Narcan, over.”

Dahlia stays with the woman, to make sure she doesn’t seize again and hurt herself further. Meanwhile, Pratt clears the way and helps get the ambulance into the area when it arrives; the woman being taken away on the stretcher. They find out the one who was holding her was her sister, allowing her to go with her to the emergency room, while Pratt asks some questions of those who were around. Nothing suspicious; just an overdose, no one to blame.

The younger deputy sighs and a hand clamps down on her shoulder; gently squeezing. Pratt is next to her and she raises an eyebrow at him.

“We got here quick, she should be fine.”

“Maybe, lets get going.”

The conversation is still more than a little stilted as the day goes on; but it isn’t quite the awkward silence of before. Pratt making little comments and saying things, while she nods or hmms along.

Later in the afternoon, when they’ve stopped back at the station, for lunch and paperwork regarding the overdose. She yawns and stretches her arms, standing up from her desk to get coffee. Maybe she needs caffeine or maybe she’s just tired of sitting in one place; but either way she’s up and moving.

She rubs a hand down her face as she enters the kitchenette where the fridge and coffee machine are. Dahlia grabs her mug; one that was bought for her by Lloyd and Caroline. It’s a little embarrassing, the picture of a black cat with the message, ‘horrible and adorable.’

Warmth presses in close to her back, looming over her. The smell of Pratt’s cologne hits her just as a large hand plucks her mug off the counter. Pratt holding the mug high above her head.

“Hey!” She tries to grab it from him but can’t reach, Pratt grinning as she makes the effort to stand on her tiptoes but still can’t quite get it.

“Something wrong?” he smirks, “you can’t reach your kitty cat mug?”

“Can you go five seconds without being an ass?” She turns to face him, glaring at his shit eating grin, the mischief in his eyes as he crowds her and holds the mug just out of reach.

“Hmmmm, no. Can you go five seconds without pouting?” He reaches up with the hand not holding her mug hostage and cups under her jaw to squish her cheeks together and force her lips to pout out; laughing at her.

She smacks away his hand, making a grab for her mug, knocking against his chest in the attempt before he jumps back.

Dahlia whines and he just laughs, dodging her again as she tries to take her mug back. Her fingers can barely reach his face, let alone high above his head where he’s holding her mug hostage. She clambers to grab a hold of his bicep; trying to pull herself up high enough to grab it, laughing at the ridiculousness of trying to essentially climb her coworker to get her mug.

“Jesus christ, you fuckin’ spider monkey!” He nearly falls over, but catches himself and switches the mug to his other hand, placing it on top on the cupboards.

She glares for a beat, still hanging off of Pratt’s arm before letting go. Dahlia can’t even reach the top shelf in the cupboards.

“I’m actually going to strangle you.”

“Something wrong, Thumbelina?” He taunts and ruffles a hand through her hair, the gesture far more rough and teasing than when Whitehorse does it to comfort her.

“Yeah, my coworker is an ass.”

“Not my fault you’re short.”

“If I get dirt on the counter, you’re cleaning it.”

“What do you-” he bursts into laughter when she box jumps up onto the counter, grabbing her mug. The deep rumble of it makes her smile, it’s ridiculous, but he’s left her no choice.

“The hell are you doing, Rook?!” Whitehorses’ voice cuts through Pratt’s cackling and she jumps down with a yelp.

“Pratt did it.”

The older deputy straightens up, after nearly bending over doubled from his laughing fit. Whitehorse pinches the bridge of his nose, Dahlia swears she can see the migraine forming in his head.

“I didn’t do anything,” Pratt defends himself, “she managed that all on her own.”

“I, I just...no feet on the counter, that's where food goes, for fucks sake, ” Whitehorse looks from Dahlia to Pratt, “and no whatever you did.”

With that the sheriff leaves; weary of their bullshit. Dahlia jabs her fist into Pratt’s ribs, hard enough to jostle him but not enough to truly hurt.

“You got me in trouble!” She yells, sounding every bit a kid who just got ratted out to the teacher, and Pratt only snickers.

By the time Dahlia manages to get her coffee, her face hurts from smiling. The ache of happiness followed throughout the day, until Hudson and Pratt cap off the night with another day of chatting at the Spread Eagle, Dahlia left to go home alone.

The next day a call comes in from Adelaide Drubman, Hurk Sr’s ex wife who owns the marina as Dahlia’s been told. She’s seen advertisements around for the older woman’s real estate business, telling people to call Addie. The woman pictured on the signs of those advertisements is a fair representation, albeit maybe a little more airbrushed, of the woman standing before them when they arrive. Older with dirty blonde hair and blue eyes, a red bandana tied in her hair. She’s all sly smiles and winks when she sees the two deputies walking towards her.

“Well, hey there, hon’,” she greets them, the southern Montana accent one of the strongest Dahlia’s heard since she’s arrived here.

“Hey, Addie,” Pratt replies in kind and Dahlia gives an awkward wave, “what’s wrong?”

What’s right, Dahlia can’t help but wonder as she looks at the property, clearly abandoned and dilapidated.

“Well, I think some squatters might have moved in on me, sweetheart. And, apparently threatening them with my gun is illegal, but having y’all run ‘em off with yours is fine. Go figure.”

“Yeah, the law is pretty picky about that kind of thing,” Pratt says with a laugh.

“I mean, I’m not complaining , at least I get a chance to see some young pieces of ass in uniform.”

Dahlia chokes and coughs; heat flooding up to the apples of her cheek. That was blunt. Really blunt. Pratt doesn’t seem the least bit bothered, maybe he’s just used to this. Despite her embarrassment, she’s smiling. Something about Adelaide is comforting, warm and friendly, the kind of person who doesn’t know a stranger. Dahlia remembers the gross curmudgeon of an old man that use to be her husband.

“Speaking of which,” Adelaide continues, looking at Dahlia, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, honey.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m new at the station.”

“Our probie junior deputy.”

“Adelaide Drubman, pleased to meet ya.”

“Uh, this might be impolite,” she pauses, rethinking for a moment, but she needs answers, “but were you seriously married to Hurk Sr?”

“Un-fucking-fortunately.”

“Did you lose a bet?”

Adelaide starts laughing and Dahlia can’t help but smile, the sound absolutely heartwarming.

“I’m serious; lose a bet, piss off a witch and get cursed, broke a mirror and had seven years bad luck… It’s gotta be something, ‘cause that just don’t add up.”

“Well, aren’t you just the cutest thing,” the older woman tells her, “word of advice, don’t let anyone tell you you gotta stay with a man just ‘cause he knocks you up.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Good, keep that mentality, save you years of suffering.”

“Okay, enough chat, let’s go check out the place,” Pratt says, nudging Dahlia to get a move on. She sticks her tongue out at him as they walk into the rundown house.

There’s trash strewn around, thankfully no needles or sign of drug users here. Adelaide must have a lot of trust in whoever she has cleaning these places up for resell. They pass through rooms, looking for anyone who’s not meant to be there, knocking on doors and calling out. Most of the house is cleared through and the two of them head to the attic, a good place for any squatters to hide.

The stairs creak under her feet as she takes them two at a time, moving ahead of Pratt in minutes. She hears him grumble, he tells her to slow down, but she doesn’t.

It’s dimly lit, some abandoned furniture and old antique crap littering the area; blocking the window that might have let in even a glimmer of sunlight. She flicks on her flashlight. The light illuminates the dust that hangs heavy in the air, drifting across her vision. Something rustles, a box shuffling across the floor.

“What was that?” Pratt asks as he finally joins her in the attic.

“I don’t know, yet.”

Scratchy noises echo through the room and she walks towards where she saw the box move. She crouches down and shifts the boxes out of the way, finding nothing but a dusty floor beneath them. Then something presses against her leg, a soft sniffing noise.

“Oh my god!” She gasps as she looks down at the cute opossum staring up at her; baby pink nose sniffing at her jeans. A white face, tawny gray almost black body, with big soft dark brown eyes, its wiry whiskers curling at odd angles.

“Is something wrong?!” Pratt yells out and comes rushing over, feet stomping across the floor; the heavy thuds making the opossum hiss and creep backwards.

“You scared it, jackass.”

“I,” he looks down at the hissing opossum, “I thought something happened.”

“Shhhhhh…”

Dahlia reaches out; tentatively brushing her fingers against its narrow snout, feeling the short slightly rough fur. The hissing stops and it sniffs at her hand, letting her scratch up its face to the top of its head. It relaxes into her touch and she scratches behind its ear.

“You can’t pet every animal, you meet, Rook.”

“Watch me,” she says before scooping the opossum up in her arms, holding it close to her chest. A tongue licks over her cheek, the marsupial content in Dahlia’s arms.

Pratt shakes his head and leaves the attic; Dahlia following him down the stairs. Adelaide is waiting outside the home when the two deputies exit.

“Good news, Addie-”

“I acquired a baby.”

“Jesus fuck,” Pratt rubs a hand down his face at her interruption, “there’s no squatters.”

“’Preciate ya coming out to check and taking care of the opossum problem.”

“I fail to see the problem.” Dahlia’s new friend is trying to climb up her head, licking her scalp.

“You really gonna try to sale this mess?” Pratt asks, rolling his eyes and ignoring the younger deputy’s new pet.

“It’s my best chance of making any profit anymore; those fuckin’ Seeds are buying up any place thats actually worth a damn thing. Flipping run down places is the only way to even hope of making money anymore. You know those bastards even tried to by the Marina.”

“They’re gonna own the entire county before we know it.”

Deputy Pratt shrugs his shoulders and Dahlia chews her lip; unsure if she likes how casually they talk about the local religious nutjob owning the county. The older deputy doesn’t even seem bothered by the thought; the idea of them buying everything just thrown out as blasé as one would say the time of day.

“I swear to god, I can’t figure out what I wanna do more; punch John Seed’s face or ride it.”

Dahlia raises an eyebrow at the older woman; she’s unsure what that means…but it sounds vaguely inappropriate… Her nose scrunches, brows furrowing as she tries to reason through this. Riding…like sitting on someone’s face? So, oh… Heat flares up Dahlia’s cheeks as the meaning hits her; definitely inappropriate. Very inappropriate. She covers the opossum’s ears, as if to protect the innocent being from the filth, meanwhile her own ears are burning.

“Addie…”

“I know, I know,” Adelaide waves her hand dismissively, “but you know what they say, the pussy wants what it wants.”

“Not sure that’s the saying.” Pratt laughs

Dahlia raises an eyebrow before looking down at the opossum in her arms as if the little critter could answer her unasked question. Instead, its doe eyes just stare up at her. What cats have to do with Adelaide wanting to fuck John Seed is beyond Dahlia’s comprehension.

“You alright over there, hun?”

“Don’t worry about her,” Pratt dismisses Adelaide’s concern, “she’s probably just wondering what cats have to do with anything.”

“Oh lord.”

“How did you know?” Dahlia whispers, wide-eyed at Pratt, only getting a throaty laugh in response.

“How old are you again, sweetie? Pussy, vagina, cunt; what’s between your legs. Well, maybe not yours, I ain’t got a chance to check y-”

“I would like to change the subject!” Dahlia blurts out; face feeling like it’s been set on fire and no doubt a vivid flush a red. Adelaide’s little grin and Pratt’s laughter only serving to make her face more crimson.

“Well…if we’re on the subject of faces I wanna ride, the Ryes are having their barbecue next Saturday, you and Hudson gonna make it out?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I’ll be seeing you then, Pratt, and hopefully you too, junior deputy. I gotta call my remodeling guys.”

They say goodbyes and wave off Adelaide, going back to the patrol car. Dahlia cuddling her new opossum friend as she goes. This is her baby now and will comfort her through humiliation at the hands of Hope County’s sex perverts.

“What are you doing?” Pratt asks, when Dahlia opens the car door.

“What do you mean?”

“Fuckin’, put the opossum down!”

“No.”

“You’re not bringing that thing into the car.”

“I’m not abandoning my child.”

“It’s literally a wild animal.”

“It’s a opossum, not a bear, calm your tits,” Dahlia tells him firmly, opening the door and plopping down with her critter in her lap. Pratt groans and jumps in the driver side.

“So, what, you’re gonna take it home and make it a pet?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“You know how some stations have like animals and stuff?”

“You mean K-9 units, trained dogs? You wanna train a fuckin’ opossum?”

“No, don’t be ridiculous,” she rolls her hand flippantly, “I’m not gonna train her, she’s perfect the way she is.”

