#fluff ish

[decadentpaperduck]

Two Hot to Handle - TASM!Peter Parker x AFAB Reader (18+)

Part 2 of “Too Hot to Handle”

A/N: Worth noting that I am winging this weird alternate universe thing with the timeline, but that’s just a by product of writing this stuff eh.

Warnings: Sexual themes, swearing, nudity, fluff

Words: 1.6k

As soon as the new cappuccino takes its place in the centre of your table, you both move to speak. You laugh and Peter sits down in front of you with a stretched, closed mouth smile. You recognise it’s implications.

"You first." Your focus drops to his arms where they sit, loosely crossed, on the table in front of him. His fingers flex and you watch as his muscles move under his skin and resist the temptation to reach out and touch him. Mostly afraid of how it will make you feel.

"I know I was a tool." He speaks frankly. You pick up your drink and quirk up an eyebrow. He’s understating it. "But when I walked out I didn't know how to come back.” Before your quick wit can fight back, he continues. “I was a guy in my mid twenties who had so many feelings he couldn’t talk about.”

"You did talk about them a bit." You challenge.

"That may be so. But you have to know there was so much more I didn't say." He inhales and casts his eyes around the room. Apprehension colours his facial features.

"Like how you were Spiderman.” His eyes snap to yours like a magnetic closure. “Are Spiderman."

"How?"

"I thought you'd tell me that." You chuckle.

"No- how did you know?!" All guys at that age were something of an enigma, or fancied themselves to be, but Peter was especially distant and mysterious. When things ended between you and he managed to make himself off grid, you began to wonder. All speculation at the time, but Peter’s reaction is certainly telling.

"Spandex doesn't leave much to the imagination.” You tease. “Something about the shape of his...body...was familiar." You smile mischievously.

"You're telling me, you knew I was Spiderman because of the outline of his c-"

"No, but I do know now!" The blush on Peter's face made you want to kiss him.

"Are you serious?" 

"About your cock? No. About knowing you're Spiderman, 100%."

"...when did you realise it was me?"

"Shortly after you left. Obviously I saw Spiderman on screen a hell of a lot more than I saw you, in any capacity and I could just see that same...energy."

"Is that what we are calling my dick now?" Your free hand covers your face. 

"Pete!" His face softens, a strange, sweetness spreading over it. "…What?"

"Something about being called Pete makes me feel like a 40 year old man who harasses women at the bar." You suppress the laughter. "But when you say it..." He looks down. "At the risk of sounding as much a prick as I was when we last saw each other, can we go somewhere more private? I don't think everyone needs to know how badly Spiderman regrets his last sexual encounter with you." 

“Excuse me?!”

“No I-”

“Christ Peter, I think I got the hint enough when you left after it happened.”

“No, please.” He raises his hands as though he is going to reach out and touch you. But he doesn’t. “That’s not what I meant and exactly what we need to talk about.” His eyes keep flicking to your mouth and whilst you so desperately want to slap him, part of you can't dismiss the way it felt before he left you last. You nod, leaving the cappuccino on the table to follow him out the door.

 When he opens his flat door he stands to the side, ushering you through. "Please, ladies first."

"Plural? Damn. Once a ladies man, always a ladies man I guess." He rolls his eyes.

"I'm a one at a time guy. The last was...a French teacher. Spoke a lot of French. It was hot." You spin around with a look of what must be shock. “You know, I think I am going to shut my mouth and think about what I say before I say it.”

Your silence allows the thoughts to ruminate. You two have been nothing to one another for a long time. You only wished you'd made the most of your singledom. "Your bothered about the French teacher." He says, sitting down on the couch.

"It has nothing to do with me." You speak softly. Though true, it's hard to admit. It’s hard for Peter to hear too. He didn’t want to leave, he just thought he was doing the right thing. As it stands, he seems to have no measure of the way in which to minimise people’s pain.

“I wish it did.”

“Okay, next time you guys get it on, send me a quick text.” You jest weakly and he rolls his big, beautiful eyes.

"You're so annoying."

"So are you." You defend. You pause. You shake your head. “All this time and you swan in like nothing changed." There was a distance to your words, as if you’d thrown them into the air particles of the apartment, not wanting to address the electric thoughts running through you.

"I know."

"And nothing has." You whine immaturely, putting your head in your hands, leaning over your lap.

"I know." He strokes the back of your neck, tentatively: possibly the most intimate moment you had shared with one another in all the time you had known him. "Can I ask why?"

"Why what?" Your voice is muffled.

"Why has nothing changed for you?"

“Maybe coming to terms with you being Spiderman softened your exit and helped me understand some of it. It wasn’t your typical fuck boy going off to fuck my best mate or something. You just disappeared and it kind of hurt.” Your words fade.

"How did you really know I was Spiderman?"

"Like I said…or implied, it was a guess! Though an educated one. But you are the most recklessly, selfless man I know. Even without webs or superpowers you would have leapt off a bridge for-" You stop. Peter looks uncomfortable. He did jump off a bridge. For Gwen.

"Peter." You sigh and put your hand over his. He turns his hand and your palm falls into his daintily. 

"I loved her a lot." You nod. "But in a way I..." He squeezes your hand. "She died so long ago, people always said I was still in love through college. I think still having to be Spiderman, every waking hour, mostly, meant I couldn't ever separate the superhero loss from my heart’s loss." You blink, unprepared for such a conversation. "Something you did that day or something about how you made me feel felt like I was cheating on her."

"I'm sor-"

"No, no. Don't apologise. You weren't to know I was there when it happened." He swallows and you sense a shift. “Can I kiss you?” You are thankful for him taking control of the situation.

You share a soft, gentle kiss and a smile between you. It’s a relief. For both of you. Peter leans in again, confidence finding its way into the kiss, making it deeper, darker and hotter.

You feel it low in your body and moan. Peter pulls back, staring at you with something like alarm.

"What? Forgotten what a woman enjoying herself sounds like?"

"I will not make a comment about pleasing women and instead refer you to the knowledge that I had committed that sound to memory and wondered if I had actually heard it or made it up again." He eyes up your neck before going in, nipping, sucking and licking. You sigh loudly and crumble under his advances. You reach over and stroke the stiff denim of his vintage jeans. He groans against your neck and you continue, undoing the buttons and zipper with only a slight fumble. "Nervous, sweetheart?" The reality was staggering. The idea of fucking him was one thing, but his confession about the moan had you wondering if he was just as sentimental about this as you were.

You look down and see Peter has been freed from the confines of his boxers and you are breathless with what you feel might be fear. "Is it how you remember?" His breathy whisper is accompanied by a smirk, making your heart race.

"Peter, if you think I've spent five years committing your genitals to memory you've got another thing coming." You laugh, weakly.

"Hopefully you." His fingertips trace up your left thigh, disturbing the dress in its place. "You want to come, don't you?" His eyes search yours as you struggle to catch your breath. "I've missed this." Somehow his hand is under your dress, stroking at the front of your underwear. You gasp. "Such a good pussy. Fuck knows I haven't forgotten it in five years." Each slow graze of his fingers has you hooked on every word. "You in there?" He kisses your jaw. You can't speak. Something akin to a squeak passes your lips and he throws his head back with laughter, withdrawing his fingers from the tormenting. You can’t recall the last time he bellowed like that. For a long time he seemed troubled. He was troubled. You just didn't know how badly at the time.

You want to envelop him in your arms and kiss him forever, but the ache in your chest tells you you don’t know how long you have.

You're looking at him for some time before you realise he's caught your empathetic gaze. "You look gorgeous when you look at me like that." The thoughts flow freely from his conscience.

"How am I looking at you?"

"Like you want to protect me or something." 

"I suppose I do."

"I am definitely ruining the sentiment when I'm sat here with my dick out."

"Yes. Yes you are.”

#part dos #two hot to handle #peter parker #peter parker x reader #tasm!peter parker x reader #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter x you #tasm!peter parker x you #reader insert #au #coffee shop au #i guess #the amazing spider man fic #smut ish #peter parker fluff #fluff ish #hope you enjoy idk #tjwrites

[fanfiction-asks]

can you write a steve harrington x eddie munson fanfic?

After getting off of his work shift, Steve trudged up to Eddie's trailer, it was a late 

September night in Hawkins, during which it had just started to rain. Heavily.

He took a few steps closer to the trailer door, and exhaled slowly. This was the closest place he knew somebody he could stay with, lived. He stood on the sheltered porch in front of the door for a while.

He then reached out his fist and knocked on the cold, white door. He stood there for a good few minutes, worrying if Eddie was out somewhere, and if he just looked like an idiot.

Steve was about to turn away, grasping his coat closer to himself, when a soft rustling of sheets came from behind the door. Then a tall shadow loomed from the window, a small lamp turned on inside.

After a few seconds, Eddie swings open the trailer door, taking a quick few glances at Steve.

"Hey there, Harrington. You come here for me?" He throws a quick wink at Steve as he says this, making Steve stumble on his next words.

"No- well, technically yes, but it's only because I was wondering if I could stay here for tonight? Or, at least while the storm or whatever passes." He looks away from Eddie, who leans against the doorframe, smiling at him.

"Sure, Harrington." He looks at him, slightly surprised at how nervous and sweaty Steve suddenly seems. "Come right in."

Steve steps into the trailer, Eddie following him behind. Steve has been here before, a while ago, so he makes his way to the living room.

He takes a seat on the dark, comfortable chair by the window, still looking up at Eddie.

“You need something, Harrington? Like, a new shirt?” Eddie stares down at Steve, whose shirt is soaking.

Steve hadn’t realised, as his work uniform was usually uncomfortable, that it was wet from the rain.

“Oh, I hadn’t realised.” He muttered. “A dry shirt would be nice, thanks.”

Eddie slowly lifted up his own shirt to hand it over to Steve, who stared at him intently.

Steve takes the shirt from Eddie’s large hands, his own fingers brushing against the other man's calloused fingertips.

“Thank you..?” Steve blushes intensely while putting on the shirt, then he looks back at Eddie.

It doesn’t take long for Steve’s eyes to trail down Eddie’s body, his eyes taking in each part of newly exposed skin. He had never looked at another man like this, let alone wanted to. 

But this, right here with Eddie, was different.

“Harrington? You like what you see?” Eddie smirked.

Eddie’s question causes Steve to blush even more, his mind beginning to wander, thoughts of Eddie filling his head.

“Yeah, I do.” Steve mumbles, still lost in his thoughts of Eddie and looking away.

Eddie comes closer to him, placing his hand on Steve’s chin and guiding it so the man beneath him is looking into his eyes.

“Eddie? What are you-” Steve tries to speak, being cut off by Eddie’s face coming closer to his, a deep kiss being pressed against his lips.

Steve’s eyes open widely, staring at Eddie’s lips as he pulls away.

“Steve? Are you okay?” Eddie asked after a while, still holding Steve’s face. "Listen, I'm sorry, I don't know what came into m-" 

Steve grabbed Eddie's face back, now pulling the other man into a soft kiss. It held for a while, Eddie pulling away to say the three words Steve now wanted to hear. 

"I love you."

Steve was slightly taken aback, however finally realizing his true feelings, and how he felt about Eddie, he responded, slightly hesitating.

"I love you too."

#steddie stranger things #steddie #steve x eddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #wholesome bbys #i love these two #fluff ish #fluff if you squint #fluff #fanfic

[luveline]

𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝? | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Your best friend Eddie tries to explain what a hickey feels like and finds he doesn't have the words. He could show you, though, if you want? [3k] 

fem!reader, shy!reader, implied inexpereinced!reader, friends-to-lovers, pining, mdni heavy petting, hickeys, lots of hickeys, marking up, neck kissing, shoulder kissing, heat of the moment confessions, eddie being flirty but also a good friend, requested here

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Eddie strokes down the length of his guitar neck almost tenderly. You're focused on his hands rather than his mouth as he recounts last night's date to you, distracted by the deft movement of his fingers, which aren't exactly small. It's an oxymoron —paradoxical, even— that his thick fingers would move with such gentle precision. 

You shift around where you're sitting on his bedroom floor, criss-cross applesauce with an uncomfortable heat rising from the bottomless pit of your stomach to your tight collar. The white button up you'd worn under your sweater vest is a size too small. You're really starting to notice. 

You peel out of the vest and hope it'll help you calm down.

"She wasn't exactly sweet," Eddie says, plucking a string, listening to the sound, and tuning it this way or that depending on how he liked it. "I think she wanted to get it over with, which isn't really my thing. She was in my lap before I could make it clear I wasn't interested in anything quick." 

You lift your gaze from his hands. He must feel you watching his face. He looks up in tandem and smiles reassuringly. "It's fine. I kind of thought she was getting into it, she was like a vampire on me at one point, but I wasn't feeling it and it's clear she wasn't either. Drove her home. How was your night, d'you watch that tape?" 

You trace the coil of a black curl down to his shoulder, and can't force yourself to meet his eyes as you ask, "A vampire?" 

"What?" 

"She was like a vampire at one point, you said." Eddie's arm goes still. "What did you mean by that?" you ask.

He puts his guitar down on the floor. You worry you've said something truly dull for him to place his sweetheart in such a rush, but Eddie's like that. He can tell you're embarrassed no doubt, and he's giving you the answer to your question as swiftly as he can to soothe the wound. 

"Here, look," he says. He pushes his hair away from his neck on one side and tilts his head, bearing a wine-stained curve of skin to you unabashedly. "She kissed me. She gave me a hickey, used a lot of teeth. That's why it's bruised so much on the edges." 

Warmth you've never felt rushes in, like your blood has superheated, and it's written on your face. Eddie's room feels suddenly a thousand times smaller than before and more intimate, his poster wallpaper curving in, the space between you inching closer. 

"Sorry," he says, "I know it's kind of weird to show you." 

"No, I'm sorry," you say, mortified. "I shouldn't have asked you." 

"Yeah, you should. You didn't get it and now you do. I don't mind telling you." 

Eddie lets his hair fall back against his neck, a kinky curtain that looks ridiculously soft in the orangey light of his lamp. There's a butter smoothness to it, and the way he moves as he does is worse, his hand open and reaching for you. He doesn't hold your hand, doesn't even try, just lets his upturned palm hang off the edge of his knee as if to say, Ask me whatever it is you want to ask me. It's cool. 

"Why would she do that?" you ask, gesturing to your neck.

"It's not her fault, I was flirting with her a ton trying to make it work."

"Not like that." 

Eddie's hand turns toward his knee. "Like what?" 

Your hand drifts to your own neck absentmindedly. You get kissing, wanting to be kissed and wanting to give them. You understand why she kissed his neck; if you'd been in her position, alone in the car with Eddie laying his charm on thick, you might climb the console and push aside his hair too. 

"I know why she kissed you. I don't see why she…" You rub your lips together, your embarrassment turning sharp. You hate how humiliating this feels. "I know what a hickey is, Eds, but why would you want one?" 

His turn to fluster. The tiniest tinge of pink paints his cheeks. "Are you asking me why I enjoyed it?" 

"Did you?" 

You despise yourself, truly. Worse when Eddie laughs, his chest forward, hair falling in his face as he chuckles sincerely. 

"Yeah," he says, smiling at you "I liked it. Before she started trying to kill me I was having a good time." 

He doesn't put you through the agony of asking what you both know he wants to. 

You've never had one?

"It feels warm, and it's– you know how being kissed gives you butterflies, right? It's better than that. It's hot, and all her weight is on you and you have your hand on her back trying to pull her in, and she's as close as she can be without, you know." Something flickers across Eddie's face. Not longing, but a remembered pleasure. It makes you squirm. 

"I don't see how it doesn't just hurt." 

The hand that hadn't been reaching for you holds a pick. He flashes it between his fingers, a party trick, a nervous tic, his eyelashes tangling together as his eyelids inch closed. He scrunches his face up for a second. 

"Don't hate me if I ask you something weird," Eddie says, eyes shut tight. 

You don't think you could. You watch Eddie's face, knowing he can't see your analysis, and feel a shock of pins and needles in your hands when his eyes open and immediately lock on to yours. 

"Do you want me to give you one?" he asks. 

Your lips feel like they've been glued shut. You're aware of your breathing, how shallow each inhale has become, but you can't do anything about it. 

