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beautifulletdownfics · 4 years

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Nothing To Him - A Harry Styles One Shot

Harry Styles is a liar.

He lied your whole relationship.

He promised to love you forever and then he walked away.

A lovers to nothing break up fic feat. blisters, heartache & two sides to one story.

Word count: 15k (Sorry! You’re going to want to open this little pal in a browser window probably. Eek)

Story Playlist:

The First Lie: Damn This Love - Thirsty Merc The Second Lie: Do You Remember - Jarryd James The Third Lie: Nebraska - Oh Wonder The Fourth Lie: I Saw You - Jon Bryant The Fifth Lie: Here We Go - Emily Hearn The Sixth Lie: Crying Dancing - Nina Nesbitt , NOTD

MY MASTERLIST.

The first lie was that you were different.

Harry felt different with you.

You just slipped into his routine and his life. You didn't buy into the spectacle of it all. You told him on your first date that you didn't play games, and that it wasn't often you connected with someone on an intellectual or emotional level. Harry sat there and listened to the woman across from him say she didn't expect to finish the date still attracted to him.

And he fucking loved it.

The next morning he called you at quarter past eight, because he figured you either started work at eight-thirty or nine o'clock, so he'd catch you on your commute or just before you walked into the office. You answered your phone like you would a business call. He teased you for it, but really he was just glad you answered at all. It felt like getting test results telling Harry he was in the clear.

The truth was when Harry first met you at the birthday party the night before he'd been angling towards you being a hookup. He saw you across the bar as soon as he arrived, gaze zeroing in on your legs in That Dress, his ears leaning to the sound of your laugh pulling eyes from around the room. Harry wanted you, and he'd been through a bit of a dry spell. You radiated the kind of energy Harry could get drunk on, the sort of body he wanted to lose himself in for a night.

It was almost an hour before he managed to edge into the same circle of bodies as you. You knew the birthday girl the same way he did; through work. Harry caught early on that you didn't still work for his record label, but did a few years before and stayed in touch with everyone. You seemed like the kind of person who collected people, who everyone wanted to keep in touch with. Harry just wanted to touch you.

Two tequilas in he got you to himself.

You were good at flirting, which excited Harry initially. You had a quip for everything or an interesting addition to each story he told. You were well-read and well-travelled, and you weren't hesitant in showing Harry that you had opinions and ideas of your own. Over the years he'd become good at getting people to talk, good at asking questions that make someone share themselves because the alternative—Harry sharing himself—wasn't something he could do. But something about you and the way you framed questions made Harry feel like it was safe to share a little more, you'd disarmed him quietly, and by the time he noticed Harry didn't feel the need to protect himself anymore.

"That's bullshit," you'd told him when he said he wasn't all that into contemporary fiction. You hated the artsy elites who listed off the Hemingway's and the Kerouac's and the Vonnegut's as though the only literature worth mentioning came from lifetimes ago. Your hair swished back and forth at your cheeks as you shook your head emphatically, "You're being lazy. Imagine saying the same about modern music."

Harry's lips ticked up into a smile, and he raised his eyebrow in concession, "That would be bullshit," he agreed, thinking of the album he'd just released and how he wanted to know if you'd listened to any of his stuff. (Very quickly he decided he probably didn't want to know because it stuck Harry the answer would be no.) His eyes couldn't pull away from watching your lips as you spoke, admiring the shade of lipstick you wore.

"Right," you continued, "Modern fiction teaches me about myself, about my life. It gives words to what my friends and I are experiencing. The classics are amazing—don't get me wrong—but I don't see myself in them."

"Seems like your criteria stem from narcissism," Harry was sure he had you there. He grinned at you happily.

"Exactly," you agreed without hesitation, "Maybe 'Hills Like White Elephants' is genius, and as a woman, I should be grateful to Hemmingway for horrifying his audience in 1927 with a normalised view of abortion but … I don't think he wrote that for me. He was challenging ideas then. I feel more connection and loyalty to an Instagram poet who's painting the world that actually matters to me, the world I'm trying to survive now."

Harry hums into his drink and says nothing. He expects you to back away a little, or ask him some question that watered-down your view and opened up the table to his. But you don't. You let your view sit on the slice of the bar between you and don't apologise for it.

"There's a reason artists burst out of every generation," you add, sitting forward on your stool. "If the classics were the perfect form, the perfect commentary of humanity, then there'd be no need for anyone after them to bother trying to put the world and life into words, or pictures, or music. You can't just dismiss a generation of voices because some smelly, old, white, university hasn't decided to name a building after them yet. I don't think being published as a little orange Penguin Classic is the singular hallmark to good literature."

He didn't entirely agree with you, (he thought it was vital to learn from the past, thought those great authors you reeled off and dismissed set the benchmark artists today should aspire to) but Harry liked hearing your thoughts and seeing the passion burst out of you. He liked seeing how you didn't second guess yourself or try to soften your opinion by asking for his. You just said what you thought, and that was always one of his favourite characteristics in a person.

That night you met him, you were the designated driver for a few of your friends. He should have noticed the way you switched to pineapple juice after you finished your first drink, but he was too busy trying not to look at the curve of your thigh when you crossed one leg over the other. Trying to ignore the smell of your perfume or how you kept licking your lips and he wanted to taste them, desperately. Harry didn't like to say anything when he offered to buy you another gin and dry. Still, when it eventually came out in conversation—that you were strictly only having one tonight—he felt his excitement deflate. His warm buzz suddenly felt pervy and presumptuous.

"Well, that's bloody annoying, isn't it?"

His response surprised you, "Me getting my friends home alive?"

With his hand comfortably resting over your knee, Harry shook his head, "I was hoping to go home with you."

"Oh."

You blinked at him, not having expected him to be so bold. You didn't hate it though, you felt the twinge of realising you were going to miss something that could have been good. Could have been great, probably. The last time you had sex had been … sad. And disappointing. Still, you hadn't come out to meet anyone tonight, why the sudden rush of despondency? These were old work colleagues you rarely saw, and you figured it would be a night of catching up before six months of not seeing each other because life got in the way.

Then Harry asked for your number. Asked if you'd go out with him the next night. He didn't beat around the bush with it, he wanted to see you again and told you so. The way you said you would filled him with relief but also fear. Harry knew he'd need to really deliver with you, he couldn't half-arse it. He was terrified he'd overshoot it and lose the change to be someone who impressed you.

He settled on a Sunday evening picnic where the two of you ate takeaway on a beach towel at the top of a park halfway between your houses. Something told Harry you would be happier with him underplaying the date than you would be getting taken to an expensive, showy restaurant. You wore jean shorts and a long sleeve jumper which churned his body more deeply than the dress with the split from the night before. He was hooked.

"Do you not like olives?" Harry asked, sucking the oil off his fingers after just depositing one into his mouth. You instantly loved the way the inflection of his words rose at the end of his sentences, and you'd mock him for it your whole relationship.

You looked at the plastic container sitting between you, you'd been picking at the cheese and crackers, the antipasto was not your thing, "They don't seem like something humans should eat … Salty and rubbery with a tiny stone on the inside? No, thanks."

A laugh burst out of Harry's mouth as he picked up another green olive, "More for me then."

"I'm happy about the rosemary in these though," you held up a cracker before digging it into the hummus, a plastic-stemmed wine glass with a dry rose in your free hand, "You got the fancy ones."

"Only the best," Harry returned with a smile and then went on trying to playfully wedge more information from you about the secret poetry Instagram he was convinced you had. He was already feeling buzzed from the wine, but more from the way you kept looking at him and he couldn't catch a hint of you being anything other than yourself.

You didn't go home together that night either, despite The Kiss at the end next to his car. Despite Harry's hands on the back of your thighs as things got heated. The way the tips of his fingers feathered against the elastic of your knickers, just slipping under before pulling away. Your chests heaving together in a rhythm you'd never found with anyone else.

He felt like he had just auditioned for a part he wasn't sure yet that you were going to give him. Wine always heightened his anxiety, so Harry also wanted to appear controlled and measured. He wanted to be as thoughtful as you were. As connected to himself as you were to all your wonderful opinions and facts. There was some part of him that feared taking you home too soon might risk that being the only night Harry got. So he pulled away, kissed your cheek and promised to call you later on.

Somewhere along the line, Harry decided he wanted more than a little bit. He was greedy. Harry wanted the whole pie all to himself.

That was a theme, him wanting more. Even now, months since you've seen or heard from him. Harry always knew how to get you to take that one step out of your comfort zone, take that little bit extra risk. Letting go of him in one way felt like small release valve finally letting go. A tiny bit of your safety net tucking closer around you. A little quiet moment to take stock and check every part of you was still connected, still there. A deep breath in. A short pause of calming silence. Like getting your heart back … But then finding it didn't fit in your chest the same way anymore.

So you found it particularly cruel to have received a follow-up email from his assistant this week, checking to see if you were able to attend his show tonight.

The show that six months ago Harry drew you a mock ticket for and hand-delivered to you sitting outside in his garden with a tea and a biscuit. Even then, even as his girlfriend, you'd feigned not knowing if you could say whether you would attend. Now it felt foreboding, the way you'd pulled your features together thoughtfully and told Harry you'd have to see closer to the date. You waited just long enough for him to switch over into thinking you were serious before you laughed and told him of course and where else would I be?

Where else would I be, was right, in a sense. Because this is still your city, and you're here tonight. It's not his anymore. He moved soon after you broke up … Relocated to one of his—what was it you used to mockingly call them?—" location" homes. Houses you never saw in person. Places he never took you. Either Italy or France. Somewhere he could hide, be creative, recenter himself. All three of those things filled you with dread for different reasons.

Were you really going to go tonight though? Walk in through the front door of the venue with a ticket and barcode on your phone, sit in a crowd and listen to Harry for two hours? Look at him from across the room and just take it on the chin?

It certainly seemed you were dressed for it. And you were out of the house with time to get there. Would you get off the train at the stop though? Would you walk down the street with the bright sign his name lit up? Would Harry even know if you didn't go?

Part of you wonders if his assistant didn't mean to email you. Maybe she forgot you were no longer in Harry's life? Perhaps it was a scheduled email she forgot to stop? Probably it was Harry just being fucking nice, and polite, and worrying about how you'd feel if you were uninvited. Or if he didn't check in on you while he was here.

You accepted the reminder too easily and scolded yourself for it. His team was expecting you. Harry was expecting you. And now, sitting on the train and counting down the stops you felt caught. Felt like he had you again, even if it was just winning whatever tonight was.

Harry did always enjoy the chase. Admitted it himself, admitted to loving the beginning of meeting someone. Loving the audition process, the figuring each other out, the get. The Catch.

You wonder now if it was the chase he liked back then. Was it a thrill having you make him feel as though he had something to prove? Or was it Harry experiencing for the first time not having the upper hand, not having even the tiniest amount of weight around who he was count for anything. Now it felt like Harry was nothing but upper hand.

Whatever it was—the Chase, or your endless facts, pancakes on a Sunday morning—the part of Harry's lie about you being different that hurts the most is the way you bought into it so proudly. Wore it later as his girlfriend like a badge of honour. As though it signalled to others you'd been hard-won, and Harry was lucky to have you.

Different turned out to be such a dirty word.

Different turned out to mean nothing. To get you nowhere.

All different got you was Nothing To Him.

The second lie was that he saw a future with you.

Harry didn't shy away from talking about it. He made plans for you both.

Sometimes it was in the moments right before you both fell asleep at night, or in the final seconds before the kettle finished boiling. Always in some small window where his mind drifted and sat comfortably stagnant when all there was to think about was the next holiday you'd take together. Or what breed of dog you might have one day. Whether you wanted your kids to be close together in age or have larger age gaps between them. What you thought about silent retreats in Thailand.

He stored your answers away in the file full of you in his head or added them to the note on his phone with ideas for gifts for people or things going on in their lives he wanted to remember.

"My family have always had cats," he told you one night, fingers drawing circles around your bare kneecap, your naked thigh resting across his stomach, "When I'm settled I'd want to get a few of my own."

It was one of those hot summer nights no position felt comfortable for sleep, you raised your arms up over your head and stretched out further on the mattress, fingers dangling off the edge of the bed to feel the cold stream from the air conditioning unit above, "I don't trust cats. Isn't there something about them being evolutionarily build to hunt their owner?"

Harry turned his head to face you, "A fact for everything," he recited fondly, his common quip for your always having an answer for everything, "I'll let the cats hunt me, you'll be spared."

"As long as I can name them," you murmured, your eyes finally closing.

Close to three months later, an hour into unsuccessfully putting together a flat-pack shelving unit in Harry's garage, you heavily plopped yourself down on the concrete floor and hailed defeat. You tossed the small, silver Allen key onto the floor in Harry's direction and rested your chin in your palm.

A few minutes of watching his embittered attempts passed before he spoke.

"Hey Sulky, I can feel you looking at me," Harry was frowning at the short piece of timber in his hand, he was holding it next to what was supposed to be the base of the structure. This was your second attempt at pulling apart the shelves and starting again while you cursed the entire Swedish furniture empire. You were enjoying seeing Harry's stubborn frustration immensely.

He could be such a man sometimes.

"Yeah, 'cause you're hot," you said, mocking him dreamily.

"Ha ha," he drawled, rolling his shoulders back to try to regain his focus.

When he paused a moment later and looked up at you, his arms dropped as his brow softened and he let out a breath.

You grinned at him, "I'm pretty cute too, right?"

"All this shit is going to end up living on the ground because you're sabotaged the assembly!" He gestured wildly at the tools and spare paint colours for the house lying around you. His bike parts and the weird assortment of garden tools Harry collected were leaning against the wall waiting to be put on their new home as well, the shelf neither you nor Harry were skilled enough to put together.

"Baby," you began, but Harry waved you off, and you saw genuine frustration start to emerge on his face, "Okay! Okay, I'm sorry," you stressed, "Are you sure we're looking at this thing from the right way around? Maybe the designer meant for it to be wonky?"

He rolled his eyes at you. As if the mere thought anyone would design anything to look like the mess currently on the floor was purely preposterous—his temper for small frustrations on full display.

"Don't be rude!" You admonished, "It's a fucking shelf, we can do this, Harry."

It took you another hour and a half, but when it was done, Harry draped his arm around your shoulders, kissed you on the head and told you that you were the person he wanted by his side of all his future crisis. Someone to say to him, whatever the challenge was, it wasn't beyond him, wasn't something he couldn't handle or wasn't capable of.

You felt like you were floating that night.

It was one of those few times you could see your imprint on his life. See some evidence of it. There were shelves in his garage only there because you told him he needed storage there, and then you pushed him to keep trying assembling them. It was some proof you'd been in his life. An impression of your influence. A memory that would hover in his garage forever.

Two days after putting the shelves together, you and Harry had an argument about the plastic tubs he went off on his own to buy for all the loose bits and pieces he wanted to go on the shelves. You were annoyed he didn't purchase wooden ones, and he couldn't understand why it mattered that they were white plastic which would apparently be impossible to keep clean.

It's a garage, he thought, who's cleaning their garage?

And because arguments always dredge up things that they aren't supposed to, you made a jab about your relationship being secret.

You said something like, If I'd been able to come with you, we wouldn't be having this row!

Harry knew what you really meant straight away. You'd been together for more than nine months at that point, and nobody knew about it: nobody but your families and very very closest friends. There were no photos of Harry having lunch with you at a cafe, or of you walking a few steps behind him at the shops. Nobody had snuck a picture of you backstage at a show of his. He'd never appeared on your social media, even by suggestion, and Harry had never taken the risk including you on any private Instagram Stories.

Those photographs didn't exist, because those circumstances never had. There wasn't even a celebrity paper trail linking you to knowing Harry, let alone dating him. Harry didn't dedicate performances to you, or even to an unnamed significant other. You never got a song or an album dedication. Harry was so adamant on nobody getting wind of the relationship that sometimes it felt like … Like he enjoyed the sneaking around. The having a secret. (Later on, when you reflected on the relationship once it was over, you really weren't sure how there'd never been even one instance of you being seen coming or going from Harry's house. Hindsight made that feel suss to you.)

Most of the time you liked it, though, liked not having any fuss or interruption to your life but sometimes—a lot of the time—it felt like something silently eroding you from the inside—a silent acid eating your spirit.

But you'd never tell Harry that. Then anyway. Now … You're not sure what you'd tell him now.

The truth was a lot of the time you weren't sure how you'd managed to keep it going so long. Part of it was obvious, maybe, like not being in public together. But still, surely after being together months and having arguments about shelves you could afford a platonic appearing coffee trip or going for a run at the same time, together?

Instead, you'd gear up and run in opposite directions down his street. Or Harry would stay in the car while you went in for the coffee. You'd sit in a nosebleed seat if you went to a show, sneaking through some fire exit and into the main hallways of a venue with the public to get to it. You looked like a sad woman attending a gig on your own, not the girlfriend of the star.

Nobody would know you even knew the man up on stage. That you had something in the slow cooker at home for you both to eat when you got home, or that he'd stolen a tube of your favourite lip balm and had it in his blazer pocket for his set. Nobody would guess you made him late for the soundcheck with just a smile and the undoing of a zip.

Seeing him tonight would be just like it always was, you and Harry from across the room. But then not like always, because Harry wouldn't see you tonight. You wouldn't have the taste of a good luck kiss on your lips. Or the sound of Harry's warm-up in your ears. Yours was always an invisible connection that was kept invisible by design, and now being broken up, it looked no different than together. Not really.

Tonight though it would only be you seeing Harry. Like you see him on late-night talk show promotions and billboards. Like the times you get into an Uber, and his song is playing. How strange it feels, to have your heart crack in your chest again while also lifting somehow. Singing along with a song about you. Or hearing his laugh or even just Harry speaking, and being able to picture the exact expression that would go along with it.

Every raised inflection. Ever breathy giggle. Every brow crease at a thought that Harry was chasing or somehow unable to articulate. All of those turning into you picturing what he looked like every time he knew he was disappointing you. Every whined sorry and all the instances of him loving on you to move your mind away from his deficiencies.

"What's the plan for Y/N?"

If your relationship with Harry was a t-shirt, that would be the slogan across the chest. Those would be the words under the cartoon impression of you banging your head against a wall Harry's standing on the other side of.

How will Y/N get in? Who's staying behind with Y/N? Where will I meet up with Y/N?

There was always a question. Always a plan for you and it was decidedly separate to the plan for Harry. His team organised a second car or an earlier flight for you. A back entrance or some other smokescreen to keep you concealed. In the beginning, it felt like a kindness, but in the end, you were embarrassed by it. The bother, the way what started as a careful consideration for your wellbeing turned into something rotten that painted you a different colour to Harry and his public inner circle, the circle you were never invited or initiated into.

It was exhausting. But Harry assured you it was for the best.

You wonder what the future he saw for you really was though. How much further did Harry see a life like that going? A life with you perpetually operating under cover of darkness. A life of you decidedly not existing. Not really.

So when he said he saw a future with you, you're really not sure what Harry meant.

Did he mean one day he saw himself lifting the veil and telling the world he had a Someone? Or did he mean that he saw himself forever hiding you, forever living that lie?

Maybe he actually saw nothing.

Sometimes you could be convinced the fact Harry hid you was an action pointing to a more profound truth.

That the future he saw was an imagined indulgence; a convenience, and a comfortable lie. Comforting on a temporary level, like bowling alley bumper rails or the plastic covering on a new watch face. The fake sense of security—of protection, of immaculacy—was just that, artificial and temporary. It ceased to exist the minute you plucked the corner and pulled back the protective layer. Crashed as soon as the bumpers were flipped down.

You were a secret only Harry had any power over. He led from the front because you didn't know there was any other option. And in letting yourself be that, you made yourself easily dispensable.

Disposable. Replaceable. Erasable.

Which is precisely what happened when he left.

Harry left, and the You of the two of you ended. But more than any other relationship ever could, the silence that followed felt deadly. It wasn't just a relationship that once was, it was a relationship that never was. A year of your life made no imprint on his. Nobody looking at him could know there was anything—anybody—missing, and maybe that was the whole point.

Maybe that was the design of it.

The third lie was that you could tell him anything.

Harry's golden rule always was honest communication.

There's no such thing as an overshare, he'd say when you naturally hesitated.

He was all about that. All about hearing what was worrying you, or the mundane things that were going on in your world. Sometimes you felt like maybe it was an act because nobody had ever found your family, or your friends, or your life in general as interesting as Harry seemed to. He was always telling you he loved hearing the funny text conversations going on, or who was having a row and why, or what each of your friends was stressed about in their jobs or relationships or themselves. And Harry always said he loved hearing it from you the most.

(Now, that struck you as a strange thing to say. Where else would he hear anything about you? Harry was the only line connecting you back to him. You didn't have mutual friends or people who'd known you both before you dated each other. There was nobody for Harry to hear anything from. It's not like your friends were going to reach out to him with gossip about you. Not like how you could sneak a look at update accounts or read about his performance online while he was away.)

Still, you loved the stories he told from the road, ate them up. The missing coffee mugs where everyone got their caffeine fix served in wine glasses and lemonade tumblers for almost two whole weeks. And then the tour t-shirts accidentally ordered in bulk in children's sizes that Harry hand-delivered them to a local children's charity. The crumbs of gossip Harry picked up about who in his team was sweet on who (he loved a setup, loved watching crushes silently and awkwardly orbit around each other).

Your secrets were safe with him, he promised. He wouldn't ever judge you. Wouldn't dismiss your feelings or what kept you awake at night next to him. So you did it. You believed him. And you slowly drained everything inside of you into him. Harry got all your stories, even the ones you vowed to leave exactly where they sat in your past. Even the ones you felt like might kill you to dredge back up. The ones that made you look like a shitty friend or sister or daughter. He got them all.

And even now, he's still got them.

"What's the biggest lie you ever told?" He asked you one night in his kitchen, both of you elbow deep in making dinner. Harry rolled out the lines of gnocchi and cut the inch long pieces while you pressed them over a fork to decoratively indent them. (Although Harry likes to tell you how when he was in Italy he learned in patterns weren't just aesthetic—it was all about soaking up more of the sauce, For the sauce, of course! He'd sing out in an Italian accent, proud of himself.) "Like, a proper lie," he clarified, "Not like how you told my mum you didn't take sugar in your tea when you first met her."

You hinged your knee out to attack his calf for the teasing comment but then rolled your lips together in thought, "I lied to my parents a lot growing up," you told him honestly. "I think about eighty per cent of the time I wasn't where I told them I was. Definitely wasn't with who I said I was with."

Harry shook his head as he rolled out the next lump of dough, "No, I mean like … Like a lie."

A moment passed as you thought more deeply about the question, travelled around your memories until you landed somewhere suitable, "I lied to my boyfriend at university," you begin. "A pretty bad one, I guess."

"And the lie was …" Harry prompts.

"I told him I was a virgin before him."

Harry eyes raised, and then he nodded, accepting it, "I think that's probably a common one, really."

"I thought he'd like me more if I said it," I admitted quietly, pausing the work with your hands. "Wasn't too proud of losing my virginity in a tent in the sixth form … And I mean, at that age you just so desperately want to be the version of you that you think the people around you will like the most. A whole group of us went camping at someone's grandparent's farm during the summer holidays. Not sure how our parents let us, to be honest. Anyway, I had awful, painful, embarrassing sex in a tent with a guy named … Dylan Fraiser."

You were surprised by how long the name took to come to you. Years ago, that was such a defining event in your life. Now it hardly mattered at all anymore.

Progress, you thought.

"A tent," Harry winced.

"Really came back to bite me in the arse when my uni boyfriend went on to tell a group of his mates he was my first and—

—Tent Guy was one of them?" Harry guessed. Correctly.

"Yep. Small towns are a curse."

"I promise never to have sex with you in a tent," Harry teased, grinning at you over his wine glass and then leaning over to kiss your temple. He looked down at the line of gnocchi pieces you'd made together proudly, "We're alright at this."

"Hmmm," you hummed, now lost in the past, "I told that uni boyfriend him I loved him … I didn't though," you say without thinking, shrugging as the words came out, "I thought he was boring. But it was cool to have a boyfriend, so I didn't break up with him … Guess I've told more whoppers than I thought."

Harry gives you an understanding look, "I've said I love you to protect someone's feelings too. Thought it might come a little later, that I was just not feeling it as quickly as them."

It should have made you question whether Harry meant I love you with you. But it didn't. He was speaking in the past tense, and you were imaging that version of him being younger than the almost thirty-year-old you were dating. Now though … You wonder what love meant to Harry when you were together. Whether your wires were crossed by different definitions. Even now, you couldn't vilify him. Not completely. He was too thoughtful in general, there'd be a reason for it. There always was with Harry.

"What's your biggest lie?" You turned the exercise back on him, smiling as he refilled your wine glass and skipped a few songs on the playlist. These were your favourite moments with Harry. The end of the day, where you were the only thing on his to-do list. There wasn't a lingering work call, or a meeting to prepare for, an email to reply to. Harry was just finishing his day with dinner and some time at home. With you.

Harry gave you a withering look, "I think you know already."

"I don't," you said because you really didn't, "What was it?"

"There's no way I'll ever do anything else with The Band," he said tonelessly as he turned to rinse his hands in the sink, unable to look at you while he said it. And even then, Harry didn't admit to the lie. Didn't name it. He just said what the truth was instead.

"Why wouldn't you?" You asked, instead of what you were sure Harry thought you'd ask.

You weren't interested in why he told that particular lie though, the answer to that was pretty apparent to you: he cared about his fans—they all did—and didn't want to disappoint them. And they probably hadn't been able to deal with thinking about the ripples ending it completely, right off the bat, would have caused. Saying you were taking a break was a much nicer way to let a world of fans down. An easier pill to swallow than 'We're done' straight off the bat.

You gave Harry time to respond. He fiddled with the gnocchi pieces in front of him, waiting for the water to boil in the pot behind you both, "Not sure, really."

He was lying now, and you could tell. He was ashamed of the truth.

"You're not sure?"

"I just wouldn't, there's no one reason. No big thing. It's not like I hate them all or anything, I just …"

There was one big thing, though. And it was typical Harry to not be able to name it. He was always so in denial about his own arrogance, about what it was that drove him. Harry thought he was above them. His success since The Band far outweighed anything any of the others had done. Going back to that would be diminishing for Harry's career. Wouldn't help him any. He was stronger on his own, more successful. More widely appreciated. That chapter of his life was done, it had been a stepping stone—yes, a life-defining one—but Harry had moved to bigger and brighter stages on his own.

"It's not what you think," he told you lowly when you didn't ask anything further.

It was so typical of Harry to not see the forest for the trees. To not see how he, yet again, was blurring and confusing the lines between a business decision and an emotional, personal one. He was speaking about The Band emotionally, but his reason for distancing himself from it was all to do with business.

"It's not?" You asked plainly.

"I don't think I'm better than them or some shit," Harry said, "I just … That part of me is done. I'm not who I was back then, and I don't want to go back to that person."

"You also wouldn't get anything out of it," you prod, knowing that you shouldn't have. But it was true. So much of Harry's life was a business decision. Everything was so carefully done, so deliberately set into place by him and his team that results and his successes were almost guaranteed.

At the time, you didn't understand how he couldn't see it. Or you couldn't believe that he didn't. He was so calculating, and he hated you telling him so. But he was. He liked to say he wasn't defined by his job, but Harry's whole life was defined by his career, by the who he was.

He loved to spout off his public shit about staying grounded and having a life away from being Harry Styles ™, but he didn't let anyone see even a skerrick that life. The only thing Harry ever let be projected about him was his job, that was all was ever on the table for discussion. And so it was hardly surprising that became who he was away from the cameras and lights as well.

Hiding you was a business decision, you figured out in the aftermath of The End. It was his way of keeping the narrative about his music and career on track. As soon as there was a You, Harry's private life would distract from his real focus and goal, his career. And you mean, it's not like it didn't work for him. Because here you were, standing outside in the chilly night looking at his name up in lights.