“Have fun getting the sheriff on board with this, that thing could be rabid for all you know.”

“Opossums don’t carry rabies; like they physically can’t have rabies.”

“Okay, fuckin’, opossum expert.”

Dahlia spends a mile or two, just watching out the window at the world passing by as she scratches at her new friend’s ears. Passing by a sign for Rye and Son’s Aviation, she remembers the conversation with Adelaide.

“Who’re the Rye’s?” She turns her head towards Pratt, head cocking to the side in curiously.

“Huh? Oh, they’re a couple who live not too far from Falls End. They have these big barbecues that basically the entire county shows up to; everyone brings some food, it’s a whole thing.”

“That’s nice.”

“You should come.”

“I don’t know them.”

“It’s open invitation, you live in Hope County, cook some food, show up. It’ll be fun.”

“Just like the F.A.N.G Center?” She raises an eyebrow

“Well, if you don’t freak out and run off halfway through, yeah, things can be fun.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” She rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at Pratt.

Side eyes and double takes are taken at Dahlia as she walks into the station carrying a opossum. Dahlia just nuzzles her face against the top of the opossum’s head as they reach the office, plopping down in her chair and propping her feet up on her desk. Pratt walks past with his lunch and Dahlia grabs a handful of apple slice off his plate; making the older deputy stop and glare at her.

“Can I help you?”

“I gotta feed her.” Dahlia shrugs, letting the opossum munch on one of the slices of fruit.

“Feed her your lunch.”

“My lunch is an energy drink and a twinkie.” She ate the last of the lunches Caroline sent with her; an empty fridge and a sink full of Tupperware waiting for her at home.

“How the hell are you still alive?”

“The world’s too cruel to end my misery.”

“Jesus fuck,” he rolls his eyes, “calm it down, Hot Topic.”

“What are you doing, Rook?” Heat zings up Dahlia’s cheeks when she hears Hudson’s voice and sudden fear that being the weird opossum girl might not be what she wants.

“Is that a fuckin’ rat?” A guy next to her, dressed in the standard officer uniform asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Feeding...opossum…Who are you?”

“Rook, this is Brennan, he’s one of our officers, Brennan this is-”

“The rookie deputy, I know, I’m officer Beau Brennan, nice to meet ya,” he says, extending a hand and she moves the opossum to properly shake it. Beau Brennan, possibly the most southern sounding name she’s ever heard, especially this far up North.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“But, uh, Rook,” Hudson looks at Dahlia, “should you really be bringing a wild animal into the station?”

“Maybe not...she’s friendly, though.”

“So, Joey questions you and she has a point,” Pratt swings his hand in an angry gesture, “but I do it and I get mocked?”

“Yes.”

“Well, why don’t you tell Joey, how you want the opossum to be the station pet?”

“Do you?” Joey raises an eyebrow at Dahlia, the younger deputy’s face turning a deeper shade of scarlett.

“...yes..”

“If you want the thing so bad, why not just take it home as your own pet?”

“That’s what I was asking!” Pratt butts in.

“Five seconds ago, you were asking how the hell I kept myself alive, you want me in charge of keeping something else alive?”

“She’s got you there,” Hudson looks back to Dahlia, mirth lighting up those olive green eyes, “what's her name gonna be?”

Dahlia suddenly has no coherent thought in her head. Just cricket noises as she realizes she’s never actually named an animal in her life. Every time she’s ever had a pet or something close to one, she just refers to it by species or someone else names it. The cat’s name is cat, dog’s name is dog.

“....Opossum…?”

“Not how names work,” Hudson pets behind the opossum’s ear, “Petunia?”

“Petunia, it is,” Dahlia flusters to say grinning, she’s actually okay with this, Hudson doesn’t mind the weird opossum girl.

“Why are you encouraging her!?”

“‘Cause it’s annoying you.”

“I think the girls have you outnumbered, Staci.”

“Staci?” Dahlia looks over at Pratt, is that his first name? She’s never actually heard it before. His face completely falls, hazel eyes harsh and angry.

“Shut up.”

“Your name is Staci, oh my god.”

“Spelled with an ‘i’,” Beau adds, grinning as Dahlia starts cackling.

“Oh my god, you have a sorority girl name!”

“Laugh it up, you know when Whitehorse comes back, you’re gonna have to say goodbye to your new friend.”

“Eh, it’s Rook, so he won’t mind much,” Joey says, shrugging her shoulders.

“Huh?”

“You don’t know?” Brennan raises an eyebrow at her, “everyone knows that the sheriff is soft on you. Been hardly a week and it’s like he’s adopted you.”

Her cheeks hurt from grinning, Whitehorse sees her like his own child? She knows she’s lucky to even have gotten the job; let alone the way he’s been going the extra mile to make her feel at place here. But knowing he may see her like family lights up her heart. The sheriff already reminded her of Lloyd before, but hearing that cements the comparison.

“Dear god, if you were a dog, your tail would be wagging,” Pratt-Staci, grumbles as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It's cute,” Brennan defends her, “we don’t even need a canine unit with her around. Ow!”

Brennan jumps when Dahlia kicks him in the shin, hard enough to bruise she’s hoping. Hudson and Pratt laugh. Petunia is content and nuzzling into Dahlia’s neck as the four shoot the shit, the topic of the Rye barbecue coming up. Hudson and Brennan both plan on being there as well. Dahlia finds herself sinking deeper into her chair, holding Petunia closer. Taking her phone from her pocket and checking the notifications on John’s little video. Other than someone claiming he looks familiar and another person saying he’s hot; it’s mostly more taunts.

“What’s going on here?” Whitehorse’s voice cuts through the chatter, the sheriff coming through and spotting the gathered deputies and officer. His eyes landing on Petunia within a second, “Rook?”

“Yeah?” She scrolls past someone using a gif of John’s light up yes sign as a reaction gif.

“Why are you holding a opossum?”

“She likes being held.” She doesn’t bother looking up from the phone.

“She?”

“Her name’s Petunia.”

“You can’t have a opossum.”

“She’s the station opossum.”

“Rook,” Whitehorse sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, “just go put her outside.”

“So, she’s an outside station pet?”

“I don’t care as long as she’s outside.”

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Dahlia says, finally looking up and grinning ear to ear. Whitehorse shakes his head and just waves her off before going into his office, no doubt looking for some Tylenol or Aspirin at this point.

“That’s it,” Pratt lets out a heavy exhale, shaking his head at Dahlia.

“Told ya, soft on Rook.”

“I’m gonna take Petunia outside, to her new home.”

“Do you think she’ll stay around?” Hudson asks, as her and Pratt follow after Dahlia, towards the little lot of land behind the department.

“If I keep feeding her, she should, right?”

“I’m gonna have to start bringing two lunches, aren’t I?”

“Nah, you don’t wanna overfeed her.”

“Hilarious.”

The wind is blowing just a bit; breezing by and shifting the grass around them. The sun starting to set as the evening arrives. Petunia licks her cheek and then runs up on Dahlia’s shoulder, little hands grabbing at her skin as she clambers up onto her head; curling up like she belongs there.

“Pffft,” Hudson sputters out a laugh, “look this way, Rook.”

Dahlia faces Joey, grinning with the apples of her cheeks flushing red. The older deputy has her phone out and snaps a photo of Dahlia with Petunia perched on her head. She’s not sure why the moment is worth catching, but she’s glad it was.

“Send that to me, if you don’t mind…” Dahlia asks as she puts Petunia down in the grass.

“No problem,” she taps away and Dahlia feels her phone buzz, “and don’t worry I’ll send it to you, too, Pratt.”

“I didn’t ask for it.”

“Didn’t have to.”

Dahlia sits down on the ground, petting Petunia as the sun sets. As always Hudson and Pratt leave that evening for the Spread Eagle, she catches Brennan talking about going to the Hollyhock Saloon with some fellow officers before she leaves. Everyone has their friend group, their routine. And it’s time for her own; going home to an empty trailer.

And an empty fridge, she remembers. Oh god, she has to go shopping doesn’t she? It’s a break in the monotony but she’s not sure it’s a welcomed one. She also has to do dishes at some point…and laundry… Adulting sucks.

There’s a little family owned market in the Henbane River region; just a bit more to it than the general store in Falls End. The fluorescent lights irritate her eyes as she pulls off her helmet to look around. Never the cooking type; Dahlia’s hoard comprises of things that don’t require more than a microwave to prep. Frozen meals, snacks, and absolute garbage pile high in her cart as she scours the shelves for more. This might get her through for a week.

Her phone buzzes, another Twitter notification, she’s sure someone else reacting to the Eden’s Gate commercial. She tugs her phone from her pocket; just like she thought a Twitter notification, but the message beneath it catches her eye. A text from Hudson, where she sent the photo of Dahlia and Petunia. The young deputy hasn’t gotten around to opening it; mind preoccupied. She opens the message.

Dahlia doesn’t take pictures of herself and has never been particularly enthralled with her own appearance. But, she likes this photo of her. Petunia is perched on her head, dark eyes warm and soft. The evening sun setting behind Dahlia illuminates her in golden light; dark hair mussed, brown eyes lighting up amber where the light hits, and a wide grin on her face.

Beneath the photo is a message from Hudson captioning it;

‘cant tell who looks better here’

Heat makes it way up to her hairline. Is…did Hudson call her cute? She’s comparing Dahlia to Petunia, a opossum, both Petunia specifically and opossums in general are cute. So if Hudson’s saying Dahlia’s looks are on par with a opossum; does Hudson mean she’s cute? But, not everyone thinks opossums are cute… Some people think they’re gross little trashy goblins, does Hudson think she looks like a trash goblin? She seemed to like Petunia, but just cause she was nice to the animal doesn’t mean she thinks opossums are cute. Dahlia leans her forehead against the freezer section for a moment; letting a turkey meal cool her flushed face as she forces herself to not agonize over this.

A few deep breathes and a concerned passerby make Dahlia straighten back up, getting her bearings before heading to self-check-out. She quickly rings up her items and bags them, leaving the market with her grocery bags in tow.

“Leave me alone…please…” A soft demure voice whispers, a woman about Dahlia’s age stands beside the road a man towering over her with a beet red face. The smell of liquor coming off him on the wind. His hand is wrapped tightly around her wrist, her skin indenting under his grasp as she tries to fold in on herself to avoid his touch.

“Wh-what, you scared daddy Joe’ll call you a sinner for spending some time with me?”

The stench of alcohol wafts off his breath with every drunken slur; even at a distance, the smell churns her stomach. She drops her bags on the cement and makes a beeline towards them, she needs to keep this from escalating, or someone will get hurt.

“Leave me alone!” The girl’s voice shakes as she tries to pry herself from the man’s grasp.

“Fuckin’ peggie whore!”

“Hey!” Dahlia yells out and runs as his other hand starts to raise and pull back.

She gets between them just in time to feel the crack of his hand striking her face. An ache and echo of pain rings through her jaw; a metallic taste where her cheek scraped the inside of her jaw. Glassy eyes widen, the man shocked at the interruption.

“Wh-who-”

“I’m a deputy with the Sheriff’s Department, and unless you want some jail time for assault, I recommend you get the fuck out of here.”

“Pssh,” he scoff, whiskey scented spittle spraying into the air, “li-”

“I’m giving you to the count of three to get out of my sight, sir. One,” she leans into his space, glaring him down and sneering as she counts, “two, th-“

“F-fine, fine, fuckin’ bitch.”

He makes a dismissive hand gesture as he grumbles a curse, but he stumbles away, leaving the two girls alone. Dahlia rubs absent mindedly at her cheek before turning towards the girl; a peggie, he called her. One of the followers of Eden’s Gate. She’s beautiful, five or so inches taller than Dahlia, with long black hair falling in waves down her shoulders. Delicate fine facial features, the deputy can’t help but feel the girl’s face might have shattered has it been struck. Like the handful of peggies she’s seen, traces of tattoos and markings are on her. ENVY etched across her chest and a delicate tattoo of vines with blue flowers curling up her forearm.

“Are you okay?” Dahlia asks her.

“Oh yes, yes, I’m fine, but are you?”

The girl reaches out, fingers nearly brushing over Dahlia’s cheek. She instinctively ducks back, avoiding the touch. Strangers touching her is never something she’s been fond of, though she can’t imagine many people are.

“I’ve taken worse from better; I’ll be fine. You be careful and have a safe night, ma’am.” Dahlia nods at her and makes the quick walk to her abandoned groceries and bike.