He has the decency to acknowledge what position his question puts you in, "I know it might be weird but I can't describe it to you if you don't know what it feels like." 

You surprise him. You surprise yourself. "Uh, yeah. Okay." 

"Yeah?" 

"It doesn't hurt?" 

"Not unless you want it to." A hint of a smirk plays on his lips, though it fades quickly. "It doesn't hurt. That's not the point. But it can feel… foreign." 

You nod jerkily, wishing you knew what to do. 

The atmosphere is thick enough to cut through. Neither of you like it. Eddie gives you another type of smile, a familiar one that says, I'm your best friend, I always will be, so please chill out. 

"You're gonna have to sit in my lap." 

You actually laugh. "Eddie," you chastise, thinking it's a bad joke. 

"Sorry, sweetheart, but it's that or the bed." His teasing tone is light, but he still adds, "I mean, we can do it sitting next to each other but it's difficult. Whatever you want, though." 

You climb up on your knees. You're shy, absolutely, you always will be and especially when Eddie's teasing, but he really is your best friend, and the bed isn't happening.

He doesn't scare you. 

He grins and ushers you toward him. "Alright, come here." He tugs one of your thighs over his lap and your breath catches. He grabs the other and any laughter between you abruptly dies. 

You settle over his lap with an expression not far from pained. Eddie's hands rest against your thigh and your hip. He has to look up at you now, and he does as he encourages your weight firmly downward. You're more than conscious of where you're positioned. 

"Do me a favour?" he asks. 

"Yeah." You put your hand on his chest tentatively. 

"Don't suffer through it if you hate it, okay? All you have to do is say something and I'll stop, but if you feel like you can't, a good right hook would work too." 

"I'm not gonna hurt you," you protest. 

"Me neither," he says. His hand lifts from your thigh to your neck, and he brushes his fingertips down the curve of it ineffectually. It would feel good if you weren't choking on air. "Relax, sweetheart. Please." 

"I'm really warm." 

"Your shirt's too tight anyway," he says, hand at your collar. He thumbs open your top button, a second, and exposes the flat of your chest. His fingers slide across your neck as he folds back your starched collar. They're cool compared to the raging heat he finds there. 

You take a deep breath. 

"You could put your hands in my hair," he says. Wishful thinking has hope colouring his tone. 

You put your hands on his shoulders. The very tips of your fingers partition his curls. 

He raises an arm above your mess of limbs to weave a hand behind your ear. It's then that you feel his callouses, so rough against the delicate skin of your scalp. Despite their texture, you find it feels good. He tucks his hand in tight, and slowly, slowly turns your head to the side. 

"Look up," he murmurs. 

You lift your head and stare at the ceiling with widened eyes. 

He can't know but he does, and he says, "Close your eyes." The heat of his breath kisses your neck.  

You shiver at the suggestion of his lips, and again when they press to your skin. Close-lipped, Eddie kisses the skin just under your ear where on the opposite side of your head his thumb strokes quarter circles. You're quickly overwhelmed by the duelling sensations. You don't notice his lips have parted until he's kissing a sloven path downward, his spit cooling in wake. 

This isn't a hickey, this is straight up kissing, and you don't know what to do with how you feel. You hide your hands in his hair. 

It tugs him forward. He reads your hands for enthusiasm, and if it is or isn't he pulls you closer still and opens his mouth against your skin. His teeth are impossible to ignore. 

Your hand works further into his hair, getting caught in a tangle as he sucks your skin between his lips. His lazy mouthing turns insistent but still gentle, his teeth scratching ever so slightly at your pulse as it capers beneath his ministrations. You gasp at the warmth blossoming under your ribs. You cup the back of his neck a touch too tight. 

He doesn't stop kissing you, only grabs your wrist to stop you from choking him out. You make a sound you've never made with him before, a mewl, all breathless and teary as the sensation worsens. Which is to say, betters. 

He breaks a particularly rough kiss to suck in breath, his nose sliding up the curve of your neck as he leans back. "You okay?" he murmurs, half-lidded eyes locking onto your flushed face. 

"Why does it feel like that?" you ask. 

He drops his head, his nose level with your chin. "I don't know," he says, punctuating with a kiss right there, the closest bit of skin he can find. "Want me to do it again?" 

You swallow and he must see it. He says nothing, wrapping his arms around your waist as he waits for you to respond. Your stomach pushes into his, your arms braced on his shoulder so you don't collapse into his front, limp with touch. 

"Sweetheart, can I do it again?" he asks.

"Yeah," you say, quiet but enthusiastic. "Please." 

He's slower this time. Eddie leans into your neck and doesn't kiss you at first, his lips so close to your skin that you can feel their phantom. You skin tingles from his previous scandalising, and it doesn't beg, skin can't beg, but you can, you curl your arm behind his neck and hook his head there, crushing his hair to the crook of your arm. He doesn't take much convincing beyond that. His lips smush against your neck and you feel every millimetre as they part, heat and warmth and wet spreading like budding flowers come to bloom. You melt into him soon after, and Eddie takes your weight in stride, hand at the small of your back and pulling you in so hard you can feel his ribs. 

When you think you're used to it —not used to it, but expecting what can be expected— Eddie nips you. Tiny dainty kisses broken up with a nibbling you'd couldn't describe as anything but playful. He laughs at your gasping and does it again, again, giddy hot laughter mixed with one of the strangest feelings you've ever been subjected to. You're molten. You're dizzy with it.

Eddie pulls back enough to ask, "I'm gonna undo another button, okay? Just one. Is that alright?" 

"What for?" 

"So I can kiss your shoulder. Just your shoulder." He sounds pleading, desperately excited in a way you've never heard him and you want to know what it'll feel like, so you let him. 

This next button unveils the top of your bra and the soft hills of your breasts. He doesn't look, barely glances at his hand as he tugs your shirts down your arm, diving into the juncture of your neck like he needs it to breathe. His kisses are proper compared to some of the stuff he's been doing, but then he opens his mouth and the flat of his tongue wets your skin as he kisses kisses kisses down your shoulder. His hand is somewhere under your shirt, fingers slipped under your bra strap and pulling teasingly at the elastic as he eases you down in his arms. You're shorter than him where you'd started taller, totally compressed in his arms and at his mercy.

When he pulls back, the slimmest ribbon of spit shines between your shoulder and his lips. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, his eyes glassy, and that hand cups your face. He pretty much grabs you, but there's not a lick of cruelty in his touch. Eddie's rough. Never cruel. 

"You're on fire," he says. It's objective rather than joking. "You're so hot. Do you want to stop?" 

"Not– not unless you want to," you say, trying to quieten your breathing. You sound like you've run a marathon. It feels like it. 

"I'm gonna give you a real one, cool?" 

"I didn't know they weren't real." 

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, and his eyes are damning, a loving pity in the black of his blown pupils, "I was just warming you up." 

Your mind blanks. 

"Make sure I can hide it," you say. 

You aren't thinking straight, concerned about hiding his hickeys but not what this means for the two of you. His unexpected hunger, and your willingness to let him eat you whole. 

"I don't think you can hide it anymore," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. 

You look down at his lips. They're rosy, swollen from the pressure.

He sees you looking. 

He yanks you in by the waist and sizes you up, almost, like he's calling your bluff, not spiteful but something mean about him as he stares at your mouth in return. 

Like he doesn't want you to make the mistake. Like he knows you won't. 

His hand tips your chin up high and he ducks his own down. An inch and you'd be kissing. That's all it would take.

"Is that really what you want?" he asks.

"I don't know," you say. Is it what he wants?

It has to be. 

"Have you wanted to, before?" He draws a line down your cheek with his marriage finger. Fast as a heavy tear. "You want me to kiss you?" 

"Yeah," you whisper, trying to make sense of this, your sudden confession, a secret want pushed into the light. 

Eddie turns his hand and strokes down your cheek with the back of it, pushing any dampened baby hairs away from your skin. His gaze softens. 

"Was that so hard?" he asks. 

"You knew?"

He kisses you. He's smiling, and he doesn't take just one. He must kiss you four or five times, your lips parted enough to know he could push it further if he wanted, but he doesn't. These kisses are unhurried, missing the ravenous passion of his hickeying but not the fondness. 

"You don't know how hard it is," he says after he's broken away, his forehead tipped against yours, "how hard it is to have someone look at you like you look at me everyday, like I'm something you can't have." 

"I didn't know–" you knew. You felt the same. His kissing is evidence alone. it's confessional.

"I know. Guess I thought nothing good would come of it, but– but I don't want good. I want you." 

He pulls back quickly, like you've said something confessional rather than him. He surprised himself. 

"I'm not good?" you ask. 

"You're good. You'll ruin me, that's all." 

You don't have time to ask him what he means by that. He kisses you again, kisses your cheek, draws a line of crescent moons down along your neck to the mess he's made of you. He kisses– he sucks your neck so hard, so sudden, that goosebumps erupt and you can't stop yourself from saying, "Ohh," as you cling to his shoulders. 

This is the vampire thing he'd talked about, the points of his teeth stark against your skin even now. There's another layer of vulnerability unveiled here, knowing that he could really hurt you and knowing he never would. He kisses you until you're overwhelmed by him. Heat everywhere. Sweat shining on your skin. You don't want anything else but this.

You squeak as the pressure turns from pleasurable to too much. Eddie hears the pain in it and pulls away, instantly sorry and willing to prove it, his hands cradling your face. 

You pant. He shushes you gently.

"Sorry, baby." He pets your cheeks. 

Your head falls back, too heavy on your sore neck. You feel wiped. 

Wiped, but good. Lax. 

"That was nice," you say breathlessly. 

Eddie sits up and drags you with him, hand behind your neck to prop you up. He's laughing again, his awful sweet laugh that you've heard a thousand times before. It never fails to make you smile. 

"You're like a dead fish." 

You cover an eye with your hand. "I take it the romance is over." 

"You thought that was romantic? Babe, I'm only getting started." 

Eddie gives you a quick peck. Where his hickey had felt like the heart of a star growing hotter with each passing second, his smaller kiss feels like the sun through blinds, a dappling of warmth. 

"Are you messing with me?" you ask.

He pushes his arms over your shoulders for a hug. 

"No. Not messing with you." His nose rubs against the shell of your ear. "It's about time we talked." 

You let your hand drift down the dip of his back.

"Okay," you mumble. Talking. You need to talk about whatever it is that just happened. 

"...Maybe I'll get you a glass of water first," he adds.

"That's a good idea." 

𓆩❤︎𓆪

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider letting me know/reblogging, it means the world to me and makes a big difference!! ♡ NOTE: Eddie def pines back if that isn't fully clear, I tried to imply it with his date where he could've hooked up with someone but didn't go through with it, it was cos he's too in lurve

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #ish #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things

[hanafubukki]

Summary: You never expected your cute bunny costume to elicit this type of reaction from Lilia Vanrouge.

After returning from Deuce’s hometown, you and Silver decided to show off your costumes to Lilia and the others.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary at the time. Lilia commented how cute the outfits were while taking a bunch of pictures.

But you knew something was off as you spoke to Malleus, seeing those magenta eyes watching your every move.

A shiver went up your spine.

You swore you saw a fanged smirk from the corner of your eye.

Breath in.

Breathe out.

Melodic laughter fill the air as you ran.

You remember how Lilia cornered you right before this game of his.

Hand cupping your face as he leaned into you, “Run, my cute rabbit, run as fast as you can.”

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

You knew he was playing with you.

Could catch you any minute.

The light touch at your back or your ears teased how close he is to you this whole time.

How it was his choice to allow you to run.

But if you turned this corner…

A stream of water came to view.

“Oh?”

You flung yourself into the water as quick as you could.

The air stilled.

Before laughter broke out.

“Clever little prey. I went too easy on you.”

“I caught you~”

Fuck.

You were so close.

Gasps filled the air.

Clawed fingers wipes the tears clinging to your lashes.

Your outfit in tatters around you.

He couldn’t help the low chuckle escape him.

You were such a cunning prey.

And now? Such a delicious one.

He wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.

You had his blood pumping during the hunt and he planned on using this extra energy on you.

“Lilia…”

“Hm?”

“Plea- Ah!”

“Not yet Beloved, I’m far from done.”

His hunger was far from satisfied.

Oh Bunny event, how you entice me so with bunnies💞💞💚💚

#queuing this so I don’t keep editing and second guessing myself #lilia vanrouge #twisted wonderland #lilia vanrouge x reader #twst x reader #twst x you #lilia vanrouge x you #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland headcanon #Lilia Vanrouge x mc #twst lilia vanrouge x reader #twst lilia #lilia vanrouge headcanons #twst headcannons #twst scenarios #twst drabbles #twst imagines #twst fluff #twst smut ish at the end

[juniper-clan]

Moon 14: Birth of Venus

(AKA the twins!)

PREVIOUS l NEXT

#I’d like to thank albe for the idea of them coming from sea foam #there’s prolly something bittersweet to heron rescuing two little kits from the sea #if you want more lore that I didn’t cram in here because it would be fluff and useless to the plot #but it was raining intensely and the safe ish tide pool this queen was in got flooded and she had to navigate that in labor #btw her name in the game is Joy #Joys spirit wanders… #warrior cats #clangen #clangen warrior cats #warriors oc #wc #wc oc #jcmoons

[mcdynamite]

When everything settles down after Vecnapocalypse, Steve gets a call from the athletic director at Hawkins High School, and a day later, he accepts a part-time position as the assistant coach of the Hawkins High varsity basketball team.

Lucas is obviously stoked, and the other kids concede (after a few minutes of bemoaning Steve's return to the Dark Side) that it's a perfect job for him. Robin screeches with delight, and Nancy tells him she's proud of him, and Jonathan thumps him on the back with a quiet, "Congrats, man," and Eddie?

Well, Eddie just rolls his eyes and makes a joke about the Return of the King that goes right over Steve's head (but has the kids and, wouldn't ya know it, Nancy, grinning) and doesn't say much else.

It's probably stupid, but Eddie has actually (horrifyingly) grown to like hanging out with Steve. Sure, he knows next to nothing about D&D or Lord of the Rings or metal music, but that doesn't seem to matter all that much. He still listens to Eddie rant about all of those aforementioned interests and does his best to understand, even if he doesn't particularly care about the content of Eddie's latest campaign. He lets Eddie play Dio and Metallica and Black Sabbath for him, and even though Eddie can tell he's not really into most of their music, at the end of his "Musication" he gives Eddie a list of the songs he actually liked, so they have some stuff to listen to when they hang out that won't make one of them want to puncture their own eardrums.

He even looks genuinely apologetic (and, dare Eddie say, disappointed?) when he tells Eddie that it's not that he doesn't want to read Lord of the Rings. It's just that he can't, because reading is really fucking hard when the letters won't stop jumping all over the damn place.

The point is: Eddie likes Steve. He likes Steve's sarcastic quips and his attentiveness, and his hilarious but well-meaning and frighteningly successful mothering of the teenagers they apparently co-parent. Eddie likes Steve, and he likes being his friend, and he's afraid that this stupid Assistant Coach job will end up dragging Steve headfirst back into his King Steve days, and Steve will forget all about being friends with Eddie "The Freak" Munson.

It's so, so stupid, because while Eddie likes Steve, he also knows Steve, and he knows that Steve isn't the guy who used to hang around the Tommy Hagans of the world anymore. But the fear is there, and it's still there by the time the school year starts and Steve starts getting busy "prepping" for his new job, which... what? The basketball season doesn't start until January, so what the hell kind of prep would Steve be starting in August?

Eddie wonders, but he doesn't ask. He just anxiously waits to see if Steve will eventually decide to ditch him, and he continues to be quietly delighted when Steve always, always makes time for the two of them to hang out.

The thought of Steve going back into jock-mode still makes him kinda sick, but he'll never tell Steve that. Steve is way too excited for the start of the basketball season, and Eddie is gonna support him the same way Steve supports Eddie at his Corroded Coffin concerts: with begrudging interest and genuine pride, so help him God.

It goes on like this until one day, Eddie's begrudging interest suddenly becomes a little more genuine, when he accidentally stumbles upon what Steve meant for the last three months whenever he said he was "prepping for the season." 