Harry's name always looked so good up on billboards and the fronts of stadiums. You always used to tell him even the letters of his name were visually pleasing, they looked good together, like they fit. So you stand on the street across the road from tonight's venue and take it in—HARRY STYLES, SOLD OUT—for several minutes.

You don't know that you're ready for this. Seeing him. You've so perfectly avoided it until now. Until you felt like there was a promise you made lifetimes ago you now can't break. Even if you felt like he'd broken a thousand promises between the two points in time.

Where else would I be? you'd said when he first drew that stupid mock ticket.

Where else, indeed.

You scuttle across the street and sneak between people to get yourself in through the doors. Dodging lenders selling merchandise and ticket holders excitedly covering their painstakingly planned outfits with t-shirts Harry—aided by his perfectionism, you were sure— probably spent months deciding on.

The barcode won't scan though. And the usher at the door doesn't appreciate you pulling your phone back and trying to adjust the backlight, as though that will help the loud, angry sound his scanner is making each time he aims it at the email on your screen. He eventually reads part of your email and then tells you that you need to stand off to the side, barks something gruffly into his walkie talkie and dismisses you in favour of getting through the backlog of people behind you. You're filled with a white-hot embarrassment as you shuffle over and stand under a neon EXIT sign. A moment later you step forward and ask him to try again, but that doesn't get you anywhere different, and you think you're going to get in some kind of trouble when he insists Just stand back over there for a moment.

Your feet have already started hurting in your too-tight boots when finally the wall behind you opens up, and you very quickly come face to face with Harry's assistant.

"Y/N," she smiles, "I thought I said in the email to call me when you got here?"

You're dumbstruck, you didn't read the email, not properly. "I … I …"

"It's good to see you again," her smile hasn't moved, and it's genuine. She reaches one hand out towards you and deposits a VIP lanyard around your neck, "Follow me."

You get halfway down the emergency exit, and she sidesteps a security guard through a doorway, leading you into the veins of the backstage area where there's a familiar buzz of busy people you'd not realised you missed being around until now. Your heart is racing because you weren't prepared for this. You'd been deliberately dragging your feet getting here, and you've arrived barely fifteen minutes before Harry's due to go on stage. She's walked you right to the side of the stage where there's a curtain just to your left and scaffolding all around. You can hear the audience, and you know that one step through that curtain will take you to the pit side of the stage, where you'd seen Harry's family stand during shows before.

"He wanted to say hi beforehand but," his assistant looks at her watch, "But it's a touch too close now so are you okay if I leave you here for just a second? I'll be back in …" her eyes go back to her wrist, "Probably about twenty-five?"

"That's fine," you nod dumbly. "Are you sure this okay?"

You're looking around wondering if this is where Harry meant you to be. Really, you're sure this isn't where he intended you to watch his show at all. A few people are milling around but nobody you recognise, and you figure the majority of them are probably venue employees. Harry and his band would only walk through here at the very last second. He didn't like standing around beforehand with anyone who wouldn't be on stage with him. Harry got in his zone and needed to stay there.

When you look back at his assistant she's giving you a look you don't want to read too deeply, but it almost looks like pity, "Of course," she tells you, "I'll be back by the end of the first song."

"I might go stand through here now," you point to the curtain, preferring the thought of standing in the dark by yourself than waiting for Harry to walk straight past you during his thirty-second countdown. "Is that okay?"

You get a nod, and she tells you to grab a drink off the table behind you. Leaving you with your heart rattling and the heaviest lanyard you've ever worn burning through your shirt to your chest.

Finding a spot to watch the show was easy. You picked the furthest side of the pit, under the concrete overhand of the seats above, and stand in the shadows, only half the stage in your line of sight. It felt like a little cave almost, and you lean your back against the cold concrete and tap your boots together on the ground below you.

The area starts filling around you as members of Harry's team finish their part in preparing him for the show. There are a few women wearing belts with makeup brushes and combs peaking out of them, and two familiar faces from Harry's executive team. They don't see you, though, and you're glad. You watch the roadies' torches flash on the dark stage as they neaten up leads and manoeuvre over amp boxes double-checking the guitars are in the right order for the sets.

There's a movement in your periphery that draws your attention back, the group of people who joined you in the pit all gravitating towards something back at the curtain. And it's not until one of them steps to the side that you see the floating head that's poking through the dark material.

Harry.

He's staring right at you: no expression on his face, just his searching, green eyes that stop when they see you standing in the dark as far from him as you can possibly be. He takes half a step forward, and the shoulder of an expensive suit peeks out. You hear in your head echos of a moment in Harry's living room unpacking a delivery from Gucci, the way you nearly choked on your tea at the cost of a tailored trouser and his half frustrated dismissal, 'It's nothing, that's standard for me.' You felt small at that moment, thinking about how one of Harry's suits could pay for your education for a year, and that would be nothing for him.

You feel small now too. This isn't the space you're supposed to occupy.

The shadow of a frown barely cross his features, but then Harry tries to pull his dimples up to give you a small smile. But it's testing, it's not a confident smile or one he looks sure he's giving. Like he's smiling at someone he's not sure will smile back.

There's no way I'll ever do anything else with the band, he'd said.

But that wasn't the biggest lie he'd told, just the most public, the widest.

His deepest, biggest lie was you.

The fourth lie was that he loved you.

Harry was the one to say it first.

It came out like a compliment. A response to a fact of yours he'd particularly liked. A sort of well done, that was a good one.

It was nearly two months since you'd met, and what started as three or four dates a week morphed into you staying at Harry's house most nights. You spending your weekends off work trailing around after him on his errands or to work things, or hanging out alone at his place until he returned from them. A couple of times, you went to the same exercise class, which involved the two of you going separately and not interacting at all. Still, you'd peek at him from across the room and have to hold your giggles for later when Harry spent the hour concentrating beyond anything you'd ever seen just to stay in the seat of the spin bike.

Saturdays and Sundays he started taking off too though, around a month into dating you. No more 6am weekend PT sessions or midday conference calls with creative teams. The only work Harry allowed himself to do on weekends was housework. Laundry. Food prep. Touching base with his mum.

"Did you know blueberries are actually false berries?"

"No, I did not know blueberries are actually false berries," Harry parroted back to you. You catch the half rolling of his eyes at you where you're sitting up in your favourite spot on the bench next to the hob, peering at him keeping careful watch over breakfast: blueberry pancakes. He was wearing just his pants, chest bare and cool in the autumn morning air. You were rugged up in leggings and a sweater, unsure how he could stand being in such a state of undress.

"It's true," you reaffirmed your tidbit, popping a false berry into your mouth while Harry—with far too much concentration for the job at hand—dropped the small round berries on top of the batter sizzling in the pan. "Berries by definition are fleshy, pulpy ovary fruits that have their seeds embedded on the outside. Blueberry seeds are on the inside. So they aren't really berries."

"Ovary fruits?" He questioned, with a look of mild distaste.

Your shoulders dropped as you realised Harry knew less than you thought he did, "All fruit are ovaries, Harry. Think about it."

He does for a moment, and you can practically see the cogs turning. Harry thinking about how fruit grows on their plants and bushes and shrubs. The fact of what an ovary is when it comes to basic anatomy. And when he comes to the full circle of it, he groans, "That is so weird."

"I think it's cool," you grinned. "Like a little bit cannibalistic in a way."

He barked out a laugh at that, "I don't think that's what it is."

"Well, maybe not technically," you conceded, "But it's something … Really makes you rethink eating eggs."

"Oh my god," Harry was truly laughing then, "Stop, please."

"Sorry," you peeped with a cringed look, tossing back half a handful of the small, round fruit in front of you.

He was shaking his head at you, laughter bubbling out between his perfectly straight teeth, and then it just slipped out, "Fuck, I love you."

The words didn't bump over any hesitation. I love you, Harry said.

Your stomach dropped instantly, but the fond happiness dancing across Harry's face didn't go anywhere. He didn't look back at the pancakes or to where your hands were wringing together on your lap. Harry held your gaze and didn't dodge away from what he said at all. Like he knew you'd need a moment with it, that you weren't expecting him to just come out with that.

"I love you," he repeated after a moment, smiling when he saw your lips start to turn up, "I mean it."

Hearing him yell the same words through the microphone from stage sizzles your heart a little, like the pancakes that day crackled in the pan as Harry pushed himself into you on the kitchen floor. You remember the feeling of his hands under your clothes, your leggings barely halfway down your thighs before he was claiming you in a wave of lust, pushed by the new, invisible force in your relationship—love.

The floor under you now vibrates as everyone gets to their feet to join Harry dancing through his first song. You stare at him, daring him to look over at you but knowing he won't. The longer you stand there, the more you thaw out to it, the more you find yourself with a smile on your face and a slight sway to your hips. His music is fun and familiar and feels like clicking into place.

It's mesmerising. He's mesmerising.

You don't like admitting you'd forgotten how good at this he was. He has the whole crowd eating out of the palm of his hand. Even his crew around you are grinning ear to ear and singing along. Sharing private jokes between them and cutting dance moves in small groups as they watch the show. It's fun. And it reminds you that so much of your relationship with Harry was like that. That there were countless nights spent dancing in the living room or screaming at laptop screens doing board game nights with his family.

You'd forgotten that you could laugh so hard your belly hurt and that Harry was one of the few people who'd ever been able to get you to that point of joy. Watching him throw joy off the stage now at thousands of people was reminding you how very good Harry was—used to be—at making you feel like the only person in the world to him.

"Babe," his giggles filtered down the hallway and into the bathroom where you were plucking your eyebrows, "Babe! Come … Come see this."

You rolled your eyes as you put the tweezers down and padded into his living room, not at all surprised to see Harry pretzeled on his yoga mat in a fit of laughter. He did this a lot, called you away from a task or from work for something hilarious that ninety-nine per cent of the time wasn't hilarious at all. You'd end up snorting out laughter of your own though, at him.

Now, Harry had one of his feet hooked behind his neck while the other was prostrate on the floor behind him.

"You're doing great, baby," you condescended lightly, tilting your head to the side and frowning at his position. It looked awful and not at all calming, let alone comfortable. He wasn't a very good advertisement for yoga at all.

"They say this one's great for—great for," he giggled too much to get the words out, his arms holding his torso back so his legs would do what he wanted them to, he took a deep breath, "It's meant to be the yoga colonic."

Harry was heaving with laughter as he finally got it out, his position faltered, and you watched as his limbs all fell back to the mat as he leant forward cackling. You were grinning too, amused by how amused he was.

"Been feeling backed up, have you?" You asked him, crossing your arms as you hitch one hip out.

He rolled over on his back and wheezed out the final string of laughter, one hand holding his lower tummy as if it ached from the whole spectacle, as his other hand reached out for your ankle, "Come down here with me."

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to be unhappy to be dragged down on top of him, your hips resting on his thighs as your chin propped up on your hands at his chest, "It's very entertaining how entertaining you find yourself," you mused.

Harry rubbed the tears from his eyes and then settled his hands on your back, breathing in the pleasant weight of you there, "I just—I was thinking about what they think the yoga colonic is going to do." His giggles started again, "Imagine being in a class and it literally working? Everyone just—everyone just shits themselves!"

You can feel his laugher, his bones pushing yours up as his whole body fills with his happiness. The stream of tears coming from the corners of his eyes start again as he squeezed his eyes shut while the sound of Harry's deep, uninhibited laughter filled the whole house again.

The memory brings back a smile, like so many with Harry do.

But there's still the Too Fresh Sting of your final moments with him, your last moments with him. You've not seen him since that evening months ago where you both yapped at each other things that couldn't be unsaid, unhappinesses that couldn't be reverted or unadmitted. It wasn't like the fights you had about Harry's casualised view of money and how he'd drop thousands of pounds on seemingly nothing without thinking how small it could make you feel. Or the times you'd snap in frustration when Harry tuned out of you complaining about an issue with your friends he deemed as superfluous or rooted in something silly or not as essential as the Important Thing He Was Planning. He could be so dismissive when he didn't think something mattered highly enough on his scale of measuring things.

The Harry dancing around on stage in front of you wasn't the man who said you were independent like it was a dirty word. Yelled across the kitchen that it was too easy for the two of you to be apart, you didn't miss him enough. The man who told you he didn't feel like you needed him, thought you were always standing with one foot out the door the whole time you were together. And you can remember being flabbergasted (still are, really) by what he was saying because it just wasn't true at all. You? Too independent? You spent every night at his house, and were at Harry's beck and call the whole relationship. And you can hear all the times you said 'what would I do without you?' when he talked you off a ledge or had answers to questions you believed to be unanswerable.

You can see how it was another classic example of Harry telling a non-truth to cover up what was really there. To distract from his own shortcomings. He accused you of what he was feeling, of his flaws. Making them your problem meant he didn't have to be vulnerable. Didn't have to take a risk his business manager hadn't guaranteed. Didn't have to gamble on your future together.

In the relationship, he always had the upper hand. And maybe you did have one foot out the door emotionally, but that was only because you had to. Harry never invited you in with him completely. You were always on the outer. After nearly a year of dating you were still The Girlfriend He Didn't Have.

But I fucking love you, he'd said when he sensed where that night was going. Like Harry had a list of grievances, and it wasn't until he got to the end of reading them out to you that he realised where it landed him. He told you he loved you as though it would erase all the things about you he seemed to dislike so much. Things about yourself you apparently couldn't see.

Hindsight has taught you that if anyone was too independent, or hesitant to commit fully in that relationship, it was Harry.

Halfway through his set, Harry's assistant comes over to check on you, and you end up chatting for a few minutes about how you've been. She speaks to you like there was some club you were a member of and she missed your meetings. Although neither of you references the breakup, or acknowledge in another life you had a lot more to do with each other, the unspoken things weigh on your chest. You find yourself wiping away a quiet tear when she walks back over to the main group watching Harry.

Of course, that's when he teeters over to your side of the stage and looks straight at you. His expression falls instantly, and you're sure that he only meant to glance at you in passing, but what he sees has him doing a double-take and fixing his gaze on you for two lines of the song he's midway through. He tugs on the collar of his shirt and Harry's eyes are desperately trying to read what you're thinking, just like that day he told you he loved you at the end of the breakup, as though you'd forget everything that came before it.

You stick your thumb out to him and give him your best fake smile. Like he might be led to believe you were crying about something else. As if you hadn't just pulled his attention from a room full of people who'd paid for his attention tonight. At that moment you think the fact there's a secret love and life between you must be too obvious to everyone else. There's a connection, something whirls around the room between you and it feels threatening and perilous to how you've been trained to think things have to be.

You wait until Harry turns and goes the other way across the stage before you push off from the wall and walk out.

At first, love was an encouragement between you. It was approval, a showing of appreciation. Love was a promise that was just for the two of you. A declaration that validated everything you were doing together. Love was a feeling that proved what every action meant.

Then, love was a bandaid, was a line used in desperation to fix something unfixable, and you walk the world with skun knees now because of it. Love was never just love. It was used to fix the wrong things.

And in the end, nothing healed at all.

The fifth lie was that he'd always fight for you.

Harry promised you that the two of you would make it work.

You'd make up after every argument, big or small. The little ones that were those tiny bickerings in the car which somehow roared into yelling matches. Or when one person's grumpiness from the day leaked into your evening together. You always expected his call or the long sigh that would precede his apology. You never got halfway home to your house if you left his after a row. He'd call and beg for you to come back, that nothing was worth you physically leaving being near him. You left knowing before the night was done the two of you would reconcile.

Until it was That Fight you were leaving after. The one that began The End.

It started because Harry was overseas for a few weeks. While he was away, you suggested the two of you going on a holiday together during the summer. An anniversary trip. From the other side of the world, it was easy enough for Harry to worm his way of out of it. He went off on a tangent about there being no holidays (rest) for the wicked and then got you talking about something else until you forgot how you'd been sold on the idea of lying on a beach with him for a week.

When Harry got home, you had it stored in an unhappy little pocket in your mind. Top of the agenda for when he returned.

"Can we talk about the holiday thing again?" You asked his first night home.

He sighed against you, his body gearing up for a reunion that didn't involve speaking, lips attached to your neck while his hands danced around the band of your bra, "Do we have to right now?"

"Well," your instinct was to back away from the tension rising between you, "I'd like to."

Harry pushed his hair up off his face and briefly looked at the ceiling, "I don't see how we can, babe. It's too hard, logistically. Just take a week off work and stay with me here."

"I already stay here," you counter, "I'm talking about a holiday somewhere. A beach. Or a ski resort. Something fun and different."

"Those places are all busy," Harry complained, his hands off you. He started to pack the dishwasher from dinner.

"I just want to go away with you, do something normal, you know?"

He clipped the side of the sink with a dinner plate and swore angrily under his breath, "Fuck."

"Don't get angry."

"I'm not fucking angry," he growled, tossing your forks into the plastic crate, "I just fucking got home, and you're straight into this. No 'I missed you so much' or 'It's so great to see you'… Just straight into going on a holiday as if I have endless time to mess about."

"What do you mean? We've just eaten dinner together, you told me all about your trip. I said I was happy to have you home!"

"Yeah, well, feels like you just don't give a fuck that I'm back."

You frowned at him starting to get annoyed yourself, "I cried on our FaceTime call on the weekend because I missed you! You have a lobotomy since then?"

"Don't yell," Harry instructed quietly like he was chastising a child for not controlling themselves.

"What's this about, Harry?" You asked. "Why is it such a crime for me to want to go away with my boyfriend?"

He sighed again, "It's not."

"Right," you crossed your arms over your chest and wondered how many times he could wipe down the chopping board.

Probably one more time.

"So …"

"So what?" Harry repeated, "What do you want from me?"

His words and their harshness shocked you, and that was the exact moment you started worrying this was going to turn into Something Else. Not just a Normal Fight.

"I want you to tell me why you're so annoyed by this?"

It would have been so easy for you to break down and scream about how insane it was that you were talking about celebrating your first anniversary with him and the relationship was still a secret. How badly you wanted to throw that out there, but there was a wise fear in you which said that would be a death wish. (That fact haunts you today, how you knew he'd never step out with you. There wasn't any hope in you or promise from him it wouldn't always be that way. You knew your place and where the boundary line was, don't push past this point. And you always behaved. Never peeped out of your box.)

"It's like you don't even need me," Harry said bitterly, "You're so fucking independent. What's the point?"

"What are you talking about?" You gushed, nearly swallowing your tongue when he turned back to look at you for the first time.

"You don't need me," he accused, "You've always got one foot out the door."

"I don't," came your defence, but you both knew it was the truth. You were halfway out the door because you hadn't been invited all the way in yet.

"You don't want this life with me," Harry shook his head, "You've never been happy where we are. Relationships don't work that way, you can't just keep demanding the same thing hoping you'll wear me down. That's not fair."

Tears shake out of your eyes slowly as your body catches up with what he's saying, "Harry."

"It's not fair!" He repeated loudly. "You can't keep on about it."

About what? You want to ask him because you hadn't mentioned a holiday until the week before. That's not what he was really angry about. He was talking about The Secret. And his guilt was showing. His anger was misdirected, aimed at the wrong thing. He muttered something to himself you didn't hear.

"I didn't hear that."

"I said," Harry looked up at you, and when your eyes clicked together you saw surprise rise and then quickly disappear as if he hadn't expected to see you there. "I said, I don't think we can keep doing this."

"You don't think we can keep doing this?" You repeated it because the words hardly sounded like English the first time you heard them.

I don't think we can keep doing this.

Harry stood across from you with no expression on his face. And it took a few moments for him to own up to what he said, but he does. He nods his head once, awkwardly, and then nods again.

"We can't keep doing this," he tells you, sounding defeated, and then his voice rises again—in pitch, not in volume—"But I fucking love you!"

But I fucking love you.

As if that was enough.

It was days of you expecting a call, and a make up that never came. Expecting the fight for your relationship Harry promised you he'd always put up. You wanted him to prove that you were someone he couldn't do without. You hated the thought of him walking around his house and not feeling the absence of you as some impossible weight he couldn't bear.

"Y/N!" Your name sounds out behind you, but you keep walking, an instantaneous decision that pretending not to hear her might work.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't.

Harry's assistant keeps chasing you down the hall she initially led you through, calling your name and eventually getting you to stop and turn around because, well, you can't keep pretending she's not there forever.

"I'm just finding a loo," you lie.

"There's one this way," she points over her shoulder, in the direction you both came from, "Harry said if you tried to leave I had to go with you, which, for my own dignity I'd really prefer not to have to do."

You find yourself scoffing, "Who said he's in charge of how long I stay?"

Her expression softens somewhat, "He just wants to see you after."

How dare he think he can control this still, you think.

You know she's not the person to be frustrated with. You should be frustrated with yourself first, for coming, and then with Harry for deciding he could orchestrate this … This whatever it was. Still, you find yourself biting out your reply, "He saw me from stage," you tell her bitterly.

"And he'll have seen that you're not there anymore," she replies patiently,, "It'll throw off his focus if he's worried you've gone home halfway through."

You fall into step beside her but can't give him the win, "Quite frankly, it's not my concern or responsibility anymore if his focus is thrown or not."

She wordlessly points out where the bathrooms are just in front of you. You're trying not to make eye contact with anyone who's in these backstage hallways. They feel like ghosts from a life that's not yours anymore.

The first time you met any of Harry's People you'd felt absolutely mortified. The whole thing felt awkward to you, meeting assistants and managers and creative directors. Putting faces and humans to jobs done for Harry. He was a lot of people's boss, and it made you uncomfortable because you'd not seen that side to him before. You knew things like how hot he liked his showers and what yogurt he liked on his muesli in the morning.

That first—and only—step into his professional world, was in a venue just like this one where Harry was filming a music video for a few days. The stage was set up like it was for live a show, and you overheard someone saying setting up for a shoot was more involved than for an actual performance. Harry wanted you to see what this part of his world looked like and despite them not fitting in either of the Friends or Family categories you'd laid out for People Allowed To Know About You, his "Team" were people Harry felt safe introducing to you. (NDAs were a powerful thing) He led you through the hallways by the hand and stuck his head into every room with a cheery, 'Hullo, just bringing Y/N around to meet everyone.'

You remember one person declaring they were happy to be meeting you. Harry was too young to be married to his job, they said with a relieved tone, That it was good he'd found his Someone. Harry beamed at that, looking down at you as if thinking, Yeah, I have found my Someone.

Now you stand back in the pit side of stage, and Harry looks down at you with a hesitation that makes you more uncomfortable than when you were watching him film that music video. His assistant has brought you back to where his team are standing, and you feel more than one set of eyes take stock of you returning, a shared glance between a manager and the girl shadowing you. A wide-eyed exchange that says, That was the last thing we needed. When Harry comes to the side of stage between songs, he's hunting for a bottle of water, but you can see he's come to that side because his eyes are focused on hunting for you.

When he sees you've returned, he slowly takes a sip of water, eyes not leaving yours. You feel like he's admonishing you in his head, seeing how weak you were, that you ran away after a little eye contact. There's a distaste there, you think, and as he's putting the cap back on the bottle, Harry opens his mouth like he's going to try to say something to you, but he stops. He frowns at his hands as he puts the bottle down and then turns away, bringing the microphone back up to his lips and slipping back into entertainer mode.

"In a lot of ways, I hate this next song," he starts slowly, speaking over the band as they begin to slow down the tempo of the night. A smoke machine whirls to life and pumps out a few big clouds, shrouding the stage behind Harry. "I really hate it."

He pauses. And your insides freeze in your chest. You're hanging off his every word, just like every other body in the room. Harry stands right on the front of the stage, toes almost touching the drop off. He's looking out at the audience and lets the microphone hang at his side. Makes no move to keep talking. Was he looking for someone out there, or was he running over what he was about to say in his head? Rehearsing it, making sure it was exactly what needed to be said.

Where you used to see thoughtfulness you now see calculation.

Give nothing away. Sell only the product. Push the song. Let people come to their own conclusions.

"This is a song about," he says carefully, a crack to his voice that sends adrenaline shooting straight down your legs, "About regretting that you've hurt someone. And about the helplessness of wishing you could make them forget what you said, but … Knowing you can't take it back."

You watched Harry trail around to the upright piano on stage and sit himself down on the stool. He stares at his hands hovering over the keys for a moment too long, but you're sure Harry's audience would let him take a hundred more. You see what perhaps they don't—the hesitation. You'd witnessed it enough to spot it, even across the stage in the dark from thirty feet away.

He's not sure about playing the song.

You think about contacting him by telepathy. Saying, I'll leave so you can go back to your show. You don't have to pretend I'm not here, I'll just go. Like I wanted to. Like I tried to.

But he plays it.

You've not heard it before, but the rest of the room has, and they sing along with him. You hear a couple of thousand people sing with your ex-boyfriend about him regretting the way he treated you. And you're almost able to talk yourself out of believing it's about you, you can nearly reason with yourself that it's kind of vague. Other than naming the cafe he'd sat in the car park of a hundred times waiting for you to return with a takeaway, it could be about anyone, really.

But he sings out a line and looks straight at you, and his eyes say it's yours. The song. The apology that's not been said yet.

I get the feeling that you'll never need me again.

His voice cracks again as he sings it. And the hurt part of you says it's just a vocal technique Harry's trained to call on at any time. It doesn't speak to anything other than a creative choice on his part. But the vulnerability is hard to ignore, the low hanging, remorseful unease in the room. He fumbles a string of notes on the piano as he sings and you're hit by the overwhelming need to make him stop.

Witnessing whatever he's currently feeling with this song is more uncomfortable than you've ever been, and a switch in you to protect him flicks on. You look around at his assistant, his manager, trying to see if there's even a hint of anyone else feeling like this moment needs an intervention, needs to be stopped.

The song ends. And you're glad.

Harry takes a few moments on stage to get ready with a guitar for the next song. He doesn't come over to your side of the stage for a drink, or to ask the roadies for anything. Instead, he flies straight into the next section of the set. Seemingly recovered from the heavy moment you felt as though you nearly drowned in. He'd never sung about you before.

Nothing remotely personal about your relationship ever left Harry's house.

And you find yourself wishing it would all just go back there.

The sixth lie was that he wouldn't break your heart.

Harry did though.

He broke your whole life.

So when he comes off stage at the end of his gig, there's little in you that wants to hang around. As soon as the lights go down and you see Harry's silhouette cross the back of the stage and hop down the stairs to the floor, your gut churns, and you wish you were one of the people in the rest of the venue. The ones now turning and slowly filing out of the building. Going back to their lives peacefully.

Instead, you're ushered behind the curtain again, into the small area that's immediately buzzing with life. You watch Harry as if he's moving in slow motion though. As soon as his boots hit the concrete floor somebody is tugging the suit jacket from his shoulders and swapping it for a grey hand towel that he uses to wipe down his face. His hand pushes his hair up over his head as he smiles at a handful of people, and then his eyes find yours. The smile drops, and he takes a steadying breath in.

"Y/N," he says loudly. Straight. Without expression. It's a statement, but also you sense a question there too. As if you might not turn out to be the person who was standing there. He holds your gaze over and through the people walking around and in front of him. He's handed a bottle of water and offered a second one which he takes, "Y/N," he says again, pulling his head back to beckon you over.

You roll your lips together when you've made it to the vacant space in front of him. Harry passes you the extra water bottle and cracks the lid off the one he keeps for himself. You grip yours with both hands but don't make any move to open it. Standing in front of him didn’t feel like you thought it would. It’s less of a kick I in the gut, and more a reinforcing of things that you’d figured out since being without him.

"Hi," he says hesitantly, briefly looking at someone behind your left shoulder. Then, you feel his eyes back on your face.

You speak to his forehead, not ready to have things inside you unlocked by eye contact, "Hello."

"This way," Harry says after a moment, running the towel down his sweaty face again.