She stoops down and begins to collect the food that fell from her bags. A pair of slender hands join in, helping gather up a bag of microwave meals for her, the girl offering it to Dahlia once it’s secure.

“Thanks,” Dahlia murmurs, taking it from the stranger, stashing her groceries in the little storage space under her motorcycle’s seat.

“It’s the least I can do…I’ve never seen you before.”

“I started here about a week ago.”

“Really, that’s incredible…The Lord placed you here at the exact right time.”

“Nah, I just needed groceries,” Dahlia shrugs, “well, hope you have a nice night.”

“Wait,” she knots a hand in the deputy’s shirt, “I’m Layla…”

“Nice to meet you,” Dahlia offers, Layla’s dark brown eyes are darting around, avoiding eye contact.

“I…was on my way to a sermon at Father Joseph’s church and-”

“Look, Layla, if you need my help just say the word. But, if this is the beginning of a conversion spiel; save your breath and my time, ‘cause it ain’t happening.”

“I don’t feel safe, going there alone, right now. What if he comes back?” Her arms cross over herself, the thin cardigan not doing much to protect her from the night chill.

“Oh, uh, you don’t have anyone who can go with you? Aren’t religions like, community things?”

“I was gonna walk there by myself, but…”

“Fuckin’ hell, where is it?”

“Up the north bridge, one of the island’s in the middle of the county, it isn’t far.”

“Here,” Dahlia shoves her helmet at Layla, “I got one helmet and if anyone’s brains are splattering on the road, I’d rather they be mine.”

Layla pulls the helmet on over her head, body still shivering. Dahlia shies and shrugs off her leather jacket; it’s only going to get colder on the ride there with wind whipping around. She hands it to Layla who smiles and takes it, pulling the worn black leather jacket on. Oversized on Dahlia and still marginally so on Layla.

“Thank you,” Layla murmurs as Dahlia straddles her bike, then climbs on the back. Dahlia takes in a deep breathe when arms wrap around her midsection, Layla pressing in close to the deputy’s back as she starts the engine. The familiar nature of the touch contrasting with the fact they’re strangers.

As Dahlia makes her way up to the bridge, Layla lifts the visor just a smidge so that she can whisper directions in the deputy’s ear. Once she’s past the bridge coming from the Henbane, the roads have fencing and barbwire, making it nearly impossible to go from the road into the woods on the island. She rides down the winding road, taking a left turn off the paved road onto a beaten path, rounding the corner she sees it.

A cold sweat builds on the back of her neck, heart dropping into her stomach. It’s a collection of small white buildings, dark roofs, with Latin scrawled across some of the buildings; Luxuria, Acedia, and more she’s sure. All of it on a large piece of land, within she can see picnic tables, bundles of white flowers, where they might gather for picnics or barbecues. She pulls her bike to a stop just a distance from the white gate; Church of Eden’s Gate etched in the upper arches.

People are all around, getting out of white trucks and cars, greeting each other with hugs and waves; throwing side eye glances at Dahlia when they notice her. Dogs are barking somewhere; she doesn’t know where from. Layla clambers off the back of Dahlia’s bicycle, pulling off her helmet and handing it back to her.

“Sister Layla,” a deep masculine voice rumbles out, a familiar man standing by the white gates. Tall with a thick dark beard, his deep dark eyes are focused on Dahlia as he speaks to Layla. Theodore is what the other man called him that day when Dahlia caught them stealing from The Spread Eagle. He looks a moment away from ripping the deputy’s head off her shoulders; his shirt dipping in a way that exposes the way PRIDE etches across his chest, crossed out as are all sins the church members wear.

“Brother Theodore, this is-”

“The new deputy, we’ve met, why is she here?”

“I was just getting ready to leave, don’t worry.”

“What,” Layla’s eyes widen and she grasps Dahlia’s arm, “you can’t.”

“I can’t…?” Dahlia raises an eyebrow and shoots a pointed look where Layla’s grabbing her, making the girl let go. Layla’s trying to rope her into this shit, isn’t she?

“You came all this way Deputy, why not just come in, listen to the sermon.”

“Not happening, I already told you, not my scene. Just give me back my jacket, so I can leave, okay?”

“But,” Layla chews her lip, gears in her head turning, “how am I suppose to get home?”

“I saw at least thirty people go in that church, I’m sure someone will be willing to give you a ride home.”

“Oh, uh, I-”

“Brother Theodore, Sister Layla, service will be starting soon!” Someone calls out from within the compound.

“I have to go, I’ll be right back, Deputy!” Layla rushes to say and then runs off towards the church, Dahlia’s jacket still on her shoulders.

“Hey, wait!” Dahlia jogs after Layla, hurrying through the little compound, but the woman vanishes into the steepled church ordained in cross symbols.

She stops, just before entering the door and takes a step back. The crush of boots in dirt echoes beside her before coming to a stop, the looming of someone nearby. Body heat lingering near her side as she looks up at the cross on the topmost steeple of the church.

“You going in?”

“No.”

“Have fun out here,” Theodore tells her, moving to press a heavy hand against the church door.

“Those dogs,” she starts, listening to the barks ringing out around her, “they friendly?”

“Why don’t you go find out?” He leaves her with a smirk, walking into that church.

Dahlia lets out a harsh breath and pushes her hand back through her hair. A breeze pushes through, her t-shirt and thin uniform shirt does nothing to keep out the chill. She’s not leaving without her jacket; her wallet and phone all in the pockets. Music echoes from inside the church as she plops down onto the ground outside it, balancing her helmet on her knees and resting her chin on it.

If your soul has grown weary, and your heart feels tired…

She fidgets with her helmet, chewing her lip. Please let this Joseph guy be short winded, she just wants to leave. The entire place sets her on edge, makes her skin crawl and she wants to hide away.

Let the water wash away your sins…

A cool breeze passes by, a soft whipping sound mingling with the singing. She scans the night sky, searching for her favorite and only known constellation, she has a feeling she’s going to be here a while…

#far cry 5 #fc5 #this is love #Dahlia Hale

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pennylanefics · 5 years

Text

wearing his clothes

a/n: i did this topic with ben, i was running out of ideas 😂 sorry taron’s is long, i got carried away :)

•••

taron

- taron had invited you to the set of Rocketman one day, and you were so excited to finally see what he had been working on. after a quick tour through a couple sets, he ended it with stopping by the costume department, showing you all of his outfits and glasses he gets to wear. but, he had to leave a couple minutes later, leaving you alone with the costume crew. the woman who was in charge of everything was super nice, and even allowed you to try some things on.

as you were switching in and out of jackets, hats, glasses, anything you were allowed to touch, an idea popped up in your head; you wanted to prank taron by wearing one of his outfits. the lady was onboard and helped pick out an outfit that would surprise him. you two eventually decided on his airplane outfit, which consisted of sparkly purple hot pants, a matching tank, a gold bomber jacket, and the winged shoes; she also gave you the pair of glasses that were matched with the outfit.

once you had everything on and in place, you thanked her and mentioned you would be back later to return the items, and set off in the direction of taron’s trailer. of course, on the way, you ran into richard, who just laughed and took a picture. he promised not to tell taron, and went on with his day.

after about twenty minutes of sitting alone in taron’s trailer, he finally walked through the door, his jaw dropping when he sees you.

you raise your eyebrow at him and smirk, running your hand over your bare thigh.

“what’s this, love?” he wonders, striding over to you and taking ahold of your hands.

“just wanted to play a small prank on you,” you reply. he raises his eyebrows this time and pulls you to stand up. his hands land on your waist, although they quickly travel down to your bum, fingers digging into the fabric.

“you look much better in hot pants than i do, babe.” you smile and shake your head.

“oh no. you look fucking amazing in them, t.” your hands copy his, moving to his bum and squeezing. but, he takes it furtherand slowly slips his hands under the fabric, touching your skin and pinching gently. before you can even register what is happening, he begins to slide them down your legs, letting the item pool at your feet.

“well, let me show you how much i think you look better,” he purrs into your ear, biting it softly.

dennis

- dennis working the night shift meant that you had to fall asleep alone, and wake up alone until he arrived home. these shifts were never your favorite, but you knew it was his job. one night in particular, you were missing him much more than usual. so, you decide to go to sleep in his extra fire and rescue work shirt.

dennis arrives home at around seven in the morning, only to find that you are still asleep. so, he tries to be as quiet as possible, taking a quick shower, and searching for his navy blue work shirt. he can’t find it anywhere, especially in the place he remembers he put it after it was washed. he is close to giving up, until his eyes land on you, realizing that you were wearing it.

a small smile appears on his face as he crawls into bed, deciding against wearing a shirt after all. his movement accidentally wakes you up, making you instinctively curl up to him, inhaling the scent of his body wash.

“why are ye wearing my shirt?” he asks quietly, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. you hum contently and glance up at him.

“just missed you.”

eggsy

- you and eggsy had just finished a mission together, posing as a husband and wife. the mission went smoothly, so you two were now leaving. but, there were a few problems. since mostly everyone was planning on staying in the hotel for the night, there was no valet. This would have been fine if the place you parked wasn’t so far away, and if the temperature hadn’t dropped significantly since you arrived.

earlier, you thought nothing of the temperature, it was warm, and your dress was a little revealing. now, you were stuck walking in the freezing wind for at least fifteen minutes. about two minutes in, eggsy noticed you shivering and rested his warm hand against your shoulder.

“d’you want my jacket?” he wonders, although he doesn’t wait for your answer. he quickly shrugs it off and places it onto your shoulders. he then wraps an arm around you, bringing you into his side.

“you look so damn adorable in my jacket,” he whispers against your forehead. pressing a soft kiss to your skin. a blush creeps up your neck and you huddle closer to him.

“not as good as you look in it,” you reply, glancing up at him, only to find him staring down at you intently.

“believe me, that is not true one bit.”

dean

- “fuck!” dean breathes out, plopping back onto the bed. both of you try and catch your breath, sweaty bodies sticking to the sheets and each other.

“that, was the best-” you begin, but the doorbell ringing through dean’s apartment. he groans loudly, sitting up and grabbing his boxers.

“i’ll be right back, sweetheart,” he says. you nod and lay back, watching him exit the room. a sudden chill runs through your body, with dean’s body heat gone and the small breeze he produced while walking past. you reach over onto the floor and grab his light blue button-up, slipping it onto your naked body and laying back down.

dean returns, talking as he enters the room about how it was some door to door salesman, but stops upon seeing you, a smile appearing on his face.

“whatcha doing, sweets?” he wonders, slowly sauntering over to you. you shrug, looking him up and down hungrily. he suddenly pounces on you, kissing you hard and grinding himself against you.

“look so fucking good in my clothes. i really wanna fuck you again, but keep this on, darling. you look so fucking hot.”

eddie

- of course the heater in the cabin you and eddie are staying in breaks on the coldest night of the month. and no matter how many blankets you two piled on top each other, you were still shivering.

“love, do you wanna get a hotel or something? i can ask bronson for some money, i haven’t saved up much from working at the tavern, but i can-”

“eddie, i’m fine. i’ll warm up eventually, just need to keep shuffling my legs and create warmth.” eddie is quiet for a moment before he throws the heap of covers off of him and retrieves the thickest sweater he has, and returns to the bed, handing it to you.

“this will help, darling. if you wanna sleep in a pair of my snow pants as well, you are more than welcome to,” he offers. you laugh quietly, shaking your head and slipping the sweater onto your body. immediately, you feel much warmer. eddie lays the blankets back over you two and you snuggle up close to him.

“hmm, much better,” you whisper, nuzzling your face into his neck. he chuckles and wraps his arms around you.

“very.”

robin hood

- “(y/n)!” robin calls out when he sees you fall to the ground, an arrow sticking out of your shoulder. his eyes widen and he screams, knowing he was supposed to be covering you, but failing when he turns away for a moment.

he is quick to rip your shirt and examine the damage, trying to keep you awake and conscious. although slowly, you slip into a deep state of unconsciousness in his arms.

once you awake again, you notice your surroundings changed, and you are now in robin’s manor at night. pain shoots through your body as you try and sit up.

“hey, take it easy, love,” robin tells you quietly, hands falling to your back, helping you sit up. you realize that he is shirtless, and that’s when you see it; you are wearing his shirt.

“oh, uh. i had to rip your clothes to get to the wound, and i didn’t want you to be cold or naked, so i just gave you mine,” he explains. your eyes soften at his reasoning and you reach for his hand.