He's got plans to hang out with Steve that afternoon, pulling up in his van fifteen minutes late because time management has never been one of his strong suits. Only, when he gets to Casa Harrington, he notices something strange. The garage is open.

The thing is, Steve always parks the Beemer in the driveway. He never uses the garage. Actually, Eddie didn't even realize Steve had a garage at all, until now, but he hears some clanging coming from inside and goes to investigate. He walks past the Beemer (parked in the driveway where it always is) and peers inside, expecting to maybe find Steve... repairing something? Reorganizing? Honestly, he has no clue what he thinks he'll find in there.

What he definitely doesn't expect to find is Steve Harrington in the middle of what appears to be a pretty fucking intense workout – hair and tank top damp with sweat, wearing frankly indecently short shorts, and breathing steadily as he does fucking pull-ups on the bar in his garage, which has apparently been converted into a whole goddamn home gym.

Eddie stops in his tracks and stares, affording himself a moment or two to have a teeny, tiny (enormous) crisis over it.

Steve hasn't noticed him yet, and Eddie can't tear his stupid eyes away from the way Steve's arms tremble from the exertion as he pulls himself up, face pinched into a concentrated frown. Eddie can see him gritting his teeth, can see the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining a little bit. Even worse, every time Steve lowers himself down, his stupid tank top rides up just enough to expose the (not at all soft, apparently) plains of his stomach, glistening with sweat, and God, Eddie wants to lick Steve fucking Harrington's abs like a-

Oh, no.

Oh, fuck no.

Oh, Jesus H. Christ, fucking shit, NO.

Listen... It's not like Eddie hasn't already known for years that he's gay. He's been fully aware of that since middle school. It's the reason his dad kicked him out and sent him to live with Wayne, for fuck's sake. It's just that Eddie has put a lot of effort into pretending his thoughts about Steve Harrington were totally, completely, 100% platonic up until this point, and now he can feel all of that hard work going down the metaphorical drain.

He stands there, stock still with his jaw hinged open, and stares while his brain melts out of his ears and his thoughts begin to race. God, those fucking arms. Eddie's not weak, but he's definitely weaker than Steve, which means Steve could definitely pin Eddie down if he wanted to. In a bed. Against the wall. On the hood of a car. Fuck, on the goddamn floor – Eddie's not picky! All he knows is that he wants Steve to leave the workout for later so Eddie can lick the sweat off of him, which... gross. But also hot. But also-

"Eddie?"

Oh, fuck. How does one talk to the sun?

Steve has noticed him standing there, obviously, which sort of makes Eddie wonder how long he's been staring. Time stopped in Eddie's world the moment a sweaty Steve Harrington entered his field of vision, so he truly has no idea how bad his staring got.

Christ, this is going to be so bad.

So, so bad.

"Eds?" Steve says, his face pinching into a frown. "You okay?"

Oh my god, you moron, say something! Eddie's brain screams at him.

"What?" Smooth. "Uh, yeah! Totally fine. Just, y'know, like, lost in thought, or whatever. Plotting my next demonic attempt at world domination. The usual."

Steve looks at him like he's grown a second head, which... is fair. But Eddie's fumbling attempt at speech is at least embarrassing enough to take precedence over the cacophonous sound of whatever Ode to Abs his mind was attempting to compose, and Eddie feels like he can think a little more clearly.

"Ah, fuck," Eddie mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. He sighs and looks at Steve apologetically. "I'm sorry, dude. I swear I'm fine. It's just been a weird day."

Steve cocks his head to the side like a particularly inquisitive puppy, and oh God, it's adorable. Eddie loathes how adorable it is. "Good weird?" Steve asks. "Or bad weird?"

Eddie ponders his answer for a moment, then replies with, "Weird weird."

That's enough to startle a laugh out of Steve, who shakes his head and wraps a towel around his neck. "Fair enough, man. Sorry about all of this, by the way." He gestures vaguely towards the home gym in his garage and shrugs sheepishly. "I was gonna be done before you got here but I sorta... lost track of time, I guess." He's got an unreadable look on his stupidly beautiful face, and Eddie doesn't like that at all. He doesn't like that one bit.

But he decides not to overthink it and brushes Steve's apology off with a wave of his hand. "It's whatever, dude. Might wanna shower, though." The ‘otherwise I might take it upon my gay little self to lick you clean’ is left blessedly unsaid.

Steve laughs again, and just like that, things start to feel a bit less earth-shattering. They banter for a bit longer, then Steve really does go to take a quick shower, and they spend the rest of the night lying on the floor of Steve's living room, listening to the metal mix tape they made together and bitching about their brood of teenagers.

Weirdly, though, after that day, Steve seems to be working out a lot more frequently. As in almost every single time he and Eddie have plans. Day after day, Eddie is treated to the sight of Steve Harrington looking like a goddamn Greek god, and day after day, Steve catches his eye and smiles before abandoning his equipment and acting like Eddie's world hasn't been completely turned on its head.

It's starting to drive him kind of insane, honestly, and his pining has gotten so bad that even Gareth and Jeff know.

"He's just so pretty!" Eddie whines for what feels like the thousandth time.

His band mates simply exchange a long-suffering look and let him ramble.

It all comes to a head in November, just before Thanksgiving, when Eddie shows up and once again finds Steve finishing a workout. Just like always, Steve shoots him a good-natured grin and greets him before heading inside for a quick shower, and just like always, Eddie waits downstairs.

NOT like always, however, this time Steve comes jogging down the stairs with wet hair, wearing a pair of joggers and... absolutely nothing else.

It's been a long time since Eddie last saw Steve without a shirt on (since the day at Lover's Lake when they found watergate, to be precise), and suddenly Eddie is remembering why he'd immediately pulled out a cigarette to calm down that day. Only this time it's even worse, because Steve has really been putting effort into these workouts, and it shows.

His chest is toned and covered in coarse hair that Eddie kind of wants to tug on, just to see what sort of sounds Steve would make if he did. He's got the makings of an honest-to-God six pack just barely visible on his abdomen, partially obscured by scars Eddie recognizes from looking at his own in the mirror. Steve's are slightly smaller and not as deep, but they clearly came from the same sets of tiny jaws, and Eddie finds them weirdly comforting, these matching scars that they share. Steve's look pale in contrast against his skin, and God, Eddie just wants to kiss them. He wants to worship them and every other inch of the man who bears them.

The man who definitely just said something Eddie didn't hear because he was too busy trying not to pass out from mere proximity to something so beautiful.

"Sorry, what?" Eddie asks, shaking his head violently in an attempt to dispel his traitorous thoughts.

Steve smirks, but Eddie can see the soft fondness in his eyes when he cocks his head to the side and repeats the words Eddie missed the first time. "I asked if you see something you like, Munson," Steve teases, one hand carding wet hair out of his face, and Eddie just blinks at him.

Play it off, play it off, play it off, his brain supplies helpfully. He can totally play this off. Dudes stare at their friends’ chests all the time, right?

"What?" he practically squeaks. "I- well... no, wait, um... ah, fuck."

So much for plausible deniability.

He's just beginning to feel vaguely panicky when Steve seems to catch on, and he's right in front of Eddie in an instant, concerned, hazel eyes gazing down at Eddie's grimacing face.

"Hey," Steve says, reaching out like he wants to touch Eddie but thinks better of it. "It's okay, man. You're okay. I'm just messing with you."

The impact of his words is instant, and Eddie can feel his face heating up. Of course Steve was joking. God, Eddie is such an idiot.

"Right," Eddie says, voice strained. He rubs his face with both hands, shaking his head lightly. "Duh. Obviously you were teasing." His voice sounds strange even to his own ears, and he's got a weird feeling of anticipation in his stomach that tells him that he's already shown too many of his cards.

"I mean, yeah..." Steve says, seeming nervous for the first time since Eddie got here. His hands flit from the back of his neck to his hair to his waist, like he doesn't know what to do with them. "Teasing is, like, flirting 101, so..."

Eddie freezes.

"Oh my God, wait..." he says slowly, finally daring to meet Steve's confused eyes. "Flirting?"

Steve looks utterly perplexed now, and he does that thing where he cocks his head to the side in confusion. 

It's still adorable. Fuck, why is it so adorable? 

"Um... yes?" He studies Eddie, seems to register the shock on his face, and then matches it with shock of his own. "Wait, you didn't know? I thought you knew!"

"I most certainly did not!" Eddie counters, feeling a bit like he's having an out-of-body experience.

"Oh my God," Steve says. "Oh my God, Eddie, I've been flirting with you for, like, months!"

"Months?!" Eddie's voice has officially reached the stratosphere.

"Yes!" Steve yelps. He looks torn between laughing and crying, though Eddie thinks it'll be mildly hilarious no matter what choice he makes. "Jesus, dude, I winked at you while I was doing pull-ups last week! What did you think that was?"

"A hallucination!" Eddie says immediately. "You're straight, Harrington!"

At that, Steve snorts, then shakes his head.

Eddie's pretty sure his brain is melting by now.

"Yeah, um, no," Steve says firmly. "I'm definitely not straight."

"You... I... What? Since when?"

"Well..." Steve begins, briefly glancing away. "Since forever, technically. Probably. But officially, since that time I made out with Tommy H. after we got wasted at a party sophomore year. And if that wasn't enough proof, I think the amount of time I’ve spent staring at your ass lately definitely is."

Eddie stares at him. "Am I dead?" he asks dumbly. "Is this Heaven? Am I having a fucking stroke?"

Steve's laughter is bright when it rings through his living room, and Eddie is grateful when Steve carefully raises a hand to cup his cheek, because the soft touch is grounding in the best way. 

"Definitely not dead, Eds," Steve says. "And shit, I hope you're not having a stroke. How many fingers am I holding up?"

Eddie just blinks at him, because Steve has one hand on Eddie's cheek and the other on Eddie's arm, and he's definitely not holding up any fingers. "Zero, Harrington, what the fuck?" he says weakly.

Steve laughs – no, scratch that, he giggles. He fucking giggles. 

If Eddie isn't dead yet, he's about to be. 

"Good. See?" Steve says. "Not having a stroke."

"I don't think that's how strokes work, dude," Eddie says weakly.

"No?" Steve asks, though he's still smiling, and he looks wholly unbothered by Eddie's doubting of his medical prowess.

Eddie shakes his head, eyes wide as Steve huffs out a laugh and slips an arm around his waist to pull him closer. They're practically chest to chest now, and Eddie is suddenly reminded of how very shirtless Steve currently is. He's mildly horrified by the way his hands tremble slightly when he rests them flat against the center of Steve's chest, but it's not like anyone can blame him! He's only ever kissed a couple of people before, and now he's somehow found himself in the arms of a half naked Steve Harrington. So, yeah, he's feeling a little jittery. Sue him.

If Steve notices the jitters, though, he doesn't mention it. Instead, he gives Eddie a soft, disarming smile that makes Eddie feel pathetically weak at the knees. "So..." Steve says, cheeks turning a pretty pink color. "Hi."

A slightly manic bark of laughter bursts from Eddie's lungs, but it only seems to make Steve smile wider. "Yeah, hi, Stevie," Eddie breathes. 

And then he nearly stops breathing completely when Steve's thumb drags gently across his cheek. It's such a sweet gesture that Eddie thinks he might melt right into the floorboards.

"So..." Steve murmurs again, gaze not leaving Eddie's. "It has recently been brought to my attention that you didn't realize I was flirting with you this whole time."

Eddie doesn't need a mirror to know that his face flushes bright red at Steve's words.

"But I have been," Steve continues. He bites his lip, almost like he's nervous, which is ridiculous because what the fuck is there about Eddie that could be making Steve Harrington nervous right now? "Like, I've been doing it constantly, because you're funny, and sweet, and sort of adorable, but also kinda hot? Y'know, because you have the tattoos and stuff, and you're all dramatic all the time, and it's hot, but then sometimes you do that thing where you hide your face behind your hair, and it's so fucking cute, Eddie, I mean..."

Steve trails off, cheeks growing even pinker after seemingly realizing that he's been rambling, and Eddie feels like he's going insane.

"Anyway," Steve says, clearing his throat. "I like you, Eddie. Like, a lot. And I've sort of been dying to kiss you for, like, months, so-"

Eddie never lets Steve finish his sentence, because the moment the word kiss leaves his mouth, Eddie is leaning forward and pressing their lips together in a soft, fleeting kiss that's over far too fast.

So fast, in fact, that it takes a moment for reality to catch up to Eddie afterwards. He's already pulling away by the time it hits him: he just kissed Steve Harrington.

He, Eddie fucking Munson, just kissed Steve fucking Harrington.

"Holy shit," Eddie mutters, gaze flitting back and forth between Steve's wide eyes. "Holy shit."

There's a brief pause, and then Steve starts to laugh.

It starts as a soft chuckle and slowly transforms into bright, elated laughter that echoes off the walls and bathes the whole room in sunlight, never mind the rainy day outside. It's light and happy and beautiful, and Eddie unfreezes after a moment to add his own laughter to the mix. He drops his head onto Steve's shoulder, a shiver running down his spine when Steve's arms come around him automatically, like they were made to fit together like this.

Eddie wonders if maybe they were.

When their laughter finally dies down, Steve carefully pulls back just enough to meet Eddie's eyes again, and Eddie smiles shyly up at him.

"Sorry," Eddie says without a hint of guilt in his voice. "You said the word kiss and I panicked."

Steve just shakes his head and grins. "See? Like I said - adorable." One of his hands raises to cradle Eddie's cheek again, and Eddie doesn't hesitate before leaning into the touch. "But if it's okay with you," Steve says softly, “I'd really like to give you a proper kiss, now."

And yep, it's official. Steve Harrington is going to be the death of him.

Eddie can't fucking wait.

He nods and lets his gaze flit down to Steve's lips for a fraction of a second before Steve is closing the distance between them, and oh... this is so much better than the quick, vaguely frantic press of lips they exchanged only a few moments ago. Eddie takes back every judgemental comment he's ever made about the girls who were obsessed with Steve Harrington in high school, because he gets it now.

Oh, God, he gets it.

Because Steve kisses him, soft and sure, like Eddie is the only thing that matters in all the world. It's gentle and sweet and perfect – not an ounce of hesitation in the way Steve slots their lips together. And then Steve just... stays there, like he's giving Eddie a moment to catch up, to process what's happening.

He's so goddamn patient – so fucking kind – and Christ, Eddie adores him for it.

Steve pulls back just enough to break the kiss, and Eddie doesn't whine. He doesn't. But it's okay, because Steve doesn't leave him hanging for long, threading his fingers through Eddie's curls and using them as leverage to tug him even closer into a kiss that turns Eddie's legs to jelly. Steve's tongue slides against Eddie's so beautifully, and his hands are so strong, and he smells like lemony soap and minty toothpaste (did Steve brush his teeth after showering? God, he's ridiculous. He’s perfect.) and Eddie can feel the muscles in Steve's chest shift whenever they move, and, and, and...

And yeah, this time when Steve pulls away, breath coming quicker and eyes shining with happiness, Eddie does whine. Or maybe it's a whimper. Maybe it's both. Christ, Eddie doesn't care. He'll keep making that noise forever if Steve keeps looking at him like this.

"Fuck," Eddie breathes. He knows he probably looks embarrassingly awestruck, but he can't find it in himself to care. "How are you so fucking hot, Steve? What the fuck?" His face is on fire, but Steve just laughs – nope, there's that giggle again – and kisses Eddie's forehead.

Eddie's pretty sure he's melting, but honestly? Worth it.

"I don't know if you've noticed," Steve teases, "but I've actually been working out a lot lately..."

Not even Eddie's lovesickness could protect Steve from the playful smack he gets for that.

"Did I notice?" Eddie huffs. "You're the worst, Harrington."

Steve just smiles and kisses him again.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fluff #jock(ish) steve #pov eddie munson #gay eddie munson #sweetheart steve harrington #eddie is bad at flirting #eddie can't handle jock-mode steve being so hot #lighthearted #first kiss #eddie is pining hard #but its okay because so is steve #i wrote most of this at 3am #so its very silly #but also I love steve and eddie #and they're in love #and i love that for them #mcdynamite writes

[1800titz]

HI. HELLO. Here is my Valentine’s Day contribution. POTTERYINSTRUCTOR!HARRY!! POTTERY MAN! WOOO. Basically almost 7K of clay sexualization and sexually charged fluff (ish). Enjoy! :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: ridiculous sexualization of clay (I think I’ve managed to fetishize clay in this one??? OOPS), overly suggestive usage of pottery terms, a red-hot, hands-on tutorial for wheel throwing, and embarassingly long descriptions of Harry’s fingers coated in wet clay.