He leads you down a hallway, wiping his face on the towel two more times as he walks. Harry continuously looks over his shoulder at you to make sure you're still following him, as if there was somewhere for you to hide in the concrete hallway. When he gets to his dressing room door, he kicks it open and holds his arm out to let you in first. The room smells like his cologne, a whiff of his final moments before going out on stage and a time portal back to mornings you'd spritz it on yourself before leaving the house, it was your scent then too. There was a small sofa and table, a long mirrored table with his laptop open next to a stack of papers, his screen saver bouncing back and white photos across the locked screen. His overnight bag and its contents were sprawled out over the floor in the corner next to where you can see his phone charging.

"You look good," is the first thing he says to you. Trying to pull your attention probably. Maybe hoping to get on the front foot charming you. You could tell him he looked good as well, particularly in the cream suit they had him in tonight, but you were sure there were no shortage of people who already had.

"Your show was good," you deflect away from the personal, eyes tracing the bottles in the corner of the table, "Great setlist."

"Needs a shakeup, if we're honest. Getting stale," Harry shrugs, and you see it in the mirrored wall. He's still standing by the closed door, watching you walk into the centre of the room and take stock of what's around you. "How have you been?"

"Fine."

Harry coughs uncomfortably, "Thanks for coming, wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure either."

You sense Harry realising this conversation was going to be exactly as difficult as feared it might be, he nods his head and moves over to the sofa but doesn't sit down, "Did you want a seat?"

"I'll sit here," you perch yourself on the chair in front of his laptop, crossing one leg over the other and hitching your elbow at the back so you're facing Harry. Keeping the room between you.

Harry sits on the arm of the small, burgundy sofa, and tosses the towel onto the seat next to him, "Looked like you were a little upset there for a moment."

"My boots are new," you quip, kicking your top foot out towards him, "Blisters."

He sighs again, and you start to feel chastised, but there's a more substantial part of you that stubbornly bunkers on down to playing this role, taking power when you'd never had it with Harry before. He knew it wasn’t blisters that had emotion welling up in you during his set. But just the same it wasn’t his place anymore to be privy to your feelings. And you weren’t going to let him gallantly try to take it. You weren’t old friends who could pick up where you left off. You were broken lovers.

"I just thought we could do with talking," Harry says finally.

"You could have uninvited me, you know, I assumed—Well, it's not like I've been expecting to still attend any of your shows the last six months. This one didn't have to be different."

He almost looks hurt, "You live here."

"How was Italy, Harry?” you turn the conversation around abruptly because you didn't like where it was going, and he was starting to frustrate you. You didn’t need him pointing out you lived in this city alone now since he left. As if you didn’t know.

Where watching him on stage hit you with longing and heartbreak, memories you found yourself irrevocably attached to, being in the same room as him now is only making you see the real Harry. The one who's so good at rearranging the energy in the room to make you feel you need to give more of yourself. The one who's an expert at asking a leading question and relying on the other person to be vulnerable first, lead the charge out the gates.

The man who lied to hide you every day for nearly a year, even when it was hurting you more than protecting you. The hurt from him was worse than the invasion of your privacy would have be. The distrust you felt didn't counteract the security you were still afforded by anonymity. The way you felt you still had something to prove—something to earn from him—and that you just needed to earn the right to your place in Harry's life.

"I've missed you," he said finally, "Just …"

"You've been lonely?" You raise your eyebrows at him.

"What?" Harry's defences click into place, "No, it's not that—obviously yes, I've been lonely—but also I just—I miss you."

You start nodding, and your gaze drifts around the room, "Yeah, I … What exactly do you miss, Harry? Because—I mean, it was kind of shit, don't you think?"

"Shit?" he looks horrified, "What was shit?"

"Harry," you say simply, telling him to cut the bullshit with your expression. "Come on."

"I loved you," he declares loudly, proudly, “We had a great time together. I don't think it was kind of shit at all."

That's when you feel tears come to your eyes. Of course he didn't think it was shit. He still didn't see where the problem was. Couldn't see it. He would go right back to That Fight and keep going the way you had been if he could. Harry would keep living that life with you, he would have kept on going the same way. You'd still be the secret. A fight about a holiday would have resolved itself with compromise and make-up sex, and you would have gone right back to sneaking out of venues and pretending not to know him in crowded rooms.

Your lips turn up in a smile of sorts as your tears beg to fall but don't, "You haven't changed," you state with a small, incredulous laugh, "You've not figured it out. Nothing's changed," you repeat, shaking your head.

Harry's confusion is plain, and if he thought your tears were because you miss him there's something like a flicker of doubt, as if he's reading what's in front of him again and maybe getting a different story.

"You can't have a life with someone who doesn't want anyone to know you're in their life," you state simply.

And that was it, really. That was the nuts and bolts of it.

The secrecy eroded any meaning your relationship with Harry had. The doubt that cast. The burden on you to continually prove yourself, to audition for the role every day only to never graduate from understudy.

You watch Harry's throat constrict tightly as he thinks about the words that come from his mouth, "I loved you," he repeats, "I didn't want anything outside of us to fuck us up."

"You can't control the world that way, Harry," you're observing him carefully, "You definitely can't control people that way. I get why we started that way, but a year in, Harry? A year."

He looks at his feet, and it's the first bit of remorse you've ever seen him show over it.

"I know you loved me," you keep going, "But you can't use that as some bandaid for the lying, for the hurt that was. You can't erase the consequences because you thought you were protecting me or us or yourself. The truth doesn't cancel out the hurt of the lie."

Harry's still starring at his boots, "You could have said something."

You blink once.

"Fuck you," bursts out before you can stop it, and Harry's eyes snap up to yours, you laugh at his nerve and rise to your feet, "Fuck you, Harry. I couldn't have. I felt like I had to earn it. Like maybe I was one gold star away from getting there. And then when I did push it, you ended it."

"That's not—

"—It is," you insist, shaking your head at him, "You put all your insecurities and shortcomings on me and then had the nerve to tell me you loved me as if I was the defective cog in the wheel. As if you saying you loved me put all the onus on me spoiling it."

"I'm a private person—

You put your hand up to silence him, turning on your heel to face Harry as your pacing halts, "Stop. I don't … I don't care," you breathe out simply, "I really don't. Our relationship wasn't The One. It's one we'll both learn from for the ones that are coming. I hope you learn from it," you add quietly, "Because I have."

"Y/N," Harry says your name like it's an idea he's unsure of.

"That song wasn't about me, was it?" You ask because on stage he said it was about regretting hurting someone and there's been no hint of a 'sorry' from Harry since.

His brow creased, "It is. I am. I wanted you to hear me play it tonight. It's for you."

You smile, the idea that you've grown beyond this situation blooming inside you, "You've not said it."

"What?"

"You haven't said you're sorry," your head shakes again, a fresh wave of your new perfume—the one that's just yours—filling your nose, "You've said you missed me. And that I look good, but you've not said you're sorry. You can put an apology into the song on stage, but you can't admit you were wrong to the person you wrote the song about."

His shoulders sink, just the slightest amount, and you know that you've seen enough. You've said enough. He's not going to have an epiphany on this, not in this conversation with you. You've gone as far as you can with this. As far as you're willing to.

"I'm going to go," you take a step forward, "Thanks for the song, your voice sounded really nice on it."

And you walk passed him with just a final wave and the slightest touch to his shoulder. He doesn't move from his seated position, but his neck cranes and he watches you leave. Eyes hunting your back for answers, like the manuscript for what just happened might show up there. But it doesn't, and you slip out the door, the clip from your shoes fading from his hearing quicker than he wanted it to.

Your insides are shaking by the time you make it out onto the street. No part of you wants to turn back and look up at his name in lights again. You're done with seeing the best of everything in him. Harry's one of the shitty boyfriends you'll tell someone about one day in the future, and they'll call him a dickhead with anger dripping from their tongue, promising to never treat you the same way.

And they won't.

You'll both have bumped and bruised your way into each other's lives, and there'll be a satisfying click with them there wasn't with anyone else. You'll have journeyed through all the maybes and not-quites, and you'll land in that forever place with the person who wears the badge of Yours with a fervour nobody before them has.

And Harry … You'll go and be Nothing to Him.

My inbox is here

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from-seas-to-skies · 3 years

Text

The Teacher / Bakugou x Reader ♕︎

warnings: NSFW, teacher/student relationship, oral sex, spitting, sir kink, slut shaming, somewhat brat taming, age difference, unprotected sex

words: 5,772

(a/n): Bakugou is 30 in this; reader is younger (college age)

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

One, two, three, four… How long was it going to take until class ended again?

Looking up from your notebook, you stare up at the clock, the large, monotonous face seemingly glaring straight back at you. You don’t know how it happens, but time always moves so slow when it comes to your calculus class. Frankly, you’d rather ditch the class altogether, but if you wanted to graduate from college, you had to pass. Curse stupid curriculums and all that shit.

However, despite absolutely dreading having to stare at numbers for a solid hour and a half, there is a plus side to taking this dreaded class. In fact, it’s the very reason why you signed up for it in the first place. You’ve heard so many wonderful things about it, all from girls and guys alike, and you knew you had to see it up close and personal – rather, you had to see him.

Professor Bakugou.

Age thirty, drives a Land Rover, and, most importantly, single.

He’s about as dreamy as they come; a complete and utter Dreamboat Annie, absolutely huge in both height and stature, intelligent, and handsome. He’s only been a professor for a few years, but it’s been made apparent to the school that he’s worth it. Not only are his teaching methods and lectures incredible, but he’s turned out some of the highest grades your college has even seen. That itself is impress, and, combined with the hype of how hot he is, it’s no wonder people rush to take his classes.

So, when it came time for class schedules to come out, you were excited, needless to say. Despite having a general disliking to math in the first place, you figured this one guy could be what it takes to turn that idea around. Oh, but that was before you first laid your eyes on him.

Shit, you had heard that he was attractive – godly, even – but this? You weren’t expecting this. His biceps alone could crack a watermelon, and his sharp jawline could easily cut diamonds. It sounds cliché, that’s true, but you have no other way of putting it. Words did not do this man any justice.

At first, his constant yelling and crude demeanor were a total turn off. Professor Bakugou was essentially the teacher version of Gordon Ramsay, and you weren’t entirely sure if you liked that or not. However, as time continued, you actually grew accustomed to it. In fact, if he didn’t yell at least once during the class, you’d immediately figured he was having a bad day.

That’s when the thoughts began. Call it infatuation, a mindless crush, whatever, but you wanted Professor Bakugou. Your eyes soon began to watch his large hands flex while he wrote on the board rather than the content itself. You’d watch his forearms flex while he turned the page in his textbook, prominent veins inviting you for a better look. How you longed to touch him, to grab his sturdy shoulders or pull his wild hair. He always looked so good, clothes tailored to fit his muscular frame perfectly.

You’d fantasize about the most random of scenarios, each of them usually ending up with him bending you over his desk at the front of the room. You liked colder days the best, especially since Professor Bakugou had the habit of wearing form-fitting sweaters that outlined his massive pecs or the swell of his arms. You wanted to make him feel better, to sit underneath the desk and suck him off while he taught the rest of the class. Those narrow hips had to be strong, and you’d be damned if you never got to experience their power at least once.

It’s almost as if Professor Bakugou had cast a spell over all of his students. Nearly all of them gushed about how great he was; and, if you were in the proper company, they exchanged fantasies or proclamations about how fucking gorgeous he was. You’d usually grow bitter at these types of conversations. It was a crush, for fuck’s sake. There was no need to get all pouty like some problematic schoolgirl.

Still, the thoughts wouldn’t go away, not when he taught, not when he yelled. His booming voice became a part of your wicked fantasies, wondering how it’d sound to hear him grunting your name or commanding you to spread his legs for him. Again and again, you told yourself that it was fine, that people develop crushes on their teachers all the time. It was only in the dead of night that you’d have your hand stuffed down your pants and mouth moaning his name into a pillow was when you regretted it. It was a phase, nothing more.

And yet, over two months into the semester, and these thoughts still won’t go away. The constant ticking of the clock brings you back down to Earth, your eyes focusing on the problems before you. Swallowing thickly, you loosen your hand, now just noticing how hard you’ve begun to clench your pencil. Your insides feel oddly warm, that pleasant, heavy feeling sitting behind your belly button. Dammit, you mentally curse, this is not the time to be getting distracted.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

If only class could end sooner.

“Right,” Professor Bakugou suddenly says from his desk, “this Friday, I’m holding a study session for the upcoming exam on Monday. There’s only going to be a limited number of seats available, so if you wanna join, here’s your chance.” With his words, he holds a blank sheet of notebook paper up, a rather bored expression on his face.

He must be tired, you think, unconsciously biting your bottom lip. But why?

Around you, students shuffle to the front of the class, waiting for a chance to scribble their names onto the paper. Some seem a bit more excited than others, obviously arching their backs or flipping their hair over their shoulders. With a scoff, you look back down to your work. Did they really think they could catch his attention like that? Yeah, so he doesn’t show off a ring on his finger, but it’s pretty likely that he has people throwing themselves at him all the time. Besides, Professor Bakugou is a strict guy; there’s no way he’d engage in a relationship with a student.

You really shouldn’t be getting your hopes up. It’s pointless to pine after your teacher like that, especially with the risks that come along with getting involved with each other. Still, you can’t help but feel bitter. Professor Bakugou is a god that walks amongst men, so how could you not want somebody like him?

“Alright, that’s all for today. Class dismissed,” Professor Bakugou calls out. Dammit, you spaced out again. Maybe you should get that checked out?

With a sigh, you stuff your belongings into your backpack and draw to a stand. You wish it would be spring already; trudging through snow and ice is never fun, and the fact that your dorm is basically on the other side of campus makes it even more rough. Pulling your coat on and slinging your backpack over your shoulders, you make way towards the classroom door, completely unaware of a set of eyes watching your every move.

“Man, this is impossible,” your best friend, Ashido Mina, groans. “I’m going to bomb this exam for sure!” Sprawled out on her stomach, she squirms on the floor, her face scrunching with her displeasure.

You, on the other hand, sit cross-legged across from her. Notebooks and math textbooks surround the two of you, your laptop and calculator at the ready. Bags of chips and pretzels sit to the side, along with abandoned coffee cups and empty water bottles. Professor Bakugou’s exams were notorious for being hard, but at the same time, if you payed attention in class and studied, you’d succeed. The thing is, though, that neither you nor Mina are the best when it comes to math.

“I thought you went to his study session?” you ask, glancing up from your own notebook.

Flashing you a pout, Mina nervously runs a hand through her fluffy hair. “Well, yeah, but you know how it goes! A secluded area with Professor Bakugou! It’s like a dream come true! It was hard to focus when he’s leaning over your shoulder like that…”

Rolling your eyes, you puff in amusement. “Really? Mina, you know what will happen if you fail this test.”

“Yeah, yeah, but come on! You can’t blame me! You would’ve done the exact same thing!”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh yes you would’ve!” Mina exclaims, pointing an accusing finger your way. “Don’t pretend like you don’t ogle Professor Bakugou during class! He’s one hell of a hunk, isn’t he? I never knew college professors could be so hot!” she gushes, a giggle following her words. “And that study session – oh my god, I nearly thought I was going to heart attack when he helped me solve this one problem. He’s so warm and he smells great!”

You cock an eyebrow at her. “You were smelling our teacher?”

At that, Mina blows a raspberry and waves a dismissive hand. “I’m not Kaminari, sweetheart. I have class. Besides, Professor Bakugou smells like caramel. Can you believe it? I wonder if he uses cologne or feminine soap.”

Caramel, eh? Now that’s something you can get behind.

“You want him to fuck you, right?”

Wait, what?

Narrowing your gaze at her, your brows knit closely together. “What kind of question is that?”

Mina rolls her eyes. “What, like you don’t think about it? Practically everyone on this campus has thought about it at some point or another? I mean, hello! He’s totally Daddy material. I’ve heard that he goes to the gym sometimes here on campus – turns out he’s huge.”

Huge. Of course this is what Mina chooses to focus on. You wish you had a spray bottle to squirt at her horny ass.

“And I don’t mean muscle wise,” Mina continues, a mischievous expression coming to her face. “I bet he tastes like candy.”

“Mina.”

“Why yes, Mr. Bakugou sir! I’ll gladly suck your fat cock for an A!”

“Mina.”

“His ass is really nice, too. I wouldn’t mind pegging him-“

“MINA.”

“What?”

You smack your forehead and groan as your hand trails down your face. “Are you going to study or not? I don’t know about you, but I’d rather graduate than work at McDonald’s for the rest of my life.”

Mina purses her lips at you in an excessive pout. “You’re such a fun sponge, holy shit. I think you need a good dicking down by Professor Bakugou. Maybe then you’d stop staring after him all the time during class.”

Your face heats up at her words, but there’s no way you’re owning up to that. Okay, so yeah, maybe getting fucked by him would be a dream come true, but you’re more realistic than that. “And you’re not concerned at all that he’s our teacher? You know, like he could lose his job and you could be expelled? That doesn’t bother you? At all?”

Mina shrugs. “Meh.”

“Woooow…. You really are shameless.”

“Hey, you win some, you lose some. If I could get that man to put a ring on my finger, then I’d be okay with it.”

“Yeah, because you definitely want to bring your math professor home. Uh huh, great one. Tell me how that goes.”

With a grunt, Mina rolls over and sits up. “Whatever, man. I’m hungry, so I’m going to go down to the dining hall. Wanna come with?”

Glancing at the alarm clock sitting on your nightstand, you see that it’s only 5:15. True, you could get a bite to eat, but you’d rather stay back and finish a few more problems. “I think I’ll join up with you later,” you tell Mina.

She nods her head and offers you a small smile. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. I’ll see you later.” Gathering up her things, she unceremoniously shoves them into her backpack and salutes you with a goodbye. After she pulls the door shut behind her, you turn back to the task at hand.

It shouldn’t be this hard to solve these last couple of problems, but your brain is really starting to feel the struggle. A dull ache is already forming between your eyeballs, and you truly wonder if you’re going to make it through this or not. Maybe you should take a break, or at least give your eyes a rest. Still, that little stubborn streak in you tells you to carry on. You only have a few more problems left, and you’re so close to finally finishing!

As you set to work, the digits on your alarm clock change as time drags on. Okay, so maybe you’re demanding too much of yourself. Your brain is absolutely fried, and your headache is spreading. Glancing back up at the clock, luminous green lines glare a 5:31. Jeez, it’s only been sixteen minutes since you last checked, yet it seems as though hours have passed. You really want to finish this study session, but the last problem is throwing you in for a loop.

You’ve already scoured your notes and the textbook for how to go about the problem, but your mind is drawing up with a blank. It has to be because you’re tired, right? It’s not that hard… Or is it?

“Dammit,” you mutter, sitting back and pressing your palms flat against the floor. Again, you look at the clock. Frankly, you don’t want to spend all night pouring over this, and you don’t want to skip dinner, either. You know for a fact that Mina will beat your ass for skipping out on food. “Screw it.”

Scrambling off the floor, you throw a thick coat on and slide on your sneakers. Professor Bakugou sometimes has the habit of frequenting his office during the weekends (or so you’ve heard), and you desperately need to know how to solve this problem. Chances are something similar will be on the exam, and you want to get as good of a grade as possible. Plus, if he is there…

You swallow thickly. Now is not the time to let Mina’s previous words get to you.

And so, with your notebook tucked underneath an arm, you take off.

It’s a damned shame that his office is practically on the other side of campus, but you figure it wouldn’t be too bad to get your body moving after spending so much time hunched over. Now that you think about, you could just email him, but you’re not sure how quick he’d respond. This is a dire moment. Okay, maybe not, but still. Maybe you want to see Professor Bakugou. Maybe.

You’re thankful when you finally enter the building, free of the flurries of snow and the seeping chill. Stomping your feet free from snow, you look around, creeped out yet fascinated by the silent, empty halls. You doubt very many people are here besides lingering staff and the janitors. One could only hope that Professor Bakugou is frequenting his office.

As you draw closer and closer to his office, your footsteps bounce off the walls, reminding you of how alone you are. There’s a fifty/fifty chance that he’s even going to be in his office, yet your heart pounds frantically in your chest. If he isn’t there, you’ll just simply turn around and stalk back to your dorm and hope for the best. If he is there, well, you’re not entirely sure what you should say.

He’s your teacher, dammit. It shouldn’t be this hard going up to him and asking him for help. It’s literally his job to help students out; nothing more, nothing less. Still, Mina’s words ring throughout your mind. It’s just a crush, you remind yourself. Stop getting so worked up about it.

There it is, just straight up ahead – Professor Bakugou’s office.

Like the other offices lining the hall, it’s made from a heavy wood, a frosted window place in the top half with Professor Bakugou’s name printed on it. A simple door like this shouldn’t intimidate you so much, but yet it does. All you have to do is knock on it, wait for a possible response, and then go from there. However, now that you’re in front of it, you somewhat hope he’s not there. Your palms are growing clammy and your throat feels fuzzy.

“Here goes nothing,” you tell yourself, reaching up and rapping on the door.

For a moment, nothing happens. Perhaps Lady Luck has decided to spare some mercy on you, after all. Releasing a pent-up breath you didn’t know you were even holding, you prepare to step back and walk away, but then a muffled come in sounds through the door.

Oh, shit.

You wince as your cowardice floods you with a renewed force. There’s no way you can just leave now, not if you want Professor Bakugou potentially chasing you down. Taking in a deep breath, you turn the brass knob and poke your head inside. “Uh, Professor Bakugou?”

Oh, shit.

There he is, sitting behind an oak desk, hunched down over a stack of papers. He holds up a single finger, a signal for you to give him a moment. Immediately, your eyes skim over his exposed forearms, skim over the tight black turtleneck that fits him like a glove. Rolled sleeves, watch on wrist, and a pair of glasses perched on his nose, he’s just dripping with classy sexiness.

The steady tick tock, tick tock fills the otherwise silent room. It grates on your already wired nerves, mocks you for just standing there, waiting. You can’t help but glance at its face – 5:49. It’s already dark out, winter’s everlasting darkness sapping the Earth’s light. Stepping fully inside the room, you gently shut the door behind you, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought.

After another moment or so, he finally clicks his pen closed, tosses it onto the desk, and leans back in his chair. “Oi – what do you want?”

Removing your notebook from underneath your arm, you hold it out for him to take. “I was… I was wondering if you could explain how to work out this problem?”

Quirking an eyebrow, Professor Bakugou sits upright and glances at what you’ve written. “We discussed this during the study session on Friday.” His eyes dart up to yours. “I’m surprised you weren’t there.”

Is he singling you out right now? It feels like he’s singling you out right now. But wait, doesn’t that also mean that he noticed you not being there? He’s just saying that to say it, right? …Right?

“There was a lot on my mind,” you say softly.

Professor Bakugou sighs. “Alright, come here.” Maybe it’s the gruffness of his voice, but the simple command nearly has you whimpering on the spot. Jesus, you need to get your act together!

“Of course, sir,” you reply, the title subconsciously rolling off your tongue. Skirting around the desk, you come to his side, unaware of him shifting in his seat.

“It’s really not that hard if you put your damned brain to use,” he grunts, picking his pen back up. You notice how the tendons in his hand flex with the subtle movement; actually, now that you’re up close in personal, you can clearly see the veins racing up his forearms, the sheen of blond hairs.

Warmth seems to radiate off of him, just like how Mina said. You wonder if he gets hot easily, or if that’s just the way he is. Either way, you shimmy the slightest bit closer to him, eager to ward off the chill that still clings to you from the outside. He goes into great detail about how to go through each step surrounding the problem; you lean over his shoulder as he goes through the steps, the heat emanating from his skin drawing you in more and more. With each breath, the scent of caramel floods your senses. You’re almost half tempted to press your nose to his nape and get a better smell, but that’d just be creepy. Plus, even if you did that, Professor Bakugou could probably pick you up and literally throw you out of his office.

Still, despite knowing the risk, your mind takes off, just like it usually does whenever you’re in his presence. It would just be so easy to squeeze his thick arms, to run your fingers through his thick blonde hair. Maybe you could push the collar of his turtleneck down, expose his neck and bite the pulse. It’s almost ridiculous just how big he is, how easily he could overpower you. A familiar warmth floods your system, encasing your insides and clutching onto your heart. This is bad – very, very bad.

“Oi, what the hell are you staring at?” Professor Bakugou barks.

Snapping yourself back to attention, you notice him staring at you, his glasses now off his handsome face. If possible, he’s even more attractive up close; thick lashes, full lips, a slight gleam in his eyes that demand power and control. He almost looks entirely different like this, face lax instead of fixed with a scowl. Good lord, you really are whipped for him.

“Oh, um, sorry,” you ramble, eyes going wide. “It’s just that your hair looks really… fluffy…?”

“…Hah?”

You quickly avert your eyes. “Nevermind…”

“You know,” Professor Bakugou starts, voice low, “you stare at me a lot during class, too. You’re not very subtle.”

You wince at his words. “I… I’m not sure what you’re talking about-“

Rolling his eyes, he scoffs and tosses down his pen. “You’re not majoring in theatre, are you? Because you suck at acting.” He flashes you a cocky smirk when you look back to him. “Just admit it – you like what you see, don’t ya? Can’t say I blame you.”

Okay, wow, cocky much. Yeah, sure, he’s an absolute babe, but wouldn’t you think he’d be a bit more… modest?

Now it’s your turn to scoff. “Didn’t know my math professor thought so highly of himself.”

“Tch. Looks like you got a damn mouth on you, after all. Well, if you’re done undressing me with your eyes, do you want to learn how to do this problem or not? I don’t like repeating myself, but I’ll let it slide just this once since I like you.”

Wait, wait, hold up. Did he just say he likes you?

“You’re a good student,” Professor Bakugou continues. “Even if you do focus on me more than my lecture.”

Is this how the conversation was supposed to play out? Because damn you’re nearly shaking, and you still have your coat on. He knows too much, dammit. He’s known this entire time and he’s playing you.

“And yet you could’ve easily told me to stop,” you shoot right back, sick of being prosecuted like this. Sure, it might be a bad idea to pick a fight with a teacher, but this is outside of classroom hours; and, frankly, he can kiss your ass. Crude demeanor or not, you’re not about to let this man push you around.

“Who said I wanted you to stop?”

No. There’s no way he just said that. This big-headed narcissist is relishing in this, isn’t he? Bastard.

“Hate to break it to you, Professor, but almost everyone stares at you like that,” you tell him. You realize you just admitted it to the accusation, but there’s no point in defending it anymore.

“Like I give a shit about the others? Really? You’re gonna talk about them?” He scoffs his amusement and leans back in his chair, thick arms crossing over his chest. “Did you come here to ask me questions about the exam or did you just want to be with me all by yourself?”

You hesitate. Is that really the reason you came here tonight? The whole way here you debated this yourself, Mina’s words circling around your head. No, you’re smarter than this. It’s a bad idea to get involved with a teacher – it’s wrong.

“I’m not going to lie or deny the truth,” Professor Bakugou continues, his voice dropping to an uncharacteristically low pitch. “I’m also not stupid. You’re just as scared as me, aren’t you? Of the repercussions.”

Your mouth falls agape. What is he going on about…?

Slowly, Professor Bakugou sits back up, his face getting dangerously close to yours. Hot breath fans over the bottom half of your face. His eyes are heavily lidded, his lashes kissing his cheeks. “I’m not going to force anything on you,” he murmurs. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Oh my god.

Unable to resist the close proximity anymore, you shoot forward, your hands landing on the arms of the chair; Professor Bakugou’s lips are softer than you anticipated, but in no way is he gentle. Right away he’s clutching the back of your neck, dragging you forward so you’re settled on his lap. The arms of the chair pinch into your thighs at the tight fit, but you could care less. You’re on Professor Bakugou’s lap, you have his tongue in your mouth, his hands landing on your ass and kneading the flesh.

“Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do this forever,” he growls, his hands slipping under your shirt and gliding over your lower back. You arch into his touch, a breathless moan slipping past your lips.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you pant.

“I know.”

Fuck, it’s all so good, his tongue licking the inside of your mouth and hands unbuttoning your jeans. A startled noise erupts from your throat as a large hand slides into the front of your pants, cupping your crotch. You buck into his touch, all sense dissipating from your thoughts as you fervently grind into his heated palm. There’s a clutter of paper and office supplies as they hit the floor. Before you know it, you’re rising from the chair, your ass landing on the wooden desk instead.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking hot,” Professor Bakugou grits. Your ass is barely on the desk by the time he’s done dragging you forward, your jeans aggressively getting yanked off, your underwear following suit. Your thighs instinctively snap shut at the cold air making contact with your bared skin, but strong hands pry them apart, fingertips kneading into the flesh. “I wanna make you cum with my tongue.”

“Wai- Ah! Fuck!” you cry out, your fingers clutching onto the edge of the desk as his head ducks down, his mouth latching onto your sex. Until now, you weren’t even aware that you were dripping with arousal. Sinful noises spill from between your legs as Professor Bakugou fucks you with his mouth, his lips wrapping around your most sensitive parts.

“God, you’re such a slut.”

Smack.

You cry out as he brings a hand down on the innermost part of your thigh; your nerves quake, your blood pumps wildly through your veins. Again, he slaps your thigh, a growl tearing itself from his chest as he looks up, his eyes catching yours.

“Say it.”

Smack.

“I – I’m a slut,” you babble, tongue feeling heavy in your mouth.

Smack.

“What was that?”

“I said I’m a slut!” you exclaim, voice cracking.

“I expect you to refer to me properly,” he says darkly, his pupils dilating to the point where you could barely see his irises. “Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

A single smirk is thrown your way before his mouth is back on you, his tongue lapping up your arousal. His moves are quick, sensual. It’s clear he’s experienced, and you don’t blame him. Just look at him for Christ’s sake. The man is basically sex on legs, all nicely wrapped up in a turtleneck sweater and a simple pair of slacks. The pleasure only heightens as his fingers come into play, prodding at your hole; the tips just barely push past the muscle, leaving you moaning even louder and clutching harder on the desk. Your fingernails scratch the surface, the lacquer coming off.

“Tasty little brat, aren’t ya?” he drawls. Your entire body jolts as he spits on your sex. “I could get used to doing this.”

“Please, sir,” you plead, desperation filling your voice. You want his mouth back on you. You want to cum. “Please, it feels so good…”

Professor Bakugou clicks his tongue. “Shit, you’re even obedient. How nice.” He redoubles his efforts, then, wet noises filling the room along with your heavy breathing.

“Shit, shit, oh my god,” you babble, your body tensing. Still, his tongue digs in just right and there goes your sanity, flying out the window as you cum.

A deep chuckle fills your ears as Professor Bakugou sucks it down; drawing away, he flashes you his tongue, your arousal coating his tongue before he makes a show of swallowing the last bit of it. Wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, he draws to a stand. The tent in his slacks is obvious, the front of it darker than the rest. Your insides squeeze around nothing, the idea of making him get like that making you feel hotter than before.

You’re hypnotized as he pulls his hands away. His movements are slow and methodical, the clink of his belt echoing throughout the room. Swallowing thickly, you bite your lip as he leisurely undoes his belt and slacks. Blood rushes through your ears, your mind a complete mess. You feel dizzy with want, with the need to sink your teeth into the swell of his pectoral, to claw the plains of his back.

All the air is sucked from your lungs when he finally pulls his cock out, the head flushed a deep red. Your eyes trail over the prominent veins, the fat bead of precum pushing its way out the tip. Fuck, he’s huge, both in length and girth. Whoever told Mina that he was big wasn’t lying. Your legs subconsciously spread even wider, a silent plead for him to fill you up and fuck you raw.

“Tell me you want this,” he husks. He does the honor of unzipping your coat and slipping it off your shoulders before easing you onto your back. The cold from the wood permeates through your shirt, brings a new wave of goosebumps to your flesh.

“Only if you tell me the same thing,” you croak. “Do you fuck all of your students who walk in through that door?”

“No,” Professor Bakugou blatantly says, and you can tell he’s being earnest. “It’s wrong of me to think so, but I’ve been wanting to do something with you since I saw you. It sounds like some sappy bullshit, but it’s the truth. I was too much of a pussy to ask you out for a coffee.”

Something about hearing him confess his feelings to you sets your heart alight. A slight smile tugs at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Tch. And you’re a fucking brat.”

Hunching over you, a large hand plants itself by your head while the other guides his cock to your awaiting hole. A shaky breath passes through your mouth as he pushes himself in; the stretch burns, his thick cock filling you up in a way that you didn’t even know was possible.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he breathes. “Look at you, sucking in my cock like that. What a good little slut. I bet you’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you? I bet you touched yourself while thinking about this very moment, about me fucking you on my desk like this.” A surprised squeak bursts from your throat as he grabs your legs and throws him over his shoulders, effectively bending you in half. “Gotta fuck you nice and deep, right? Because that’s how a slut like you likes it.”

Like this, with your knees almost touching your ears, the tip of his cock hits your soft spot. A pathetic whimper comes from you as he grinds his cock into you, his eyes carefully watching your erotic expressions, figuring out what you like best.

Before long, he’s fucking into with vigor, his hips moving restlessly. His cock pounds into you mercilessly, the slap of skin against skin mixing with your cries. His mouth is at your throat, teeth skimming your jugular before he latches onto your thundering pulse. You helplessly claw at his shoulders, your fingers bunching into the fabric of his shirt. You’re so fucking full, your velvety walls clamping around his cock selfishly. A blend of curses and yes, fuck, you fucking slut fill your ears; he’s panting hard, a slight chuckle breaking through every once in a while.

“Fucking let everyone know who’s fucking you this good,” he grits. “Jesus, look at the mess you’re making…”

“Professor Bakugou!” you whine. “Your cock feels so good… Fuck, fuck, oh my god, yes-“

“Katsuki. My name is Katsuki.”

Katuski.

The name rolls around your brain like a loose bolt. It settles on the tip of your tongue, just waiting to be let out.

It’s when you cum that you shout his name, your walls tightening around him harshly while your nails dig into the meat of his shoulders. A load groan rumbles from the depths of his chest as he follows suit shortly after, his hips moving erratically as his cum splashes against your insides.

The both of you are sweating, panting messes by the time he finally pulls out. You whimper as you clench around nothing, the emptiness a bit too much to bear. Surprisingly, Professor Bakugou – no, Katsuki – is gentle as he cleans you up, his free hand rubbing your side. Swallowing your pride, you clear your throat.

His eyes flick up, land on yours. “What.”

“Do you…” You worry your bottom lip. “Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

Katsuki snorts. “Wow, got a real fucking charmer here, don’t I? How about you come to my place instead and I make you a proper dinner. You didn’t eat yet, did you?”

As if on cue, your stomach growls. Well, you did deny Mina’s offer for dinner, after all. You smile nervously and give him a shrug.

Chest swelling (with pride, you assume), Katsuki flashes you a cocky smile. “I’m a damn good cook, brat. I’ll cook a meal that will have you weak in the knees.”

“Maybe… Maybe you could finally show me how to do that problem?” you offer.

He rolls his eyes. “Will you finally pay attention this time or will I have to pound it into your brain?”

#mha #my hero academia #bnha #boku no hero academia #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugou #mha bakugou #bnha bakugou #mha smut #bnha smut #empress writes #tw age difference

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bangtanfanficsao3 · 3 years

Note

Do you know any Namjoon x Taehyung x Jin fics? I can't seem to find any.

Thanxx

There are more!! tell me if u want a part 2 XD

lost time - Seokjin is an alpha happily mated to his beta, Namjoon. They aren't looking for love outside of their bond, but when they stumble upon an alpha named Taehyung in the rain, their duo becomes something so much more than they could have ever imagined.

bubble pop electric - Taehyung and Namjoon do yoga and plot. Seokjin is more than willing to go along with it.

Two-faced. - When Seokjin remarried, he never expected to have a stepson as beautiful and pure as Namjoon. With those gorgeous dimples and innocent smile, neither Seokjin nor his own son Taehyung were able to stop themselves from wanting to claim their sweet and precious omega all to themselves. Just one look, and both alphas—Namjoon’s newest daddy and hyungie—are already dead-set on making him theirs... and only theirs.

Heart on Your Wrist (Split Into Three) - Soulmates are such bs. That was what Taehyung always thought. He’d kissed hundreds of people, and never received his soulmate mark. So what if he doesn’t have a soulmate, he’s perfectly happy. At least - that’s what he thinks until Namjoon and Seokjin come into his life in a whirlwind of emotions he’d never felt before. So what if he doesn’t have a soulmate? What if he’s got two?

spellbound - Taehyung is notorious in the underground world for being the beautiful boy who started a war between two of the most powerful men in Seoul. But behind the legend is a boy who fell in love twice over when he least expected it. Seokjin and Namjoon are nothing like Taehyung's past, but the longer he spends with them, the more he realizes that they are his future.

Run to Me - Taehyung has a crush on Namjoon. Not like he stands a chance with Jin there though.

No one else but you - Jungkook asks Taehyung why he and Seokjin do that 'thing' they do during So What, and Taehyung doesn't know how to answer him. It's been days since then and he can't stop thinking about it.

lost in the fun and mischief, has my heart gone crazy - "I always went to the same Starbucks and there's a guy who worked there for a couple months. Every day I'd get my daily cup and every time he'd get my name (Catherine) wrong. So, one day I asked him to just spell 'cat'. "He wrote down 'meow' and his phone number on the napkin. We've been dating for 16 months now."

#taenamjin fics #taenamjin fic recs #namtaejin fics #namtaejin fic recs #kim line fics #kim line smut fics #namtaejin smut fics #bts kim line fics #namjoon x tae x jin fics

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bumblesimagines · 3 years

Text

Unexpected Penpal

Request: Yes or No

I think the idea of a penpal is so nice and wholesome but I could never do it through letters cause my handwriting is terrible lmao. Also I don't know much about Malachai so the info I give is made up (last name, age, background)

(Y/N) scrolled through the profiles of different inmates at Shankshaw Prison. Riverdale had agreed to let the prison join a inmate penpal program. The program was created for people to write to inmates. The creators believed it could help rehabilitate inmates and get them used to talking with people. (Y/N) didn't think it was a bad idea. Of course, it came with some danger but it seemed relatively harmless. (Y/N) noticed a picture and hummed softly, clicking on the profile. He began to read over it.

Name: Malachai Martinez

Age: Twenty-one

Crime: Drug possesion, Drug trafficking

Serving: Three years

Time Served: 9 Months

(Y/N) licked his lips, looking over the rest of his profile. His gaze flickered back to the picture, taking it in. Malachai had a smug grin on his face, posture relaxed and calm. (Y/N) leaned back in his chair, humming gently. He tilted his head up, hearing a soft crack. (Y/N) licked his lips, squinting his eyes as his thoughts raced. He knew Malachai was the Ghoulie King. He had picked his brother up from the destroyed Pop's the night the Ghoulies attacked.

"Fuck it." (Y/N) whispered, looking forward. He wrote down the address and Malachai's inmate number. He pushed his laptop to the side, scooting forward and grabbing some paper. (Y/N) picked up a pen, beginning his letter. He started writing but shook his head, crumbling up a paper and tossing it in the trash. (Y/N) always instinctively wrote in cursive but he knew a couple people weren't able to read cursive. His brother was one of them and (Y/N) always had to help him when it came to writing cursive. (Y/N) sighed softly, starting again.

Hey Malachai

Shankshaw recently joined a penpal program and I wanted to write to an inmate. I looked over your profile and decided to give it a shot. This isn't my first penpal rodeo but it's my first time writing to an inmate. Here are some things about me. I'm currently taking online classes. I live with my mom and my younger brother. We have a dog, Vegas. Our dad got him when we were younger. A few months ago, dad passed away. He was a good guy. I work a part-time at a diner. You'll probably know which one. What are some facts about you? How have you been? It's fine if you choose not to respond.

From, (Y/N) Andrews

(Y/N) swallowed, rereading the letter multiple times. It was short but (Y/N) didn't want to spill everything to a complete stranger. (Y/N) licked his lips, getting an envelope. He neatly folded the paper, tucking it into the envelope. He wrote down the PO box and Malachai's inmate number. (Y/N) licked his lips, making sure everything was correct before standing and heading downstairs. He stepped outside, walking towards the mailbox and sliding the letter inside. (Y/N) felt his stomach bubble up with nerves. There was a big chance he wouldn't get a response so (Y/N) tried not to get his hopes up.

Over the next few days, he got nothing in return. He checked daily but eventually a week passed and (Y/N) gave up. He typed away on his laptop, finishing up the essay. He submitted it, glancing up at his mother. Mary gave him a smile as she put the mail on the table.

"Could you sort them for me?" She said, brushing her hair out of her face. (Y/N) nodded, leaning forward and grabbing the pile of envelopes as Mary headed upstairs. He sorted them by putting bills in one pile, ads in another, and anything personal in another. (Y/N) paused, seeing an envelope from Shankshaw Prison. His eyes widened, lips parting. He heard his mother's footsteps going down the stairs and placed the envelope on his keyboard, closing the laptop. Mary entered the kitchen.

"Anything new?" She asked, tying her hair back into a ponytail. (Y/N) shook his head, standing and pushing the chair in.

"Nope.. Nothing new." He gave a smile, picking up his laptop and heading upstairs. (Y/N) entered his room, closing the door. He quickly pulled the envelope out and sat on his bed, opening it and pulling out the letter. He licked his lips, heart racing. He calmed his racing heart, opening it up and beginning to read.

Hey (Y/N)

Does your mommy know you're writing to an inmate? I'm good, thanks for asking. This came as a surprise. I wasn't expecting a letter from that little bulldog's brother. I assume you work at Pop's? Great place. I had fun fucking it up with my boys. Gonna leave a good yelp review once I get out. There's not much to know about me. I got locked up and I'm a gang member.

From Malachai M

(Y/N) smiled softly. It wasn't much but to be fair, (Y/N) hadn't written much either. He was surprised about the neat handwriting and correct spelling. He was used to Archie's messy handwriting. (Y/N) giggled softly, feeling jittery. He bit his bottom lip, quickly grabbing a pen and paper.

Hey Malachai

I thought you weren't gonna respond. I guess the mail takes a long time to send. My mom doesn't know but it's fine. I'm nineteen and it's my business. There has to be more to you than just those things. What's your favorite color? Favorite season? Favorite type of music? What do you do in your free time? By the way, I had to clean up the mess you and your 'boys' made. You would've had an advantage if you ambushed them as they left Pop's. Just sayin'. Are you gonna serve your full time or get out early? I know you're friends with that ex-serpent chick. Maybe when you get out we can hang. I know my brother and his friends would throw a tantrum but I always found them annoying. I want to know you first though.

From (Y/N) Andrews

(Y/N) stood, smiling. He folded the letter and put it in the envelope. (Y/N) headed downstairs, putting the envelope in the mail box before going inside again. He grabbed an old wooden box and folded up Malachai's letter, putting the letter in the box. (Y/N) placed the box in his drawer, glancing at the doorway when Mary knocked.

"Could you take Archie to Pop's?" Mary asked, tilting her head. (Y/N) sighed, looking at her with a frown.

"Doesn't he have a car?" (Y/N) asked, cocking a brow. Mary sighed, shaking her head.

"It's in the shop. Just drop him off, (N/N)." Mary shrugged. (Y/N) rubbed his forehead, holding back an eyeroll. He sighed deeply, grabbing his jacket.

"He has legs." (Y/N) muttered, sliding on the jacket and leaving his room. Archie was waiting at the bottom of the steps. (Y/N) went down the steps, grabbing his keys. He had nothing against his brother. He just felt like Archie was the favorite, the golden child. He got spoiled and got away with things. His parents didn't bat an eye when Archie 'joined' the serpents or when he decided to join in on illegal street racing or when he pointed a gun at a gang member. (Y/N) checked his phone, getting into his car.

"You can join us, (N/N)." Archie offered. (Y/N) shook his head, starting up the car.

"I don't want to." He mumbled, reversing and driving to Pop's. Archie hummed, looking forward as he fiddled with his shirt. The two had never been close. They loved each other but they didn't hang out or talk often.

"So.. What have you been up to?" Archie asked. (Y/N) shrugged, going through the radio stations. He stopped on one playing a song he liked.

"Classes." He replied, looking forward. Archie hummed, nodding. He licked his lips, glancing at his older brother.

"We should hang out more. We can go jogging in the mornings." Archie gave a small smile. (Y/N) sighed.

"I'll think about it."

"Alright." Archie nodded. (Y/N) stopped the car, watching Archie get out before driving away. He drove back home, biting his bottom lip. (Y/N) glanced at the Shankshaw Prison sign. He'd visit after sending a few more letters.

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iamvegorott · 3 years

Text

Operation Love Bus Part 1

Art provided by @theprinceofflies

We’re Off!

JJ sat on top of his desk, legs crossed and leaning an elbow on his knee with his chin resting on his hand. He looked out of the large window he convinced Dark to allow him to have and watched Wilford down below. Wilford had pulled up in an RV and was now talking with Dark, his arm gestures telling JJ he was very excited about what he was saying and JJ could practically feel the headache Dark was most likely getting. JJ also knew Wilford’s had the RV for a good bit of time considering the paint job it had. They would never lose sight of the RV due to it being bright hot pink.

Eventually, Dark gave in and walked away, hand rubbing at a temple as he made his way back into the house. JJ was glad to see that Wilford was happy, as his little bounces of joy told him but now he could feel a little worry in his chest about what Wilford actually had planned.

JJ perked back up when he saw that Wilford was waving at him, his big, goofy smile on his face, and in a blink, he was gone.

“Jamesy!” Wilford happily greeted, now inside of the room.

“How are you?” JJ signed, unaffected by Wilford just appearing in front of him.

“My plan is starting!” Wilford plopped himself down on the desk next to JJ.

“What plan?” JJ asked.

“Operation; Love Bus~” Wilford snapped his fingers and a notebook was now in his hand.

“‘Love Bus’?”

“I’m annoyed by all these lovey-dovey looks everyone’s giving each other and nothing coming from it.” Wilford flipped open the notebook. “So I’ve decided we’re all going on a fun trip to get everyone together.”

“Really?”

“I mean, it’s not the only reason I’m doing this.” Wilford handed JJ the notebook and pointed to the top line. “Robbie and Blank couldn’t go on the school trip this year, because, ya know, can’t risk them accidentally hurting their entire class because they were sleepy.” Wilford chuckled at that. “So, I thought having a big family trip this summer would help make up for it.”

“Robbie and Blank’s Super Awesome Summer Trip Extravaganza?” JJ slowly signed out the title, trying to find the proper signs for it since it would have taken much longer to spell it out and Wilford wasn’t the best at long-form fingerspelling, getting distracted and lost easily with it.

“Yeah!” Wilford gestured dramatically. “Three weeks of sightseeing, trying out new things and foods, and finding love along the way.” Wilford leaned against JJ at the last part. “You know, for the others.” He quickly added and bounced to his feet. “If you’ll look through that lovely notebook in your hands, you’ll see that I have everything planned out to a T.”

“I see a pattern with your buddy system.” JJ silently giggled as he flipped through the pages, surprised by how well organized and thought out everything actually was. Wilford’s been working on this for a long time by the looks of it.

“Like I said, it’s a love bus.” Wilford went over to JJ’s closet and threw it open. “And you’re going to be my number one in making sure all of this happens.”

“Who said I want to do that?” JJ raised a brow.

“Wait, you don’t want to?” Wilford’s shoulders slumped.

“Of course I do!” JJ jumped up as well and joined Wilford. “I’m always your number one with your crazy schemes.”

“Now, I wouldn’t call it a scheme.” Wilford reached up and pulled down two of JJ’s suitcases.

“It is when Dark’s an unknowing participant.” JJ held up the page of the outline that was dedicated to getting Dark with Anti.

“Am I wrong with that?”

“Far from it. All of them make complete sense and if they don’t end up together, I’d be shocked and I would do Jackie’s laundry for a month if we’re wrong.”

“Is that a bet?” Wilford carried the suitcases to JJ’s bed.

“Are you betting against me?” JJ giggled again when Wilford made a face and realized what he had said. “So, when are we leaving?”

“In the morning, Dark’s having Google and Bing tell everyone as we speak.”

“Such short notice.” JJ sat on the edge of his bed while Wilford started grabbing clothes. Wilford was focused on getting JJ ready and JJ knew it was easiest to stay aside and let Wilford work. “I should make a scrapbook.”

“A scrapbook?” Wilford dropped several pairs of shorts on top of a suitcase.

“For Blank and Robbie. If the trip is for them, I’m sure they’d love a collection of memories for it.”

“You just want an excuse to craft.”

“Maybe.” JJ stuck his tongue out while Wilford laughed. “I’m going to get started on it right now.”

“I look forward to it.” Wilford gave JJ a wink and went back to gathering clothes.

“Don’t forget to pack your own bags.” JJ placed the notebook down before heading to his desk to get started on the scrapbook.

x~x~x

JJ had spent the rest of the day buying and gathering supplies for his scrapbook. He made sure the book itself was fairly large since he knew a lot was going to be happening, he had plenty of stickers and even stamps to work with and he managed to get pictures of all of the buddy duos Wilford has set up and had just finished putting all of those together.

He had stepped away from the book for a bit to make sure that everything was properly packed since he wasn’t sure what all Wilford would have grabbed for him. He went around to check on some of the other Septiceyes as well since it’s always nice to have another person to list of things they’d need on the long trip.

Meaning Wilford was left alone with the scrapbook.

“He is so grounded.” JJ puffed his cheeks out when he saw the little notes Wilford made on the first two pages and he wrote his own next to the one that said ‘You dot your i’s with hearts?’

Stay out of my scrapbook, Wil

Even as JJ wrote that he had a feeling that Wilford would continue writing in it regardless of what he said. But that would just add to the fun of this already chaotic adventure.

-------------------------------------------------------

Original Drawing Post: Link

Part 2: Link

Tag List (let me know if you want added or if your name has changed)

@rainymae523 @thesinginggal @ashywasteland93 @shadowkitten0321

#roadtrip!au #dapperstache #danti #phantomhero #madmare #schneeplier #robbie/blank #trickshot #bingle #bimdere #couldn't help myself from writing this #just too cute

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erin-bo-berin · 4 years

Text

The Game

MASTERLIST

I wrote this with season 13-15 Spencer in mind. The more confident Spencer that would shoot his shot (no pun intended) because this one gets a little crazy. But I’ve always imagined Spencer could be a little wild in bed at times, even be up for a game or two. ;)

Spencer Reid/Reader

Rating: Mature (smut)

Word Count: 4,888

Objective: Whoever can withstand any form of teasing the opposite partner dishes out, the longest, wins.

Rule 1: No sexual activities allowed i.e. no sex, foreplay or kissing on the lips.

Rule 2: Normal touches are allowed, no matter the body part.

Rule 3: You may tantalize in whatever forms you please as long as it doesn’t break rule number one.

Rule 4: The game is over whenever one party gives in to his/her desires.

Rule 5: Winner is treated to whatever they please (sexual or non sexual).

Let the game begin.

•

You and Spencer had this little game you liked to play occasionally. Simply nicknamed, The Game, it had become a part of your relationship. It wasn’t often that you played, but when you did it was always played with high intensity. Sometimes the game could get nasty.

Currently, you were in the middle of it.

Working at the FBI had not only tuned your attention to details, but it also made for a monotonous work schedule with little or no free time. Somehow with the invention of this game it seemed to spice things up both at work and in your relationship respectively.

It’d began the previous morning.

After a rough month of cases, there finally seemed to be a lull long enough for the entire unit to catch their breath. Staying so busy obviously led to little to no time for intimacy, so it had been a few weeks. This would make the game much more exciting. Spencer was competitive, always wanting to win and you had to hand it to him, he had won more times than he’d lost.

It was on the flight home when you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. Pulling it out, you saw a text from Spencer.

Ready to lose again?

You looked across the jet towards your seated boyfriend. He shot you a wink, knowing his request was automatically met with a yes.

That all you got pretty boy? I’m shaking.

You didn’t watch as he answered, instead you watched the three dots appear that indicated he was typing.

His answer was only three words.

You will be.

A tingle of desire shot through your body.

Bring it.

•

Today had started off slow enough. You had some work to catch up on so you’d arrived at work early. It was already a tough morning as Spencer had purposely slept shirtless the night before. It was early yet, but you somehow knew this time around things would be even more intense.

His personal best was 6 and a half days. That was as long as he’d lasted before you jumped his bones. This time you were determined to win.

Your glance at the clock revealed that it was 7 in the morning. You only had an hour and a half until the currently deserted bullpen would be filled with bustling activity. You picked up your mug and made your way to the coffee machine. That was something you and your boyfriend definitely had in common, you both ran on coffee.

You were just about to pour the leftover day old coffee down the sink drain when the sound of the doors opening startled you. You weren’t expecting Emily in until at least 7:45.

You yelped, jumping at the sudden noise, the coffee spilling all over your blouse. You heard the sound of chuckling.

“Great start to your morning, huh babe?” Spencer walked over, handing you some paper towels.

“What are you doing here so early?” you asked, blotting the stain.

He shrugged, “Just felt like being extra productive today.”

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously. It was more likely he thought it would be a good opportunity to mess with you.

“Uh huh,” you said disbelievingly, “Thanks for making me ruin my shirt.”

“Anytime,” he grinned, walking away from you and towards his desk.

“Damnit,” you mumbled, realizing you wouldn’t be able to blot this stain away.

If you were lucky, you might have a spare shirt in your go bag. You paused, an idea forming in your mind. Since you were sure Spencer had an agenda of his own, you decided to pay back the favor.

“Spence?” you called across the room, “Is my go bag still by your desk?”

Your fingers unbutton your ruined shirt, trying hard to keep the smirk off your face. It was an ingenious idea, really.

“Yeah, why?” His back was still turned to you, his attention on the files he was flipping through.

“Can you grab my extra shirt please? I’ll just wear that today instead.”

You walked to his desk, your shirt dangling out of one hand, your upper torso clad in only your bra. The moment he turned to hand you the garment, his jaw about hit the floor.

“Figured it’d be faster to just change here. You don’t mind, do you?” you smile sweetly.

“That isn’t going to work,” he muttered, forcing his eyes back to the file after you took the shirt from him.

You shrugged, purposely leaning across the desk when you kissed his cheek to thank him, so he could get an eye full of your cleavage. Lucky for you this bra was just a hair too snug and you had to admit, your boobs looked amazing today.

“Get to work big boy, it’s gonna be a looong day” you called, pulling the shirt on as you walked away.

•

“Kid, I see the wheels turning. Just spit it out already,” Rossi said.

The team was currently in the middle of working a case, everyone working their hardest to catch the unsub. Everyone was spread around the briefing room, you at the round table with JJ and Penelope. Your boyfriend stood in front of the boards that held all the case information, one hand resting on his chin as he studied the information laid out in front of him.

You never knew how, but there was a place Spencer went when he thought. He would space out and focus on nothing but the problem at hand. It was always extremely attractive to you.

“Okay, I think I’ve figured out his pattern. He started in the western part of Virginia right? Then headed to—”

You’re not gonna lie, you ended up missing over half of what he said. You loved when he showed off his knowledge and that brain of his, even just in his job. Your eyes wandered as he talked, eyes lingering on his hands. They moved with his words and you couldn’t help but think of other places those hands had been rather than just used at a crime scene or flipping through case files.