“thank you rob. thank you for helping me. also, your shirt is very comfortable.” he laughs quietly and brings your hand up to his lips.

“well you look very adorable in it, darling.”

•••

taglist: @loveharrington @toky-9101 @buck-barn @butlegendsneverdie @tarons-mercury @1-800-fandomsdestroyedme @arrozsocarrat

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acanvasofabillionsuns · 4 years

Text

This Girl is On Fire

I wrote a losleep thing and managed to finish it in time for Remy’s birthday!

Summary: Logan’s boyfriend is kind of an idiot.

Pairings: losleep (obligatory @sleepless-in-starbucks tag)

Warnings: first degree burns, fire mention, being on fire mention (these plus the title make it sound angsty but it’s mostly just fluff)

Wordcount: 1295

“Well, you’re a hot mess and I’m falling for you

And I’m like, hot da—”

Logan answered the phone. “Hello, Remy.”

“Hey, doll,” Remy said. “Y’know how I had you change my ringtone to Hot Mess?”

“Seeing how yours is the only ringtone that is not the standard one? Yes, obviously.”

“I’ve got to be distinguished from the masses,” Remy told him. “Anyway, I need you to change it again.”

Logan refrained from sighing, but only barely. “What song now?”

“This Girl Is On Fire by Alyssa Carey or whoever.” Remy said, which, was that even a person? (Well, he was confident someone out there was named Alyssa Carey, but that wasn’t the point.) Logan was far from an expert on pop culture, but he didn’t think he’d ever heard of her before.

“Mm, I suppose,” Logan said, instead of pointing this out. “May I ask why?”

“‘Cause this gurl is on fire.” Logan couldn’t see him, but he felt in his soul that Remy was finger gunning.

“Remy!” Logan nearly dropped his phone. “Why didn’t you lead with that?!”

“Priorities, babe.” Remy said, sounding much too relaxed for someone on fire.

“Where are you?” Logan demanded, bustling around his apartment to get the necessary equipment to treat severe burns.

“Logan, chill. You’re making too big a deal out of this.”

“You just told me you’re on fire, Remy,” Logan hissed.

“Because I’m playing Kahoot! with Roman and I keep winning and getting the little fire symbol thingies when I’m on a streak.”

Logan dropped the first aid kit he’d found. “Remy! I thought you were hurt!”

“Well, I mean, I was on actual fire for a bit a while ago. Temporarily.”

Logan sighed loudly. “Do I want to know?”

“Of course you do!” Remy scoffed. “I am a fabulous and fascinating human being, and those who know me are continually blessed by the privilege.”

“Mmhmm,” Logan hummed doubtfully. “So how is it you got yourself set on fire but didn’t see fit to tell me?”

“Okay, so I was making myself some mac—”

“I already dislike where this is going,” Logan muttered.

“Shush. I am the storyteller here, and interruptions are not welcome.” Logan rolled his eyes and Remy paused dramatically before continuing.

“So, I was making myself some mac, and then some accidentally spilled out over the edge onto the stove. And, a, I’m not about to just leave it there and let the cheese burn and stink up my kitchen, like, girl, please. And b, this is the good mac, with the shell noodles and the actual cheese instead of some powder, so I’m doubly not about to let it go to waste. So I turn off the eye so I don’t burn myself, except I wasn’t going to wait for the eye to cool off and let my mac get cold, so I went ahead and grabbed the fallen mac, and I guess my sleeve was feeling especially flammable today, because it caught on fire.”

“You couldn’t have just pushed it off the eye with your spoon?” Logan asked.

“Honey, I told you, this is the good mac. I had to take drastic measures,” Remy told him. “You would’ve done the same if it’d been Crofter’s.”

“Falsehood. I have no reason to heat jelly up on the stove, and even if I did, I would be careful to ensure none did spill over.”

“Okay, but if some did spill over the edge, you’d totally do the same.”

“Falsehood,” Logan insisted.

Remy hummed in a I-absolutely-do-not-believe-you way, but didn’t press further. “Anyway, I patted out the fire, so my wrist and my hand are maybe a smidgeon badly burned, but! The fire’s out, my mac was saved, and I’m still beating Roman in Kahoot!”

Remy raised his voice on the last part, and Logan could hear a faint “Shut up!” from Roman. Remy snickered.

“You should probably get your burns looked at, Remy,” Logan suggested.

Remy hummed doubtfully. “Pretty sure I just need my boyfriend to come and kiss it better.”

Logan huffed fondly and bent to pick up the first aid kit. “Where are you?”

“My apartment.”

“I will be there momentarily.” Logan told him, exiting his apartment and locking it behind him. “I am going to hang up now, alright?”

“Alright. Love ya, babe,” Remy said.

“I love you too,” Logan replied, then pressed the End Call button.

Remy lived on the top floor of their apartment building, claiming “he was above everyone else and his apartment proved it.” (Logan lived on the ground floor, finding it more practical for leaving in a hurry or carrying groceries inside, though if you asked Remy—or Patton—it was “because he’s so grounded.”) Normally Logan would take the stairs, since their building was only four stories tall, and the exercise was good for him, but his concern for his boyfriend’s health led him to use the elevator.

Logan made his way to Remy’s door, and was about to knock when it flew open.

“There he is! My beautiful boyfriend!” Remy exclaimed, leaning forward and kissing him.

“And mine,” Logan added once Remy pulled away. “Now, may I see your hands?”

“Sure.” Remy led Logan inside and closed the door before offering his hands to Logan. Logan set his kit on a nearby table and took Remy’s hands gently, examining them.

The side of his left wrist and the palm of his right hand were bright red, making Logan wince sympathetically as he looked at them, but Remy did not appear to have gotten too badly burned.

“You’re very fortunate; these are only first degree burns. They should fade in about a week.” Logan told Remy. “Have you done anything to treat them?”

“I ran some cold water over ‘em for a few minutes and took an ibuprofen,” Remy supplied.

“That’s good; those’ll both help.” Logan nodded. “I am going to put some ointment on them and wrap them loosely with gauze, which should also help.”

“Alright.” Remy nodded. “But only if you give me a healing kiss, too.”

“Of course,” Logan kissed him on the cheek before grabbing his first aid kit and guiding them to the couch. He pulled out the ointment and gauze and began applying them to Remy’s burns.

“Where is Roman?” Logan asked as he worked. “Did he leave?”

“Nah, he’s in the bathroom, probably sulking,” Remy told him.

“You two are ridiculously competitive. It’s only Kahoot!.”

“Tell that to Roman,” Remy snickered.

“Tell me what?” Roman asked, emerging from the bathroom. “Hi, Logan!”

“Salutations,” Logan nodded. “We are discussing how competitive you are over the games of Kahoot! you and Remy have been playing.”

“Look!” Roman said insistently. “He’s won 20 games in a row! He’s got to be cheating or something!”

Logan sighed. “No, he’s just ridiculously good at guessing the correct answer and has very fast reflexes.”

“Virgil’s banned me from playing Spot It! with him,” Remy told them.

“Oh, god,” Roman groaned. “I can’t even imagine—I’m banning you too.”

“Fair enough,” Remy shrugged.

“There,” Logan said, taping the last bit of gauze in place. “You’re all set.”

Remy fake-pouted. “What about my healing kiss?” Logan kissed the gauze over the spots where he’d been burned. “Thank you, love.”

“You’re very welcome.” Logan smiled.

“Gaaaay~” Roman sang.

“Like you aren’t,” Remy scoffed.

“Indeed I am,” Roman declared, posing dramatically.

“I believe we all know we’re gay,” Logan said. “You do not need to point it out again.”

“But I need everyone to know!” Remy said. “I must remind them constantly I am gay and have an amazing boyfriend.”

Logan’s face flamed and he pulled Remy into a kiss.

Roman chuckled. “I think this is where I take my leave.”

Neither Logan nor Remy noticed.

#ts logan #ts remy #ts roman #ts patton mention #sanders sides #my fics #my writing

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hlupdate · 5 years

Link

Harry Styles isn’t exactly dressed down for lunch. He’s got a white floppy hat that Diana Ross might have won from Elton in a poker game at Cher’s mansion circa 1974, plus Gucci shades, a cashmere sweater, and blue denim bell-bottoms. His nail polish is pink and mint green. He’s also carrying his purse — no other word for it — a yellow patent-canvas bag with the logo “Chateau Marmont.” The tough old ladies who work at this Beverly Hills deli know him well. Gloria and Raisa dote on him, calling him “my love” and bringing him his usual tuna salad and iced coffee. He turns heads, to put it mildly, but nobody comes near because the waitresses hover around the booth protectively.

He was just a small-town English lad of 16 when he became his generation’s pop idol with One Direction. When the group went on hiatus, he struck out on his own with his brash 2017 solo debut, whose lead single was the magnificently over-the-top six-minute piano ballad “Sign of the Times.” Even people who missed out on One Direction were shocked to learn the truth: This pinup boy was a rock star at heart.

A quick highlight reel of Harry’s 2019 so far: He hosted the Met Gala with Lady Gaga, Serena Williams, Alessandro Michele, and Anna Wintour serving an eyebrow-raising black lace red-carpet look. He is the official face of a designer genderless fragrance, Gucci’s Mémoire d’une Odeur. When James Corden had an all-star dodgeball match on The Late Late Show, Harry got spiked by a hard serve from Michelle Obama, making him perhaps the first Englishman ever hit in the nads on TV by a First Lady.

Closer to his heart, he brought down the house at this year’s Rock & Roll Hall of Fame ceremony with his tribute to his friend and idol Stevie Nicks. “She’s always there for you,” Harry said in his speech. “She knows what you need: advice, a little wisdom, a blouse, a shawl.” He added, “She’s responsible for more running mascara — including my own — than all the bad dates in history.” (Backstage, Nicks accidentally referred to Harry’s former band as “’NSync.” Hey, a goddess can get away with that sort of thing.)

Harry has been the world’s It boy for nearly a decade now. The weirdest thing about him? He loves being this guy. In a style of fast-lane celebrity that takes a ruthless toll on the artist’s personality, creativity, sanity, Harry is almost freakishly at ease. He has managed to grow up in public with all his boyish enthusiasm intact, not to mention his manners. He’s dated a string of high-profile women — but he never gets caught uttering any of their names in public, much less shading any of them. Instead of going the usual superstar-pop route — en vogue producers, celebrity duets, glitzy club beats — he’s gone his own way, and gotten more popular than ever. He’s putting the finishing touches on his new album, full of the toughest, most soulful songs he’s written yet. As he explains, “It’s all about having sex and feeling sad.”

The Harry Charm is a force of nature, and it can be almost frightening to witness in action. The most startling example might be a backstage photo from February taken with one of his heroes, Van Morrison. You have never seen a Van picture like this one. He’s been posing for photos for 50 years, and he’s been refusing to crack a smile in nearly all of them. Until he met Harry — for some reason, Van beams like a giddy schoolgirl. What did Harry do to him? “I was tickling him behind his back,” Harry confides. “Somebody sent me that photo — I think his tour manager took it. When I saw it, I felt like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction opening the case with the gold light shining. I was like, ‘Fuck, maybe I shouldn’t show this to anyone.’”

In interviews, Harry has always tended to coast on that charm, simply because he can. In his teens, he was in public every minute and became adept at guarding every scrap of his privacy. But these days, he’s finding out he has things he wants to say. He’s more confident about thinking out loud and seeing what happens. “Looser” is how he puts it. “More open. I’m discovering how much better it makes me feel to be open with friends. Feeling that vulnerability, rather than holding everything in.”

Like a lot of people his age, he’s asking questions about culture, gender, identity, new ideas about masculinity and sexuality. “I feel pretty lucky to have a group of friends who are guys who would talk about their emotions and be really open,” he says. “My friend’s dad said to me, ‘You guys are so much better at it than we are. I never had friends I could really talk to. It’s good that you guys have each other because you talk about real shit. We just didn’t.’”

It’s changed how he approaches his songs. “For me, it doesn’t mean I’ll sit down and be like, ‘This is what I have for dinner, and this is where I eat every day, and this is what I do before I go to bed,’” he says. “But I will tell you that I can be really pathetic when I’m jealous. Feeling happier than I’ve ever been, sadder than I’ve ever been, feeling sorry for myself, being mad at myself, being petty and pitiful — it feels really different to share that.”