WC: 6.6K

slip: small bits of dry clay mixed with water to create a thick, creamy consistency

Clay is innately erotic. 

Wheel throwing is, arguably, the most pornographic art form, its only competing opponent being, maybe, literal body-painting. And that latter one still falls as a close second. Close, but second. 

Y/N decides that when she wanders into a little ceramics shop tucked away in a busy plaza downtown. There’s no method to her exploration, but the broad glass windows are adorned with dripping, colorful graffiti and its innards call to her. GLAZED, reads the large sign over the awning in blocky, white lettering, stippled with un-glowing light bulbs that she’s sure light alive in the night. 

It’s a cute shop. 

Upon entrance, the young woman discovers tables, as if set up for arts and crafts, crackling, clay covered wheels with shorter stools, and long, tall rows of shelving brimmed with colorless sculptures lining the walls. Despite its packed interior, the studio seems empty of people and quiet besides the soft notes of RÜFÜS DU SOL leaking from the overhead speakers. She roams beside the line of wheels over to a shelf by the door, admiring the myriad of statues there, some obviously crafted with expertise and elegant artistry, and others lopsided efforts that probably deserve a pitied gold star for effort. 

Her eyes are caught on an unpainted little ashtray that’s got a crooked sort of bee in the center when her gaze breaks away to the sound of footsteps. Maybe the shop isn’t as abandoned as she’d previously believed — a man appears from behind a row of white shelving stacked with more unfinished pottery. 

He’s a pretty man, that much she can decide from the downturned slope of his nose and his distracted lash line, focused on twisting the navy rag in his left hand over the tip of his right index finger. A dark baseball cap shrouds his hair, but little brunette tufts sneak out in curled bunches around his ears. That’s where Y/N finds a fun, little red-tinted pearl dangling from one lobe. He’s tatted in patchwork art — a mermaid with its tits out peeks at her from his forearm, soaked over and shining. She assumes he must have just been rinsing clay from that forearm, from his hands, no longer visible over his skin. However, streaks of dried gray stain over his white tee in crackling lines, like an old lamination on a well-loved t-shirt that’s been cycled through the washer one too many times. When he pulls the rag away, she discovers a shade of bright red that’s been painted over his nails.

Almost as if he can sense her presence without looking, his sneakers pause on the tile and he steals a peer up. Yes, he’s quite a pretty man, even when his features shape something caught off guard.

“Hello.”

His voice is rich — this smooth, bass-deep sort of sound driving a foreign lilt, and Y/N thinks that if it weren’t for his lengthy fingers and his cherry polished nails, if it weren’t for his handsomely sculpted face, if it weren’t for his seemingly innate effortless demeanor and style, that voice alone could make her fold.  

“Hello,” she returns, aware that a nervous note plucks at her cadence, unlike his own casual greeting. I promise I’m not shoplifting clay pots in silence, she nearly tells him. 

Thank fuck for the ability to physically bite your tongue. 

“What can I help you with?” the man asks, sauntering forward a bit. It’s probably sort of a polite manner to say what the fuck are you doing here, and the longer the young woman stands in the middle of the empty shop the more out of place she feels, almost like this a private, little haven and she shouldn’t be in here right now.

The song shifts into its choral bass drop of electric keys. That fills the void of the silence as she swallows and fixes a little smile onto her face, fingers tightening over the strap of her tote. 

“Oh, I’m just looking.” 

The man purses his mouth and walks over to the counter, where the register is littered with paperwork and an eclectic collection of faux plants. He sets the rag down beside a floppy one with its green tendrils dangling over the edge. 

“See anything you like?” his hand pinches over his nose, like he’s scratching an itch, before he sniffs and pivots to apparently decrease their proximity, “We’ve got loads — you can make something yourself, or,” another step, and Y/N’s eye bounce from his shorts to his tattooed knees to the hems of his white socks. “…If you know sculpting isn’t your craft, we’ve got ready-to-paint-one's on that shelf there.”

Her gaze follows the direction of his finger, where pasty ceramic bunnies, and angels, and cars line the shelving in multiples. 

“I think—“ the young woman’s tongue peeks out to swipe over her mouth, words growing drier the longer she captures his stare. She focuses back on a lopsided rendition of strawberry, its leaves cradling over as a disconnected lid and its stem a crooked handle. “I like these. They’ve got so much character.” 

She blinks back over to him and watches a soft smile shape over the cushiony pink of his mouth.

It only takes a moment — one where her sight draws back to the strawberry jar for a smidge of a second, before he’s so close that she can smell his cologne, spiced and clean. She ogles his arm, his hand, the way he reaches out between them to cull the piece, mildly appalled by the way he palms the sculpture and dwarfs it in his easy grasp. It’s such a casual maneuver, made almost as if he’s not fondling over something it’d take anyone else two hands to hold. Y/N imagines the dimpled form of clay coated over to match the color of his nails.

“They do, don’t they? I like this one, too. S’a little …ugly, but, s’in, like, a…” the man’s features twist into something silly and pinched, and the young woman rolls her lips into her mouth to avoid exposing her amusement at the brutal candor. His words catch in his throat and bubble as a short laugh, “I dunno. It’s art.” 

He sets it back onto the shelf with a light clink, and turns to face her, posturing against a post in the shelving where the tiers have a break. An exhale becomes paired with his nonchalant lean, arms crossing over his pecs, and Y/N tries intensely not to stare like a hawk at the muscle there. 

“I’m afraid people are coming back for these, though. This row came out of the kiln…” forest green skids to the assortment and then bounds up to the ceiling like he’s in thought, before he casts his gaze back onto her, “…yesterday. And there’s a month-and-a-half window for someone to come back and glaze before we toss or sell them to be painted.” 

He’s chewing gum. Y/N realizes it when she admires the soft stubble coating his jaw, his cheeks — that’s when she notices the work of his jawline over the minty piece. He tips his head. “Did you want to try sculpting something?” 

The edges of her lips break bashfully. “I don’t know if I’d be any good at it.” 

One corner of the man’s mouth curls up lopsidedly, and the beginnings of a dimple nudge into place. He blinks and chews a little slower, “Have you ever worked with clay before?” 

Her delayed, little no is met with the lopsided beam growing even. He nudges with his chin, deliciously bulging arms still tucked over his chest, his playfully raised eyebrows like a wordless notion of have more faith in yourself, “Then you may just be the next Magdalene Odundo. We’ll make a pro sculptor out of you, yet.” 

Magdalene Odundo. Somehow, the name isn’t familiar, but simultaneously, somehow, it feels like a compliment. 

Y/N inhales as his digits shift over his tri’s. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” plush pink shapes a handsome smile, bordering bright white teeth in straight lines. The man tips his head towards the curved berry vase, and then looks back at her, “Did you want to do something like this? All these over here were made on the wheel.” 

Y/N muzzles telling him that she’s no inkling of an idea how someone can morph a lump of clay into a vase, nevermind on a big, spinning platform that moves faster than her eyes can keep up with. The man seems to pick up on the hesitation in her silence. 

“S’easy, I promise. I’ll show you how to throw.” 

Show her. Okay. At least she’s not going to head into vase-sculpting or wheel-throwing or …whatever he’d called it blindly, fumbling over a block of clay on a twirling tray like a slapstick skit personified. At least it means she’s going to stay in his presence. After a moment of thought, though, (and the way she notes that his eyes make unwavering, relaxed contact with her face the entirety of the silent pause), Y/N decides she’s not sure whether that last bit is actually a good thing, considering she’s probably milliseconds away from, like, bracing a hand onto a the shelf to match his level of coolness, or something. And then subsequently sending ceramic pots spilling and shattering over the tile.

She blinks. Her shoulders rise on her nervous inhale, and he makes one of those playful faces, like he’s waiting for her to agree. The young woman’s eyes wander to the line of chairs pressed to its counterparts of wheels. 

“I don’t wanna, like, trouble you—“ 

“You’re not. S’my job,” he tells her, crimson fingertips drumming. She catches sight of his fabric-clad pectorals flexing when he leans forward a little to tack on, “…And to be honest, it’d give me something to do besides fucking around with clay, which is what I’ve been doing for the last hour.” 

Her mouth purses and then settles. “Okay.” 

“Okay,” he says again, and then winds around through a row of little tables that resemble the set up of an art classroom, like the kind she’d have in school. She’s ashamed that her gaze wanders down the back of his arm to ogle the rest of his ink. 

“You can have a seat at one of those wheels,” he tosses over his shoulder as he heads, she assumes, to wind back around the same shelf he’d surfaced from behind, “Just give me a mo’, and I’ll be right back with some clay.” 

It takes Y/N a moment — mostly because she admires the view of his stature from behind as he migrates to a back hallway, irises roaming down the projection of muscles in his back showcased through his tee. They skim down his legs, down the backs of his knees, rest on toned calves. He’s gone far too quickly for her viewing pleasure. The young woman takes another glance at the uneven strawberry-esque vase, and then she pivots to step around the crowded assortment of wheels to crouch into one of those little roll-y stools, feet crossing and uncrossing in the cramped space. 

He’s a sexy man, Y/N decides. That’s the word she’d been looking for all along, although pretty would match the descriptors of his long lashes and his pouty pink mouth. He’s sexy, though, in his baseball cap and his little six-inch-inseam shorts (which show off the sculpt of his tanned thighs and the ink over his kneecaps). He’s sexy when he comes out from the back over to her wheel, a gunmetal gray ball of clay cradled in his palm like it’s not the size of two of her own. He’s sexy in the green eye contact he makes when he settles into a stool similar to her own, right across, when his thighs splay because he doesn’t have enough room to sit otherwise, when he rests his elbows over his knees and stretches one arm out to pass off the clay. That’s when their digits brush, because it’s sort of unavoidable. He manages to make eye contact through that, too. Sexy. 

“Okay. Clay,” the chilled ball the man hands off weighs her hand down, and Y/N’s gaze flickers up to meet his own when he instructs, “Toss it onto the wheel. Aim for the center.” 

The young woman pauses like she’s calculating her aim, gearing up without visibly gearing up, and a little smile tugs at the instructor’s mouth as he waits. The clay lands with a thud onto the plate. 

“Great,” he tells her, monitoring the centering, and then jade bounces back up to her face as he coaxes, “Smack for good luck.” 

Y/N curbs the corners of her mouth out of mirth, hesitating for a moment before her palm lands over the smooth, gray lump in a halfhearted pat. She blinks up, hoping for assurance. The handsome man’s mouth purses like he’s restraining a grin. 

“Harder,” he encourages after a second, the corners of his muted raspberry mouth seeping up a smidge, more openly, “S’not gonna cry. You can go a little harder than that.” 

The young woman rolls her lips into her mouth, raises her hand, and follows his request, molding it flatter under the solid thud of her palm. Evidently, it’s a better attempt, because she earns a, “Very good,” in response from him.

She casts her gaze up to find him dipping his hands into the pot of murky water beside the wheel before a fist knocks lightly at the pedal-resembling lever on the opposite side, sending the wheel into a speeding twirl. And to add to her list of shame, the liquid that coats his fingers — that’s. 

Yeah. 

Y/N swallows and watches those wet hands cup over the clay, partly mesmerized by the way he coaxes the priorly deformed lump into a symmetrical cylinder, stroking up from the base up and back down, and partly mesmerized by the way the cherry polish becomes daubed with slicked clay. 

“I’m just gonna get it nice and easy for you, and then you can get to the fun bits,” the man tells her as if he isn’t currently awakening some deep, deviously sexual desires in her by fondling clay. Jade flickers up. “M’Harry, by the way.” 

“Y/N,” the young woman tells him in response, unsure whether to focus on his searing eye contact or the gentle press of his hands over … oddly erotic artistry in motion.

Harry unwittingly makes the decision for her by breaking the eye contact and glancing down at his work. 

“Y/N,” he says, as if testing the taste of her name on his tongue. 

Y/N takes a breath, smoothing her hands down her thighs. 

“Y/N,” his strawberry mouth parts a tad for a soft breath in, honey smooth cadence glazed in concentration as he presses a flat palm over the top of the clay, keeping his other hand cupped over the length. 

She watches the cylinder mold under his grip into something shorter, and then back up. She watches the way his arms flex, anchored to his body as he presses with the heels of his palms to sculpt. 

“This is called coning. Makes the clay centered so your grip stays nice and even when it spins. Otherwise, s’gonna wobble, and you’ll feel it when you’re trying to work with it.”

Sure enough, after a few moments, when the man takes his clay-sullied palms away, what’d priorly been a lopsided hunk twirling over the platform stands symmetrically, shining post his wet grip. When he balls his hand into a fist and punches over the lever a handful of times, the plate slows to a stop. He blows out a breath and the music shifts to the next track in the background.

“Take your bracelet off for me.” 

The comment is made totally innocuously. Its purpose is solely to preserve the condition of her jewelry — she knows that when his eyes go to meet hers again and he mentions, “Otherwise, it could get covered with clay, or break. Wouldn’t wanna ruin such a pretty piece.”

But it’s the way he says it, right? Two little words, so easy off his tongue. So nonchalant, so purely intended with no ulterior motive. For me. For me, for me, for me. 

It’s shameful — she’s ashamed. She’s no better than a man, Y/N decides, as she peers to the silver bangle with the sliver of warmth slithering through her chest and snaking to her tummy. She’s no better than a man, objectifying this poor, effortlessly sexy ceramics instructor and his casual commentary on a Wednesday. She swallows. 

“Right. Thanks— thank you,” the young woman tells him, her tone garbled with nervous enthusiasm as the fingers of her opposite hand wriggle under the clasp to pop the piece off. 

She’s still feeling dubious about the morality of her thoughts once she’s slipped the bracelet into her tote by her feet and sat back up. 

“Alright,” Harry starts again, elbows braced to his sturdy thighs, “We’re gonna go over what this little thing over here does, because it’s good to know. It sets your speed. We’ve got options—“

Y/N watches the way his arm stretches, she eyes the tail of the mermaid, the lines of scales etched into his skin. His eyes meet her own again. 

“…Fast,” Harry knocks over the lever again with the butt of a vertical fist, a couple more nudges rocketing the wheel into a motion that dissolves priorly visible remnants of clay rings into fast-moving swirls with no decipherable borders. 

Another few nudges has the wheel skidding to a full-stop, and then stuttering back up into a spin when he taps over the pad once more. 

“…Slow,” Harry fixes his gaze back onto her face and watches the curious concentration there. The man sits back up a tad, elbows bracing over his splayed thighs and fingers crooked and lax, coated with slippery wetness and clay. “Find what feels good for you. S’different for everyone.”

Despite the way the directions are made so innocently, so obviously stated as a tutorial that’s not intended to be taken as something suggestive, Y/N finds a heat teeming over her cheekbones. 

“But, I recommend—“ her teeth lodge into the inside of her cheek with subtlety as the instructor hunches a little again, just a tad, to rap over the lever in a pair. The wheel speeds. “—Sticking to something around this.”

The pace of the wheel settles into an easy spin — something that’s still too quick for her eyes to keep up with, but apparently not the fastest setting, judging by the higher speeds he’d displayed moments prior. 

“Alright. Here’s where you come in with your undiscovered ceramic talents,” the instructor tells her, the edges of his mouth so obviously restrained, like he’s amused with his own playful banter. His eyes glinting softly under the buttery light cast by the overhanging lanterns,”M’gonna show you how to drill, but you’ll need to get your hands wet first.”

Harry sits back, elbows still braced to his thighs, hands now coated with slippery clay as he waits for the young woman to douse her own into the bucket. The liquid greets her palms with a welcome chill, and when she lightly cups over the cylinder, it slips under her hands with ease. The man clears his throat, and their digits graze again when he touches over her fingers to guide her grasp. Y/N tries not to focus on the way his hands make her own look as if they belong to a child. 

“You’re gonna take your thumbs—” Harry coaxes, all concentrated seriousness now, and the pad of his own brushes against the knuckle of her left, “—and press over the top, here. Right in the middle, just like that.” 