“Right, Y/N?”

You were completely zoned out and missed the fact you were being spoken to.

“Y/N?”

You snap out of it, realizing the entire team was staring at you awaiting the answer to JJ’s question.

“Oh uh- sorry. What was that?”

“I asked if you received the coroner’s report from the latest victim.”

“Right, yes.” You pull out a paper from a file and hand it over to her.

“I know your man is dreamy and all Y/N, but you gotta stop zoning out,” Penelope smirked to herself.

“Hush,” you chuckled quietly, turning back to the rest of the team.

Apparently she wasn’t the only one to notice your staring. Spencer’s smirk made your stomach flip. You weren’t going to let him win again.

•

An unspoken rule of the game was that when it was time to focus strictly on the case, you obviously did. The game would be put on hold until the case was finished. It was one of those days where you were rushing against the clock to catch the killer.

The team was split up, everyone doing different tasks. You, Spencer and Matt were currently sat around a table trying to make connections with an old case, to the one you were currently working on. It seemed to be the same M.O.

“In 1989 Lila Long was found dead on the doorstep of her house,” Matt said, laying out the photo once again, “Stabbed 14 times.”

You nodded, chewing on your lip while you thought. It was presumed that she managed to escape the unsub who had grabbed her just blocks from her home. She had managed to make it to her front door where she died. It was unclear whether the unsub had caught up to her and stabbed her again or if she had succumbed to her injuries.

“I don’t think he found her again, as there isn’t any blood splatter here,” Spencer motioned to the picture, gesturing at the door, “We know there would be a specific pattern, but it was never recorded for sure because of the amount of blood found there.”

“Fast forward 30 odd years and another woman shows up dead on her doorstep in the same neighborhood,” you say, setting the most recent crime scene picture next to the older one.

“Rosalie Brewer, 51, blonde hair, blue eyes,” Matt reads off the file, “Exact same type of injuries, a dozen or so stabbings.”

“Are we sure it’s not just a copycat? The story does seem to be the local legend. Maybe someone decided to recreate the murder?” you ask, tapping your pen.

“I don’t think so.” Spencer rubs his jaw; you can tell his mind is whirring.

Matt and Spencer throw around some theories, your eyes focusing on Spencer’s fingers twirling his pencil as he thought.

Maybe because it’d been a longer dry spell of no intimacy than normal for you, but your thoughts automatically turned sexual. Memories of how those long, slender fingers of his had traced your bare skin flashes through your mind. How they’ve dug into your hips and slid down your thighs before parting them and—

You snap yourself back to reality quickly. Now is definitely not the time to be thinking of such things but damnit did it set your stomach churning in desire. Thankfully, a distraction came in the nick of time.

“Guys, we have a suspect!” Luke rushed into the room, Emily on his heels, “I think he just might be our unsub.”

“Garcia’s on the phone with intel,” Emily set her phone on the table for all of us to hear.

“So, turns out, Lila Long has a son. Yes my dears, you heard me right. Apparently she gave birth secretly 18 years prior to her death while out of the country. She gave said baby up for adoption and never looked back. Fast forward 18 years later little Adam, all grown up, goes looking for mommy dearest and let me tell you it wasn’t for a nice and cozy reunion. According to his adoptive mother he was always a difficult child with a very bad temper. It was so alarming to his adoptive parents that they made him see a therapist. The therapist notes that he showed bipolar symptoms, had a definite anger problem and at times seemed unhinged and out of touch with reality. It wasn’t until after his 18th birthday that he found out the true story about his birth mother; that she’d basically left the country to have him, secretly give him up for adoption and come back to the States like it never happened.”

“Let me guess,” you said, “That didn’t bode well with him?”

“Right you are. Adoptive parents said he made passing remarks about “hunting down the bitch”. They knew he was angry about how he came to be adopted but they never suspected he’d actually find her and kill her.”

“But he did,” Emily said.

“But how does that relate to our current case, Garcia?” Spencer asked.

“Get this: Rosalie Brewer was Lila Kong’s best friend and helped arrange for her to have her child in secret and even found the adoptive family. She just moved back to the neighborhood a few months ago. There was a witness report in the police files that she’d been seen at a local coffee shop talking to a man that no one seemed to recognize.”

Garcia rattled off the description of the man and sent over a picture of Adam. It was a dead ringer. Everything was a go from there.

•

Hours later, the case had come to a close. Adam, who had turned out to be the correct unsub had had so much resentment toward his birth mother and her best friend—accompanied with his unstable mental health—decided to hunt them down and kill them in cold blood. The reason for the 30 year difference between murders was the fact he hadn’t discovered Rosalie’s existence and role in the secret adoption until he was much older. In his mind, the job wasn’t complete until she, too, was dead.

You were exhausted; physically and mentally. He gave up pretty quickly and it could’ve been a worse take down, but the prior days of working hard had taken a toll. Currently, you were relaxing in one of the chairs on the jet, a blanket pulled over you. You thought you were the only one awake, when you heard your phone buzz in your lap, underneath the blanket.

You retrieved it and open a text message from Spencer.

Don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at my hands today.

Another text popped up.

Don’t forget what I can do with them, sweetheart.

Like you could.

You text back, ignoring his provocative texts.

Come over here and keep me company. I’m lonely and cold.

A buzz came slower this time.

Giving in already? Thought you’d last longer than this.

You typed your answer at lightning speed.

In your dreams, Dr. Reid.

You hear a soft chuckle as he walks over to join you in the seat next to you.

“Why are you even still awake?” you asked.

“Just wide awake. You?”

“Same.”

It’s quiet for a bit and you’re sure he’s asleep when you hear him shift positions next to you, alerting you that he’s still just as awake as you are.

A wicked smile slowly spreads across your face as you get an idea. You’re grateful for the dark so he can’t see your expression clearly or predict what’s coming.

“Spence?” Your hand rests on his knee gently, innocently as if it’s just a typical lingering affection.

“Mhm?”

He looks over at you and you can barely see the outline of his face in the darkness.

“Remember the mile high club?” you asked nonchalantly, as if you were simply chatting about the weather.

“The mile high club?” he repeats, clearly confused.

“You know,” you bite your lip, even though you’re not sure he can see it and lower your voice just in case anyone else happened to be awake.

“That time on the way home from a case? When you were having a little problem?”

Your hand slides barely an inch upward and you hear his sharp intake of breath, whether from your touch or the memory you’re unsure.

It had been before the game had been invented. Spencer was extra worked up that day on the way home from a case, so you decided to sneak into the jet bathroom with him to give him some help.

“When I gave you a blow job right there in the jet bathroom?” Your voice is low, your lips by his ear.

“I-I remember,” he croaked.

“That was extremely hot. Trying to make sure you stayed quiet so no one heard us.”

Your hand slides up his thigh and you smirk satisfactorily when you hear his breath hitch.

“But I could tell how hard it was for you. All you wanted to do was moan my name out loud and grab my head to push me farther down on you.”

He’s silent, his breathing becoming heavier. You’re turning him on and it feels good to be winning for once. You’re not one to dirty talk much, but for this situation, you were pulling out the big guns.

“Admit it. Part of you wanted the entire jet to know just how good it felt with my pretty little lips wrapped around your cock, driving you absolutely insane.”

A low groan escaped his lips and you find yourself having to muster up all the strength you have not to kiss them right then. His hand grabs your wrist, stopping your hand from moving any further.

“Give up now and you can have your way with me when we get home,” you grin triumphantly.

“Never.”

He places your hand back in your lap, before moving to get up.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a matter to sort out,” he grumbles, making his way back to the bathroom.

You can’t help it, you laugh as he half limps toward the back of the jet.

You didn’t see him for quite awhile after that.

•

“Gotta admit Spencer, I’m impressed you’ve held on for this long.”

It’d been only a week. Usually the games were over pretty quickly as one—usually yourself—gave in after only a few days. But you were so determined to crack him.

“That’s just because you have no idea what I have up my sleeve. Points for you for getting creative lately though.”

You snickered. His most recent jet bathroom escapade had involved him and his hand only.

“I’m still waiting to see what you got.��

He was picking up files to be delivered to Emily’s office when he turned and nodded to your phone.

“I’d check your phone if I were you.”

Your brows furrowed, confused as you reached for your mobile device. You press the home button, lighting up the screen to reveal a slew of messages from Spencer, which seems to include several pictures.

Opening them, you see that it’s a variety of selfies only showing his face from the nose down, his lips the center of attention in every one. The last message was actual text.

I seem to recall your little fascination with my lips. Thought you might enjoy. You especially like it when they’re in other areas too.

You could kill him. It was one of your weaknesses, that’s for sure. You look up and see he’s halfway to Emily’s office now.

“Not gonna work!” you hollered towards him and he sends back a huge grin as if he knew you’re full of shit.

Which you are because now you’re beginning to weaken. But you’re still far from giving up.

You get him back at lunch.

You’re eating at your desk with your legs propped up, clearly giving Spencer a good view of them. He’s purposely ignoring you though, doing paperwork, much to your amusement.

You finish your sandwich and reach for the banana you’d packed earlier that morning. You’d been wanting to try this one ever since the game began for the first time. He just happens to glance up as you finish peeling your banana and you shoot him a wink and give a sly, suggestive lick to the side of the banana.

His tongue flicks over his lips as his eyes flicker from your mouth to your eyes, the determination still strong in them. The desire is there alright, the will to give up, is not.

•

Fuck you, Spencer. No actually, fuck me.

The thought floats across your mind. It’s another day at the Behavioral Analysis Unit but damnit if Spencer doesn’t look extra good today.

He always looks good in his work suits and ties, but this one is beyond belief. Or it may just be the fact that you’re wound up and in need of release, but you’re pretty much drooling from afar.

His pants were probably the best part cause his ass looked amazing in them. You’re pretty sure if any of your other teammates were to notice you staring at your boyfriend across the room they’d see you practically in a puddle of your own drool.

“You’re not playing that game again are you?”

You jump at the sound of JJ’s voice nearly sending your pile of files, documents and paperwork flying off your desktop. You turn around in your chair to see her standing at the edge of your desk, an arched brow and amused expression on her face.

JJ was the only one of the team you’d actually relinquished details to about your teasing escapades. Being the one female you were closest to on the team, sometimes sex life talk came up and it slipped out once. She found it creative and intriguing, saying it was never a bad thing to spice things up. But now, apparently you’d been a bit too obvious.

“How’d you know? Is it that obvious?”

“Not exactly. But it was my first guess when I saw you ogling Spence like a dog after a steak.”

You chuckle snort, the simile quite an accurate description of yourself.

“Yes, but the stakes are high this time. It’s been over a month since the last time we..you know had time for anything.”

“By all means, continue on. Win this one for us ladies,” she joked, heading for the stairs.

I plan on it.

•

Okay, so, that plan is not going so well after all.

It’s a slower day than normal and it’s barely past lunchtime. Spencer isn’t even actively doing anything other than existing and you feel like jumping out of your skin. How the hell he’s keeping his cool is beyond your comprehension.

You glance at your phone when you notice it light up in the corner of your eyes.

Hey, Y/N.

Are you a tardis?

Your brow raises and you reply.

A what?

A time machine. Just stick with me here.

Another text arrives while you’re still reading his initial reply.

Because I’ve heard being inside you will take me to magical places.

You stifle a giggle.

That’s a pick up line made for you, Spencer.

Ooh baby, you make my floppy disk turn into a hard drive.

You laugh out loud causing a few agents to glance in your direction and you quickly hush.

Give me the chance and I’d be happy to turn that floppy disk into a hard drive.

The gray dots linger on your screen from some time before his answer comes.

Well, shit.

You can feel Spencer’s eyes on you all afternoon and you’re entirely grateful that you decided to wear the nicest, form fitting skirt you own along with a button down that shows just the perfect amount of cleavage to still be considered professional.

You cross the room to make copies and you feel his eyes follow you making you shiver. It’s been 12 days since the game started, a personal record for the both of you. The sexual tension between you and Spencer is so high you’re sure it’s gonna boil over at the most inopportune time.

Instead of focusing on reports you need to file, your daydreams have become more prominent. All you want is him and you want him bad. You’re on the verge of begging just to be able to feel the amount of bliss he puts you in.

You almost groan out loud when you hear Emily ask him if he minds staying a little later to finish up the final reports. You’re not really up to being home alone so you decide to stay with him until he’s finished.

The number of people in the bullpen starts to dwindle until it’s just you and Spencer left. You’re swiveling in your chair, watching him, his face a mask of determination, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth.

Oh, how much you want those lips on yours, on your skin, those hands roaming your body, squeezing the right places. To have his body pressed close against yours, so close that you can feel his erratic breathing and spiked heart rate against your own chest. You wanted him to make you moan, make you scream even, the building was practically empty at this hour anyway.

You weren’t sure when you got up, but you were halfway toward him when you croaked his name weakly.

Whether it was because of your tone of voice or he just could sense it, he looked up, jaw going slack when he saw your shirt half unbuttoned, your fingers fumbling on the bottom half.

“You win alright?”

In a quick as lighting movement, he’d stood, picked you up and deposited you on his desk, his lips firmly attached to yours.

“Let’s call it a truce, okay?” he murmured against your lips before resuming kissing you.

The kisses were hot and wild, all the pent up sexual frustration being released finally. His teeth scraped over your bottom lip, tugging on it gently before twirling his tongue simultaneously with your own. Your shirt was all the way unbuttoned and your bra pulled down before you comprehended Spencer performing the actions.

He moaned into the kiss, his hands cupping your breasts. You automatically arched into his touch, lavishing in it after going so long without it. His thumbs rubbed over your nipples eliciting a ragged moan from you. Your inhibitions were out the window at this point and you could care less what you sounded like, you just wanted more of him.

“If I knew you’d be this reactive to me, I would torture you more often,” he smirked, leaning down to place his lips around one nipple, sucking gently.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, a hand tangled into his hair.

It was like you were super sensitive to his touch because every little thing he did set your nerve endings on fire. You were throbbing with need and he was enjoying this way too much.

“You son of a bitch, you’re enjoying this aren’t you?” you half growled, pulling his face back up towards yours, pressing a kiss to his sharp jawline, attempting to kiss him again.

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” he grinned wickedly, denying your lips of his.

His hand pressed flat against your stomach, pushing you backwards on his desk while hiking up your skirt. His lips pressed against the soft skin of your inner thigh as his hands spread your legs and pushed your panties to the side.

“Spencer, please- fuck,” you moaned, his tongue licking a slow path up you.

“Oh I’ll get to that eventually, just you wait,” he chuckled.

Your ability to form coherent words had vanished, so no remark came in response from you. All you could focus on was his mouth on you and that you wanted more.

You could’ve killed him when he stopped just on the brink of your undoing.

“Darling, if I had to listen to you much longer I would’ve been done for,” he commented, kissing you again, helping you unfasten his pants before you climb in his lap.

The mutual feeling of ecstasy was all over both your faces the moment you lowered yourself down on him. You vowed then to always let him win the game after this because this was too amazing to miss out on.

“Oh fuck, Y/N, fucking hell,” he groaned into your neck, his slight stubble scratching against your neck giving you chills.

It was rough and border animalistic, your lust and need for each other more than either of you could handle. Your hips rocked roughly against his, fingers digging into his biceps. Your eyes may have rolled back in your head at one point.

One hand is on the small of your back to steady you as you move up and down on him, your back arched as the pleasure rippled down your spine. His lips trail down your exposed throat, marking you as his, his other hand squeezing your hip.

Your hands grip the back of his chair to aid you in your rougher and harder movements as your orgasm builds, the sensation of a pit of lava in your stomach increasing.

A sheen of sweat coats his forehead, stray pieces of his brown curls sticking to his forehead. Your own hair has partially come out of its ponytail, stray pieces hanging in your face. His hand moves from your hip pushing some stray strands from your face before giving you a brief kiss.

His own release is quickly approaching as his head falls back against the back of his chair, teeth scraping his bottom lip.

“Oh yes, baby, yes,” he growls deep in his throat.

A hand snakes towards your core, his thumb circling your clit. Your climax hits you hard and fast causing your vision to nearly go white. Your breath catches, interrupting your ragged moan of his name.

He lets himself go then, his groans filling the empty room, his expression of blissful pleasure the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen him do.

As you ride out the aftershocks, his lips return to yours, kissing you more gently this time, the action full of love. Your hips have slowed then stilled when he breaks the kiss.

“God, you’re amazing,” he whispers, nudging his nose playfully against yours.

You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck so you can stay in his lap for a moment longer before you have to stand and clean yourself up.

“I think I have a new rule for the game,” you commented.

“What’s that?”

“Spencer always wins.”

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #Spencer Reid fic #spencer reid smut #spencer reid gifs #dr spencer reid smut #dr spencer reid fic #dr spencer reid gifs #Criminal Minds #criminal minds gifs #criminal minds fic #criminal minds smut

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terushimas-n1-hater · 3 years

Text

𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙞𝙣 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 ٭

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐩 𝐨𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Genre: kind of fluffy but its mostly angst

Warnings: toxic (abusive??) parents, arranged marriages, toxic relationships.

!Timeskip spoilers!

Playlists I listened to while writing this

"Good job..you did great out there." You said with a hand on his shoulder.

"Ah" he smiled "thank you for your support, without you and many others I would've never won so, thank you"

He said with genuine smile on his face. He got closer to the sofa, he sat down letting out a long sigh "oh" he said as if he remembered something.

"Hey! Do you have a minute?"

"Yeah i guess"

"Okay okay here, i got you something."

he said handing you a bag "u- um thank you?" You're confused yet curious looking inside the bag you see a little box, it looked like a jewellery box...but why would he buy you jewellery? all you did was praise him and help him go through the tiring days because of training for the Olympics, so why would he buy you something expensive?

"You look curious, why don't you open it and see it for yourself." He said looking at you with a soft look. You took the box out of the bag opening it, What a gift....

It looks so beautiful

It was a pretty looking necklace. Its gold and Choker like with pretty little stars that go all around it. You remember wanting a necklace like this..

How did he know you wanted something like this?

Is this a coincidence?

You dont even talk to him that much?

What is he on exactly?

You looked at him and looked at the box again "uh..I saw you last month and how you were looking at that same necklace, it looked like you wanted it so um i got it for you" he said smiling softly

"But why? Is this out of pity or something?" You said with a confused face "what! Of course not! do..do you not like it?" "No no! I like it but its just kinda random.. since I didn't really do anything to deserve a gift like this.." You said sighing.

Your story with tooru was long.

You never wanted to marry a man. In fact the thought alone of a man's touch made you nauseous beyond all belief. But he.....wasn't any different from any other man you've always wanted to avoid. But with parents like yours, the moment they found out about your thoughts they completely lashed out on you saying that all those feelings and thoughts are not expected in their household. And Forcing you to marry a man that you never saw or knew about before in your life. I mean he wasn't mean to you never laid a hand on you.

But still, It didn't feel right.

You felt captured, you felt stuck in a dead end. Like there was no where else to go. Being a housewife for almost 2 years now made you fall in many depressive episodes. And he knew that, he knew so so well about all the depressive episodes you were in, He knew it all. He tried to help you, but there was nothing for him to do since he himself doesn't know you or anything about you.

Which made it harder for the both of you to understand each others struggles. He never forced you to stay inside the house and do stuff for him like how your parents want you to. He let you free, let you do what you want. There is nothing else for him to do. In fact the both of you thought about getting a divorce, but you both knew that both your parents would not let that happen. Although yes you both had something somewhat in common, you both loved space.

You specifically loved stars. And you could guess that he caught up with your love for stars. You wore a lot clothing and jewellery that had something with stars or space. He thought it was cute, so when he saw you looking at this very pretty necklace he knew you wanted it.

"First its not out if pity and second i got it for you since i kinda knew you liked stuff like this.."

"Thank you tooru I really appreciate it."

I mean who wouldn't appreciate a gift like this?you loved and valued this gift but something just doesn't feel right with tooru honestly.. But it was just a gut feeling so you decided to just ignored it.

Again, tooru isn't the type that would keep you in his house and order you around. So you had many opportunities to get outside and have some fun you get me? Almost every weekend you'd get yourself all dolled up and go out with your friends For a little night out.

This not only made you happy and made you forget about all the shit you were going through, but it gives you a chance to do other fun things if you know what i mean. Hear me out, you knew it was wrong, so wrong actually. But it won't hurt anyone right? I mean tooru doesn't actually like you so, why not?

You did this with many people you meet at the club, specifically women. You loved it honestly. It made you feel more open and more happy about yourself. You didn't feel as captured as you used to, it was just great.

It was one of those nights again, you were laughing and chatting with one of your friends wearing (dress/suit wtv you prefer)

You felt so confident and happy. Moments later Your friend excused themselves to go to the bathroom, you nodded as they went to the bathroom. You were leaning on the bar and drinking your drink looking at the people on the dance floor drunkenly grinding and dancing together. You looked around to see this very pretty lady admiring you with a soft smile on her face, You smiled a bit while getting closer to her.

"Is there something on my face?" You asked with a cheeky smile

"No..i just thought you look pretty"

"Oh?"

"Very actually.." You giggled at that statement.

You and....aiko chatted for a pretty long time you kinda forgot about your friend. Aiko, aiko..what a pretty name, You were so interested in this girl honestly all you wanted to do is sit there and know all about her.

"What a pretty necklace you got there!" She said pointing at the necklace tooru gave to you.

"Oh! Yeah my.. brother gave it to me as a gift."

"Aww"

You both chatted for a while more and exchanged phone numbers

"Dont forget to text me!!" She said waving at you and blowing you a lil kiss.

You smiled and sighed, its probably time to go home.

You were looking for your friend to tell them that its time to leave, you took out your phone to call them and to know where they are until you saw you got some unread messages from them.

"Oooo ;)"

"Yall better make out after this."

"Okay I kinda ship bye"

"ANYWAYS..I'm going to leave this nasty azz club and leave ya too alone *wink wonk* "

"Love you AND DONT FORGET TO TEXT ME WHEN YOUR HOME"

You smiled at the text messages. You really did appreciate having a friend like them..But, its time to head home now before it gets even more late. You paid for your drinks took your stuff on your way out.

You finally got back home, tooru was sleeping on your shared bed so now you have be extra careful not to wake him up.

After you changed and got ready for bed. Already texted your Friend letting them know you went home safely.

"Are you free this Tuesday?"

You just got a message from someone with the name "your bbg 😻" you chuckled remembering Akio saved here contact name on your phone that.

"Yeah i am!"

"Great wanna hang out? There is this café I went to before THEY SELL THE BEST BAGELS EVER"

"Oh sure!"

"Okay i will send you the location to the café tmr kk?"

"Okay goodnight bbg 😻"

"LMAO GOODNIGHT 💖💝💗💓❤"

¡A/n! : okay so ahm ahm I wrote this in a pretty bad mental state so, if there is errors or spelling mistakes OR ITS JUST BAD I apologise. But I do hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed thinking and writing about it!! I will be making a part 2 to finish this because I just realised that if I finish this all at once it would be a wattpad story type long lmaooo. Thank u and have a great dayy (ﾉ´ з `)ノ💕💞💓💗💖💝

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ka-za-ri · 4 years

Text

Descent Pt. 7

Hi! I spent the last three days writing this chapter by smashing my head against the keyboard! I hope you enjoy! Also, SURPRISE! Lucifer!

Chapter Index and Obey Me! Masterlist: here Ao3 Mirror: Here Part [1] Part [2] Part [3] Part 4: [4] Part [5] Part [6] Part [7] Part [8] Part [9] Part [10]

Pairing: Simeon x Lucifer x Reader Genre: Smut Wordcount: 6,200 ish Tags: Angst, Self harm/Self Mutilation, threesome F/M/M, Voyeurism, spitroasting Summary: Simeon asks for forgiveness and for a helping hand to finish his book.

Drip

He could ask for your forgiveness all he wanted, but you were under no obligation to give it to him. It was to be expected that you would pull away from him as soon as you awoke. It didn’t surprise him at all when you couldn’t bear to stand his touches. He deserved it for pushing too far.

He could ask for forgiveness, but God had long forsaken him.

Distance made the pain more tolerable. As long as he turned his mind off from everything else, he could imagine that it had all been a terrible dream that fueled his writing. If he focused everything he had to the sound of fingers on the keyboard, he wouldn’t have to think about the way you choked out his pen name, the despair in your eyes or the tears streaming down your face when you begged for mercy. He didn’t want to think about how shameful it was for him to be elated to see those desperate expressions from you.

He didn’t ask if your cuts and wounds were healing well. He knew they would. The inperceivable amount of magic he had used on you while you were passed out in his arms would ensure that. The only thing he wasn’t sure about anymore was his relationship with you and how you felt about him after what he put you through.

You managed to somehow keep things cordial. Despite what happened, you were both professionals in your field. Deadlines didn’t change just because of a botched session. You still had to read through his words and relive everything he did to you. It was mandatory to stay objective and help him create the most immaculate product possible. In the end, it was all about business and you had learned long ago to separate work from your personal life. It was just unfortunate that your personal life had also become your work with your current project.

The distraction of work didn’t stop the pain though. It didn’t stop you from waking up covered in a cold sweat every other night having dreamed of those dangerous dark eyes. You hadn’t gone to see him ever since that day, not like you really could. You weren’t sure if you really wanted to see him again. Work was piling up, the world around you kept spinning even if yours had stopped momentarily. Regardless of what your feelings were, you needed to run to keep up with the world and didn’t have time to think of yourself.

The scars he left behind healed well, they left no marks except for the invisible ones he carved into your heart that day. You could still feel the cold steel of the knife being dragged slowly across your skin, right at your ribs as he spelled his name, made you his and owned you for a brief moment in time. The cuts to the corners of your mouth and tongue healed remarkably quickly without leaving any blemishes. But the ghosting feeling of something cold and sharp never seemed to disappear along with the scabs.

Days melded into one another. You were able to bury yourself into work, wrecking whatever sleep schedule you normally had to distract yourself from reality. Piles upon piles of manuscripts all melted into one another and you slowly lost track of who wrote what along with the remnants of your sanity. The crinkle of paper as you turned pages was the last physical reminder that your reality was intimately tied to Simeon regardless of how much you wanted to get away from him.

Distance made things easier to bear. The need to stay separated was mutual. Simeon had a lot to reflect on and a lot to do. For the most part, his manuscript was done. The only thing he had left was the concluding chapter. He couldn’t bring himself to write it. Every time he put his fingers on the keyboard, he thought of you and everything you had done for him along with everything you did with him. His book had became an oddly intimate look at his desires and the inevitable end that he needed to write.

His eyes ached from staring at the screen for so long. The blinking cursor on the document taunted him. No matter how many times he wrote and rewrote, the ending wouldn’t come out right. He needed you the most, yet he could not rely on you when you were so far away. Toys had gotten him so far, but describing the intimacy of affection between two humans felt like an insurmountable task. There had to be away around it. The heavy burden of sin weighed on his shoulders as he warred with himself. His name, his reputation, all for the fall? It was impossible.

He had to see a way through it.

Until he could figure it out; he deserved every little bit of scorn you threw at him. Every passing day, hour, minute, and second that went without being in contact with you drained him. The color in his world slowly disappeared until there was nothing but the black text on white paper.

It started just at the corner of his vision. In his dark office, it was easy to ignore when his focus was on the words in front of him. It was easy to pretend nothing was wrong when he went to get a cup of tea. But, the change was definite and true. Soon enough, he wondered just when did he own so many mugs in various shades of gray.

Ah, so this is what it’s come to. I suppose it’s fitting.

He could feel his senses slowly seeping away from him, ashamed of everything he did. He held the facade of an upright and chivalrous angel, but internally he was a husk of himself. Somehow, he had managed to become a demon without falling from grace. He supposed it should have been considered a miracle. It meant that not all hope was lost. If he applied himself, then surely he could claw his way out of the hole he created.