At times, Harry sounds like an ordinary 25-year-old figuring his shit out, which, of course, he is. (Harry and I got to know each other last year, when he got in touch after reading one of my books, though I’d already been writing about his music for years.) It’s strange to hear him talk about shedding his anxieties and doubts, since he’s always come across as one of the planet’s most confident people. “While I was in the band,” he says, “I was constantly scared I might sing a wrong note. I felt so much weight in terms of not getting things wrong. I remember when I signed my record deal and I asked my manager, ‘What happens if I get arrested? Does it mean the contract is null and void?’ Now, I feel like the fans have given me an environment to be myself and grow up and create this safe space to learn and make mistakes.”

We slip out the back and spend a Saturday afternoon cruising L.A. in his 1972 silver Jaguar E-type. The radio doesn’t work, so we just sing “Old Town Road.” He marvels, “‘Bull riding and boobies’ — that is potentially the greatest lyric in any song ever.” Harry used to be pop’s mystery boy, so diplomatic and tight-lipped. But as he opens up over time, telling his story, he reaches the point where he’s pitching possible headlines for this profile. His best: “Soup, Sex, and Sun Salutations.”

How did he get to this new place? As it turns out, the journey involves some heartbreak. Some guidance from David Bowie. Some Transcendental Meditation. And more than a handful of magic mushrooms. But mostly, it comes down to a curious kid who can’t decide whether to be the world’s most ardently adored pop star, or a freaky artiste. So he decides to be both.

Two things about English rock stars never change: They love Southern California, and they love cars. A few days after Harry proclaimed the genius of “Old Town Road,” we’re in a different ride — a Tesla — cruising the Pacific Coast Highway while Harry sings along to the radio. “Californiaaaaaa!” he yells from behind the wheel as we whip past Zuma Beach. “It sucks!” There’s a surprising number of couples along the beach who seem to be arguing. We speculate on which ones are breaking up and which are merely having the talk. “Ah, yes, the talk,” Harry says dreamily. “Ye olde chat.”

Harry is feeling the smooth Seventies yacht-rock grooves today, blasting Gerry Rafferty, Pablo Cruise, Hall and Oates. When I mention that Nina Simone once did a version of “Rich Girl,” he needs to hear it right away. He counters by blowing my mind with Donny Hathaway’s version of John Lennon’s “Jealous Guy.”

Harry raves about a quintessential SoCal trip he just tried: a “cold sauna,” a process that involves getting locked in an ice chamber. His eyelashes froze. We stop for a smoothie (“It’s basically ice cream”) and his favorite pepper-intensive wheatgrass shot. It goes down like a dose of battery acid. “That’ll add years to your life,” he assures me.

We’re on our way to Shangri-La studios in Malibu, founded by the Band back in the 1970s, now owned by Rick Rubin. It’s where Harry made some of the upcoming album, and as we walk in, he grins at the memory. “Ah, yes,” he says. “Did a lot of mushrooms in here.”

Psychedelics have started to play a key role in his creative process. “We’d do mushrooms, lie down on the grass, and listen to Paul McCartney’s Ram in the sunshine,” he says. “We’d just turn the speakers into the yard.” The chocolate edibles were kept in the studio fridge, right next to the blender. “You’d hear the blender going, and think, ‘So we’re all having frozen margaritas at 10 a.m. this morning.’” He points to a corner: “This is where I was standing when we were doing mushrooms and I bit off the tip of my tongue. So I was trying to sing with all this blood gushing out of my mouth. So many fond memories, this place.”

It’s not mere rock-star debauchery — it’s emblematic of his new state of mind. You get the feeling this is why he enjoys studios so much. After so many years making One Direction albums while touring, always on the run, he finally gets to take his time and embrace the insanity of it all. “We were here for six weeks in Malibu, without going into the city,” he says. “People would bring their dogs and kids. We’d take a break to play cornhole tournaments. Family values!” But it’s also the place where he has proudly bled for his art. “Mushrooms and Blood. Now there’s an album title.”

Some of the engineers come over to catch up on gossip. Harry gestures out the window to the Pacific waves, where the occasional nude revelry might have happened, and where the occasional pair of pants got lost. “There was one night where we’d been partying a bit and ended up going down to the beach and I lost all my stuff, basically,” he says. “I lost all my clothes. I lost my wallet. Maybe a month later, somebody found my wallet and mailed it back, anonymously. I guess it just popped out of the sand. But what’s sad is, I lost my favorite mustard corduroy flares.” A moment of silence is held for the corduroy flares.

Recording in the studio today is Brockhampton, the self-proclaimed “world’s greatest boy band.” Harry says hi to all the Brockhampton guys, which takes a while since there seem to be a few dozen of them. “We’re together all the time,” one tells Harry out in the yard. “We see each other all day, every day.” He pauses. “You know how it is.”

Harry breaks into a dry grin. “Yes, I know how it is.”

One Direction made three of this century’s biggest and best pop albums in a rush — Midnight Memories, Four and Made in the A.M. Yet they cut those records on tour, ducking into the nearest studio when they had a day off. 1D were a unique mix of five different musical personalities: Harry, Niall Horan, Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik, and Liam Payne. But the pace took its toll. Malik quit in the middle of a tour, immediately after a show in Hong Kong. The band announced its hiatus in August 2015.

It’s traditional for boy-band singers, as they go solo and grow up, to renounce their pop past. Everybody remembers George Michael setting his leather jacket on fire, or Sting quitting the Police to make jazz records. This isn’t really Harry Styles’ mentality. “I know it’s the thing that always happens. When somebody gets out of a band, they go, ‘That wasn’t me. I was held back.’ But it was me. And I don’t feel like I was held back at all. It was so much fun. If I didn’t enjoy it, I wouldn’t have done it. It’s not like I was tied to a radiator.”

Whenever Harry mentions One Direction — never by name, always “the band” or “the band I was in” — he uses the past tense. It is my unpleasant duty to ask: Does he see 1D as over? “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t think I’d ever say I’d never do it again, because I don’t feel that way. If there’s a time when we all really want to do it, that’s the only time for us to do it, because I don’t think it should be about anything else other than the fact that we’re all like, ‘Hey, this was really fun. We should do this again.’ But until that time, I feel like I’m really enjoying making music and experimenting. I enjoy making music this way too much to see myself doing a full switch, to go back and do that again. Because I also think if we went back to doing things the same way, it wouldn’t be the same, anyway.”

When the band stopped, did he take those friendships with him? “Yeah, I think so,” he says. “Definitely. Because above all else, we’re the people who went through that. We’re always going to have that, even if we’re not the closest. And the fact is, just because you’re in a band with someone doesn’t mean you have to be best friends. That’s not always how it works. Just because Fleetwood Mac fight, that doesn’t mean they’re not amazing. I think even in the disagreements, there’s always a mutual respect for each other — we did this really cool thing together, and we’ll always have that. It’s too important to me to ever be like, ‘Oh, that’s done.’ But if it happens, it will happen for the right reasons.”

If the intensity of the Harry fandom ever seems mysterious to you, there’s a live clip you might want to investigate, from the summer of 2018. Just search the phrase “Tina, she’s gay.” In San Jose, on one of the final nights of his tour, Harry spots a fan with a homemade sign: “I’m Gonna Come Out to My Parents Because of You!” He asks the fan her name (she says it’s Grace) and her mother’s name (Tina). He asks the audience for silence because he has an important announcement to make: “Tina! She’s gaaaaay!” Then he has the entire crowd say it together. Thousands of strangers start yelling “Tina, she’s gay,” and every one of them clearly means it — it’s a heavy moment, definitely not a sound you forget after you hear it. Then Harry sings “What Makes You Beautiful.” (Of course, the way things work now, the clip went viral within minutes. So did Grace’s photo of Tina giving a loving thumbs-up to her now-out teenage daughter. Grace and Tina attended Harry’s next show together.)

Harry likes to cultivate an aura of sexual ambiguity, as overt as the pink polish on his nails. He’s dated women throughout his life as a public figure, yet he has consistently refused to put any kind of label on his sexuality. On his first solo tour, he frequently waved the pride, bi, and trans flags, along with the Black Lives Matter flag. In Philly, he waved a rainbow flag he borrowed from a fan up front: “Make America Gay Again.” One of the live fan favorites: “Medicine,” a guitar jam that sounds a bit like the Grateful Dead circa Europe ’72, but with a flamboyantly pansexual hook: “The boys and girls are in/I mess around with them/And I’m OK with it.”

He’s always had a flair for flourishes like this, since the 1D days. An iconic clip from November 2014: Harry and Liam are on a U.K. chat show. The host asks the oldest boy-band fan-bait question in the book: What do they look for in a date? “Female,” Liam quips. “That’s a good trait.” Harry shrugs. “Not that important.” Liam is taken aback. The host is in shock. On tour in the U.S. that year, he wore a Michael Sam football jersey, in support of the first openly gay player drafted by an NFL team. He’s blown up previously unknown queer artists like King Princess and Muna.

What do those flags onstage mean to him? “I want to make people feel comfortable being whatever they want to be,” he says. “Maybe at a show you can have a moment of knowing that you’re not alone. I’m aware that as a white male, I don’t go through the same things as a lot of the people that come to the shows. I can’t claim that I know what it’s like, because I don’t. So I’m not trying to say, ‘I understand what it’s like.’ I’m just trying to make people feel included and seen.”

On tour, he had an End Gun Violence sticker on his guitar; he added a Black Lives Matter sticker, as well as the flag. “It’s not about me trying to champion the cause, because I’m not the person to do that,” he says. “It’s just about not ignoring it, I guess. I was a little nervous to do that because the last thing I wanted was for it to feel like I was saying, ‘Look at me! I’m the good guy!’ I didn’t want anyone who was really involved in the movement to think, ‘What the fuck do you know?’ But then when I did it, I realized people got it. Everyone in that room is on the same page and everyone knows what I stand for. I’m not saying I understand how it feels. I’m just trying to say, ‘I see you.’”

At one of his earliest solo shows, in Stockholm, he announced, “If you are black, if you are white, if you are gay, if you are straight, if you are transgender — whoever you are, whoever you want to be, I support you. I love every single one of you.” “It’s a room full of accepting people.… If you’re someone who feels like an outsider, you’re not always in a big crowd like that,” he says. “It’s not about, ‘Oh, I get what it’s like,’ because I don’t. For example, I go walking at night before bed most of the time. I was talking about that with a female friend and she said, ‘Do you feel safe doing that?’ And I do. But when I walk, I’m more aware that I feel OK to walk at night, and some of my friends wouldn’t. I’m not saying I know what it feels like to go through that. It’s just being aware.”

‘Man cannot live by coffee alone,” Harry says. “But he will give it a damn good try.” He sips his iced Americano — not his first today, or his last. He’s back behind the wheel, on a mission to yet another studio — but this time for actual work. Today it’s string overdubs. Harry is dressed in Gucci from head to toe, except for one item of clothing: a ratty Seventies rock T-shirt he proudly scavenged from a vintage shop. It says “Commander Quaalude.”

On the drive over, he puts on the jazz pianist Bill Evans — “Peace Piece,” from 1959, which is the wake-up tone on his phone. He just got into jazz during a long sojourn in Japan. He likes to find places to hide out and be anonymous: For his first album, he decamped to Jamaica. Over the past year, he spent months roaming Japan.

In February, he spent his 25th birthday sitting by himself in a Tokyo cafe, reading Haruki Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. “I love Murakami,” he says. “He’s one of my favorites. Reading didn’t really used to be my thing. I had such a short attention span. But I was dating someone who gave me some books; I felt like I had to read them because she’d think I was a dummy if I didn’t read them.”

A friend gave him Murakami’s Norwegian Wood. “It was the first book, maybe ever, where all I wanted to do all day was read this,” he says. “I had a very Murakami birthday because I ended up staying in Tokyo on my own. I had grilled fish and miso soup for breakfast, then I went to this cafe. I sat and drank tea and read for five hours.”

In the studio, he’s overseeing the string quartet. He has the engineers play T. Rex’s “Cosmic Dancer” for them, to illustrate the vibe he’s going for. You can see he enjoys being on this side of the glass, sitting at the Neve board, giving his instructions to the musicians. After a few run-throughs, he presses the intercom button to say, “Yeah, it’s pretty T. Rex. Best damn strings I ever heard.” He buzzes again to add, “And you’re all wonderful people.”