He takes his hands away and the clay rolls under her fingertips, a divot forming from the pressure of her thumbs. 

“Good. Now what you’ve done is you’ve indicated where you’re going to make the opening. And to do that—“ his hands return, unintentionally persuading her own to fall away and sort of hover stagnantly mid-air, in sullied awe, as he dips the tip of his index into the cleft they’d created together. 

As if hungry for the finger, the clay parts to swallow the pad of the digit. It broadens its starving mouth, and Harry steadies the spread with his thumb, his pointer delving against the inside of the deepening wall. His opposite hand cups over the body as he molds the opening wider. 

Anyways, what Y/N manages to learn from the impressive showcase, before Harry steals a glance to make sure she’s been observing (which she has, very focused, actually), is that clay-working is a dirty, dirty, lustrous art form. Especially under his fingertips. This is all very educational stuff. Perhaps the most impressive step of his tutorial, thus far, is the way that, in mere moments, he cups and strokes and caresses over the clay, drawing the opening tighter. It shrinks until it disappears, and when he smooths his hands over the rounded edges a few more times, the vessel that’s left is an entirely clean slate. Almost as if she hadn’t just spent the last few seconds ogling a weirdly pornographic display of a clay cavern opening in response to the touch of his long finger. This was a horrible mistake, Y/N thinks pitifully — she’s getting aroused by clay working. If there was ever a blaring red indicator that she needed to get laid, this is it. 

“I want you to try now,” Harry directs, totally nonchalant. This is just a casual Wednesday for him, Y/N realizes. He casually fingers clay with his sexy, long fingers, and thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s just a horribly wound-up pervert. 

Still sort of stunned, she reaches out and cups over the cylinder, clumsily positioning her thumbs in a replication of the manner he’d shown her, aiming for the center and driving a divot into the top. 

“Mm. That’s good. Keep your elbows closer to your body,” he prompts, eyes flickering from her posture to her hands. “Like this.” 

Following his body language, Y/N mimics, ducking a tad and tucking her arms to her torso. After a few moments, she lifts her thumbs to find a centered indent, one that’s similar to the one they’d created together. 

“Lovely. Now,” the chair makes a little rolling sound over the tile as Harry shifts forward, clay-slicked hands (warm, despite their cool coating) cradling over her own to position, “You’re gonna cup here, and then take this finger and push here. Yep. Jus’ like that.” 

The instructor takes his grip away and encourages, “If you need more water, get your hands wet. You can tell you need it if there’s friction — you want it a little wet.” 

She wants it a little wet. Y/N decides, as she dunks her hands into the bucket and returns to the clay, she in fact does not want anything wet right now. This is the last place she wants something wet. Her thoughts are disturbed by the way he grasps her at her hands again and repositions — twisted by the slippery feel of his own wet fingers. The clay over his palms has begun to dry now, morphing lighter and crackling, but the tips of his digits are still soaked and darker in shade. She’s awed when the cylinder gives under her touch, the same way it had for him to encompass her finger. It’s like magic, sort of. Very slippery, wet, weirdly erotically undertone-d magic. 

“There you go,” Harry tells her, baritone soft, “You’re a pro.” Then, after a moment, “You can go a little harder. Don’t be shy. Open it up.” 

She’s not blushing. She’s not blushing, because that would be silly. She presses harder, and the opening widens until it gapes. 

“How long have you worked here?” the young woman asks, naturally trying to change the subject from wet and hard things. Hopefully in an organic enough manner that doesn’t imply how affected she is by said wet and hard things. 

“I bought this place a few years ago,” Harry responds after a second, tone concentrating as he reaffixes the firmness of her grasp (she tries not to verbally apologize, glancing up), “…Both units. It was a smoke shop before, I think.” 

“Oh!” her hands stutter again in surprise, “Are you the owner?” 

He fixes them again, brows pinched, and when he glances up, his brow bone is smooth and there’s a soft smile playing over his mouth. “Indeed I am.” 

“It’s …beautiful in here,” Y/N tells him, gaze walloping from shelf to shelf for a moment, lantern lined ceilings to vine-coated crown molding, trusting that his hands will keep her own grounded to the piece. 

“Thanks. It’s a little crowded, but if you manage to get lost among the …phallic statues and the clay bongs,” he cocks his head, blatantly bridling a simper as he shrugs. At the response of her snort, jade flickers up and the plush of his mouth curls more obviously, “…You’ll find your way out of the maze soon enough.” 

As the walls of the clay grow thinner, the instructor takes his grip away, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. “Alright. What are we going for here? A mug? A vase? A bong masquerading as a vase?” 

Y/N takes the lack of his touch as an indication to lighten her own. She purses her lips thoughtfully. “A vase.” 

“A vase,” the instructor parrots, voice low, and then he hunches back over and cups the clay. The young woman returns her hands to meet his own. “I can work with that. We’re gonna build it up. You’re gonna squeeze and lift. Right—“

If his fingers keep brushing hers for the duration of the next …half hour? Hour? (How long does throwing take?), Y/N decides she’ll simply combust. His hands cup lightly over her own, two digits pressed to hers, and hers pinned to the inner wall of the clay in sin. 

“—Here. That’s it. You can be a little aggressive. We’ve gotta get it tall.”

Y/N swallows.

“You said you own both units?” she ponders aloud, “Is there …more?” 

“My place,” Harry tells her nonchalantly, as if it’s the most casual, normal, every day thing to live over a ceramics studio, “S’just over on the next floor.” 

“That’s—“ she realizes her grasp has lightened again, the integrity of the structure mostly only crawling up under the pressure of his own (steady, firm) grip over hers, “…so cool. To have, like, a whole studio right under you.” 

“Mm. I think right now…” Harry cranes his neck to peer up at the ceiling, “We’re under my kitchen.” 

A little breath of mirth tumbles from her when he grins and tacks on, “I think this is way cooler, though.” 

This is The Turning Point. 

And if it was a scene title in a play, Y/N thinks it would be capitalized to denote the importance. It’s important, because somewhere along the trail of her perversions, as Harry had guided her hands into the innards of the clay — fittingly describing it as the body — when he’d pressed his hands against her own to widen its base, when he’d shown her the sponge, things had clicked. It had clicked because she realized she wasn’t fucking crazy. Because Harry then said this thing — this one little thing that would have launched her into a frenzied, internal mess of dubious morality on the basis of her perversions—

But then it clicked. 

“Careful with the amount of water you’re using now, yeah?” he’d told her, maneuvering her grip over the sponge as they’d smoothed over the lip together, “S’all about balance. …If you go too hard, you’ll make a wet mess.” 

Y/N had glanced up. That’s when she’d noticed the way the instructor gnawed into his cheek, almost immediately, almost as if he was amused by some sort of devious inside joke. And then his blocky front teeth had dug lightly into the plush of his pink bottom lip. It was nearly unnoticeable — but she had noticed. Clay was innately erotic, and he was doing it on purpose. It was one, or the other, or both. 

For a little while from there, they work in blatantly charged silence. It’s a very short while, all things considered, and she’s willing to clam up altogether and daydream about his digits for the duration of the lesson, but the tone of his next words nearly gives her whiplash. 

“So what are you doing on this lovely Valentine’s day?” Harry breaks the silence, once again, his tone so even and nonchalant that Y/N can’t begin to fathom where his composure comes from. 

The young woman clears her throat, “Oh. Y’know. Trying my hand at ceramics. The yuzh.” 

Jade doesn’t immediately jolt up when he ponders aloud, “Dinner plans?” 

“Not any on the calendar …that I’m aware of.”

His touch doesn’t lighten, but he does glance up, mouth all (apparently) disbelieving mirth, “You’re telling me you’re not being wined and dined tonight?” 

Feigning offense, the young woman sets her mouth into a line and nudges with her chin in a nod, joking, “Thank you for the reminder.” 

Harry laughs softly, one of those little breaths expelled through his nostrils, and he looks back down to the vase-in-progress, gentle grin undeniable. Y/N matches his amusement, faux indignation crackling. 

“You’re too pretty not to have a Valentine,” the instructor tells her, then, decibel low, almost like it was meant to be under his breath but also entirely not, and all Y/N can do is sit there with instant heat seeping to her face. Because that’s flirting. That’s definitely flirting. Her sexy ceramics instructor is helping her craft a vase out of clay on a wheel with his sexy hands, and he’s openly flirting. 

Y/N stuffs down how initially stunned she is to chew into her bottom lip and volley, “I bet you say that to every girl that comes in here.” 

Harry shrugs. It’s still almost an enraging level of cucumber-cool and composed. 

“Just the pretty ones.” He tacks on, after a moment, “And only on Valentine’s day. Don’t think that line would fit well on a random Wednesday.” 

Y/N snorts. She’s still basking in the pleasant warmth of the flattery when the man peers up and tells her, “I do accept tips, by the way, so. Feel free to leave a tip for the friendly service.” 

“I will—“ she snorts, restraining her open amusement at the way his brows crinkle in concentration as he helps her grip, “—definitely do that.” 

“Sick,” his tongue peeks out to swipe over his lips, disappearing back into his mouth as quick as the pink had showcased. Jade flits up, the corners of his mouth curled up in a little pause of silence, almost he wants to make it crystal clear he does not actually want a tip for hitting on her. 

Anyways, this is all a flustered mess. All of it. Y/N, the pot she’s sure will grow off-center and wobble under her shaky grip, all of it. 

“What about you?” the young woman takes a deep breath, hoping some sort of breathing exercise will help slow the buzzy flutter of her heartbeat, “Any wining and dining? For Valentine’s day?” 

“Not on the calendar,” Harry responds, sliding her own words back to her, his gaze still honed on the work ahead of them, now impressively morphed from a lumpy, shapeless ball into the beginnings of a vase, “As for how I’m spending my Valentine’s day, I did just show this one pretty girl how to shape and smooth. And now, …m’gonna show her how to shape some more.”

Y/N bats her lashes, and then she observes the work of his clay caked fingers, the way they curl and press over the vase in different points of the body, some motions widening the rim and some drawing it more narrow. He bids their tutorial a pause shortly after, explaining, “I’m gonna give you some creative freedom now. Figure out what shape you like.” 

Despite the slight disappointment budding at the close of their conversation, for now, the daunting task of unsupervised throwing is what probably surfaces on her face, more. The instructor catches it when he rolls back in the stool and stands, ogling her for a moment, mirthy mouth caving up in a way that suggests she must look like a deer in headlights. 

“It’s intimidating, but I believe in you. I’ll just be in the back for a sec, give me a shout if you need me.”

Y/N shifts her legs, pressing her thighs together when he adds, “Play around with it.” 

All in all, they manage to end the wheel session with (Y/N thinks, impressively) only a couple of hiccups, both being opportunities presented with unsupervised sculpting. When she’d played around with it (his words) a little too much and had coaxed a priorly even shape into something lopsided and petrifying, it’d swung around on the wheel, each turn quickening its slow but sure collapse. She’d called out for the instructor with a frantic note to his name. Of course, both times, Harry had come out from the back and patiently squeezed over the clay, hands and forearms jolting and flexing deliciously as he’d encouraged it back into something centered (yet another opportunity to stare at slick clay glazing over his fingers all over again), reassuring her that it was normal to struggle, especially with her first time. 

Y/N wonders if he’s constantly full of innuendos, or whether a ceramics studio is just innately an opportunity for double entendres. 

She tries not to make it too obvious when she stands on wobbling legs, when she brushes past him and catches soft notes of his cologne, clean and musky. When he directs her to the bathroom where she rinses clay from her hands into one of those artsy, utility sinks. When she sits at one of the tables, waiting for him to bring the vase over to her, torched and ready for additions, when he gives her another colorless lump. She tries not to make it obvious when she ogles more of his arms, the peek of his nipples through the white, clay-stained fabric of his tee shamelessly. She fears it’s utterly obvious how affected he’s made her, though, when she blinks up at his face, when he shows her what the different little tools in the cup do for sculpting. Y/N doesn’t even look away from him at the introduction of the first tool. She thinks that’s the one that must cross-hatch, driving little lines into the clay. 

“This is called slip,” Harry explains, dipping the tips of his index and middle fingers into the cup near the brushes with no hesitation. The consistency over his fingers, when he pulls them out, is like a wetter, creamier, sloppier variation of the same clay she’d worked with. 

Christ. 

“You put it over the lines you’ve carved to make more clay stick,” the instructor expands. 

Y/N swallows when he smears the consistency coating his fingers onto the lines he’d drawn, his gaze bouncing from his touch to her face. 

“Like, if you wanted to add a handle to a mug, you’d use this method. Or, alternatively,” the young woman focuses on the way the pads of the digits rub over the lines. They fade away. “It’s like an eraser. Careful with erasing, though. …Wet mess.” 

The latter is tacked on as a reminder, and it wonderfully reminds her of the heat coiling in the pit of her tummy. Wonderfully. She swallows again. 

“You can probably use that brush to apply the slip, though, if you don’t want to get your hands dirty again.” 

Flowers. She sculpts flowers with a searing heat between her thighs, because his added little comment of, “I don’t mind,” as he glances to the slip still glazing his fingers, implying that he doesn’t mind to get his hands dirty, does that to her. Y/N sculpts flowers and they settle into a comfortable sort of silence. It’s one where the only sounds are the soft music playing over the speakers and the occasional noise of pages turning from behind the counter as he leans over it and works through some kind of paperwork. She draws lines into the vase, and brushes on the slip, and presses creased flowers to decorate the bulbous body, concentration etching her features. 

She doesn’t notice when she goes over the hours of operation, and Harry doesn’t disturb her, doesn’t tell her that the shop’s been closed for nearly half an hour by the time she peers up and declares, “I’m done.” 

“You’re done,” the man repeats and sets the paperwork down, making his way over to the table where she’d set up, “Let’s have a look.” 

Y/N sits back admiring her artistry. All things considered, it’s sort of an ugly vase. Despite this, a sense of accomplishment buds in her chest as she stares at her creation. 

“I like it,” Harry tells her, nodding like he’s proud of a promising protégé, “It’s quite sweet.” 

“Thank you. What now?” 

“Now—“ the instructor props one hand onto the countertop and the other against his hip, “You wash your hands, you take a picture, and you come back in three weeks to sand it and glaze it.” 

Simple. It’s a simple set of instructions. Y/N brushes crackling, dried clay off of her fingertips against the cloth laid over the table, instinctively reaching for her purse. 

She blinks up at him expectantly, “How much?” 

Dimples wink awake with his soft simper, and he shifts his stance before he asserts, “Don’t worry about it.” 

The young woman’s features shape into something crinkled, something bemused and unwilling of a discount. She shakes her head and glances back down to the tote, “No, I have to pay you. What about your tip?” 

Harry crosses his arms over his chest, pecs flexing with the motion. Flexing, flexing, flexing, when will his muscles stop rippling? He sighs, cushiony mouth still smiling, “I think I’ll live. My tip was that I’ve helped you discover a hidden talent—“

Y/N snorts, eyeing the sloppy attachments to the shapely base, fingers still tucked over her wallet. 

“—It’d defeat the satisfaction and all the pride I’ve got now,” the man declares, shrugging. 

The unconvinced look she gives him coaxes him into a good-natured roll of his eyes, and Harry tuts before he compromises, raising his eyebrows, “But if you must tip me, you can tip me when you come back in three weeks, yeah?” 

Begrudged, the young woman takes her hand from the edges of her wallet. “Fine. Okay.” 

“Okay. Three weeks,” the man reminds her, a little smile playing over the plush of his mouth.

The world of ceramics is oddly pornographic, Y/N decides. But maybe clay isn’t innately erotic. Maybe it’s the way the man’s fingertips mold its shape, the way his digits look soaked in slip, the way his hands cradle over it as a wheel spins under his ducked stature. Maybe it’s the way his jade irises flit to her face when he makes an educational comment that’s obviously suggestive, Maybe it doesn’t have to do with clay, at all. Maybe it’s Harry.  

Maybe it’s the way he tells her, “If I were you, I wouldn’t miss it. Glazing is my favorite part.”