If.

If only he cared enough to do such a thing. Living as a shell seemed to be so much easier than pretending he was immune to human temptation. In pursuit of a perfect craft, he lost himself to all the allure the human realm had to offer. Two steps away from the gates of Hell, there seemed to be no turning back. Sacrifices had to be made in order to obtain perfection. Perhaps selling his soul to the devil was the last option he had to achieve it. It would be a worthy price to pay.

Pain made it easier to bear the weight of sin. It wasn’t a modern method by any means, but it brought him closer to the light once more. He repented with every crack of the whip upon his back, every scar he inflicted on himself. For every drop of blood he shed, he returned to the good he dedicated so much of his life to. The injuries would heal within a day, but the lingering ache would linger across his skin. The pain made him forget you and remember who he was. He was good. He was good.

He was good.

The most poignant thing he learned in the world of humans was the emotion of fear. That deep terror within him stirred as he thought of losing everything he had with change. After centuries of living, Simeon never doubted his powers or his wisdom until he had his finger hovering over your contact number to call and beg you for help. His hand shook while he stared blankly at the screen in front of him. He was so close to the end, yet so far away from the one person who would get him there. He was better than this, but he didn’t want anything greater than what he had created with you.

His simmering desires for you convinced him to call while the last vestiges of his goodness prevented him from making the call. He lost track of just how many hours he berated himself mentally all the while staring at numbers on his phone screen taunting him to take those last few steps to Hell.

And then. A light in his darkness.

[SMS: Do you need help?]

You knew exactly why he had been ignoring all your emails and your attempts at contacting him. You had needed your own time to heal and process everything that happened. Nearly a month had passed without a peep from him and you sincerely started to wonder if Simeon was alright. He canceled an unprecedented number of appearances and interviews. The PR mess that followed from that was enough to make you lose a full week of sleep. You didn’t blame him though, after you left his home that night when the storm finally passed, he seemed so tired.

You didn’t want to push the issue if you could help it. The book was almost complete. You had read it so many times over in your editing you swore you had a majority of it memorized. With only the final chapter missing, you could predict where his story was going, and the man rarely ever strayed from his outlines. An intimate and loving scene with his protagonist and her love interest who saved her from the clutches of evil was in order.

With the nature of the subject and were your relationship had just taken a turn to, you weren’t surprised at all he hadn’t submitted anything to you. Three days before your final deadlines and he still hadn’t contacted you. It was so uncharacteristic of him to turn in his work late; you had to take the initiative to get him to finish on time. So, it was a fair amount of despair that you sent that text, asking him if he needed help. Even if you skin crawled just thinking about being touched by him, you needed to do your job.

You clenched your phone, waiting for the screen to light up, your knuckles turning white from the force of your grip. You didn’t want to do this, but you had to. Someone had to be the adult and take one for the team. With Simeon’s name being so revered, it was clear to you that the minor sacrifice of your comfort for one more session with him would be worth it in the end.

So why couldn’t you stop yourself from crying?

The way he lilted his voice when he chased you still haunted your dreams at night. No matter how many blankets you wrapped around you could save you from the chill of that dreaded cold knife he dragged across your skin. There was no point in distancing yourself from him. Despite what happened, he was good. Having spent years working with him, you were sure you had a firm grasp of who he was as a person.

“Do you trust me?”

“I do...”

[SMS: come see me when you can]

You let out an earth shattering sigh. Whether it was from relief or from fear, you didn’t know. What you did know that it would all be over soon. The stress of the book, the anxiety you felt about Simeon, the pain that spread across your chest every time you thought about him, all of it would be over as soon as you got to see him again and figure it all out in person.

There was a terrible little part of you that was so curious about how he was going to solve the last piece of the puzzle to his book. The only way to find out was to go see him.

“What a surprise. A call from the great Christopher Peugeot himself.”

“Listen.”

“I am. Go on.”

Simeon sighed, already regretting the call he was making. After receiving your text, he wracked his brain for a solution to the ending of his book. He was so close, he could feel it; but the guilt he felt towards you prevented him from taking what he craved. It was after much agonizing and staring blankly at a wall that the idea struck him. He’d have to take matters in his own hands and direct the ending himself.

For that, he needed an extra helping hand.

Which is what landed him in the situation he was in at the current moment. Bargaining with the devil to help him. He didn’t think he’d stoop so low to pull on old connections. Yet, there he was, on the phone with someone he hadn’t spoken to in decades.

“I need your help…” Simeon admitted, still struggling with voicing his needs.

“Well, I assumed as much if you’re making the effort to talk on a personal line. How long has it been since I gave you this number? Twenty? Thirty years, now?”

“Twenty-seven, but that’s besides the point.” Simeon could feel the inkling of frustration creeping into his voice. His old friend always had the ability to pull out the worst in him. Spending over half a century in the human realm, they managed to stay out of each other’s hair for the most part.

His friend chuckled on the other side of the line. “Alright, what can I do for you?”

“Are you free this weekend? I uhm… I need some help with the last scene of my book.”

“Oh? The great Christopher Peugeot himself needs assistance from me? I’m flattered you’d consider me.”

“Just call me Simeon, Lucifer. Stop playing around.”

“I’ll clear up my schedule. I wouldn’t miss the chance to help you.”

Simeon sighed. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or terrified that Lucifer agreed to help him out. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Oh, I know.” Lucifer was practically singing on the other end with smug excitement. “Should I prepare for anything in particular?”

“I… Uhm… I can explain when you get here.”

“Always the mysterious one...” Lucifer chided, chuckling softly. He didn’t push the subject any further and Simeon was glad for it. “From what I’ve seen from the press releases of your upcoming title, I can only assume I’ll need to wear my best underwear.”

“Do whatever you want. I’ll see you this weekend.” Simeon grumbled before ending the call. His face felt like it was on fire. He didn’t think he had hit rock bottom until he made an agreement with the devil.

It was truly unfortunate that the devil was the only person he could trust with this task.

“Oh, welcome! Come on in. We’ve been waiting.” The actual CEO of Akuzon was the last person you expected to see when you arrived at Simeon’s home that weekend. To say you were stunned was an understatement. You were stuck standing at the doorway, mouth agape and eyes wide, looking like a fool. It took a surprising amount of prying to get you to move past the door and into the home.

Simeon was already hard at work in the living room, typing frantically while Lucifer ushered you in. The grin on his face was full of mirth and amusement. It was clear he knew exactly the effect he had on people and he wasn’t pulling any punches when it came to throwing the weight of his power around.

“Simeon and I go way back.” Lucifer explained, taking a seat once he was sure you weren’t going to faint from shock. “When he asked me to help him out, there was no way I could deny him.”

Your words needed to catch up with your brain as the pieces started to clicked together. All you could manage was a lame “Ah.” You nodded slowly, looking back and forth between the two men, waiting for someone to confirm your suspicions.

Simeon finished typing and finally looked up. It seemed like he wanted to approach you, but he stayed put, unable to bring himself to get closer to you without your permission. “I cannot ask for you to trust me again. Not after what I put you through. I… I still need help with the last chapter of this book. So, I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but would you be comfortable with putting your trust in him?”

You blinked rapidly digesting what Simeon was proposing. You slowly turned your head to look at Lucifer who was casually lounging in his seat, his head resting on his propped up arm. A knowing smirk on his face while he waited for your answer. He practically exuded endless charisma and carried himself as every bit of the CEO he was. It was hard to deny his charm and you felt yourself nod before you could really process the gravity of your situation.

You hadn’t realized the anxious pressure in your chest relieve itself when your brain finally grasped the fact that you wouldn’t be at risk with seeing that side of Simeon again this time. This was a new partner, a new experience, a new touch, a good touch. You could do this.

There was still the hurdle of getting over being intimate with a man you had only seen in headlines. You expected that to be a rather difficult hindrance to the authenticity of the scene Simeon wanted to write. After all, it was supposed to be a soft and loving scene, nothing like what you had last gone through. Managing that with a stranger seemed to be a rather tall task.

Lucifer didn’t seem bothered by what he needed to do at all. Having been filled in with the gist of the situation, it was easy to slip just a hint of charm magic into his words to coax you out of your shell. He smiled, taking off the casual blazer he had on to reveal a perfectly fitted dress shirt hugged his frame in all the right places. Well, he doesn’t spare any expenses when it comes to looking good, no matter what the circumstances. Duly noted…

“Come here.” He beckoned, tilting his head and calling you over with just that motion.

Your body moved on its own, drawn to his aura, entranced by his name and his looks as well as his natural allure. When you locked eyes with him, it was as if Simeon wasn’t even in the room with you two anymore. The world faded away and you felt a warmth spread across your chest where the anxiety once was. He effortlessly made you feel safe somehow and you found yourself sitting in his lap without being asked to. He placed his arms loosely around you and the air between the two of you was absolutely electric.

You only noticed Simeon again when he walked over and adjusted his friend’s arms. He mumbled to himself as if possessed. He was present in the moment, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, writing his book while he posed the two of you in the ideal scenario. You could hear him come up with dialog on the fly, guiding Lucifer’s hands to your lower back to cradle you gently in his lap. With a little more direction Simeon had Lucifer rest his head at the crook of your neck. “I need you two to pretend to like each other… Please...”

You could feel Lucifer smirk against your skin, his lips just brushing against your pulse point when he spoke. “Oh, I won’t need to pretend to like her.”

You suppressed a shiver. Lucifer’s breath was so warm and his cologne was so cloying it made you feel rather lightheaded. There was an element of unspoken shame between the three of you. Allowing a stranger into what you had already established with Simeon felt so wrong. To do this with an old friend of his no less, there was distinct sense of sin about it the scene that felt rather right given the circumstances that lead up to it.

It was a blessing that Lucifer was so naturally handsome and mesmerizing. You were sure if it had been anyone else, it wouldn’t have been so easy to feel at home in his lap. His long fingers playing at the hem of your blouse while he pressed soft kisses at your neck. If you remembered the sequence of events of the book correctly, the main character had just been saved by her ‘husband’ who happened to be an assassin given the same target at she had been. You needed to put yourself in the protagonist’s mind, pretend that the man in front of you was as precious as a spouse and as marvelous as a savior.

Lucifer fell into his role seamlessly, kissing your skin as if he had almost lost his most treasured possession. His embrace tightened just enough to draw you closer to him. It was easy to tilt your head to give him more access to your neck. The way his lips played across your skin was so tender and soft, you sighed in satisfaction just from his kisses. Instinctively, your hands went to his shoulders, pulling him towards you, encouraging him to keep going further.

You could hear Simeon typing on the other side of the room; the usually distracting sound of the keyboard was negligible compared to the sound of Lucifer’s breathing so close to you. His teeth nipped the shell of your ear and you shied away out of habit. He chuckled softly, licking your skin and humming in approval at your reactions.

You weren’t sure how someone so suave was allowed to exist. He was barely doing anything and you were absolute putty in his hands within an hour of meeting him. He had been completely correct, there was no need to pretend you liked one another. The innate attraction was there, all you needed to do was react to his lead. “Lucifer...” you breathed, testing how it felt to have his name fall from your lips.

The verdict? It felt right.

Lucifer glanced over to where Simeon sat, catching the heated glare that was fixed on him. He couldn’t help but beam in self-satisfaction, knowing that the angel very much wished to be the one in the scene and not him. He turned his attention back to you, eliciting more breathy moans out of you. He said he was going to help with the scene; he never said anything about being mindful of relationship between you and Simeon.

“I like those noises you make. Make some more.” He demanded, slipping his hand under your blouse to finally get a handful of your skin. His touch left a trail of fire across your nerves. It felt like it had been years since you were last this close to anyone; it only made you more receptive of anything he did to you.

Lucifer was meticulous in his ministrations. He made sure to take his time exploring you with his hands and lips before moving onto the next step. It was almost torture how slow he was taking it. By the time he worked the first button off of your blouse, you were ready to rip his shirt off him.

“Kiss...” Simeon said from his seat. His voice curt and short as if he was directing a scene from a movie. “Kiss her before you do anything else.”

Lucifer was quick to comply. He had been hesitant in claiming your lips with his own, but with the approval of Simeon, he lost no time in taking your breath away. With one hand at the back of your head to keep you steady, his lips brushed against your own, seeking tentative permission before he went further. The warmth of his body enveloping you so gently made you melt and accept his kisses eagerly. His tongue traced your lips before delving into your mouth, tasting you for the time.

You moaned, breathing deeply through your nose as he overwhelmed all your senses with just his lips and tongue. While one hand held your head firmly in place for him, his free hand caressed your cheeks, your neck and your collarbone. While he swallowed all the pretty little noises that came from the back of your throat, he continued to work off the buttons of your blouse. Your clutched onto his shirt, unable to break the kiss even if you felt your head spin from lack of oxygen.

By the time all the buttons of your blouse had come undone, you were a breathless, whimpering wreck for him. He pulled away and admired just how swollen your lips had become from all the kisses. “Beautiful.” he praised, making your whole body heat up from the simple compliment. “Think you can help me out of these clothes? It’s gotten pretty warm in here.”

He didn’t have to ask you twice to help him. As much as you wanted to savor the moment and really draw out the intimacy between the two of you; you were also desperate to see what he looked like under that dress shirt. You licked your lips at every inch of skin you exposed, your eyes glittered with glee as you uncovered his chest and abs.

As soon as his shirt was completely open, he went back to exploring your body with his lips. His kisses trailed down your neck, to your chest and right to the outline of your bra. “Ah, silly undergarments… They always get in the way of fun.” In one swift motion, he slid his hands under your bra, freeing your breasts and also divesting you of your top along with it as it went over your head and arms. For a second, you felt distinctly vulnerable under his gaze and moved to cover yourself, but his hands kept your arms at your side.

You squirmed under his touch, your brain completely blank as he lavished you with attention. Lucifer noticed the freshly healed cuts on your skin and made sure to give them extra affection. He did it partially to stay in character, but mostly to spite Simeon who was definitely fixated on the scene he orchestrated. He was getting too much enjoyment out of pulling the most lewd sounds from you all the while the angel watched, unable to participate. The control he had over the both of you was absolutely exhilarating and turned him on more than the kisses and fondling.

Lucifer pushed you to lay on the couch, settling himself between your legs and hovering over you. The opened ends of his shirt tickling your sides briefly before he leaned in and took your nipple into his mouth. His tongue laved at the sensitive skin, coaxing it into a perky little bud before moving onto your other breast and doing the same. By the time he was done with that task, you were sure that the knee he had pressed up against your crotch could feel just how wet you had gotten.

Looking down between the two of you, you were grateful to see he wasn’t completely immune to the scenario. The impressive bulge in his pants at least proved to you he was enjoying this as much as you were. Pulling him into another searing hot kiss, you tugged at his hair, rolling your hips against him. You didn’t care that Simeon was watching, with Lucifer, you could get what he would never give you. “Fuck me.” you whispered, barely believing you were making such a demand.

“With pleasure.”

The rest of your clothes came off in record time. The need for a release was almost unbearable. Just seeing Lucifer’s cock spring out of his boxers made your mouth water. You were more than happy to spread your legs for him, giving him all the access in the world to seat himself in you.

But, it seemed he had a different idea for you. Turning you to face Simeon on the other side of the room, he pulled you up to your knees and slid into you from behind, groaning as your cunt greedily accepted every inch of him with no resistance. “Let’s give him something to write about.” he suggested right before making you see stars with his cock.

Being filled with an actual dick and not a toy was an experience you had missed so much. There was nothing better than the warmth and the feel of a real cock sliding in and out of you. Toys could only simulate so much, nothing could compare to what Lucifer was giving you. “Oh… fuck.” You gasped, leaning against his chest for support.

His hand grabbed your hair, pulling you flush against him as he rammed his whole length into you over and over again. His breathing hitching every time you squeezed around his cock. “Oh yeah, that’s a good girl.” he praised. “Look at how hot and bothered he is.” Lucifer brought your attention to the author across the room. His fingers frozen across the screen as his eyes were glued to the scene you were creating with his friend.

You didn’t want to look, but everything Lucifer said was a command you could not disobey. Glancing over, you were blessed with the image of Simeon, blankly staring at what you were doing. His expression completely unreadable, but his eyes were dark from just how blown out his irises were. His hands that were supposed to be on the keyboard stroked his clothed cock in time with every one of Lucifer’s strokes.

The feeling of shame washed over you as you saw just how pitiful Simeon seemed so distant from the two of you. His heated gaze was fixated on the spot where Lucifer and you were so intimately joined. Lucifer continued on railing into you, his hand wrapped around your waist and teased your clit, drawing you closer and closer to your climax. You couldn’t even think about the guilt you felt in your gut as Simeon was forced to observe you. All you could focus on was just how good Lucifer was with his cock and how close you were to coming undone.

“Think we should let him join us?” Lucifer’s voice was like the devil on your shoulder, voicing all the things you couldn’t say out of embarrassment. “He’s always been bad at saying what he wants.”

You didn’t have time to respond as all the pleasure came to a screeching halt. Just as you felt like you were going to cum, Lucifer pulled out of you, making you whine and whimper in need. “I… what… I...”

The smile he gave you was soft, but the emotion didn’t reach his eyes. There was a devious glint in them while he waited for you to compose yourself.

“What? Why did you stop? What happened?” Simeon busied himself with sitting up straight again, hunching over his computer as if he hadn’t just been stroking himself to what was in front of him.

“I got bored.” Lucifer stated plainly, getting up and leading you over to the author who was furiously typing away, trying to the capture the scene he just witnessed. “I thought you might like to join in the fun...”

“That… that wasn’t the agreement.”

“I’m bending the rules a little.” Lucifer shrugged and gently pushed you down on your knees in front of Simeon. You crawled under the folding table he set up as a makeshift desk. It was a snug fit, but not entirely too uncomfortable. “I’m sure we can all benefit from a little more fun, right?” He laced his hand into your hair and gently, but firmly pushed you towards Simeon’s bulge.

You didn’t even need any encouragement to start working on freeing Simeon’s cock from the confines of his pants. The man above you couldn’t protest, the need to feel you and the need for release overriding his scruples he had worked so hard to maintain. “I… You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.” You said firmly, licking your lips when you got your hands around his length and pulled it out, giving it an experimental pump. With just that simple touch, Simeon hissed and rolled his hips up to meet your hand. “And it looks like you want to, as well.”

“Let’s see what that pretty mouth of yours can do.” Lucifer encouraged from behind you. “If you do a good job, I’ll make sure to finish what I started.”

You were more than eager to wrap your lips around the tip of Simeon’s cock, licking and swirling your tongue around the tip. Your hand pumping the length of his cock you couldn’t fit in your mouth just yet. Simeon’s moan encouraged you to keep going, taking more of him into you until he hit the back of your throat. Lucifer’s hand in your hair was soon replaced with Simeon’s as he held onto you, setting the pace as your head bobbed up and down his cock.

You moaned into his dick, sending vibrations down his length and making him shiver. His grip in your hair tightened and he pushed your head further down his cock, wanting you to take all of him. With a bit of an initial struggle to suppress your gag reflex, you relaxed enough to take every inch of him with just a little coaxing. Soon enough, your nose brushed against his coarse pubic hairs every time he made a full pass down your throat.

“Amazing...” Lucifer breathed, lining himself behind you to enter you again. Just watching Simeon fuck your mouth had heightened the sexual tension in the room into something palpable. He timed himself to enter you at the same time Simeon was at his deepest down your throat. “Time for your reward.”

Your screams of pleasure were muffled by Simeon’s cock being stuffed into your mouth. Lucifer taking your cunt again made you nearly lose consciousness for a second. Simeon’s grip in your hair became almost painful as the two of them worked in tandem to fuck you senseless.

It felt like there was an unsaid agreement the moment the two of them started to move. As soon as Lucifer pulled out of you until just the tip of his cock remained in your pussy, Simeon would be fully seated down your throat. The moment Simeon’s dick slid out of your mouth just enough to give you a chance to breathe, Lucifer would ram his whole length back into you, making you forget to take a full breath before the cycle continued once again.

It was a dizzying experience and the orgasm that had been abated for the time being built itself back up to be something explosive. The two of them played your body like a toy meant for their pleasure. All your holes were meant to please them; and you wouldn’t have it any other way. Lucifer’s fingers once again found your clit, bringing you right up to the edge within a few passes of his digits across the sensitive nub.

“Cum for me, beautiful...”

His voice was magical, pushing you right across the threshold into your climax. You moaned into Simeon’s cock, causing him to also unload his cum down your throat. Even if it was hard to breathe, the lack of oxygen only seemed to enhance the high you had been brought to. Lucifer only needed to thrust into you a few more times before his own pace stuttered and he came, releasing his hot seed into you and completing the euphoric feeling of climaxing.

Simeon was the first to regain his senses, carefully pulling out his spent cock from your mouth. Even if you did your best to swallow all of him, some of his cum mixed with your saliva and dribbled down the corner of your mouth to your chin. He carefully wiped away what he could with his thumb before pulling you in for a kiss.

“I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry… Please forgive me…” He begged in between kisses. He could taste himself on your lips, something he didn’t expect to enjoy as much as he did. With every kiss, the color returned to his world, the grays that permeated his every existence faded the more time he spent with you. Without you, he wasn’t himself anymore; that much he learned.

Ah. So this is what forgiveness feels like...

Lucifer pulled out of you once he softened enough to do so. He was about to say something rather snide, but he also didn’t want to ruin the moment of reconciliation between the two of you. So, he decided to save it for later. He waited patiently for you to reassure him everything was going to be all right before speaking up.

“So, you think you got the scene?”

“Yeah… I think we got it. Do you think we can make the deadline?”

You looked up at him, feeling satisfied and elated in a way you hadn’t felt in so long. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

#Obey me #Obey Me Simeon #Obey Me Lucifer #Simeon x reader #Lucifer x reader #Simeon x Lucifer x Reader #Obey me Smut #Obey me Fanfiction #My writing #i'm trash you're trash we're all trash #we're finally getting to the super fun bullshit!#Shall we date obey me

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marril96 · 4 years

Text

Extra to the Bone

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: Unhinged members of Rowena's former coven kidnap her girlfriend, and she enlists Sam and Dean's help to rescue her.

A/N: I wrote this back in April. It just never felt like the right time to publish it. So I just figured, why not today?

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

The last thing you expected when you went grocery shopping was to be kidnapped by a group of women — girls, really, for even the oldest among them had the minds of adolescents, though it didn't make them any less dangerous.

They appeared seemingly out of nowhere, and before you could utter a spell to protect yourself, they were spouting magic of their own. Strength in numbers, because why play fair when they could gang up on their target?

Girls like them never played fair.

You supposed you should have expected it. After all, it was you who had been warning Rowena about them for months now. All your pleas to be careful fell on deaf ears; they were harmless, Rowena had said, and stood by it. Just an overly enthusiastic group of witches. A coven — hers, once upon a time, now independent, theirs. And, oh, boy, had they made it theirs.

Rowena considered them nothing more than a nuisance. A part of her, you assumed, was flattered by their antics, even as they leveled up from annoying to creepy and, in what seemed like no time, stalkerish. Even when the two of you had put on a new set of warding on your home — just in case they managed to track you down — Rowena had insisted you were safe. They adored her. They wanted her attention, her approval. They weren't interested in you.

Until today when, apparently, they were, and, god, it sucked. You hated them. Loathed them from the depths of your soul. Less than pleasant (to say the least) words burned at your tongue, itching to break free, to set loose at them, but before you could utter anything, a piece of cloth was pressed over your mouth, and, moment by moment, everything went black.

As you faded into nothingness, it wasn't fear that occupied your thoughts. Or worry, or desire to rip them apart.

It was, Damn, they can't even knock me out with magic.

Some witches they were.

*****

It wasn't every day that Rowena showed up at the Bunker — willingly — but desperate times called for desperate measures. She stormed in without even ringing the bell and started shouting for Sam and Dean as if her life depended on it.

Yours, however much she wanted to deny it, might have.

"Y/N's been taken!" she yelled when the brothers showed up, looking at her as if she'd grown a second head.

It was Sam who spoke first. "What? Taken by whom?"

"The Extra Coven!"

Dean raised his eyebrows, baffled. "The what?"

"The Extra Coven!" Rowena repeated in the voice of someone announcing the antichrist's second coming. Or was it third, at this point?

"What's the Extra Coven?" Sam inquired.

Now wasn't that a story? "It's a coven of rather mediocre witches," she explained, face contorting with disgust at the memories that flooded her brain. Screeching. Cheering. The pride she used to beam with at the sight of those girls, which quickly became unease as their antics, once cute, precious, became uncomfortable. "My former coven, to be precise."

Sam frowned. "Your former coven?"

"Aye." Rowena's cheeks flushed with shame. It wasn't something she looked back on fondly — not anymore. "After the Mega Coven fiasco, I tried again. Y/N wasn't too thrilled at the idea—" and that was putting it lightly "—but I wanted a coven of my own." She wanted the admiration. The adoration. The Grand Coven had taken it from her, and she wanted it back.

You were right there, loving her more than anything in the world, but she didn't appreciate it. Not nearly enough. Her icy heart had started to melt at that point; she could tell you cared, and she was starting to realize she felt something, too. Something she, at the time, was too afraid to give in to, to even attempt to understand. It was just there, and it was terrifying.

Amara had just been dealt with, the world saved, and Rowena was left confused. All the power she sought, all the magic wasn't enough anymore. She felt… empty. Without purpose. Brimming with feelings she was too frightened to explore. If two divine beings couldn't figure their lives out, what hope was there for her?

So she'd decided to try for a new coven. It was a new world. New beginning. New Rowena. You'd told her it wasn't the best idea, but she was adamant to give it a try. What was the worst that could happen?

"I named it the Extra Coven, because Extra is better than Mega," she continued with a grin, which earned her puzzled stares. She ignored them. People never appreciated her genius. "Things were going well at first. The girls were learning fast, everybody got along. Then a few of them started getting… odd."

Odd was too mild a word. They'd started showing up at Rowena's hotel room unannounced, bearing gifts and jolly smiles. Every magic lesson she started would be interrupted by the select few individuals asking irrelevant questions. Often they would demand help, even if the spell they were being taught was easy; they would pout and whine, and when Rowena would approach them to go over it step by step, they would dissolve into giggles.

At first Rowena was flattered. Attention was like a drug to her; the more she got, the more she craved it. So what if it was a tad unconventional? Those girls admired her. Cherished her. Loved her. She could do no wrong in their eyes. When you complained they were taking a bit too much of her time, she dismissed you. So a few of them would show up at her hotel room for some after-hours tutoring, or they would take her to dinner to the most expensive restaurant in the city — so what? What was wrong in being pampered by her proteges?

As time went on, though, Rowena's enthusiasm withered. The Extra Coven was doing well, for the most part. Most of the witches were hard workers, genuinely interested in the craft and, at the same time, mesmerized by her presence. Fans, one might call them. They were kind and friendly, and they did as they were told. Rowena was beaming with pride.

However, as the rest of the group was growing into a true coven, the girls that had taken so much of her time had started to demand even more. It was always the same five girls. They never seemed to be improving; they asked for help, but they never took her advice. She might as well have taught the wall. They wanted after-hours lessons, but never learned anything. All they appeared to be interested in was being around her. The fact would have flattered Rowena had they not gone about it in such a way.

Your warnings suddenly started making sense. They weren't in the coven for the experience of witchcraft. They were there to be close to her. It had gotten to the point where, if you happened to be talking to her, one of the girls would butt in to reclaim the attention for themselves. The first few times it looked like a coincidence. However, it soon became clear they saw you as an obstacle. You were Rowena's girlfriend. You lived with her. You shared a bed with her. It was you she kissed on the mouth, and who had her undivided attention.

They'd engaged in a war that didn't exist and they were intent on winning.