He’s curated his own weird enclave of kindred spirits to collaborate with, like producers Jeff Bhasker and Tyler Johnson. His guitarist Mitch Rowland was working at an L.A. pizza shop when Harry met him. They started writing songs for the debut; Rowland didn’t quit his job until two weeks into the sessions. One of his closest collaborators is also one of his best friends: Tom Hull, a.k.a. Kid Harpoon, a longtime cohort of Florence and the Machine. Hull is an effusive Brit with a heart-on-sleeve personality. Harry calls him “my emotional rock.” Hull calls him “Gary.”

Hull was the one who talked him into taking a course on Transcendental Meditation at David Lynch’s institute — beginning each day with 20 minutes of silence, which doesn’t always come naturally to either of them. “He’s got this wise-beyond-his-years timelessness about him,” Hull says. “That’s why he went on a whole emotional exploration with these songs.” He’s 12 years older, with a wife and kids in Scotland, and talks about Harry like an irreverent but doting big brother.

Last year, Harry was in the gossip columns dating the French model Camille Rowe; they split up last summer after a year together. “He went through this breakup that had a big impact on him,” Hull says. “I turned up on Day One in the studio, and I had these really nice slippers on. His ex-girlfriend that he was really cut up about, she gave them to me as a present — she bought slippers for my whole family. We’re still close friends with her. I thought, ‘I like these slippers. Can I wear them — is that weird?’

“So I turn up at Shangri-La the first day and literally within the first half-hour, he looks at me and says, ‘Where’d you get those slippers? They’re nice.’ I had to say, ‘Oh, um, your ex-girlfriend got them for me.’ He said, ‘Whaaaat? How could you wear those?’ He had a whole emotional journey about her, this whole relationship. But I kept saying, ‘The best way of dealing with it is to put it in these songs you’re writing.’”

True to his code of gallant discretion, Harry doesn’t say her name at any point. But he admits the songs are coming from personal heartbreak. “It’s not like I’ve ever sat and done an interview and said, ‘So I was in a relationship, and this is what happened,’” he says. “Because, for me, music is where I let that cross over. It’s the only place, strangely, where it feels right to let that cross over.”

The new songs are certainly charged with pain. “The stars didn’t align for them to be a forever thing,” Hull says. “But I told him that famous Iggy Pop quote where he says, ‘I only ever date women who are going to fuck me up, because that’s where the songs are.’ I said, ‘You’re 24, 25 years old, you’re in the eligible-bachelor category. Just date amazing women, or men, or whatever, who are going to fuck you up, and explore and have an adventure and let it affect you and write songs about it.’”

His band is full of indie rockers who’ve gotten swept up in Hurricane Harry. Before becoming his iconic drum goddess, Sarah Jones played in New Young Pony Club, a London band fondly remembered by a few dozen of us. Rowland and Jones barely knew anything about One Direction before they met Harry — the first time they heard “Story of My Life” was when he asked them to play it. Their conversation is full of references to Big Star or Guided by Voices or the Nils Lofgren guitar solo in Neil Young’s “Speakin’ Out.” This is a band full of shameless rock geeks, untainted by industry professionalism.

In the studio, while making the album, Harry kept watching a vintage Bowie clip on his phone — a late-Nineties TV interview I’d never seen. As he plays it for me, he recites along — he’s got the rap memorized. “Never play to the gallery,” Bowie advises. “Never work for other people in what you do.” For Harry, this was an inspiring pep talk — a reminder not to play it safe. As Bowie says, “If you feel safe in the area that you’re working in, you’re not working in the right area. Always go a little further into the water than you feel you are capable of being in. Go a little bit out of your depth. And when you don’t feel that your feet are quite touching the bottom, you’re just about in the right place to do something exciting.”

He got so obsessive about Joni Mitchell and her 1971 classic Blue, he went on a quest. “I was in a big Joni hole,” he says. “I kept hearing the dulcimer all over Blue. So I tracked down the lady who built Joni’s dulcimers in the Sixties.” He found her living in Culver City. “She said, ‘Come and see me,’” Hull says. “We turn up at her house and he said, ‘How do you even play a dulcimer?’ She gave us a lesson. Then she got a bongo and we were all jamming with these big Cheshire Cat grins.” She built the dulcimer Harry plays on the new album. “Joni Mitchell and Van Morrison, those are my two favorites,” he says. “Blue and Astral Weeks are just the ultimate in terms of songwriting. Melody-wise, they’re in their own lane.”

He’s always been the type to go overboard with his fanboy enthusiasms, ever since he was a kid and got his mind blown by Pulp Fiction. “I watched it when I was probably too young,” he admits. “But when I was 13, I saved up money from my paper route to buy a ‘Bad Motherfucker’ wallet. Just a stupid white kid in the English countryside with that wallet.” While in Japan, he got obsessively into Paul McCartney and Wings, especially London Town and Back to the Egg. “In Tokyo I used to go to a vinyl bar, but the bartender didn’t have Wings records. So I brought him Back to the Egg. ‘Arrow Through Me,’ that was the song I had to hear every day when I was in Japan.”

He credits meditation for helping to loosen him up. “I was such a skeptic going in,” he says. “But I think meditation has helped with worrying about the future less, and the past less. I feel like I take a lot more in—things that used to pass by me because I was always rushing around. It’s part of being more open and talking with friends. It’s not always the easiest to go in a room and say, ‘I made a mistake and it made me feel like this, and then I cried a bunch.’ But that moment where you really let yourself be in that zone of being vulnerable, you reach this feeling of openness. That’s when you feel like, ‘Oh, I’m fucking living, man.’”

After quite a few hours of recording the string quartet, a bottle of Casamigos tequila is opened. Commander Quaalude pours the drinks, then decides what the song needs now is a gaggle of nonsingers bellowing the chorus. “Muppet vocals” is how he describes it. He drags everyone in sight to crowd around the mics. Between takes, he wanders over to the piano to play Harry Nilsson’s “Gotta Get Up.” One of the choir members, creative director Molly Hawkins, is the friend who gave him the Murakami novel. “I think every man should read Norwegian Wood,” she says. “Harry’s the only man I’ve given it to who actually read it.”

It’s been a hard day’s night in the studio, but after hours, everyone heads to a dive bar on the other side of town to see Rowland play a gig. He’s sitting in with a local bar band, playing bass. Harry drives around looking for the place, taking in the sights of downtown L.A. (“Only a city as narcissistic as L.A. would have a street called Los Angeles Street,” he says.) He strolls in and leans against the bar in the back of the room. It’s an older crowd, and nobody here has any clue who he is. He’s entirely comfortable lurking incognito in a dim gin joint. After the gig, as the band toasts with PBRs, an old guy in a ball cap strolls over and gives Rowland a proud bear hug. It’s his boss from the pizza shop.

In the wee hours, Harry drives down a deserted Sunset Boulevard, his favorite time of night to explore the city streets, arguing over which is the best Steely Dan album. He insists that Can’t Buy a Thrill is better than Countdown to Ecstasy (wrongly), and seals his case by turning it up and belting “Midnight Cruiser” with truly appalling gusto. Tonight Hollywood is full of bright lights, glitzy clubs, red carpets, but the prettiest pop star in town is behind the wheel, singing along with every note of the sax solo from “Dirty Work.”

A few days later, on the other side of the world: Harry’s pad in London is lavish, yet very much a young single dude’s lair. Over here: a wall-size framed Sex Pistols album cover. Over there: a vinyl copy of Stevie Nicks’ The Other Side of the Mirror, casually resting on the floor. He’s having a cup of tea with his mum, Anne, the spitting image of her son, all grace and poise. “We’re off to the pub,” he tells her. “We’re going to talk some shop.” She smiles sweetly. “Talk some shit, probably,” says Anne.

We head off to his local, sloshing through the rain. He’s wearing a Spice World hoodie and savoring the soggy London-osity of the day. “Ah, Londres!” he says grandly. “I missed this place.” He wants to sit at a table outside, even though it’s pouring, and we chat away the afternoon over a pot of mint tea and a massive plate of fish and chips. When I ask for toast, the waitress brings out a loaf of bread roughly the size of a wheelbarrow. “Welcome to England,” Harry says.

He’s always had a fervent female fandom, and, admirably, he’s never felt a need to pretend he doesn’t love it that way. “They’re the most honest — especially if you’re talking about teenage girls, but older as well,” he says. “They have that bullshit detector. You want honest people as your audience. We’re so past that dumb outdated narrative of ‘Oh, these people are girls, so they don’t know what they’re talking about.’ They’re the ones who know what they’re talking about. They’re the people who listen obsessively. They fucking own this shit. They’re running it.”

He doesn’t have the uptightness some people have about sexual politics, or about identifying as a feminist. “I think ultimately feminism is thinking that men and women should be equal, right? People think that if you say ‘I’m a feminist,’ it means you think men should burn in hell and women should trample on their necks. No, you think women should be equal. That doesn’t feel like a crazy thing to me. I grew up with my mum and my sister — when you grow up around women, your female influence is just bigger. Of course men and women should be equal. I don’t want a lot of credit for being a feminist. It’s pretty simple. I think the ideals of feminism are pretty straightforward.”

His audience has a reputation for ferocity, and the reputation is totally justified. At last summer’s show at Madison Square Garden, the floor was wobbling during “Kiwi” — I’ve been seeing shows there since the 1980s, but I’d never seen that happen before. (The only other time? His second night.) His bandmates admit they feared for their lives, but Harry relished it. “To me, the greatest thing about the tour was that the room became the show,” he says. “It’s not just me.” He sips his tea. “I’m just a boy, standing in front of a room, asking them to bear with him.”

That evening, Fleetwood Mac take the stage in London — a sold-out homecoming gig at Wembley Stadium, the last U.K. show of their tour. Needless to say, their most devoted fan is in the house. Harry has brought a date: his mother, her first Fleetwood Mac show. He’s also with his big sister Gemma, bandmates Rowland and Jones, a couple of friends.

He’s in hyperactive-host mode, buzzing around his cozy VIP box, making sure everyone’s champagne glass is topped off at all times. As soon as the show begins, Harry’s up on his feet, singing along (“Tell me, tell me liiiiies!”) and cracking jokes. You can tell he feels free — as if his radar is telling him there aren’t snoopers or paparazzi watching. (He’s correct. This is a rare public appearance where nobody spots him and no photos leak online.) It’s family night. His friend Mick Fleetwood wilds out on the drum solo. “Imagine being that cool,” Gemma says.

Midway through the show, Harry’s demeanor suddenly changes. He gets uncharacteristically solemn and quiet, sitting down by himself and focusing intently on the stage. It’s the first time all night he’s taken a seat. He’s in a different zone than he was in a few minutes ago. But he’s seen many Fleetwood Mac shows, and he knows where they are in the set. It’s time for “Landslide.” He sits with his chin in hand, his eyes zeroing in on Stevie Nicks. As usual, she introduces her most famous song with the story of how she wrote it when she was just a lass of 27.

But Stevie has something else she wants to share. She tells the stadium crowd, “I’d like to dedicate this to my little muse, Harry Styles, who brought his mother tonight. Her name is Anne. And I think you did a really good job raising Harry, Anne. Because he’s really a gentleman, sweet and talented, and, boy, that appeals to me. So all of you, this is for you.”

As Stevie starts to sing “Landslide” — “I’ve been afraid of changing, because I built my life around youuuu” — Anne walks over to where Harry sits. She crouches down behind him, reaches her arms around him tightly. Neither of them says a word. They listen together and hold each other close to the very end of the song. Everybody in Wembley is singing along with Stevie, but these two are in a world of their own.

#harry styles #rs #260819 #drug mention

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tsukishima44 · 5 years

Text

Class 1-A Cuddle Routine

They were chasing little muffin when she went to Aizawa's form and took a nap right beside Aizawa's face. Ashido, Uraraka, Shinsou, and Kaminari had took out their phones and silencing it before snapping the rare view.

what happen when you mixed a tired and bored teenagers, a truth or dare, and a sleeping teacher? A CUDDLEFEST!!