#harry styles #harry styles smut #(ish)? there’s a lot of innuendos in this one #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles one shots #harry styles fluff #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles valentine’s day fic #valentine’s day fic

[getodrools]

“you know i won't die! i never do!” your boyfriend swings his hands over his head, walking content with a small bounce. the annoyingly large smirk glowing too doesn't help his overwhelming confidence annoyingly annoying you.

you sigh.

well… he has the right and option to be annoying.

he is the satoru gojo after all.

“heh-- hey, but imagine if i did–” you harshly nudge at his shoulder suspending judgment concerning the implausibility of his already stupid question…

“no! nono. if i did, who would be your..” satoru scratches at the back of his head and smacks his lips, “y’know, your next boyfriend? i mean, i don't think anyone could replace me—”

“mmh, probably getō.”

his shoulders drop.

“hm?” he glances down at you, biting at his lower lip, and you can see his brows raising past the rims of his glasses. even though the sun was behind him, he was squinting sharply at you.

confused? or was it troubled disbelief? the tables surely have turned.

gojo’s entire mood dropped actually. his ego most likely fell straight down from his hard head seeing how he sulked his chin into his chest – eyes now watching where it must've splat down to the very floor you're stepping on.

felt more crushing now than the usual prance you skipped with that he found so, you… ♡

“did you— getō?-- what does this mean? do you find him attractive?” now he has a personal problem with his best friend. a “problem” he dug himself into for being arrogant by bombarding witless questions without thinking of the actual consequence. the consequence was you actually answering with a name – now not just any name, his best friend's name!

‘as plain as the nose on the face.’ humbling.

the bell chimes and it ate him even more up when the suguru getō rounded the corner... he chews on his thumb.

why're you smiling at him? did they always hug like that? hey! why's his hand so low? is it? no, they're just friends… and that was a stupid question, no need to get worked up— what're they laughing about?!

he could only blame himself… or! you, you did answer– wait but getō was the answer— no!

<– BACK: PINNED ౨ৎ NEXT: MORE GOJO –>

#🌐 𝐿𝒜𝒱𝐼𝐼 𝒲𝑅𝐼𝒯𝐸𝒮! #ᝰ satoru gojo! #gojo smut #gojo fluff #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #yandere gojo #ish #geto x reader #gojo satoru #jjk fluff #satoru gojo #gojo x reader #jjk smut

[cupids-chamber]

Y/N: I love murder mysteries!

Floyd, trying to impress them: I've been a suspect in four murder cases.

#Tell me this isnt accurate-ish #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst fluff #twst imagines #twst imagine #twst headcanons #twst scenarios #twst floyd #twst floyd x reader #twst floyd leech #twst floyd leech x reader #twst incorrect quotes #twst meme #twst memes #floyd #floyd leech x reader #floyd x reader #floyd leech #twisted wonderland fluff #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland incorrect quotes #twisted wonderland meme #twisted wonderland memes #twisted wonderland floyd

[writerblue275]

Heartsteel with an insecure plus-size partner (18+)

Inspiration: This is extremely self-indulgent, but I haven’t been feeling great about myself lately and I need a little reminder that I am, in fact, a sexy and beautiful bad bitch. Anyone else who needs a reminder, this one is for you too. We’re beautiful no matter what.

Champions: Heartsteel

Genre: Headcanons

Category: Like 98% Fluff with some implied smut/suggestiveness so (18+ ONLY. Minors DNI)

Gender: Gender Neutral Reader

TW: Swearing. Suggestive stuff. Self-thought body negativity at points and brief mentions of disordered eating behaviors.

Context: In this instance, reader feels bad about themselves for being curvy and this is how the boys would respond. Just remember, we’re all beautiful. Let’s take care of ourselves like the boys would want us to.

All of them:

If someone specific made you feel bad about yourself?

Like they said something rude or nasty to you?

They better count their fucking days.

None of these men will stand for someone making their partner feel bad about themselves.

They’d make sure there was a RECKONING.

*Approving nod* Go get ‘em, boys.

If you do decide to lose weight at some point, they’re making sure it’s for the right reasons (ex: quality of life health adjustment and not just because you want to be skinnier to look more attractive.) and they’re also making sure you’re doing it the right way. The safe way. Because damnit they love you and always want you to be happy and safe.

As long as it’s for the right reasons and you’re doing it safely, they’ll be your biggest supporters. Like the biggest hype men. As well as the best comfort if things are a bit rough. They’ve got your back.

Aphelios

Said it before and will say it again: “The quiet ones are always the most perceptive.”

He absolutely notices when you frown at yourself a little in the mirror, when you take a bit longer to find something to wear, when you murmur something self deprecating about your appearance, or when you intentionally skip a meal (his absolute least favorite).

He knows when you don’t feel good about yourself and it makes him sad because he always sees you as beautiful and attractive.

And it’s hard on him because he really can’t be super vocal about how he sees you, at least in public because people are loud.

But when you two are cuddling or just having quiet time by yourselves when you’re getting ready together, and you can hear him when he does talk, then in those times when you feel bad about yourself, he’s just the sweetest bean omg.

Whispering/murmuring the sweetest and loveliest things to you about how amazing you look.

Like he’d really compliment you to high heaven. Especially if there’s an area that you’re super self conscious about. Ex: “I love those shorts on you, cutie. They show off your amazing legs.”

As for the meals, he’s gently making sure you’re eating. He wants you happy and sated.

I’ve said before that he’s the master of sexting and I fully believe he’d send you texts (both spicy and not) randomly, just letting you know how attractive he thinks you are and that you’re on his mind.

When he does send spicy texts complimenting his favorite parts of you? I hope you’re not around anyone because you will be turning bright red. This quiet moon man is shockingly explicit.

Ezreal

Do I think he’s as perceptive as Phel or some of the others? Maybe not, but I do believe Ez would notice if you’re quieter/down as well as notice your upset glances in the mirror.

It is fucking inconceivable to him when you tell him you don’t find yourself attractive at times.

Like WHAT??? How can that be??? You’re literally perfection to him. And he has excellent taste so…

Compliments compliments COMPLIMENTS. Holy shit he’d shower you with so many lovely compliments anytime you don’t feel good about yourself.

We also know even Heartsteel Ez is a huge history nerd (fuck YEAH I have a history minor so I love this).

When you tell him you don’t feel beautiful, he’d go through so many different civilizations of history and talk about how you fit their ideal standards of beauty. And so to him, you’re always timelessly attractive.

Would pull up artwork (for example, Titian’s “Venus of Urbino”) and texts to make his point. (This is so hot lmao. I blame being an honors kid and going to grad school. We stan an academic king omfg. I feel like he secretly has a masters degree [hehe welcome to the club, Ez].)

And while I primarily think his affection would be shown through compliments (I just see him as so chatty) I definitely think he’d also use at least some touch to make his point.

Like he’d rest his head on your thighs or tummy because you’re just perfect to cuddle with after a long day. Or he’d let his hands, eyes, lips linger on his favorite parts of you (your thighs, your tummy, your ass/hips) just to make his point clear: while you may not love these parts of you all the time, he ABSOLUTELY does.

Kayn

Very similar to Ez where he just cannot wrap his mind around the fact that you don’t see yourself as incredible and sexy at all times like he sees you. And when you tell him a lot of your insecurity stems from being plus-size, that befuddles him even more.

Member #1 of the “That just means more for me to love, baby” club.

When he hears you say these things about yourself, he almost takes it as a little bit of a challenge for himself to better show you that you are in fact, sexy and attractive as FUCK. And it’s a challenge he fully plans on succeeding at.

One of the ones I can picture using primarily physical touch in order to emphasize how sexy he sees you.

I’ve said it before but I fully believe physical touch is one of his love languages (at LEAST giving if not both giving and receiving.)

If you’re talking poorly about yourself, he will kiss you to make you shush. And it’s not a simple peck either. No no no. It’s a full “make-you-breathless” kiss.

And once he’s finally stunned you silent and turned your cheeks pink, he will lean over and murmur why he loves every single part of you that you were talking bad about.

And it’s not just PG reasons either. He’s getting DETAILED. I’ve said before he’s the dirty talk king. He’ll say things like how he loves your hips because they’re just perfect for him to grab onto when he’s fu- (I need to stop before I go off the rails lmao).

And believe me, he’s more than happy to show you what he means. Will gladly drag you home or to somewhere private.

He’d really keep an eye out for when you’re feeling down about yourself and he’d work to shut it down immediately. You’re perfect to him and he will let you KNOW.

K’Sante

K’Sante would be fucking ELITE for this omg.

One of the hardest parts about having a plus-size body is dressing it in a way that is stylish and still unique.

Goodness fucking knows so many plus-sized clothes have no semblance of shape to them whatsoever. Very potato sack.

But you’re with the main fashion icon himself. You have yourself a killer personal stylist (with amazing kisses and lovins to go along with it).

He’s never going to let you look bad. No matter the vibe, no matter the occasion, he’s gonna help you pull an A+ fit together.

And he’s going to explain why each piece works well for your body, so when you go shopping by yourself, you know what to look for.

Always throwing out compliments about how you make an outfit look so good (very intentionally worded this way and not the other way around).

He wants you to understand it’s the person who makes the clothes, not the clothes that make the person. You’re the reason that outfit looks absolutely stunning.

If you ever did want to start working out, I think K’Sante would be an excellent guide. Gyms are fucking intimidating, and I think he realizes that. So he’d give you the full walkthrough and help you figure out what to do on machines and stuff so you don’t accidentally hurt yourself.

And even though we know Sett is the best cook, I’m still convinced K’Sante is also a great cook so he’d make you the best meals omg. Well balanced, delicious as fuck, and filled with a whole lot of love.

Sett

I think it genuinely would make him sad when he realizes your insecurities. Even if you don’t tell him outright, I think he’s very observant and is another member who would see the small things you do that indicate your insecurities with your body.

Member #2 of the “that just means more for me to love” club.

Never too heavy for him so don’t even ask. You’ve seen this man’s muscles. To him, you’re always as light as a feather.

And his compliments? Shit he’d have some of the SWEETEST compliments. And when he sees you feeling down, he wouldn’t skimp on them. He doesn’t skimp on them normally, but now he’s even more complimentary and flirty with you. Like lowkey you have a blush 24/7.

Ok, so I’ve previously ranked Sett as one of the most romantic members of Heartsteel. And I still hold firm that one of his love languages is acts of service (giving). Part of that is cooking. We know he’s the best cook of the group.

And similar to Kayn I also think he’d use physical touch (almost as an act of service) to show his partner he finds them beautiful/attractive/sexy.

That combo? Fuck that’s an elite combo right there. Everything he does, he does with the intent to make you feel loved, happy and as sexy, stunning, and perfect as he sees you.

Gently wandering hands while cuddling, hand on thigh while he drives, hand in the back pocket of your jeans when in line together, hugs from behind, whispered compliments, and neck kisses when you’re getting ready and dressed.

And of course there are the even more personal moments of physical affection. Like marking any area he senses you might be uncomfortable with or hears you talking bad about. We’re talking those parts LITTERED with hickeys here. Because damnit he loves your tummy and your thighs and marking them is his private way of letting you know that. And tbh it feels pretty nice…

An interesting little thing: I absolutely think Sett would encourage you to maybe step out of your comfort zone just a little bit and do something to help you see yourself as sexy. For example, I think he’d be happy to pay/provide what you need for a boudoir photo shoot with an amazing photographer who knows what they’re doing and rizzes you up. (Those seem so fun omg I lowkey want to do one so bad.) And if you gift him with a print of your favorite photo (or even better, a photo book with all your favorite photos) for like his birthday or something? A. He’s glad you see yourself as sexy just as he does. B. Enjoy not leaving bed for like the entire weekend. 😉

Yone

Again, Yone is a member that is just mind-bogglingly perceptive. Over the tiniest things. (The quiet ones y’all, for real.)

Another one who absolutely sees when you don’t look at yourself kindly in the mirror, when you touch your tummy or hips with a frown, when you try and suck in for photos, or when you’re letting yourself be hungry.

He fucking hates it because in his eyes, you’re the most attractive person there is. No one is more attractive than you are.

Murmurs to you the sweetest compliments in passing whenever he can. I believe this man’s experience with lyric writing makes him a god damn poet when it comes to getting his feelings across. It’s one of the reasons I ranked him the most romantic member.

If he notices you looking at yourself unkindly in the mirror, he will come over and wrap his arms around you from behind, smiling gently as he compliments you, especially complimenting the areas he noticed you looking negatively at. He won’t stop either until he feels you relax back against him and he sees a small smile at least.

We’ve previously discussed my belief that Yone is secretly a cuddle fiend. Like in public he is so stoic and serious (fair though, he’s dealing with his band mates **cough cough** Kayn and Ez **cough cough**).

But in private, he’s a damn koala. And he’ll always pull you onto his lap and let you know that you’re perfect to cuddle with, exactly how you are. Prepare to be trapped in some amazing cuddles for the next long while.

Honestly, yes all of the members would be scary if someone insulted your looks, but I think Yone would be the most terrifying to have to deal with. I would never want to be on his shit list.

Likes to eat with you whenever he can. A. You’re a lot calmer than his band mates like 95% of the time and this man needs some god damn peace. And B. It’s a way for both of you to take care of each other. You can make sure he eats (since god knows he spends hella hours in the studio and often forgets) and he can make sure you get some good food in you too. I bet he’d bring home stuff that Sett or K’Sante made, especially if he knows it’s one of your favorites. (He’d absolutely have them draw a fun little doodle on a note to make you smile.)

Just an angel of a partner who refuses to let you feel so dark about yourself when you make his world so bright.

Thank you for reading! I must say, this definitely made me feel better about myself by the end. I hope everyone remembers that you’re perfect the way you are!

#heartsteel #headcanon #heartsteel x reader #heartsteel headcanons #heartsteel aphelios #heartsteel ezreal #heartsteel kayn #heartsteel k'sante #heartsteel sett #heartsteel yone #heartsteel fluff #heartsteel smut #more like smut-ish if you squint lmao #reader insert #league of legends

[threezzyo]

𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐨 *.⊹˚𐀔

choso liked having matching hair with you. since he started dating you, he realized how healthy his hair became. was it the coconut oil or all the curry leaves you liked putting in his food to take to university?

"stay still, cho." you say, pulling his hair back in a ponytail.

"i ammm." he whines, his head being jerked back as you agressively massage the oil into his hair.

it’s like your mom used to oil your hair- yanking and pulling. you slick his hair back into a tight ponytail.

“so pretty.” you grin, handing him a mirror.

he stares back, seeing a shiny, raven haired, egg.

“baby-“ he starts.

you cut him off. “no. you look cute.” you fawn over him, kissing his cheeks.

“you’re gonna give me a receding hairline by how tight you tied this ponytail.” he grumbles.

“it’s a clean hairstyle. you’ll thank me for your long luscious locks later on, baby.” you giggle.

“it better be worth this headache.” choso grimaces. “i love you.”

you beam, kissing the corner of his mouth. “i love you too.”

#༝༚༝༚ indy #𐦍༘⋆indiwrites! #desi reader #choso kamo #kamo choso #choso x reader #choso x you #choso x y/n #jjk choso #gn reader #(ish) #choso x gn reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #jjk #jjk choso kamo

[ofoceansandtombsanew]

18:45 ー GOJOU SATORU. it's because you're the strongest that i have to stay with you; who's going to protect you otherwise?

"are you the strongest because you're gojou satoru?"

"or are you gojou satoru because you're the strongest?"

satoru never had the opportunity to answer suguru's question before he defected completely from their organization to pursue a pipe dream. but if gojou satoru had to answer the question, months later, he'd probably answer that it's the former.

he was born the strongest. his was a birth that shook the entire world all by virtue of his six eyes, the first user in centuries. there's no one else in the world like him.

he truly is the honored one. the one who is given the that are jobs too difficult for the weak and ordinary. the one many quietly scoff should handle everything at this point.

therefore, being strong is a given for him; limitless, the six eyes, all the bunk things he learned throughout his current three years at jujutsu tech. it's all pretty much been expected for him. there's nothing he can't do if he really put his mind to it. it's been that way since he was a kid.

nothing can touch him in senses literal and metaphorical. not unless he wants it to. he hasn't been touched by a foe since his run-in with the zenin reject.

that's why what he is experiencing presently is such an oddityー someone looking him over carefully for any signs of injury. "so you know this playing doctor thing is pretty pointless, right?"