Seeing you in distress too many times for her liking, Rowena had decided that enough was enough. She'd started declining invitations to lunch and dinner. When she taught, she kept her distance. After-hours lessons were officially stopped. That didn't stop those five girls from showing up at her door every night to ask for them, so, after the third time, Rowena stopped answering and pretended she wasn't home.

It did nothing to deter them, so, after a lengthy conversation, the two of you had decided to move. Rowena was sick of being disrespected, of her privacy being invaded. She cared about the coven, about those girls who genuinely wanted to learn, but she couldn't do it anymore. Her announcement that she was leaving the coven was met with tears and disappointment. Something had come up, she'd said, and she needed to go away. Indefinitely. She wished them the best of luck, but she couldn't be their mentor anymore.

The two of you traveled half across the country and settled in a fabulous hotel, breathing in relief at finally regaining your freedom.

Then, a week after you'd arrived, a knock sounded on the door, and when Rowena opened it, she was met with five smiley, very familiar faces.

The same thing happened five more times, each in a different city, different hotel. Wherever she went, they'd managed to find her. And each time, they acted as if it were a coincidence. As if they just happened to be there and came across her door by pure luck.

Rowena wasn't born yesterday.

Sam and Dean stared at her in shock as she told her story. "When Y/N and I settled down, we put wardings around the house to block tracking spells," she said. "All was fine until today."

She supposed it was bound to happen sooner or later. The peace had lasted three years, almost four — considering those girls' track record, it was good. She should have dealt with it at the start. Should have cut it off at the root before it managed to grow and blossom. Annoying her was one thing. Taking you was crossing the line.

They would pay. Rowena swore it on her life.

"How do you know it's them?" Dean asked.

Rowena held up a glittery hex bag. "They left this." Right there by the road, where they'd taken you, alongside your wallet. A loud and clear message.

He nodded. "How dangerous are they?"

"They are more of a nuisance. But it's been three years. Who knows what they're capable of."

For all she knew, they could have found another witch to tutor them, to help them perfect their craft. They were far from good witches, but even the worst behaved dog could learn a trick or two.

"Great," Dean said with a sigh. "Crazy stalker witches who may or may not be dangerous."

"Welcome to my life," Rowena said dryly.

"Do you know where we can find them?" Sam asked.

She smirked. "Och, aye." They weren't trying to hide from her (not that they could; she was more powerful than all of them combined). They wanted her to come to them, to bless them with her presence. All Rowena needed were reinforcements, just in case, and she was good to go.

This is the one attention demand they would come to regret.

*****

As far as villain hideous went, the Extra Coven's was standard. An abandoned cottage in the middle of nowhere. Sort of cliche, though Rowena supposed that was the point. They wanted her to find them. They were counting on it.

What kind of an idol would she be if she didn't deliver?

She elected to go in first. Sam and Dean advised against it, but she was adamant. The Coven wanted her. Adored her so much they'd kidnapped her girlfriend to get her attention. They wouldn't hurt her. The Winchesters were there as backup, in case they turned out to be more powerful than she predicted.

Your face greeted her upon opening the door. You were seated on a sofa, bound in iron chains. Powerless. Helpless. Your lips were tight in anger, features arranged in a matching expression. Pissed to high heavens.

Rowena was relieved to see no marks on your body, no bruises or welts. You were unharmed. A point for the Coven, not that it mattered much. Being so obsessed with her, they surely knew she wasn't big on forgiveness. If they'd hurt her, she might have considered giving them a second chance. But they went after you. There was no forgiving that. No letting them get away with it.

A long time ago, Rowena had made a promise to never let anything happen to you. She intended to make good on it.

"Rowena!" one of the Coven girls, a perky brunette with curls, exclaimed just as you were about to call for her.

"You came!" another, a blonde, said in awe.

There were five of them in total, all bright eyed, excited, as if this were the highlight of their lives. As if they hadn't kidnapped a girl — an innocent girl — in order to get Rowena's attention. It made Rowena sick. Anger burned in her veins, and with it her magic; it roiled and coiled, boiling hot, ready to burst at her command.

If they loved her so much, surely they knew you were off limits. They'd seen her curse people over insulting you — hell, over looking at you the wrong way. You were her number one priority.

They had made a horrible mistake.

"Girls," she said in a tone that made it clear she wasn't happy to be here. Not by a long shot.

They either didn't notice or didn't care for as soon as she addressed them their faces lit up.

"I can't believe you came!"one of them — a horribly dyed ginger — said. "I thought we'd never see you again."

That was why they'd kidnapped you. Because they totally didn't believe she would come to your rescue. Rowena scoffed. Right. "You've certainly been… persuasive."

"It was Greta's idea," the ginger — Sandra? Rowena was pretty sure her name was Sandra — said happily, pointing to a pudgy brunette.

Of course it was. "I expected nothing less."

Greta had always been the most enthusiastic one of the group. The one who butted in everywhere, and sought her attention the most. At times Rowena thought she was living on it. Her praise was like a drug to the girl.

She turned to you. Looked you over one more time just to be sure. "Are you alright, dear?"

"I guess," you said with a shrug. You rattled your binds. "These chains are uncomfortable."

"Have they hurt you?"

"No."

Rowena breathed out in relief. At least there was that. One point for the Extra Coven, she supposed. Not that it mattered much. They still took you, and they would pay for that. Rules were rules.

"They kinda suck, to be honest," you said after a few moments. "I mean, they knocked me out with chloroform. Who does that?"

Rowena raised an eyebrow. Really, who did that? What self-respecting witch resorted to chloroform to incapacitate her target?

"Shut up!" the other redhead, Victoria, screamed.

"Lass," Rowena said in a barely raised voice, tone more strict than threatening, but it was enough to shut the girl up. You snorted, and Rowena barely resisted a smirk of her own. It felt good to have so much power over people. To have them obey her every command. She just wished it was under better circumstances.

"Rowena, are you—" Sam suddenly rushed in, followed by Dean, both with guns raised, witch-killing bullets ready to fire.

"What the hell?" Dean stared at the girls, looked them over one by one. "These are grown-ass women!"

"Never underestimate the power of crazy. "Like she had, and look where it had gotten her. Where it had gotten you. Even when they were stalking her, she thought them nothing but a nuisance.

You were right about them all along.

Rowena dreaded that conversation at home.

The girls gasped in surprise.

"You brought hunters?" the blonde said, outraged. As if she'd been punched in the gut.

Once Rowena was done with her, she would wish she was. "What in hell did you expect?" She was done with their antics. Done with the fake smiles and pleasantries. "You kidnapped my girlfriend!" The words were bitter on her tongue. Poison. "Was I supposed fall to my knees and beg to get her back?"

"We didn't hurt her!" Sandra said, as if that made everything better.

"We just wanted to see you," Greta said.

"I didn't want to see you," Rowena retorted. "Can't you take a bloody hint?"

"But—"

"I've had a wonderful coven, and the five of you ruined it!" The other girls were there to learn, to hone their magic, to find a place where they belonged. They were lovely proteges, on a surefire way to greatness. They could have accomplished a lot had Rowena not been forced to leave them behind. All because of five rotten, selfish girls. "I left because of you!"

All five paled. Teared up like children being chastised by a teacher.

"Don't say that," the curly brunette said. Begged. Pleaded.

"It's true."

"We love you," Victoria said.

"You're bloody sick!" Rowena snapped. "You've ruined the Coven, and you've tried to ruin my life!"

Tears fell. Sobs and sniffles sounded. Good, Rowena thought. It was time they learned the truth.

"We just—"

She put up a hand. "I don't want to hear it! I don't want anything to do with you!"

"You don't mean that," Sandra whimpered.

Och, she did. She meant it more than anything in the world. "Release Y/N," she said — ordered, really, for her voice was nothing but stone, cold and cruel. No mercy. No sympathy.

"Are you gonna leave if we do?" Greta asked.

Oh, Rowena thought, she was going to do more than that. Much more. "What do you think?"

"Please, don't," Victoria begged, red-faced and puffy-eyed.

Rowena wasn't in the mood for theatrics. "Release her. Now."

"No." It was Sandra who said it, brave face on in its full glory. As fake as the colour of her hair. Rowena raised an eyebrow. "Why should she get to have you and not us?"

Because you were her girlfriend. Because she loved you more than she'd ever loved anyone. Because you understood her like no one else ever had. Because you'd never judged her, never tried to change her. Because you loved her as the petty, flawed, formerly evil creature she was.

She couldn't expect these girls to understand that. They didn't even know what love was, their obsession twisting their hearts, turning them dark. Consuming them from the inside. They were addicts, really. Chasing a high that would never come. Desperate. As angry as she was, Rowena pitied them. It must have been a horrible life, to be so lonely amongst so many people. To crave something they could never have.

"She doesn't deserve you," Greta agreed.

"Wow," Dean said, flabbergasted.

And really, wow. Who were they to say you didn't deserve her? Who were they to even think it? They knew nothing about you. They barely knew anything about Rowena.

She blinked, two times, three. Baffled. Outraged. Blood burning white hot in her veins. "Beg pardon?"

"Greta's right," Victoria said. "Y/N doesn't deserve you. She doesn't love you like we do."

"Is that so?"

"Yes!" the blonde said. "We looked everywhere for you. We knew we'd find you." She threw a filthy look at you. "She'd never do that."

Well, they were right about that. You gave her space when she needed it. You respected her wishes.

You wouldn't stalk her.

"She doesn't love you," the curly-haired girl said.

"If she did," Sandra said, "she wouldn't have left you alone."

Rowena swallowed an array of swears that itched at her throat and uttered, "Huh."

So it was like that. They didn't just feel entitled to her. They felt entitled to act as if they knew you. Who gave them the right? They didn't know her, and they knew you even less. They had no right to take you from her. They had even less of a right to judge you. And based on what? Envy? Entitlement?

It was time to end this charade. Rowena thought she could do it the diplomatic way, but it was clear the Coven wasn't here for negotiations. They wanted war, and they would bloody have it.

"You should have listened to me, girls," she said, finally calm, at peace. Relieved to have given herself permission to do what was necessary. "I'd planned for this to be painless, but you left me no other choice."

Sandra frowned. "What do you mean?"

"As you rot in Hell, remember that you chose this," Rowena said. As their faces paled, and fear settled into their eyes, she spat, "Impetus Bestiarum!"

The girls stilled. Their eyes, so bright a mere moment ago, filled up with ripe, rich red. Blood slid down their cheeks like tears. Humanity gone, they were beasts; wild, feral. Ravenous.

Rowena allowed herself to smile at her accomplishment, allowed a relieved sigh to leave her mouth. They got their wish, she supposed. They were hers. Her pets. Her puppets, and she was the one holding the strings.

She looked them in the eyes — in those wild red eyes that were no longer human, that flashed with hunger and rage, and craved orders to attack, to finally set the beast free. Rowena was all too happy to oblige. "End it."

For a moment they just stared at her, still as statues. Then, as more blood fell down their cheeks and veins dark as bruises bloomed all over their faces, they lunged at each other with the ferocity of werewolves at the height of the full moon. They ripped and slashed and tore and roared. Blood seeped free. Screams let loose. Teeth dug into necks, and nails bit into arms and backs.

The chaos lasted no more than a minute, and by the time it was over, all that remained were pools of blood and torn strands of hair strewn around. The girls' bodies laid in a messy heap. Every inch of exposed skin was torn, bloody. Faces so ripped apart they were unrecognizable.

The room fell silent for a moment. Then Dean said, "You've gotta stop doing that."

Rowena smiled, smug, proud of her feat. "Effective, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Sam said. "Maybe a bit… too effective."

She took it as a compliment.

"It was awesome!" you said, grinning like the proud girlfriend you were.

"Why thank you! At least someone appreciates my talent."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

"You okay?" Sam asked as he and his brother started working on the chains.

"Yeah," you said. "Just uncomfortable."

As soon as you were free, you threw your arms around Rowena and squeezed as if your life depended on it. Reluctantly, she returned the embrace; she wasn't one for public displays of affection, especially in front of the Winchesters, but she couldn't push you away. It felt good to have you so close again. To feel your heartbeat on her skin. To hold you and love you and hope with everything she had that this would never happen again, that no one would ever get their hands on you again. Not in this lifetime.

"I knew you'd come for me," you said.

She always had, and always would. "You were right about The Extra Coven." It hurt to say it, to admit it out loud, but it was only fair, after everything that had happened. You deserved that much. "I should have killed them a long time ago."

You pulled back. Looked her in the eyes. "It's nice to know I was right, for once," you teased.

"Don't get used to it," Rowena said with a chuckle.

"I'll enjoy it while it lasts." Your eyes wandered to the blood-caked bodies. "What about the rest of the Coven?"

"I don't think they will be a problem. They're lovely girls." Were it not for the five stalkers, Rowena would have most likely still been in the Coven. "These five were the ones causing trouble. Without them, I think they will prosper."

"You thinking about contacting them?"

"Maybe." If only to check up on them. To see how they would function without the extremists. You frowned. "Don't worry, darling. I've no plans to lead them again."

"Good," you said, grabbing hold of her hand. "I don't think I wanna share you."

Rowena smiled. "I'm all yours."

And you were hers.

And so it would remain for as long as you both lived.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @shadowgirl-vsb @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @evil-regal-vampiress @hellbentredhead @angel-e-v-a @a-queen-and-her-throne @carryon-doctor-lock @fangirlxwritesx67 @theeasterbilby @midnight-lestrange @oster-hagen @impala-1979

#rowena #rowena macleod #spn #supernatural #spn family #rowena x reader #my fics #fanfiction

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infaethable · 4 years

Text

(part one here)

riz gukgak has been legally dead for a week when he wakes up in a hospital bed.

it’s not like in movies, he doesn’t come to consciousness all at once. he catches snippets of conversations and traces of sensations, the relief of his mother’s voice for half a second, the comforting smell of adaine’s bergamot shampoo that always lingers even a few days after a wash, a hand in his, rubbing a thumb across riz’s split and scabbed over knuckles before he finally fights the urge to go back into the sweet relief of unconsciousness and opens his eyes.

it's so bright that he immediately has to beat back the impulse to close them again, his pupils narrowing into slits in order to take in less light. he's got a killer headache, and his mouth is dry as he says the only thing he can think of.

which is understandably, "ow."

fabian, who riz had uncharacteristically not noticed sleeping silently in the chair beside the bed, falls out of said chair in surprise. riz lets a smile spread across his face, the first in a number of weeks.

now that he's more in himself, he takes in the room more and sees that clearly, he's been here for at least a little bit. if he had to guess, a couple of days. there are multitudes of cards on his bedside table, a kids one scrawled over in black sharpie clearly from fig, a handmade one that could be from kristen or gorgug, a lovingly colored in color by numbers type thing unmistakably from adaine, and a number of nondescript ones probably from distant classmates or his mom’s coworkers. on the windowsill is a slightly misshapen glass vase riz recognizes from it’s home on fabian’s dresser, holding a tin flower.

riz leans over the side of his bed, ignoring the flash of pain from pulling his stitches (which he apparently has now?) and takes in fabian himself, who’s getting his bearings on the floor. he supposes he’s being hypocritical, as someone in a hospital bed, but fabian looks rough.

he's got dark shadows under his eyes, and his hair, which over the past year had shifted slowly from straightened to loose bouncy curls, is frizzy, and disheveled like he’s run his hands through it too many times for the style to keep. his jacket, usually pressed (which riz made fun of to no end, the idea of pressing a letterman's jacket was so ridiculous-) was crumpled on the chair as if it had been draped over him like a blanket when he fell. and as fabian reaches a hand on the side of the hospital bed to help himself up, riz sees that there are white bandages wrapped around his palms.

riz feels a pang of worry along with the pull of his stitches, so he reluctantly repositions himself, but cocks his head to meet fabian’s gaze and croaks out (he should really ask about some ice chips-), “what happened to your hands?”

fabian finally gets himself to a standing position, blinks the sleep from his eyes, and says, "the ball. you’re- i'm going to get a nurse!" and runs out of the room.

riz gets about ten seconds of confusion before sklonda comes running in, and envelops him in the warmest hug he’s ever had and holds on for dear life.

and then, in a voice laced with more grief than he’s heard in six years, she says,

"you- riz you were gone."

and riz says back, trying not to get his mom’s curls in his mouth,

"i texted adaine?"

and sklonda pulls back, hands still on his shoulders, says,

"and then you went missing for three weeks! they found three and a half pints of your blood on the floor of a laundromat in bastion city, riz you are so!"

and then she makes a noise that riz knows means she is utterly done with his antics and buries him in a hug again.

and a nurse comes and taps sklonda on the shoulder, "mrs. gukgak? we need to check his vitals."

his mom corrects the nurse under her breath, “as i’ve told you, it’s miss gukgak.” before taking a step back.

riz answers benign questions like what country he's in (solace) what week it is (second week in november) how he’s feeling (bad) all the while craning his neck very subtly to see if fabian will come back in the room. his mom only rolls her eyes once.

when the nurse leaves, sklonda sighs and rubs her temples, and starts, "riz, you lost- you lost so much blood."

riz can’t meet his mother’s eyes as shame pools in his gut, says quietly, "i- not all of it was mine."

sklonda tenses, before continuing, "we figured that out when you showed up again, but riz, it was." and her eyes well up as her voice breaks, "if it had been, there was no way- you couldn't have survived it."

riz's brows furrow in confusion, as he prompts, “but it wasn't."

and sklonda retorts with a frustrated hand gesture, "yes, well the idiots in the bastion city precinct didn't know that, riz." and pauses to make sure he's looking her in the eyes as she continues, "you were legally dead riz. for a week."

and riz's eyes widen as he takes in the information, "what- that's stupid. i was alive. didn't anyone do any divination spells? or locator spells? or, actually, fuck-” riz takes a quick breath as some machine next to him starts beeping, “i um. warded myself against divination and locator spells, but i think dead is a little bit of an overreaction! how does this happen?!"

sklonda raises her voice, “calm down-” before taking a glance at the steadily rising heart rate monitor, and says in a low tone, “what's done is done, and the important thing is that you're alive."

riz does not calm down, his voice raising pitch slowly, "everyone thought i was dead? everyone?"

sklonda nods her head slowly, says, "we were about halfway through your will, which, by the way, how the fuck did you, a fifteen-year-old boy, get a will notarized without letting me know about it? do you want to explain that?"

riz's eyes are as wide as saucers as he says, "wait wait wait. my will? halfway- how much of my will?"

sklonda furrows her brows for a millisecond in confusion before a revelation washes over her face and incredulous anger sets in,

"riz gukgak. you were legally dead for a week and that is what you're worried about? YOU LOST THREE PERCENT OF YOUR BODY WEIGHT IN BLOOD!"

and she takes a step back, takes a deep breath, and says, before riz can respond, "i am going to get myself another coffee, and you some ice chips. and you are banned from “deep cover” for- for till college!"

and riz tries to sit up, but his stitches pull too painfully to ignore, so he cranes his neck to see out of the room as he shouts after her, "like in icarly?!"

sklonda shouts back, “stop pulling your stitches!” before disappearing out of sight.

riz waits there for a couple of moments spiraling, maybe he got the old letter, fuck, did i remember to switch them out? habit of forgetting things integral to my wellbeing, please don’t fail me now, i promise i will never say anything bad about you again- maybe they didn’t even get through all of them? or maybe he got it but he didn’t open it? was going to save it for his wedding day or something like in that movie with julianne hough- before hearing tentative footsteps, and looks up to see fabian in the doorway, head down, wringing his hands.

riz is suddenly acutely aware that he hasn’t talked to fabian (besides the brief exchange earlier) in almost a month, which would make it the longest he’s gone without talking to fabian since they met. even in those long and lonely weeks in jail, they found quiet ways to communicate. notes passed daisy chain style, the odd few messages by way of fig or adaine whenever both of their cell doors opened enough to let magic in.

riz opens his mouth to say something, act like a normal fucking person, but-

he can't.

and thankfully, fabian does, clears his throat and says, so quiet that riz might not be able to hear it if he weren't a goblin, "i got your letter."

fuck.

riz winces and looks down at his lap, the green of his hands contrasting with the pale blue hospital gown patterned with tiny dark blue polka dots.

he holds his tongue as he thinks about what to say before finally responding, "you um.” so much for thinking about what to say, he thinks as he levels his gaze at fabian yet again, “i wrote two. i had to rewrite yours, for- reasons. which one?"

fabian takes a step into the room, pauses a moment, then closes the door behind him. fabian’s movements are slow and hesitant like he’s trying not to make any loud or sudden noises. he still won't meet riz's eyes. riz gets the sinking feeling that he knows what letter fabian read.

fabian confirms it anyway, "the one where you said-"

and that’s all riz needs to interrupt, his voice painfully high pitched at this point, "we don't have to talk about that. it- it was a contingency plan, just in case, you know, and we can just move past it."

riz gives a smile that begs fabian to not notice his face is lime green right now. and then as a further misdirect, he adds, "you never told me what happened to your hands."

fabian finally meets riz's eyes, and his expression is. god, riz is so bad at reading faces, and he’d count fabian’s as his top three most readable faces, on the sheer amount he looks at it alone. he’s. confused? hurt? but that can't be true, why would fabian feel hurt? maybe he's mad riz took advantage of their friendship? but fabian denies that there's a friendship to betray at every turn-

his train of thought gets interrupted by fabian's next words, breathy with a hint of annoyance maybe, "i- my sword. burned my hands. when i made my pact."

and riz's eyes widen even more as horror and panic sets it, what the fuck did fabian do-

"your WHAT?"

fabian winces at riz's gravelly voice, which cracks halfway through so it can't be very intimidating, before saying, "riz, it's not important, if we could just please talk about the letter-"

riz interrupts him again, "i don't think my feelings for you matter as much as you selling your soul, fabian, why would you do that, oh my fucking gods-"

and fabian raises his voice for the first time, a hint of darkness and desperation riz hasn't ever heard before in his voice, "you were dead riz."

and riz quiets down, shakes his head from side to side a minuscule amount, before saying so quietly it could almost be a whisper, "what does that have to do with anything?"

fabian gets a look on his face that riz couldn't parse in a million years, his lips the smallest bit parted and his head shaking in mirror to riz’s. disagreement? confusion? riz can’t figure it out.

fabian’s steps echo on the linoleum as he crosses the distance from the door to the side of riz’s bed. riz looks up at him, so much taller normally and even more imposing now, and he doesn’t know how fabian clocks it, but he does, leans down so he’s on his knees and he and riz are at eye level.

it's dizzying, to have fabian's full attention like this. he almost opens his mouth to question what are you doing? but can’t bring himself to break the magnetism of the moment.

fabian’s gaze bores into his, and he says again, so softly riz thinks for a second that he wasn’t meant to hear it, and so broken that riz never wants to hear it again,

"riz. you were dead."

and for a beat, they just stare at each other.

fabian, slowly, slowly, reaches his hand to envelop riz’s, and it feels familiar. he can’t remember any other time fabian has held his hand, so that has to mean-

riz gets these feelings sometimes, little thorns of hope that dig their way in and whisper, what if- that inevitably disappoint when fabian crushes them underfoot. riz waits for the inevitable.

the inevitable doesn’t happen.

fabian leans in the slightest bit so that their foreheads are touching. so close that riz's breath hitches and fabian must feel it. and fabian has tears running down his face, riz doesn’t know how he missed fabian starting to cry, but he is, and fabian swallows a lump in his throat before saying in a pleading tone,

"riz”

riz realizes that fabian hasn't called him the ball since he came in the room.

so he says back, those thorns crawling their way into his voice, hope, bloody and raw,

"yeah?"

fabian swallows again, and then, small and wavering, asks, "would you tell me again?"

and riz squeezes fabian's hand, involuntary, says, a tiny bit breathless,

"that i'm in love with you?"

and fabian nods imperceptibly, forehead still pressed against riz's.

so riz, with the conviction of a dead man, answers, "i'm in love with you."

and fabian inhales, sharply, before saying, "me too."

and then fabian kisses him.

and this isn't like the movies either, the tile is probably hard on fabian's knees, and riz has to crane his head to the side in his half laying down position, but fabian's mouth is warm and he tastes like coffee with so much sugar that it can't be called coffee anymore, and his hand that's not holding riz's comes to rest on the back of riz's neck, fingers threading into riz's curls.

riz pulls away, takes a deep breath, and says, "you mean that you're in love with me, and not that you're in love with yourself right?"

and fabian's face spreads into a smile and he laughs like sunlight that riz has barely seen in weeks, answers, "i'm in love with you, riz."

riz's voice is breathy and higher pitched than he would like as he says back, "cool cool cool. would you kiss me again?"

but as fabian goes to lean in again, he hears a voice from the doorway, the same nurse that took his vitals previously,

"he most certainly will not. your heart rate is way too fast for the amount of blood you lost young man."

sklonda is behind her, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

fabian goes to back away with his arms up in a surrender motion, but at the last second presses a kiss to riz's lime green cheek, before he backs away for real.

riz is already missing his presence as he meets sklonda at the doorway, where he finally breaks eye contact with riz to look her in the eyes. she puts a hand on his back to gently push him out of the doorway and into the hallway outside.

she says, annoyed in that way that means she’s not really annoyed but amused, “go get adaine. she’s been waiting for her turn for ten minutes, and if she waits any longer i can’t say in good conscience that she won’t murder you, and then we’d have an actual death on our hands.”

and sklonda turns back to riz, raises her eyebrows. riz raises his back, and she walks across the room to press a kiss to the corner of his head. the nurse rolls her eyes, mutters something about adventurers, and shuts the door on them.

#i actually have a ban on riz dies aus but i wanted the angst #what exactly happened to riz when he was in ''deep cover'' ?#fuck if i know #also shout out to @figaydas on twitter #for the leave it all to me fancam #that put the sleeper agent icarly/fh thought in my brain #inspiring the for till college bit #and also to mac <3 #all of you thank mac if not for mac @pastelmogar you would not be seeing this #bc again #i only ever post things when mac tells me to #fabriz #my writing

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“The plasticity of the notion of reading meant that it represented the medium through which middle-class Victorian girls passed many hours, but it did not bring a uniform message. Like their parents and advisers, adolescent girls who were writing about reading were of two minds. On the one hand, as William Thayer put it, reading could be a way of demonstrating rectitude and diligence; on the other, it could be a route to indolence and the shirking of responsibilities.

Mary Thomas, away at school in Georgia in 1873, suggested these dual meanings of reading as she imagined a newly virtuous domesticity for herself upon returning home: ‘‘I will sew and read all the time, I am not going out any where, but intend to stay at home and work all the time; no matter how interesting a book may be, I will put it down and do whatever I am asked to do, they shall no longer accuse me of being lazy and good for nothing, I will work all day.’’ In its contrast to engaging in a social whirl of visiting and flirtation, reading, like sewing, represented a becoming and modest domesticity. However, reading might also subvert good intentions, and tempt a girl to inattention to, or even disobedience of, the demands of others or of household work. In any case, reading had a meaning for the self, as well as for the family and the culture.

Reading good books was of course a way of demonstrating virtue. Measured reading of improving texts was part of the regimen of many Victorian girls. As advisers suggested, the reading of history was especially praiseworthy. When Nellie Browne returned home from school in 1859, her mother noted in her diary with pride, ‘‘Nellie begins to read daily Eliot’s History of the United States,’’ a parentally encouraged discipline which would both improve and occupy Nellie now that her school days were over.

Jessie Wendover, the daughter of a prosperous Newark grocer and another regular diarist, recorded a steady diet of history in her journal, justifying her summer vacation in 1888 with the reading of a two-volume History of the Queens of England, as well as doing a little Latin and some arithmetic. The popular British domestic novelist Charlotte Yonge wrote her History of Germany specifically for readers like Jessie Wendover, who began it the following year. What American girl readers took from the history they read is hard to ascertain, because unlike their rapt reports on novels, they recorded their history as achievement rather than illumination.