It was a prank, something that had sparked when they saw their always tired homeroom teacher sleeping inside his yellow sleeping bag. Aizawa had been more tired than usual, they noticed, and had slept after a brief announcement of impending test next week and let them have the next 60 minutes free, as long as they didn't go outside or bother him. So they played with Kouda's bunny, muffin. They were chasing little muffin when she went to Aizawa's form and took a nap right beside Aizawa's face. Ashido, Uraraka, Shinsou, and Kaminari had took out their phones and silencing it before snapping the rare view. Since they couldn't play with muffin anymore, they were confused on what to do and they still have 45 minutes to go before Present Mic's class. So they play truth or dare. Being a prideful boy, Bakugou asked for a dare and sly Shinsou dared him to sleep beside Aizawa for 10 minutes. The light blonde was about to explode Shinsou's face but interrupted by Kirishima and Ashido's intervention. So the explosion king grumbled but took a seat beside the softly snoring underground hero. Bakugou didn't think he could even get to sleep but proven wrong when the whole class heard a louder snoring and Bakugou's mouth open. He was in deep sleep. Next was Hagakure and Asui who were curious and strolled to the front of the class and plopped down to sit on Aizawa's left side because Bakugou had taken the right. The two had brought their bag without its content and use it as pillows. The two quickly joining Bakugou and Aizawa to dream. Not long after, they had just realized that Kouda was asleep on a sitting position against the wall near Aizawa's head. Beside him Shoji had dozed off and Aoyama snuggled in the middle. When Ojirou realized Hagakure had slept in front, he went to the front and slept sitting like three other boys did beside her. The pack was getting bigger and looking interesting by the minute. Another five minutes and Deku stood and placed his empty bag near Aizawa's leg, right beside Bakugou's spread legs. Uraraka joined the girls side along with Jirou, sleeping beside Hagakure, next to Ojirou's legs. Yaoyorozu yawned while creating several blanket to covered those who had slept and those who haven't, leaving them on a neat pile on the teacher podium. 20 minutes left had most of them joined. Kirishima throwing his arm on Bakugou's waist, head beside Kouda's leg. Todoroki had laid on his side between Midoriya and Bakugou. Sero and Tokoyami had took one of the blanket Yaoyorozu provided and slept on the wall beneath the window. Ashido's head was on Iida's lap as the class representative had huffed before folding his arms in front of his chest and slept on the corner beside Tokoyami and Shoji. Kaminari connected 3 tables and slept on top of them. Sato curled inside the hollow part of the podium, soft blue blanket covering him. Meanwhile Shinsou, being insomniac, helped covering some of them who had slept without blanket after Yaoyorozu slept and took several pictures. When it was 5 minutes left, he stood up and wait outside the classroom for his next teacher. True to his thinking, 2 minutes later Present Mic came with spring on his steps. He quirked his eyebrows at the purplette standing in front of 1-A door. Shinsou merely put a finger on his lips and his other father mimicking his signal by 'zipping' his mouth. Shinsou nodded then held out his phone. Mic watched him fumbled for a while before something on the screen almost made him squealed. Apparently, Shinsou shown Aizawa's sleeping form circled by his students sleeping, except for Shinsou of course. Then, when Shinsou was sure Mic wouldn't suddenly scream, he opened the door. The two slipped inside quietly and saw the mostly same view as Shinsou's photo. The changes were slight like Aizawa no longer curling, muffin the bunny had took another nap on Kouda's lap, Bakugou's hand reached Kirishima's on top of his body unconsciously, Midoriya turned in his sleep and now facing Todoroki, and other small changes. But none of them giving any hint of wakening. Mic had took a picture right after they came in and another one focusing on his Shouta's. Then the two chattered quietly like they usually did on the chairs near the door. When Aizawa heard the school's bell, his perky ears roused him from his glorious nap. He was tired before, more than he usually did because his mission last night had ended one of the biggest drug cartels in the city. He didn't get even an hour sleep before he had to come to school so he skipped his way to his home and went to UA instead. Upon arriving he had texted Hizashi about the whole thing and slept for 15 minutes in the teacher's lounge. When the bell rang, he dragged his sleepy form to class 1-A, giving a brief announcement of test week and proceed to sleep the rest of homeroom. Now the usual bell had rung again, signaling him to pack up and leave before Hizashi arrived. Slowly he grabbed the inner zipper of his sleeping bag. Then he willed his eyes to open. He supposed that was when his mind should have told him something was amiss. But a yawn interrupted his loading mind and he tried to stretch only to retract it back as it hit something. Aizawa still lying on his back, hand raised, trailed his eyes upward to see Kouda sitting with his head downward and saw someone -is that Aoyama?- leaning to Kouda and one of Shoji's tentacle on Aoyama's shoulder. Aizawa blinked then looked to his left side where he found Asui, Hagakure, Ojirou and several others in many variety sleeping pose. He turned his head to the right and found Bakugou's hand near his face and on far wall was Tokoyami and Sero asleep with Tensei's little brother on the corner, pink strands on his laps. A little bit down and he recognized Midoriya's green tuft near Todoroki's red and white hair. He was almost startled when he saw Sato's spiky hair hidden by the shadow casting over the bottom of the podium. Then he looked up again and saw familiar blonde long hair and emerald orbs grinning at him. "Morning, sleeping beauty" Aizawa easily recognized his spouse voice anywhere. Then his raised hands -it was still risen when he observed his surrounding- were held gently and pulled by Yamada. In his new position, he finally saw the entirety of his class and Kaminari who was drooling on the tables. He also noticed Shinsou sitting near the door, phone on hand. When Shinsou saw him, he immediately pocketed his phone and knelt beside Mic. Despite the dark circles beneath his eyes, the boy's grinned was sly enough to know he watched blackmail material. But in his confuse state, he could only asked the obvious. "What happened?" Shinsou retelling the whole story while Mic helped Aizawa walking so he won't accidentally arouse or step on his student. When Shinsou had finished, Aizawa groaned and let out a huff. He knew exactly why they were all tired. Afterall, internship had just finished two days ago and Aizawa couldn't imagine how tiring it was if Bakugou and Iida could slept through the school bell. Aizawa gave Yamada a look in which the voice hero answered with a shrug and a smile. Let them rest, Shouta. So Aizawa nodded and the three decided to talk as quite as possible in Shinsou's last place. It was 5 minutes before lunch time and the trio was discussing on how to awake them all. They didn't even twitch when the bell rang previously which meant they also wouldn't hear lunch break bell which was more of a song more than a wake up bell. Aizawa had considered asking Yamada to yell 'wake up' but thinking of his students well-being, especially Bakugou who had tell-tale signs of being deaf. He would talk to the kid later. Shinsou had given him the option of rousing them one by one which was definitely better but would take quite energy to simply knelt beside each of them and shaking their shoulders. But then he was reminded on when the USJ short trip he had a hard time on waking Kirishima and Ashido. The two was sleeping like a log and Asui nearly gave him a heart attack when she slept without breathing. While he was contemplating between the choices, they all heard a sharp shock shout followed by a loud thump. Some of them immediately roused and sat quickly, Tokoyami startled and succeeded in waking Sero, while the rest was slowly waking up, Bakugou blinking, and few of them still sleeping, Rikido peacefully hidden still drooling. Meanwhile Aizawa, Yamada, and Shinsou had tracked the impromptu alarm to be Kaminari Denki who fell from the tables when turning in his sleep. The electric boy was rubbing his nose, he fell face first, when he saw three pairs of feet near him. He looked up and met the faces of two teachers and one Shinsou Hitoshi. Kaminari yelled in surprised, "I am sorry I overslept!!" and managed to roused more sleepy heads. Rikido apparently awoke by Kaminari's yelling and stood quickly to realize he was still in the podium when he tackled the wooden podium and groaned in pain. In the end it was a mixture of school bell and Present Mic's laughter -Oh god Rikido!- which managed to awaken them all, except for Kirishima who was awoken by Bakugou explosion in front of his face -Why is your fucking hand on me, you shitty hair!- and Hagakure clinging to Ojirou's leg mumbling five more minutes. When they all looked up, it was to Present Mic slouching form, one arm on Aizawa's shoulder the other on his stomach hurting from laughing; Shinsou Hitoshi yawning and telling his dads he went first, and their homeroom teacher deadpan face. The underground hero sighed, Kaminari sitting straight beside his legs, and told them," Good morning. It's lunch time. Don't forget to wash your face." Then left with Yamada still chattering about the whole demise. They each looked at each other, thinking the same thing and proceeded to do what Aizawa said. The next time they slept together again was faster than they expected. It was during their first test, math test, when Shinsou slept after turning his paper after 30 minutes of working on it. Aizawa looked to see some students pleading face. He sighed again and allowed them to sleep if they were finished. Few students gave him the answer paper and folded their arms on the table to prepare sleeping. They were all awoke by Present Mic's loud yelling, "Shoutaaaaaa! Let's have lunch!!!!" The next day, they put small pillows under their desk and each homeroom time slept near one Aizawa Shouta.

#boku no hero academia #class 1-a #erasermic #eraserhead #present mic #kiribaku #tododeku #shinsou hitoshi #fanfiction #fluff #domestic #ao3 #aizawa shouta #yamada hizashi #aizawa x hizashi

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soysaucevictim · 4 years

Text

Final week of current program and challenges.

A bit late to post, but oh well.

May 16

I woke up before noon, today.

After a lil bit of the usual, I made today’s Hello Fresh meal. Salsa verde enchiladas. Another dish that everyone enjoyed. Only real/constructive criticism was it could use more cheese, and I can completely agree. Still very enjoyable and well worth a reprisal.

After some dishes + YouTube, I got my exercise in.

First, today’s DD. 1′ raised leg elbow plank with EC (30″/30″). Took some willpower to get though it.

Second, Day 55 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 1′ rest. This was just a bit more breezy to get through. Not much to comment on, this time.

Third, Day 25 of the C&AC. 5x push-ups to failure. My numbers were 26-20-20-16-14. Did increment up a little, but also probably could’ve hammered the form better.

Last, Day 25 of the DSC. Nothing fancy again.

Much of the remaining day was spent chatting about useful stuff and gaming afterwards. Though still in the red, I did get to bed 2 hours earlier than night before. *Shrugs.*

May 17

I woke up around same time as yesterday.

First, today’s DD. 2′ o-Pose with EC. As always, it was a fun and meditative exercise to do. The focus on positioning and breathing is pretty zen - despite it still makes one tremble from muscle fatigue! :,D

Second, Day 56 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 1′ rest. Yep, those jacks hit the bliss ful space I love them for. So though I was a bit winded and worked up a seat, this was a very enjoyable workout!

Third, Day 26 of the C&AC. 7x20 shoulder taps. This was a bit more intense, but mission accomplished.

Last, Day 26 of the DSC. Like most days, just jab+crosses and swapping stance at 50. Nothing fancy, but also fun.

I spent some time chatting, listening to Sawbones, and working on some art. Got to bed later than yesterday... oh well.

May 18

Woke up about the same time, again.

Spent some time setting up a new monitor (to hopefully make streaming easier), chatting, made some dinner, before doing today’s exercise.

First, today’s DD. 100 jumping jacks with EC. This was well within my wheelhouse

Second, Day 57 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 1′ rest. I enjoyed this entirely because it was mostly half jacks (funnily, I think the DD was a good warm-up today)). Did reach that happy state and chased it with 3 more sets of bouncing on the spot. My calves will probably remember this. But still, it was quite fun! :D

Third, Day 27 of the C&AC. 5x push-ups to failure. 28-22--20-18-16. Just about manageable, although a tiny bit sloppy. :P

Last, Day 27 of the DSC. Same old, same old. Still fun, though.

Spent some time watching YouTube and getting some more work done tonight. Got to bed late, but a bit earlier than yesterday.

May 19

Similar time again, I suppose.

One of the first things I did today was the DD. 1′ plank punches with EC. I counted about 52 reps by the end. A pretty fun but a little awkward for clothing reasons to do.

I grumpily tried to help with DMV stuff and did some dishes after that. Was feeling really shitty and unmotivated as I did them.

Lost a lot of motivation to get things done. Overate pizza and whatnot... partly emotional eating, I’m sure...

But one thing that was nice was a sort of double-feature movie night with a friend. It was Turkish Star Wars (he hadn’t seen it yet) followed by The Princess Bride (I hadn’t seen it yet). A wild juxtaposition - but I enjoyed it as a welcome distraction.

Got to bed late again. I partly blame the very full stomach... but that was my doing. So, whatever.

May 20

I woke up after 1PM, today.

Meet with case manager today and talked with a peer advocate... which did feel like a nice emotional balm to start my day off. After some food and YouTube, I got going with today’s exercise.

First, today’s DD. 30 single leg deadlifts with EC. Pretty breezy, more-or-less.

Second, Day 58 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 1′ rest. Probably overate again before hand, but I think I waited long enough to manage this workout. Split jacks were probably the only real reason I kind of didn’t want to do it yesterday (what with bad headspace.) But oh well, done.

Third, Day 28 of the C&AC. 7x22 shoulder taps. Just about manageable.