"you're point?" you tell him as you continue to look over him carefully, gently moving his hands and arms before circling around him one last time. "and how are you feeling?"

"perfectly fine," he shrugs truthfully. the mission was light work, nothing special. special grade curses were standard for him by now.

you stand in front of him, finally nodding in approval, "alright, you can get the [first] stamp of approval then. you're all good."

"told ya."

"complain all you want," you place your hands on your hips, nose in the air with a petulant tone. "i'm always gonna check you over when you come back from assignments, mr. no one can touch me. and take these off," gently, you remove satoru's sunglasses from the bridge of his nose. delicately, you close them and rest them to hang on the collar of your shirt. "it's too dark to wear them. you'll trip."

you hold each other's glares for a brief moment before sporting a pair of matching grins. "welcome home," you tell satoru at last, not fighting it when he pulls you into a lazy hug.

it's nice being back. "glad to see someone missed me," maybe he might have missed you more though. you make a scoff of annoyance but you hug him back anyway. satoru's hold tightens. it crosses his mind for a moment the two of you should move in together after graduation. "it's too late to act like you didn't. i know, i know, my presence leaves a huge hole in your heart until i come back."

"says the one who calls me incessantly whenever i get assigned something," you cross your arms, grinning smugly.

"so you say," he shoos your words away. "but you're the one who was waiting for me to come back on the stairs. just accept the fact that you clearly missed me. extra arguments about any habits i might have are unnecessary," he holds his palm in front of your face just before you likely were about to remind him that he's the one who always waits for you to pop back up from missions on the school stairs like hachiko. "let's get back to the dorm, i'm starving."

you roll your eyes but you follow after him anyway while satoru slows his pace to match yours, hands swinging in the same orbit but separate.

"but seriously, you don't have to always check me over like that whenever i come back from a mission," satoru starts, holding back the urge to mess with the back of his head. maybe he should cut some of it off. "if anything, i should be the one checking you over." still, ever since august of second year, this has been your routine.

he comes back from a mission and you don't let him do anything fun unless you're 100% sure he's okay.

you reach over to hold his hand and give it a squeeze. satoru is the affectionate one between the two of you. even before you were friends and he merely enjoyed antagonizing you in his spare time in first year. he's never been hesitant to touch you.

first year it was poking your cheek or flicking your forehead.

second year he evolved to slinging his arm around your shoulders. august of second year was also when you shared a bed for the first time. the star plasma vessel went wrong in everyway possible and amanai and kuroi's bodies were stuffed in the jujutsu tech morgue. ascended, lost and empty, satoru found himself waiting in your bed until you got back to the dormitories.

when did he start associating you with safety? satoru isn't sure when that line began to blur, all he remembers is that your room is instinctively where his feet led him. in your room he stayed until you showed up again and in your room you let him be until the sun came up.

now in third year, affection was swapped between you both as easily as breathing. still, normally he was the one initiating it. it's nice when it's the other way around though.

"don't you remember what i told you last month?" you smile in the moonlight, swinging your hands between you both. "i'm gonna protect you, whatever way i can. that includes dealing with me looking you over for injuries even if it's very unlikely you're actually hurt. and i know the chance of us being paired up for missions is slim to none, but just know i don't care if you have your infinity. i'm your shield."

gojou satoru has never been told "i'll protect you" before.

but a week after you both turned 17, not only did you promise you'd never leave him, you told him that you'd protect him too.

your cursed technique has never been anything to brag about.

at least, maybe not until recent years. you called it 'rejection' but it ultimately just came down to your cursed energy solidifying into a shield. nothing satoru could really respect back when you were first years. saying he respected your technique the bulk of second year was a bit of a stretch too; second year was when he was toeing the line.

until recently, solo missions were never things you were sent on. you were back up meant to protect whatever combatant you were paired up with. satoru's never been one of them. why would he be when he's got his own shield?

how does one protect the strongest?

satoru doesn't need a knight. it's a fact everyone knows, hence why his assignments have been solo since third year. hence why even in second year he was never paired up with anyone whose abilities were defensive in nature.

yet despite that fact, it's been you and you alone who has ever told him ー gojou satoru ー "i'll protect you."

and you meant it.

"i meant what i said," satoru feels your thumb brush against the side of his hand. "you're stuck with me for the end of time. because if no one else is gonna look after you, i will."

"why?"

"because i want to."

"why do you want to?"

you both stop walking and your answer doesn't come as quickly as the rest. your eyes are a million miles away from where you're both standing in the middle of your too-large campus. it's not for the first time that satoru wishes he could read your mind. "you're someone very precious to me," you say at last with soft conviction. you're strong. first year satoru was dumb to think otherwise. yours is a quiet strength satoru still doesn't quite understand but he's happy to receive. "you already know that though."

"i didn't realize you liked me so much," satoru laughs dryly but his grip around your hand tightens. "better be careful, [first]. the people will start to talk. imagine what utahime will say."

"satoru," he looks at you again, really looks at you. your smile is expectant and comfortable as you look back. like what you're going to tell him is next is something he should be expecting and yet still you're so patient with him. "you know i'm in love with you, right?"

yeah.

first year you weren't much of anything besides classmates.

second year you were friends.

third year you're an unlabeled strangeness. you aren't lovers but you definitely aren't just friends, existing in a weird space between where neither of you say anything but it's obvious. it isn't like he's sharing a bed with shoko or nanami most of the week or holding their hands when he comes back to campus. he knows you're not caressing their heads every morning after you wake up, waiting until their fully cognizant before starting your day.

you love your friends. but satoru knows there's a tenderness reserved just for him the way his affection that lingers is reserved solely for you.

"'course i do," satoru finds himself chuckling humorlessly again. "about time you said it, though. no one wants to be rejected by the person they're in love with. what if i was misinterpreting all the signs?" there's no way he could have. still it was scary not knowing for sure. that if he did anything wrong you'd have backed away.

"you won't leave too, right?"

"it’s unfortunate to tell you but you’re pretty much stuck with me, satoru."

it's the promise he's most scared of you breaking and he never wants to be the cause of it.

"there's nothing to misinterpret," you playfully tug his hand to pull him closer to your side before leaning onto him. "i want to protect the one i'm in love with, that's all there is too it. you're worth protecting even if logic argues there's no point in me trying. i'm going to protect you and that's that."

"you're gonna protect me?" satoru whispers as dreamily as the first time he asked.

"yeah," you vow once again. "with all i've got; even if it's not enough."

it's enough. you're more than enough.

the winter winds brushing against the two of you warns that you should be heading inside.

satoru feels more than warm kissing you.

while this is technically part of the same universe as my last gojou fic 「i cherish you, halcyon days」 this can be read as a standalone as well. this takes place during the end of third year but before the start of the 4th year (jujutsu schooling lasts 4 years in canon)

but this how i always imagined the love confession would have gone

#look she's writing #timestamp #gojo x reader #gojou x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #when will the brainrot end??? #caved and made fluff because i felt bad about the angst. ish

[writingsfromhome]

Dos and Don’ts IV

A/N: hello my loves this final part to this fic completes the birth of one of my favourite fics I’ve written. Thank you for reading and enjoying it just as much—every like, comment, and dm meant the world <3

Parts: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

—————————————————

We have an extra day in Barcelona and the team is buzzing to enjoy their nightlife since we could sleep all day tomorrow. I’d visited here while I was a uni student so I give some suggestions.

Harry’s a little on edge the whole time. Earlier today some headline from a musician Harry worked with was taken out of context and thus took the internet by storm. Now he was being flooded with people wanting to know his thoughts and feelings. It was a hot topic.

With a joint effort of me, Jeff, and Graham, we tried to keep the spotlight on his Barcelona show. Well my role was mostly to screen Harry from seeing any further discourse online.

The show itself was one of the loudest I’d been to—I was glad I had my own ear protection. The tense Harry falls away and he’s electric on stage. Even coming backstage he’s on a high; he hugs the crew and thanks everyone like he usually did at the end of shows and disappears into his dressing room with Jeff. They look like they’re talking intensely.

“So,” Sarah slides in beside me. “We noticed you’re a bit different coming back. What’s happened?”

I try to play dumb but the girls keep pushing.

“Me and my fiancé ended things,” I confess. They gasp, Claire’s eyes actually fill with tears.

“Shh!” I shush them. “Keep it on the down low please I don’t want anyone to know.”

“But y/n why are you even here!? Is it because of tour! I’m sure Harry could have rearranged things-“

“No no,” I appreciated their support but I didn’t want to hash things out. “It’s just…I think it was a long time coming. God, I don’t wanna cry. I’m good. For now. And I want to be on tour I need the distraction.”

“I get it,” they sympathize. “We’re gonna make you forget so hard tonight.”

“Okay but don’t,” I look around us to make sure there was nobody else around. “Please don’t tell Harry. Seriously please. I don’t want him to know especially. I don’t want him to treat me differently or something.”

“Lips are sealed.” Sarah zips her mouth. “But we can all tell you’re off. It’s hard not to practically living together these last couple months. If he asks we’ll say…”

“Just say she’s on a break?” Charlie suggests.

“Yeah,” I shrug. “Things are complicated, I’m on a break, whatever that’s fine.”

The girls lean towards me and envelop me in a hug. It reminds me of my friends I’d said goodbye to.

“Thanks,” I say through tears.

And the girls hold me to their promise.

After we get dressed for the night—I chose a corset-style top and trousers—we head out. The sun dips below the horizon and the old city is cast in a warm orange glow that could inspire anyone who set eyes on it. String lights come on and music plays from various doors; the city is alive.

We tease each other about looking so glam as we wander the narrow cobblestone streets. Aside from the shows we all wore sweats and tees.

Every place we pass sets my senses alight. We grab tapas from a place that smells irresistible and chat over each other about tonight’s wicked show. I continue avoiding Harry by sitting as far away from him as I can get.

As we wander off in search of the club I can’t help but feel a twinge at how incredibly romantic the moonlit streets felt.

The club is loud and alive, the noise levels even feel normal after the roar of the last few of Harry’s shows. My mood starts shooting up steadily as I drink in the energy around me.

We join the crowd and I give away my worries and my annoyances to enjoy the music. I feel it in my chest and for a blissful moment I’m grateful for my whole damn life despite everything.

“Cute guy!” Someone shouts in my ear.

Charlie nudges me to one of the guys dancing nearby. “Get distracted!”

I shake my head no.

“Do it!” She cheers. It barely travels to me. She grabs Claire’s hand and tugs her, letting her in on the plan and they goad me into going for it.

I motion a drink. I’d need another shot for the courage.

We trail back to the bar and do a round of shots, and they grin with thumbs up as I hesitantly enter the crowd again.

The dude they pointed out is tall and beautiful. Like beautiful not even handsome. I get stuck looking up at him in awe, he wasn’t really my type. A tad too pretty boy but when he notices me looking he smiles and I’m won over. I couldn’t deny a good smile.

“Hey!” He turns his body to me. At least I think he say hey.

“Hey!” I shout back.

“Que pasa?”

“What?!” I couldn’t hear a single thing. What did I expect.

He smiles and takes my hand that had been anxiously playing with the edge of my top. The other has a hand splint that I’d received in Madrid. Apparently I sprained my fingers.

The stranger wriggles both my hands to loosen them, raising his brow at the splint. I laugh.

He asks in my ear but I don’t understand. It sounds like a question, something bylar. When I scrunch my brows he laughs, “Dance! We dance!?”

“Dance!” I laugh. He was cute! “Yes! I want to dance with you!”

“Vamos,” he pulls me in. I understood that at least.

I used to do this in uni, I think. I should be able to do it again.

He teases me a little because I’m so tense. His hands knead down my back to my waist to get me to relax. It feels nice, being touched by a man that looks like he was carved from marble but filled with music.

I begin to find my rhythm and sway with him, eventually letting go completely. He compliments me as I start to move with him and pretty soon I’ve channeled my 20-year-old self. It feels pretty spectacular.

When his lips ghost my cheek I don’t protest. Right now, I felt good. Everything was on the back burner’s back burner and I felt grounded in this nighclub with this random stranger who was paying attention to me, just me. And it’s just us. And it’s just temporary. And I feel good.

When I turn around, my back to his chest, he moves my hair to the side and kisses down my neck. It felt good.

I run my hand up into his hair and he moves lower murmuring foreign words on my skin, our bodies still dancing in the same language, his hands still gripping my waist and my hips. I feel blissed out.

It ends in a split second.

“What are you doing?” Harry’s suddenly tugging me towards him. His mouth makes the words I just fill them in with his annoyingly bossy voice.

“Hey man,” the guy I’m dancing with tries to get in between us.

“What are you doing!?” I snatch my hand away from Harry.

Harry puts his hand on my partner’s chest and says something to him, maybe in Spanish. He looks at me with puppy dog eyes and I look at Harry. What had he said.

“What did you say?” I ask. I try to call back my dancing partner but he just salutes me with a smile and fades into the crowd. No wait, I’m being dragged away.

“Y/n what are you doing out there?”

“What am I doing?” I shout. “What are you?! I was having a nice time with that guy what did you say to him?”

He walks away, further back into the edges of the club. There’s a few people milling about with a number of them involved in heavy makeout sessions.

Harry turns to face me finally. “You’re engaged y/n, Claire and Sarah said things are complicated at home is that why you’re doing this?”

“What!” I throw my hands up, tears prick my eyes. What the fuck was his problem! Since when did he care? “Why do you care?! Yes, things are complicated and I was getting my mind off of said things—what is your issue? You want to drag me back here and remind me of how shitty things have been?”

“This isn’t the way,” Harry insists. “You don’t even know that guy!”

“Whatever I’m over this convo.”

I turn to leave but Harry grabs my hand, the one in the splint, and pulls me back.

“Sorry,” he lets go of the splint. Then picks it up again. “Look. I’m worried about you. This isn’t you, you’re not the girl that goes home with another guy when your fiancé is back at home! I just don’t want you making any regrets.”

“Oh is that it,” I step towards him so my hand isn’t so outstretched. He stands still but on my second step he inches back. “Since when did you get a high horse huh? Don’t tell me who I am and who I’m not. You barely know me! If I want to make decisions I regret I can do that. They’re mine to make.”

“No. Y/n, as mad as you are don’t go home with a stranger.”

“As if you don’t!” I scoff. “What’s your real agenda here? What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” He insists.

“Why do you suddenly care so much about my chastity?”

“It’s for your own good!”

He’s lying. I know he’s lying and I don’t know why he pulled me away from my beautiful Spanish dance partner but I was actually relaxing and now he’s put me right back into this crazed and tense headspace I kept finding myself in.

Fine, I decide. I could make him regret it.

“Really? You care about my morality that much?” I ask.

With my hand flat on his chest I’ve pushed him further into the wall behind him. He watches me with a guarded look.

But I want him unguarded, vulnerable. The same way he’s made me feel. I lean in, “Are you really worried about the technicalities of me cheating on my fiancé?”

I hover a half foot from his lips. Finally his eyes flicker down to my lips and I know I’ve got him.

I slide my hand up his chest and when my hand inches up the skin of his throat his eyes grow unguarded and heady with lust. He doesn’t push me away. He doesn’t say no.

Hypocrite.

I drop my hand.

“That’s what I thought Mr. Styles.”

I watch for a wonderful moment as the lust clears from his eyes and he realizes what happened. Shame, embarrassment, resignation, and then anger.

I spin on my heel and head away from him. He could deal with the consequences of his actions all on his own.

I’m half-afraid he’ll come after me but luckily I make it out of the club alone.

“He’s such a dick,” I say more to myself. Just to get it out because I’m pissed. “Who the fuck does he think he is!?”

My night is over. I just want to take this all off and forget about it. Maybe I can lock myself in my room and raid the mini-fridge, get drunk and cry myself to sleep. Those seemed like the best options right now.

I take an uber to the hotel. As I walk up to it I notice a weird crowd outside. For nearly 2am I wasn’t expecting this and my instincts kick in that this wasn’t normal. Especially when I notice all the camera straps.

“Excuse me,” I ask the front desk. “Why are there a bunch of paparazzi outside?”