One can certainly appreciate the irony, though, in encouraging girls to read accounts of national travails, the stories of armies, wars, and dynastic succession, which were ennobled partly by their distance from girls’ real lives. One of the advantages of history seemed to be that girls could be expected to have no worrisome practical interest in it—in marked contrast to the reading of romances or novels.

Victorian girls could build character through a variety of other literary projects, prime among them the memorizing of poetry. Over the course of the late nineteenth century, the publishing industry issued a number of collections of snippets of poetry known as ‘‘memory gems,’’ designed for memorization by schoolchildren. The verse in these anthologies was to serve as ‘‘seed-thoughts’’ for earnest young Victorians aspiring to know the best, and these were the likely sources for many of the couplets which appear in girls’ diaries and scrapbooks.

Margaret Tileston’s daily diary, recorded religiously for her entire life, both fed and celebrated a variety of literary disciplines, including most prominently reading and memorizing poetry. She too read histories during the summer, along with keeping up with her other studies, noting one July day following her graduation from Salem High School that she had ‘‘read my usual portions of Macaulay [a 40-page allotment] and French, but only a few pages of Spencer.’’ Margaret Tileston also read advice literature, such as Mary Livermore’s What Shall We Do with Our Daughters? and two books by Samuel Smiles, Self-Help and Duty. (The latter she described as looking ‘‘quite interesting and full of anecdotes.’’) Margaret Tileston’s diaries suggest a life consumed with the rewards of self-culture.

At fifteen, however, she recorded a brush with another literary genre and mode of striving—a seeking not only for mastery of the will but for beauty itself. Poetry first appeared simply as a verse of romantic poetry copied on the page: ‘‘Why thus longing thus forever sighing, for the far-off, unattained, and dim, while the beautiful, all round thee lying, offers up its low, perpetual hymn.’’ Margaret Tileston was now away at girls’ school, where she had experienced something of an emotional awakening in the intense atmosphere of schoolgirl friendships.

Her turn to poetry seems to reflect the new culture in which she was briefly submerged. That summer, back with her family on vacation on the Massachusetts coast, Tileston again turned to poetry, and to beauty, in an uncharacteristic passage of effusion. ‘‘The moon was perfectly lovely in the sky and its light on the water. We quoted lines of poetry, and it was beautiful.’’ By January of the next year, however, poetry had been incorporated into her disciplines of order and accomplishment. After returning from boarding school, she had moved with her family from the farm where she had spent her formative years to the town of Salem, where she attended the local high school. There she embarked on another campaign of self-improvement, the memorization of poetry, perhaps as a strategy to gain control of alien surroundings.

Two months later she described a new discipline: the daily ritual repetition of all the poems she had learned, of which there were by then 111. On May 25 she reported that her extraordinary ability to memorize poetry was gaining her a reputation. ‘‘Miss Perry asked me if I knew about 250 poems. She said that one of the Goodhue girls had told her I did. I remarked something of the sort to Miss Perkins one day in recess, and somehow it was repeated.’’ By the end of July she noted that she was beginning to have trouble finding new poems to learn because she knew so many already.

Appreciation of the beauty of poetry had dropped out of her journal. Nor did she suggest that the poetry had any meaning to her at all. Yet she very likely gained some of the satisfactions from poetry expressed by Louisa May Alcott, some years before. After disobeying her mother, at the age of eleven, Alcott ‘‘cried, and then I felt better, and said that piece from Mrs. Sigourney, ‘I must not tease my mother.’’’ She went on, ‘‘I get to sleep saying poetry,—I know a great deal.’’ For those feeling guilty, sad, misunderstood, or wronged, repeat- ing lines of elevating poetry had an effect in a secular mode analagous to the saying of ritual Hail Marys. The verses established an alliance with a higher authority and suggested personal participation in a glorious and tragic human struggle.

And in fact, poetry, even more than history, was the prototypical idealist genre. In 1851 the British educational pioneers Maria Grey and Emily Shirreff proposed the reading of poetry rather than fiction, explaining the crucial distancing effect of poetic subjects. ‘‘In a poem, the wildest language of passion, though it may appeal to the feelings, is generally called forth in circumstances remote from the experience of the reader.’’ They suggested that in poetry there was a higher truth than that of superficial realism: ‘‘The grand conceptions of the poet are true in ideal beauty.’’

Writing fifty years later, Harriet Paine too suggested that poetry had generic qualities of elevation. ‘‘After all, in poetry itself what we read is not the important thing. We should read poetry to give us a certain attitude of mind, a habit of thinking of noble things, of keeping our spirit in harmony with beauty and goodness and strength and love.’’ Earlier Paine had commended the memorization of poetry as neces- sary to ‘‘take in the full meaning,’’ suggesting just such a regular regimen of repetition as Tileston had pursued. The spiritual rewards from internalizing poetry were revealed by Paine’s proposal that it take place on the Sabbath: ‘‘Surely we must give a part of every Sunday to such elevating study.’’

Elizabeth Barrett Browning had censured poets for their historical escapism in her 1857 poem Aurora Leigh, arguing Their sole work is to represent the age, Their age, not Charlemagne’s—this live, throbbing age, That brawls, cheats, maddens, calculates, aspires. Yet it was in just its remoteness from ‘‘this live, throbbing age,’’ just in the ‘‘togas and the picturesque’’ disparaged by Browning that poetry was considered so appropriate for girl readers.

…If reading presented an opportunity to discover national allies, to demonstrate private virtue, and to suggest the triumph of the will against ennui or boredom, it increasingly endorsed another way of defining life: the excitement and the exercise of the feelings. Girls who read their daily allowance of Macaulay or the Bible with pride and self-satisfaction upbraided themselves for their difficulties in controlling their insatiable appetites for Victorian novels of all kinds. Reading for leisure or for pleasure invariably meant reading for ‘‘sensation,’’ reading for adventure, excitement, identification, titillation. In the process of this kind of reading, Victorian girls ministered to a complex of emotions.

…Perhaps leisure reading can best be defined by what it was not: study, sleep, or sewing. Girls chastised themselves for imperfectly learning their lessons, and sometimes blamed the distractions of leisure reading. Martha Moore, who had just begun to attend school in occupied New Orleans during the Civil War, confessed that she found the schoolwork hard and had had two crying spells before she ‘‘picked up an interesting story and with my old habit of procrastination, thought I would read that first, and then study.’’

She observed the inevitable consequence ‘‘that my lessons are very imperfectly known.’’ And even Margaret Tileston, whose discipline seldom allowed her to swerve from duty, could be seduced by light reading. At the age of fourteen: ‘‘I scarcely studied in my history at all, because I was interested in ‘Sir Gibbie,’ and wanted to finish reading it.’’ At the age of seventeen: ‘‘I undertook to spend the afternoon and evening on my Ancient History, but my thoughts wandered and I spent some time on papers and magazines.’’ At the age of twenty: ‘‘I did not study a great deal in evening, on account of my interest in my novel, but I read over my History lesson.’’

Girls also resolved to prevent reading from interfering with their domestic chores, usually their needlework. Treating reading as recreation, Virginian Agnes Lee observed, ‘‘I really am so idle I must be more industrious but it is so hard when one is reading or playing to stop to practice or sew.’’ Another Virginian, Lucy Breckinridge, set up a similar opposition, noting that she and her sisters had gathered together in her room ‘‘being industrious. I am getting over my unsocial habit of sitting in my room reading all day.’’ For Lucy Breckinridge private reading not only was not industrious, it was also antisocial.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Reading as the Development of Taste.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#history #victorian #american #jane h. hunter #how young ladies became girls

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one-more-offbeat-anthem · 3 years

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guess who wrote snowbaz fanfic for the first time??? me, and just in time for the holidays! this is a lil one-shot I wrote for @snowybank as part of the carry on server’s secret snowflake : ) I hope you like this and have a happy holiday season! <3

(I was going to save this til tomorrow since I already posted a gift exchange fic today for destiel secret santa but I got IMPATIENT so here it is!)

pour l’amour du chocolat chaud (French for “for the love of hot chocolate”)

Un flambeau, Jeanette Isabelle -- Un flambeau! Courons au berceau! C'est Jésus, bonnes gens du hameau. Le Christ est né; Marie appelle! Ah! Ah! Que la Mère est belle, Ah! Ah! Que l'Enfant est beau!

“Baz, turn that off.”

I elected to ignore Simon--Bring a Torch, Jeanette Isabella was a classic Christmas carol. I told him so.

“Yeah, if you’re a bloody Frenchman.”

“Something wrong?” I arched an eyebrow. “You’ve been a little short recently.”

“Hm, I wonder why.” Simon went back to the book he was reading--although I noticed that his eyes weren’t actually moving.

“The coffeeshop again?”

“Yes!” Simon shut his book and slammed it down so hard on his and Penny’s coffee table that he might as well have thrown it. “People are so--so rude.”

“So, just like you?”

“Baz.”

“Sorry, sorry, keep going.”

Simon ran a hand through his hair (he needed a haircut--not that I minded the extra fwip of curls on top. It was fun to run my own hands through, and sometimes curly strands would fall over Simon’s face and Simon would let out a big breath to blow them away) and frowned. “They don’t say ‘please.’ If I ask them if they want whipped cream, it’s like I’m a major inconvenience. And don’t get me started on accidentally saying someone’s name wrong.”

“Those are normal problems.”

“It’s the holiday rush! We get ten times more people, so ten times as many bloody--” Simon started in on a string of unrepeatable words, and I stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.

“Deep breath.”

“Right.” Simon leaned into my space, resting his head on my chest, “It’s just exhausting. But what do I have to complain about? You’ve got so much work to do at uni, and Penny is off doing great things…”

I swallowed uncomfortably. “Why don’t I make us some tea?”

“Right,” Simon said, his voice short, “That’d be nice.”

----------------------------------------------

Things didn’t get much better. Simon told me that he “used up all his cheer” on the customers. I found that doubtful--I had vivid memories of our time at Watford and Snow stuffing his face any moment he could during the holidays. He never went home--well, except for that one time last year that he came to my house and dripped all over the carpet.

(And we snogged. But that was less related to Christmas and more related to, well...)

I half-expected him and Penny to be baking scones and gingerbread every time I came to their flat (so...every day, unless Simon came to see me, but he thought my flat was “too posh”), but usually she was out, or video chatting with Micah, and Simon was grumping around on the couch.

“Simon,” I said one afternoon after a couple of weeks of this, “My exams are over. You want to go out?”

Simon shrugged and slumped further into the couch.

“Simon, love,” I softened my tone and sank onto the couch next to him, “If you hate this job so much, why don’t you quit?”

“Because,” he exploded, “I need a job! I need the money! I’m not rich, I’ve got no family to support me, and it’s what I--”

“If you say letting people treat you like crap is what you deserve,” I said, “I will spell your mouth shut.”

Simon slumped back again, all of the fight drained out of him nearly as fast as it had come. “I just feel...useless.”

“You’ve always been useless.”

Simon glared at me.

“Sorry, let me try that again.” I tugged on his hand until he let me interlace my fingers with his. “You’re not useless. Mostly.”

“You can be a right git sometimes, you know that?”

“Yes,” I said shamelessly, “I’m aware.”

----------------------------------------------

I didn’t tell Simon, because it might ruin my reputation as his number-one antagonist, but I had been thinking of ways that I could potentially cheer him up. It was Christmas, after all, and our first one as terrible boyfriends, so I wanted to do it right.

(Well, we had started dating last Christmas, so there was also our anniversary to contend with, but Simon was the sort of person who only got sappy if it was particularly late at night, and I was only sappy in life-or-death situations.)

Bunce was, of course, eager to help, which was irritating but great, because she was much more willing to “think big” than I was. By the time the day for our surprise rolled around, she was nearly vibrating with excitement.

“He’s going to know something’s up immediately if you keep bouncing around like that,” I admonished.

“What makes you think he doesn’t know something’s up already?”

“Because it’s Snow. You of all people should know how dense he is.”

“Right.” Penny rolled her eyes. We’d gotten to be better friends (something about defeating the Mage together and me saving her life via an incredibly sappy spell and now me dating her best friend), but Penny still thought I took the mickey out on Simon a bit too much.

As soon as Simon got home from work, in his usual spectacularly terrible mood, Penny grabbed his arm and dragged him into the kitchen, where I was sitting at a bar stool, drinking tea.

“Baz has something to tell you,” she burst out, earning a glare from me.

“I guess I do now,” I said. “We’re going out tonight.”

“Like, all of us?” Simon asked.

“Like you-me us,” I said, gesturing, “Get your coat. I have a surprise for you.”

Simon frowned but did as I asked, following me out the door and down the stairs of his complex. As we walked towards the Tube station he stopped short.

“What, Snow?” I asked.

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t you understand the meaning of the word surprise?” I grabbed his hand, interlacing our fingers so he couldn’t get away from me. “Trust me, love, this will be fun. Certainly more fun than whatever you did at work today.”

“Oh, don’t even get me started on--”

“I won’t.”

Simon raised an eyebrow at me, but then allowed me to pull him towards the Tube station.

“Where are we getting off?” he asked, once we were seated. The train was surprisingly not that crowded for this time of the year, and I crossed my fingers that the ice skating rink wouldn’t be, either. Bunce had helped me buy tickets online, but I felt like it would be a less romantic date if it was crowded.

Not that Snow knew we were going on a date.

“Piccadilly Circus. Stop asking so many questions.” I squeezed his hand.

“Are you taking me to the Circus to kill me?” Simon asked. “I know we snog now and everything, but I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“You wound me, Snow. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it months ago, after we were no longer roommates. In fact, I would have done it as soon as we were no longer roommates.”

“Comforting.”

“It should be.” I squeezed his hand again, to reassure him or myself, I wasn’t sure. “You’re going to like what we’re doing, though.”

“Hm.” But Simon didn’t ask anymore questions.

Piccadilly Circus was beautiful this time of year, in the way that only Christmas lights and fluorescent advertisements and the cacophony of the crowds could make it. Simon kept hold of my hand, and glancing over at his face was almost spiritual, if I believed in that sort of thing--he was glowing in the lights.

“We’re going ice skating,” I finally revealed, “Penny said you would like it.”

“I would.” Simon was grinning at me, and he squeezed my hand once, twice. “As long as we get hot chocolate afterwards.”

“You drive a hard bargain. But yes, we can.” And then, without hesitation, even though we were in public, I pressed a kiss to his temple, because I had managed to make Simon smile.

A merry Christmas, indeed.

#snowbaz #simon snow #carry on #baz pitch #christmas #offbeatwrites

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holisticpassport · 3 years

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My Covid Story

Apologies for any spelling errors, I’m on a time crunch. I’m a few hours out from leaving for my first flight since July 2019 (and before that, March 2018). Heading out to Sydney, I’m a mix of anxiety and absolute excitement. In January of this year, our sublet was almost up in Eltham and Cam and I had plans to pack up the car and begin doing workaways around Australia to help rebuild communities devastated by the historic wild fires (doesn’t that feel FOREVER ago?). When our sublet became available for a full lease transfer, we changed our minds to stay in our space, so that was the first instance of travel being knocked out of the picture. Then we had Valentine’s weekend open to go visit some friends in Tasmania, so we booked tickets and upon waiting in the airport, our flights were cancelled due to inclement weather. DAMN. Mid-march came around and it was Cam’s birthday, so we wanted to get out for a weekend of camping in our big bell tent, find a gorgeous spot in the woods out east near Warburton. When we arrived, every camping spot for an hour’s dive any direction was either full or completely not open at all. We picked a spot off a random road and spent one night there, but some rangers came by and said we couldn’t stay there due to the possible danger of logging trucks not seeing us. So that was a bust.

Then as you’re aware, this time frame leads up to the very tumultuous third week of March when Melbourne officially went into its first lockdown due to COVID. I documented this time in journal entries which I will add at the end, but ultimately the lockdown went until June, and the state reopened too quickly/had a fiasco with quarantined cases getting out of a hotel, thus sparking the second wave. We had flights booked to California for June to see my family and then planned to travel around Mexico for a few months, but that dream was quickly squashed when flights out of Melbourne ceased to exist at all. Months later, I had a flight booked in July to go to Sydney where I was to have my eggs extracted for donation. The day before I was to fly out, second lockdown went into effect and the flight was cancelled (thus forcing me to have the procedure done in Melbourne and cause a huge, historic controversy between Melbourne IVF’s CEO and the medical director of IVF Australia about how to transfer frozen eggs over a closed border!).

I’m struggling to comprehend just how important and meaningful my ability to travel today is. To think back to the first time in history, watching borders around the world close, flights become grounded, and witnessing a global pandemic unfold whilst in a foreign country—I remember thinking at the beginning how unfathomable the scale of it was. When people talk about things not seeming real or like it’s a dream you can’t wake up from, that’s exactly how it felt. I questioned whether I needed to go back to the U.S. in fear I might not see my family for years or be with them if they got fatally ill. Would I be able to even go back if that happened let alone would I be able to re-enter AU (the answer was no). And thank god I didn’t go back considering the absolute cluster fuck of a mess Trump made of the pandemic. But also, thank god my family has been healthy and safe. The level of fear for their safety was at an all-time high as civil tensions grew when the riots around the country kicked off in conjunction with the pandemic. I wrote to all of them to have a plan to escape to Mexico and get their passports if Trump won the re-election. This was a genuine fear I’ve never experienced before.

The level of frustration, depression, anxiety, hopelessness, self-hatred for lack of productivity during lockdown, and uncertainty about so many facets of life weighed down on me during this time. But I know how much worse our time could have been. I was immensely grateful for the fact that we had a home and incredibly gracious landlords who were human and understood the financial difficulties of this unprecedented time when so many became homeless as job loss skyrocketed. We were so fortunate that I was able to continue working even 2 days a week through the lockdown as a barista and Cam was able to get government support for six months as a NZ citizen who lived in AU over 10 years when so many other New Zealanders were forced to return to their country because of the time limit stipulation for support. We only had two family members contract Covid and were young and healthy enough to survive when so many families will be without a member at the holidays this year.

And I acknowledge my privilege in that my identity is so closely entwined with the ability to travel, that while it felt suffocating to not even have the choice to travel anywhere outside of a 5km (3mile) zone, I fully empathize with those in parts of the world where they could not walk more than 50 meters from their front door or people who didn’t have windows/balconies in apartment buildings who were going out of their mind. All of that does not diminish the struggles I faced with not being able to travel, but it does always keep my perspective in check. My trip today signifies how a city and a country came together during the most difficult period of our lifetime, followed strict government guidelines, and came out after 120+ days in full lockdown on the other side of a pandemic, now able to cross state borders without isolation or quarantine. To go to a live music show, have drinks on rooftop bars, walk around outside without a mask on, and see people going about their daily lives again on public transport and see a city bustling with energy—the months of mental hardship and growth was all to get back to a post-Covid world. Even though a vaccine is not out yet and we need to be cautious, the level of hopelessness has diminished significantly, and I’m not terrified my trip might be cancelled in two hours. I’m actually going this time!

There is also a whole other facet to my time in lockdown and that of course is the personal development and mutual growth in my marriage! That’s a whole separate post though which I hope to get out soonish. But here’s a bit of something I started a few months ago. Enjoy.

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I remember when it first started in the news; like a minor blip of a story flashing at the bottom of the screen: some mutant virus had infected a couple dozen people in some random city in China. I was working solo in a café serving the employees of a major shoe distribution company in the warehouse district of Collingwood, Melbourne. The TV was on in the cafe but muted the first few weeks of January as the main stories were about the most devastating wildfires in the history of the world, and we all just felt a communal helplessness. As the numbers grew in China and the story became a daily headline, the first case was announced in Queensland on January 25th. Everyone stuck around a few minutes longer each day after they were handed their coffee. I think back to the moment when Wuhan, the epicenter at the time, reported 1,500 cases and I thought surely there can’t be much more than that. This is just media sensationalizing something small. This whole story will blow over in another week or two.

If only.

It was summer in Australia, and my husband and I were planning what to do after our sublease was up in mid-March. I commuted daily from a suburb 50 minutes north called Eltham, a creative and eco-friendly heritage town. We lived in a triplex made of adobe mudbrick, surrounded by native forest, a communal garden, and enjoyed huge artisan windows that brought in natural filtered light through the towering trees. Our little studio was a quiet haven away from the chaos and constant flurry of people in Melbourne, especially during summer as it brought travelers from every corner of the globe. There was no way we could have possibly known that this little paradise would feel like a prison after six months in the world’s longest lockdown due to a global pandemic caused by that little virus in some random city in China now known worldwide as COVID-19.

As the weeks passed by in February, more and more countries began reporting cases. I did not understand how pandemics worked as the last one I was alive for and could remember was H1N1 in California, and I was about 17—far too consumed with college applications and boys to think about world affairs. The Spanish Flu was never something that was particularly emphasized in our history classes, so it didn’t even occur to me to compare what was happening now to that point in time. Then again, this was incomparable because in 1912, the world was a less globalized economy and there were no commercial flights transporting thousands of passengers across the globe daily. By the first week of March, my daily rush-hour commutes became the first real difference I noticed. The number of morning passengers on the train platforms dwindled from 50 to 25 to 5, and eventually, to just me. As the train stopped at over 30 stops from where I lived to the city, my carriage wasn’t even remotely full at 7 a.m.

There was less foot traffic in the city. Flinders Street Station, one of the two largest hubs that saw thousands of people daily, was eerily quiet and empty. We were two weeks out from leaving Melbourne to go travel, planning to go to New South Wales, AU to help rebuild communities that were ravaged by the bushfires. I was desperate to travel this year, and we were so close to leaving. I had picked up some other barista work in an advertising agency closer to the city. But day by day, office workers were being told to work from home if they were able to. Hand sanitizer became readily available in the café, bathrooms, and around the office. I remember staring out the window of this high rise building that overlooked the lush green stretch of Albert Park and thinking it looks so normal outside. Every day, I looked at the news in Australia, which I had never really done before. Industries were shutting down, and the panic was setting in for thousands of casual workers in the hospitality industry as it was only a matter of time before we would be shut down too.

Melbourne is a cultural hub filled with travelers who typically come here on a Work and Holiday Visa which gives them 1-2 years to work and live in AU. Most find work in hospitality as there are over 40,000 restaurants and cafes in this region. You couldn’t go a single day without meeting someone from another country which is why I fell in love with this city. I worked as a freelance barista through agencies that called for workers to be able to step in if someone called out sick or quit unexpectedly and they found themselves short. But my agencies had gone completely silent in the week leading up to the industry shutting down. There was no more work and travelers were finding themselves stranded. I journaled daily in the lead up to my final day of work in the city as I knew something big was happening, and I wanted to be able to recall when it all began. I also knew we would not be travelling anytime soon, around Australia or otherwise, when national and international borders began closing around the world.

March 17th, 2020

All that’s being talked about is COVID-19. Entire countries are closing borders and going into complete lockdown. Italy has been inundated with patients in hospitals and now have to choose who lives and who dies. AU isn’t taking nearly as intense of measures, but the general atmosphere is not normal. All events with over 500 people have been cancelled. Those who have traveled anywhere must self-quarantine for 14 days or face a huge fine. Some people still don’t take it seriously, thinking/acting like it’s just a normal flu when in reality its ability to be passed on and even re-infect someone a second time is much higher than the rate of a simple flu. In the states, my family says all the restaurants and schools have closed, even the Hollywood entertainment industry has closed down. So many independent contractors, myself included, are without means to live because there’s no emergency government funding in place. It shows what’s truly flawed with the system. Luckily Cam has full time work still, but for those people who have kids and no daycare options? No partner or family? Those who are traveling and can’t get back home? This is devastating for all of us, but them in particular. Supposedly, there are rumors that the virus dies with the warm weather, but AU is headed into winter. It could be why the virus isn’t as big in places like South America and Africa (*note* countries from these two continents are now in the top 10 most infected places as of September 2020) Europe is completely shut down as is New Zealand. I have flights to California in June, so I’m hoping I can still go. For how weak my immune system is, I’m surprised I’m not more concerned because I’ve been continuously reassured the virus only attacks those with underlying conditions, mainly in the elderly population. Even in calm, tight-knitted communities like ours in Eltham, we’re seeing the best and worst of humanity come out with people hoarding resources, but also there are those offering rides for people to stores or grocery drop offs to their homes. I’m very interested to see how the next three months progress all around the world. Right about now, it’d be nice to hide away in a beachside house in Mexico. (*Mexico is also among the top 10 most infected countries now*)

March18th, 2020

The government should announce today whether hospitality industry will close, potentially putting Cam and I both out of jobs. Luckily our landlord is being highly accommodating. Trump is giving Americans $1,200 and has postponed tax season by 3 months. Only seems he does something decent when it’s to keep the economy from tanking and his money is protected.

Cam and I both have throat annoyances and headaches. We should try to stay home, but can’t afford it. Today, they’ve dropped gatherings of 500 down to only 100 people, yet shopping centers and public transport remain open, which I would think are the riskiest places for transferring infections. It’s been stated this is a once in a decade event that will change the course of history.

March 19th, 2020

Amidst all the chaos from morning to night, people are finally taking time to nurture their interests and creativity. I’m taking two courses on sustainable fashion and fashion in design. I’ve also applied to be a mentor for women trying to gain work and leadership experience at an NGO called Fitted for Work. They have stylists that help women to prepare business outfits and tailor their resumes/do mock interviews. I’ve looked into an MA program I’m interested in at Warren Wilson College back in North Carolina. I think looking forward is the only way to keep the fear down about how long these shut downs may last possibly through June. The world economy is going to see some extremely confronting realities it hasn’t seen since the Great Depression. For the moment I’m looking into teaching English online which I’m already certified to do, just to try and earn some money. I’ll be interested to see all the art that comes out of this period and the photojournalism that captures this historic time.

March 21st, 2020

We went over to Williamstown (Cam’s parent’s house) as Cam had two shifts out that way. Restrictions in cafes are now 1 person per 4 square meters, so in the 100 person limit already imposed, it’s now down to 25. I’m nervous for Cam to keep working and going on public transport. It’s high risk and unethical in terms of coming in contact with people we could transmit it to without knowing (asymptomatic) because it takes 14 days to even show symptoms. We made the choice to start self-isolation come Monday as we can see in the next week or two the same spike will be here in Melbourne as we’ve seen in Italy and most likely soon to see in the U.S. Reading other peoples’ accounts about how they continued life as normal as though nothing had changed in Italy is exactly where AU is projected to head towards.

March 25, 2020

As of Monday, AU took drastic measures to ensure safety and closed many non-essential businesses with a series of daily updates for more and more businesses to shut or only stay open for takeaway. Overnight, nearly 80,000 people in hospitality work were laid off or lost work, Cam and I included. A stimulus package of 66 billion dollars was announced and Cam qualified for government payments through Centrelink because he’s a kiwi who’s been here over 10 years. Other kiwis who haven’t been here that long are completely without any kind of support from the AU government, even though in NZ, Aussies are supported. A very backward, selfish system who told them to go home.

We went to Centrelink on Monday at 7:45am in Greensborough (suburb over from Eltham). By 8:30 am when the doors opened there were over 200 people in line. The government has been terribly confusing with their messages out to the public, highly unprepared. People are confused about what they can and can’t do, what businesses are remaining open, who is eligible… it’s a mess. Why are liquor stores and hair salons considered essential?? There have been spikes in young people getting this virus as young as 18, and they are dying. The virus coats your lungs like a jelly ultimately blocking oxygen. We did what is hopefully our last grocery shop because being in the store is just as contagious as a café. There’s no safety or hygiene measures in place. We had gloves on and people were dancing around each other in the aisles to maintain 1.5m social distance.

The U.S. is becoming the new epicenter with horrific rapid spreading, particularly in New York. Flight around the world, including as of today AU, are being stopped and we can no longer leave the country at all.

To Be Continued…..

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