Last, Day 28 of the DSC. Nothing new, but I do still enjoy it as a closer.

Spent a bit of time chatting, watching YouTube and working on some art.

Since the internet cut out... i did manage to get to bed on time. So that was nice.

May 21

I woke up before 1PM.

First, today’s DD. 30 knee crunches with EC. I changed how my legs crossed at 15. This was just about manageable work.

Second, Day 59 of the 60DoC. Level 3, 1′ rest.

Third, Day 29 of the C&AC. 5x push-ups to failure, last push-ups to failure day. I capped things at 30-24-20-18-16, this time around. This was pretty brutal, but I could manage.

Last, Day 29 of the DSC. Accidentally did an extra 20 punches because I swapped later (60) this time. That got notably tougher thanks to all those push-ups.

Like yesterday, I spent a bit of time chatting, watching YouTube and working on some art again. Got to bed obscenely late, but I felt productive!

May 22

I woke up a bit before 1PM, today.

One of the first things I did was some dishes and made the next Hello Fresh dinner for today. Chicken over garlic Parmesan spaghetti. Everyone loved this one. I think this one warrants reprisal, too! =w=

First, today’s DD. 2′ extended swings with EC. I counted 206 reps by the end, managed to count more for first half/side. This was a pretty fun one.

Second, Day 60 of the 60 Days of Cardio Program. Level 3, 1′ rest. Not gonna lie, I didn’t think this was going to be quite as winding as it turned out to be! But mission accomplished (Was listening to a The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy audiobook, which was fun)

Third, Day 30 of the Chest & Arms Challenge. 7x24 shoulder taps. Very manageable.

Last, Day 30 of the De-Stress Challenge. Nothing fancy and no over-counting this time. Fun work!

Did some cleaning, some gratitude journaling, and used a crisis text line… I was not feeling okay.

I got to bed exorbitantly late.

Summary of Experience:

A day late, but I finished my current regimen in May 22.

I rather liked the 60 Days of Cardio Program. Mostly since it was a good variety of impact/intensity levels, in terms of structure. I managed Level 3 and kept my rests to under 1′ the whole way through (with following breakdown)!

12 days with no/minimal rest

16 days with 30″

32 days maxing at 1′

The Chest & Arms Challenge was a good opportunity to focus on push-ups again. My final failure numbers were 30-24-20-18-16. Though it did get a bit intense, I think I did good enough in terms of form. (I opted not to swap the shoulder taps for renegade rows, this time around... might try that next time!)

The De-Stress Challenge, was very enjoyable! I did find myself looking forward to this one each day, that’s for sure! Most days I just did jab+crosses, swapping at 50. Occasionally just threw jabs or crosses 50/50, too.

#adventures with fitness #adventures with hello fresh #family shit/

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robertdowneyjjr · 5 years

Text

kiss the beaver’s ass

(inspired by this post by @imaginestevetony)

----------

“Here, these should last you a whole week.”

A long and heavy sigh escapes from Steve’s lips as Bruce drops a heavy stack of clothes on the table. “You know, Tony’s not going to talk to me all week.”

“You should have thought of that before you agreed to the terms of the bet,” Bruce says unapologetically.

“I was just so sure I’d win,” Steve lets out an undignified whine. “I can’t get drunk! Of course I thought I’d win a drinking challenge!”

“Well, you didn’t.” Bruce smiles serenely, and Steve can see the glint of mischief in his eyes as he continues, pointing out each item as he goes. “Anyway, I got you everything you’ll need for the week. A hoodie you can wear in public, a few t-shirts for everyday wear, sweatpants you can wear at home, flannel pants for sleep, shorts and joggers for working out. Here’s a cap if you want to keep a low profile when you go out. A water bottle, because you should stay hydrated. And of course, a tie and cufflinks for that event you and Tony need to attend on Thursday night.”

By the time Bruce is done, Steve can feel a few stray tears prickling at his eyes. He’s not going to survive this week.

“So not only is Tony not going to talk to me, but he probably will make me sleep on the couch all week too.” Steve glares at the flannel pants. “He won’t let me into bed if I’m going to wear those.”

“Hm. That’s too bad.” Bruce folds the clothes back up neatly and hands them to Steve. “Oh, by the way.”

Judging by the smirk that’s creeping onto Bruce’s face, Steve is not going to like what he’ll say next.

“I’m sure Tony’s mentioned this to you already, but Rhodey’s flying back tonight. Good luck.”

Well. Fuck.

----------

Steve drags his feet as he makes his way back to his and Tony’s suite. He drops the clothes off in their shared closet, picks up the shirt at the top of the pile, and quickly changes into it. He debates for a while, then decides to put on the sweats as well. Might as well go all out.

He heads to the kitchen to get started on dinner. It doesn’t take long to decide what to make. He knows the grovelling process should start now if he wants to be forgiven soon, so Steve settles on making Tony’s favourite -- carbonara, from the recipe that Maria had passed down, and chocolate bread pudding for dessert, a dish Steve learned from his mother.

A little while later, he hears Tony and Rhodey’s voices filtering in from the hallway and braces himself for what he’s sure to be a whole boatload of judgment.

“Hey babe,” Tony greets as he walks through the door. “Smells amazing in here. Hope you don’t mind that I invited Rhodeybear over for dinner? He’s had a long flight, so I figure you wouldn’t mind if we kept him company.”

“Of course that’s okay,” Steve replies. He looks over his shoulder and gives the colonel a quick wave. “Hey Jim. Hope the flight wasn’t too rough.”

Rhodey pours himself a glass of water as he waves back. “It was alright. Mostly slept the whole way through. There was a bit of turbulence, which is always awful, but nothing I’m not used to anyway.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Anything we can do to help?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Just one thing.” Steve takes a deep breath before he turns around, gesturing down at his outfit. “Can you let me explain before you throw me out the door?”

Aside from the slow fire sizzling behind him, the kitchen falls into a dead silence. No one moves for a solid minute, and Steve can feel the disgust at his clothes pouring out in waves from the two men in front of him.

“What,” Rhodey starts. “The fuck. Are you wearing?”

“Before you say anything else, I just want you to know, I’m so sorry.” Steve looks pleadingly at Tony, then at Rhodey. “I lost a bet. When you were away in Aspen for that tech conference a couple months ago, Bruce and I got into a drinking contest. I don’t even remember how it happened, but it did, and he bet me that I wouldn’t be able to outdrink him. And of course I agreed to the bet. I thought I’d win! But I didn’t, and his term was that I needed to wear Harvard gear for every outfit, for a whole week, if I lost. So here we are.”

Tony continues to stare in disbelief. “Why would you bet Bruce you’d be able to outdrink him?! He’s the fucking Hulk! He absorbs alcohol like it’s water!”

“I forgot! I just knew that I couldn’t get drunk, so I figured I’d win! And I really wanted to get him to reenact the whole Single Ladies video, so I agreed to the bet!”

“Steve, you’re such an idiot.”

“I know.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch this week. I don’t want that shit anywhere near me.”

“I know.”

“We’re going to sit down and have this nice dinner. You cooked -- which is very lovely of you, by the way, thank you -- so Rhodey and I will do the dishes while you get your stuff for the couch. Then I’m giving you the silent treatment for the whole week, because this is the worst betrayal I have ever experienced, and I refuse to talk to my dumbass husband when he’s dressed as a Harvard Hottie. Alright?”

Steve sighs and slumps into a chair. “Alright.”

They all settle into their seats at the table and dig in, making casual conversation throughout the meal. Steve savours every moment, knowing that this will be the last civil moment he’ll have with his husband for the rest of the week.

After the plates are clear, Steve helps bring the dishes to the sink. As he walks the short distance from the kitchen table to the counter, a butter knife slips off a plate, but Rhodey manages to catch it.

“Careful, Cap. Wouldn’t want to accidentally stab yourself with this.” Rhodey pauses, then smirks. “Though the blood would blend beautifully into that crimson shirt you have on.”

Before Steve can think of a retort, Rhodey takes the dishes from him. “I can grab these. Why don’t you call it a night, yeah?”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Great! Night, Steve! Enjoy the couch!”

----------

The next day, Steve wakes up to the sound of plates being set down on the coffee table in front of him. He opens his eyes to see that Tony and Rhodey have apparently made breakfast for all three of them, and are bringing the dishes out to eat in the living room. The two of them are wearing matching MIT shirts, which isn’t generally out of the norm, but judging by their shit eating grins, they’re doing it mostly to fuck with Steve this particular morning.

“Good morning,” Steve croaks, then clears his throat and tries again. “This all looks delicious. Thank you guys.”

Tony only raises his eyebrow at Steve before turning around and going back into the kitchen.

“Morning, traitor,” Rhodey says as he sets the cutlery down. “Nice flannel pants.”

“Thanks. You want a pair?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

Steve shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

A moment later, Tony returns with the coffee pot and three mugs. He pours each person a cup and sits down next to Rhodey, barely even sparing Steve another glance.

“Before we eat,” Tony says, “I’d like to make a toast.”

“A toast?” Steve asks.

Tony doesn’t look at Steve, addressing Rhodey instead as he continues to speak. “More of a cheer. Actually, a song.”

A smile spreads across Rhodey’s face. “A drinking song?”

“A drinking song.”

With that, Tony and Rhodey launch into a tune together, holding their coffee up high and practically shouting the words out: “MIT was MIT when Harvard was a pup. And MIT will be MIT when Harvard's time is up. And any Harvard son of a bitch who thinks he's in our class, can pucker up his rosy lips and kiss the beaver's ass!”

They clink their mugs together and start in on their food, ignoring Steve completely.

----------

Somehow, by sheer willpower, Steve makes it through what feels like the longest week of his life.

Every time he’s in the same room as Rhodey, the colonel hisses at him and makes snarky remarks, making fun of Steve’s outfit. Steve gives back as good as he gets, which he knows Rhodey appreciates. But with each half-conversation, Steve looks forward to the end of the week when he can talk civilly with his friend again.

Tony makes good on his promise not to speak to Steve the whole time he has to fulfil this bet. When Steve asks a question, instead of responding directly, Tony texts his reply. Sometimes, he even tells JARVIS to relay a message back to Steve. Even when Steve is sitting right there, next to Tony, in the same room.

So it’s a bit awkward, having to attend the charity gala for their favourite animal shelter together, but not talking to each other at all. Well, Steve talks, and Tony hums. Nods and reacts, but never with actual words.

The worst is when the press takes notice of Steve’s tie and cufflinks and start hounding him with questions on why he’s chosen to wear these accessories to the event. Is he going to be a guest lecturer at Harvard soon? Did he make a recent donation? How does his MIT alumni husband feel about this? His MIT alumni husband, who poses for pictures with him while flashing his shiny class ring for the press.

Steve dodges all the questions and changes the subject every time it comes up. It’s exhausting, but he gets through the night, then the rest of the week.

Finally, Steve gets to remove the comfortable but forbidden Harvard hoodie, kick those sweatpants off, and put on his own clothes for the first time in seven days.

The first thing Steve does is go down to the workshop to find his husband. Sure, they were in each other’s orbit all week, but Steve still misses Tony. He’s so glad things can go back to normal, and Tony can speak to him again, and they can make up for the awful week he’s sure they both just had.

He keys in his passcode, barely waiting for the doors to slide open before he swiftly walks through and makes a beeline for where Tony’s sitting on table, holographic displays floating in front of him. Steve crowds up against Tony’s back, sliding his arms around his waist and nuzzling behind his ear.

“Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“Bet’s over.”

Tony turns around and flings his arms around Steve’s neck. “Oh thank god. That was brutal. Do you know how hard it was to not talk to you all week?”

“Well you didn’t have to. You decided to do that yourself.”

“I needed to make a statement.”

“By not saying anything?” Steve asks, amused.

“Yes, exactly. I love you, honey, but I can’t accept any Harvard gear in this household.”

Steve places his forehead against Tony’s. “I’m sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”

“We are taking those clothes up to the roof and we’re gonna have a bonfire. But first.” Tony leans in and presses a long, lingering kiss on Steve’s lips before pulling back. “We’re going to go back to our room. We’re gonna get naked, get you into the shower and wash off that Harvard stench. And you’re going to pucker up your rosy lips and kiss this beaver’s ass.”

#stevetony #stony #steve rogers #tony stark #james rhodes #bruce banner #researching those mit cheers was definitely interesting lmao #this was fun to write!! thanks for the inspo #kay writes things

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