“Is there?” The man behind the counter asks. “Sorry we will tell them to leave. Are you staying with us?”

“That’s a privacy concern out there, and a concern with your staff because they’re here. How do they know who’s staying here?!”

It seems to dawn on him I wasn’t just asking out of curiosity. He promises me he’ll get management. In the meantime I call Jeff and explain the situation. He starts to panic the way I hated, looking for something to blame. He calls Graham who sounds like he’s driving in nascar. It’s a very noisy and over-stimulating conversation.

“Call Harry!” Jeff orders. “Tell him he cannot go back to the hotel no matter what! Fucking vultures man!”

“Y/N,” Graham says in a calmer voice. “You need to go back to where Harry is with some sort of disguise. A hat or sunglasses. That sort of thing-“

“It’s night.”

“Yes night. No glasses. Book the closest hotel you can find. Tell his band they can come back, but to go through the back. They might get spotted but they’re trained on dodging questions. That will keep the vultures there waiting for Harry and we can pick you two up back to the airport tomorrow morning. Where’s after this?”

“Glasgow,” I bite my nail as I think. I had to call Harry asap. What if he was on his way back. “I gotta go now to call him though. Talk later.”

I hang up and call Harry. He picks up the second time.

I explain the situation and he reacts the same way as Jeff, swearing and cursing the papps. I tell him what I was going to do and tell him to go right back into the club. To pass on the word to the team even though I was going to send them a text.

I head up to my room and grab what fits in my bag. I didn’t have Harry’s room key so I decide he’d have to wear my hat and head back out. The vultures stay waiting, now just a few feet further away from the entrance.

I speak briefly to management—I figured Jeff could talk to them and give his classic earful.

On the drive I find a nearby hotel to the club and collect Harry to get him there. We’re too tense to talk when we meet up. Once inside again, I tell him to sit in the lounge while I go up to the desk.

Act above it all, I channel a rich bitch. We needed privacy and we needed nobody to know Harry was here.

“Hi I need a room.” I say.

“Of course, how many night will you be staying with us.”

I glance back to see where Harry sits. He’s in a wingback chair that’s mostly turned away and with his hair stuffed in the baseball cap you can hardly tell it’s him.

“Just a night. I need your best room please.”

“Absolutely,” the woman smiles and I feel bad for only giving a tight-lipped smile back. I wait as she clicks away, finally looking back to me with a slight frown. “So miss unfortunately we are very booked tonight. There are a couple events going on in the city making things very popular.”

“The best room will do. Preferably large.”

“Well,” she hesitates. “A lot of our larger rooms are taken um. I can offer you a bed with one king, it is a bit smaller because it’s by the elevators. I also have one with a queen that is tucked away in the corner with a better view.”

I wanted to be as far away from Harry as possible but by an elevator was asking for trouble.

“Well, I’d rather stay far away from noise so we’ll take the queen.”

“Is that just you or…” she glances at Harry.

“Yes. Two. We’ve had a rough day of travel he’s just resting.”

I hand over ID and my card, trying not to balk at the total. At least I’ll get reimbursed.

“Do you have any bags?” The concierge swoops in as I get the key card.

“No! No. Like I said, bad travel day. We just need somewhere to sleep and we’ll reunite with the bags once they arrive tomorrow.”

They leave us alone after that. I hoped it was because I’d been standoffish enough and not plain weird.

The elevator ride up to the 8th floor is stony and I spend the spare second to text Jeff and Graham the hotel’s address.

The room itself is pretty sub-par and the adrenaline of getting Harry here safely wears off.

I drop my bag by the door and pull out my toiletry bag.

“I don’t have clothes for you to change into, I didn’t have your room key.”

“Yeah. S’fine. I’ll just sleep shirtless unless that bothers you.”

We stare at each other for a tense moment.

“I’m fine with that, you’re the one with the high horse.”

After doing all this for him I wasn’t going to be easy to deal with if he wasn’t going to be easy to deal with.

He chooses to ignore me.

“How the fuck did they know I was staying there? We were under a-“

His phone rings and he answers. Sounds like Jeff.

I use the time to go to the bathroom and finally take off the makeup. I realize I should have grabbed my pjs from my bag too. I take my hair down and massage my scalp with my fingers, letting myself calm down despite the aggressive voices outside.

“Yeah whatever. Keep me updated.” I hear. Great. That was done with.

I leave the bathroom and Harry’s still pacing the floor.

“You’re gonna wear the carpet down if you keep doing that.”

He stops and looks at me, his eyes trail down my body.

“You didn’t bring yourself a change of clothes either?”

“You wish,” I head for my bag again and grab the tee and shorts. “I just forgot them out here.”

“Do you always have to be so snarky?”

Oh, so he wanted to fight. Good news for him, so did I.

“Depends. With you? When you’re being a dick? Yeah. I do.”

“It’s really quite unbecoming.”

“Is it?” I mock his accent. “It’s not proper for a lady to be snarky?”

“I don’t sound like that. You just never let anything go.” He continues.

“I never let anything go?” I repeat.

“Yeah! Ever!”

“What do you want me to let go?” I ask.

“Everything. You’re bothered by everything just let it all fucking go.”

“No like specifically what should I let go?” I turn on him and with each question I stalk towards him. “Being treated like trash by you? Being told I’m replaceable and unnecessary? Getting bossed around about who I can and can’t dance with because you suddenly decide to be the morality police!?”

“Jesus take it down a notch y/n.” We’re fuming as we square off. “I’m not your bloody fiancé.”

“And thank fuck you’re not!” I throw the clothes in my hand on the bed. “You’re my employer Mr. Styles and I’ve been nothing but a good fucking employee for the last year! I try to keep my patience and do everything I can to do my best! You’re the one always trying to blur lines! You’re the one always getting in my damn business when I don’t pay you to!”

With every accusation I poke my finger into his chest and it’s like literally pushing buttons. His face gets stonier and stonier until I’m sure he’s going to crack.

“You wanna know what your fucking issue is?” He swipes my hand away.

“Oh sure tell me, wise Harry Styles who definitely has no issues at all. Tell me.”

“This. This is your fucking issue,” he spits. “You’ve always got such a temper on you! I’m not blurring any bloody lines I check up on you and you get all offended over nothing!”

“Over nothing?” I ask. I laugh sarcastically and walk away from him. I was seeing red. “Over nothing?”

“Yes! I don’t do shite and suddenly you’re trying to bite my dick off.”

“You fucking wish,” I turn on him. “It’s crazy you don’t realize what an absolute jackass you are! We should be refunding all those fans who’ve come out to see you because the man they’re paying for is a fake! You’ve treated me like nothing and embarrassed me countless time-“

“Embarrassed you,” he scoffs.

“Yes!” I go on. “What do you call what you said on our way to Paris huh? You can be so cruel! So if I have a temper it’s justified because you’re one of the worst people I’ve met!”

“What did I say?”

“Are you kidding? You’re going to make me repeat it?” He was crazy. He was depraved and absolutely insane. Or he just hated me.

“I’m not playing a game just tell me!”

“You said I could have skipped the whole tour and nobody would notice.” I say the words that had looped through my head. And of course, he has the audacity to look surprised. “Thanks. A lot! It makes it even worse that you were so casual with your cruelt-“

“You need to stop being so sensitive,” he has the nerve to say. “Then maybe you can manage your temper.”

“I can manage my temper any time but you’re moody like a pre-pubescent teen and that looks to be a lifetime fucking problem!”

“What’s your fucking problem Y/n! What is your problem with me!? Why do you still work for me if you are this angry all the time!”

“I’m not this angry all the time, you just makes me this angry! And I hate you for it!”

“Then quit!”

“Maybe I will!” I had to. After tonight and this blowout I had to. How could I work for Harry like this.

“Great! Then you can take your problems with you.”

“Don’t gaslight me,” how dare he. “You’re not innocent in this! You create my problems and blame me for being this way.”

“Whatever y/n.”

“No.” I wasn’t letting him off the hook. I get in his face again. “Why did you stop me tonight? Why did you keep me from doing what I wanted tonight?”

“What? I told you I was looking out-“

“Bullshit!” I cut him off. “That’s a bullshit excuse, I want to know why!?”

I feel like I’m made of flames and in desperate need of a lobotomy. How could one guy make me this crazy. How could it all revolve around him.

“I was doing it for your own good! But clearly I understand why it’s so fucking complicated with your partner-“

“Don’t you dare talk about him,” I seethe. I was mad. Fuming. I want to get physical, I wish I could throttle him or at the very least access one of the pillows from across the room and smash it to the floor. I want him to see how angry I am because my words are twisted with every angle Harry could find. I wanted him to admit to something he’s been skirting for a long time. “Tell me.”

Harry stares at me with hate in his eyes and I know I have the same look. I wasn’t going to let him get away.

“You don’t even have the balls to admit it,” I poke. “Is this why you’re so hard-headed to anything I say? Because you can’t even admit something like this to yourself?”

“Just shut the fuck up y/n and stop being so mental.”

“I refuse to shut up. I want you to talk.”

His breathing gets faster and I watch him flex his hand. He was as angry as I was. Good.

“You’re a fraud. And I hate you.” I step into his space. Our bodies are a hair’s breadth away from each other’s. I want to show him how mad he makes me. I want to do something. I want him to admit this thing he’s been dancing around. It makes me so mad!

When he starts to shake his head at me I lose it. Instinct takes over where I want to physically show him how angry he was making me. I grab his face in my hands and push my mouth against his. I meet teeth.

But it doesn’t take long for him to respond. To correct the unadulterated anger with purpose.

He pushes back, kissing me harder whilst pushing me against the wall. I feel sandwiched, my chest crushed against his and I bite down on his lip trying to get back some control.

My hands are all over him, grabbing his shirt, running through his hair, pushing under his shirt to touch skin. Harry does the same, pulling at my hair and lifting me onto him.

Our tongues clash together, his hand grabs my ass, squeezing and moving up. His hands feel hot on my skin, his metal rings an icy contrast. Neither of us want to give up control. We keep fighting, just now with our bodies.

“Why can’t you ever just let it go,” he traces his teeth over my collarbone. It all feels too much.

In response I push him back, he stares at me for a heated second before we crash into each other again. We don't care where we are. All that mattered was here and showing the other who was in control. Who hated who the most.

Harry pulls away, his mouth a deep pink from our fight. His eyes are half lidded, his pupils dilated. I can tell he wants this but a part of him hesitates.

"We're doing this," I commit, not taking my eyes off his lips.

"I’m doing this," he growls and lifts me up, any hesitancy washed away. I wrap my legs around him, not thinking about anything but what I was going to do.

He whirls me around and deposits me onto the bed, and his body covers mine while his mouth attack my neck.

He wasn't gentle or slow, but then again, I didn't want him to be. I pull off his shirt, not wanting anything between us, not caring that my nails would leave marks down his back. Leaving something permanent on him sounded exactly what I needed.

I tug on his hair as his teeth come down on my chest. I feel heated as he swears, “Teasing me with this top all night was a fucking sin y/n.”

“Fuck off,” I gasp as he figures out the row of clasps at the front and the icy rings of his fingers presses against my sternum. I grit my teeth, “I didn’t wear this for you.”

His abs contract as he pushes himself back up, his eyes dark as his hands find the clasp on my trousers, undoing them with ease and tugging them off. His other hand comes back up to tilt my chin up.

“D’you really hate me?” He asks.

“Yes,” I respond with zero hesitation.

He moves his body, covering mine with his own again. My breath catches in my throat as he presses his lips to my neck, slowly moving down. He drives me crazy with anticipation and I wriggle up to keep up the pace but he holds me in place. I let out a moan as he kisses my inner thighs, his fingers gripping the tops of them. I'm squirming under his hold, the heat pooling inside of me.

“Do you hate me?” He asks again.

“Yes,” I cry, not wanting to relent to him.

“Good,” he says and that’s the last thing I remember.

The rest is a tangle of limbs, an out-of-body sensation, and seismic wave after wave coursing through my body. It’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before; the fury we felt with each other fuzes to the passion of the moment and it blitzes every damn thought out of my head.

Hours later, or maybe the whole night later—I don’t know but all I do know was that my body was spent and I was barely hanging on.

“I can’t,” I plant my hands on his shoulders and nearly pitch forward just from pausing. His hand splays on my back, keeping me in place as he turns us around.

“Okay?” He asks low.

I nod, grateful that he was taking over.

And after riding out what I know would be my last wave he rolls off of me, and we lay there just trying to catch our breaths.

After a few minutes, I sense him tilting towards me, his eyes on my face. When he stares for so long it becomes obvious, I look back at him.

His eyes are not the same ones that started this mess, they’re breezy meadows of green compared to the icy sea glass from before. But it’s not surprising. With each round and each minute we spent with other tonight, things had grown softer. Not gentle, but softer.

And as we look at each other with the awareness that the anger had bled into the threads of these tangled sheets a long time ago, we’re left with something neither of us want to distinguish. At least I don’t.

His gaze holds something too real for a place like this and I quickly look away and back at the ceiling. I feel his eyes on me a moment longer before he himself turns away to stare at the same ceiling.

“Y/N,” someone suddenly calls my name, tapping my cheeks with a gentle pat. I have to pull myself from the depths of wherever the fuck I just went to open my eyes and look up, at Harry. He looks concerned and asks me a question that I don’t register—I was truly out of it. I must have dozed off.

I push his hand away and grab the closest piece of clothing to wrap around myself in which ends up being a sheet. I take myself to the bathroom to clean up.

I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror. My eyes are blown out and my neck looks like it was rammed by a bull. I can hardly look at the rest of me. I would need to buy something high necked before we got picked up tomorrow morning and use all the concealer I had. I know I marked every inch of him I could find too.

I had never felt that level of passion with anyone. It was unnerving.

My knees collapse under me as I sit on the toilet and try to count the tiles on the opposite wall, just to come back to earth. To my body.

I sense a shadow under the door after I’m in there for a while, I watch it move from one side to the other and then move away. I wait longer, nearly falling asleep there before going back out.

The bed looks a right mess and most of the duvet is twisted to the side. I don’t bother with it, I use the sheet I’m wrapped in and crawl right into bed. Harry seems to have fallen asleep too but as I near sleep I feel the bed dip and the heavy weight of the duvet drapes over me.

I don’t have enough clarity or energy tonight to think about what any of this meant but I know I was right about leaving.

***

We return to London on a Wednesday morning and nearly kiss the ground. Harry was still playing two shows here but getting to go back home instead of a hotel room was enough to make us weep.

I didn’t really have a home to go back to. I’d been thinking about that a lot as the tour took us closer and closer to London. I had texted Gray yesterday and we agreed I could crash there until this weekend to get my stuff together.

London had a metaphorical grey fog over it in my mind. Nothing felt appealing about it and the only thing on my mind these days was home—my childhood home.

I already knew I was going to give in my resignation letter to Harry after tour but I had a 3 week period under contract. I don’t think I could afford a hotel for three weeks and staying with any of my friends is out of the question.

These thoughts kept me preoccupied.

It helped me not to think about that night though. I avoided Harry unless it was for work, returning to the solitude of my first few months working for him. He does the same: curt and avoidant. I know others notice but nobody dares to ask.

It was the most intense thing I’d done in my whole life and that was saying something. There was a way that Harry got under my skin that nobody else could. And it was hard to find a balance after the scales had shifted so far in that direction.

I felt like I had to block it out until I could have space to process it. And yet memories still seeped through when I was quiet for a moment too long or when he’d walk past me with the same cologne as that night and I’d catch a whiff. I was doubly sure this chapter had to close.

When I get back to the flat on Wednesday Gray has vanished as he promised. He told me he’d drop by that evening to talk. Surprisingly, I felt calm about it. I don’t know if it was getting all of that ferocious energy out that had been churning for months, but I feel level-headed and I appreciate the space to myself.

Gray texts me before he arrives. Like this wasn’t the flat he was now paying for alone.

I know what he wanted to talk about—we were all supposed to go to Harry’s last show at the o2 since I had tickets for everyone. Josie was stoked and based on the way she’s been texting me leading up to the day I don’t think she knew. Gray confirms it.

“So,” he rubs the back of his neck. He looked nice in a beanie and corduroy jacket. I wonder if any of the effort was for me, then vanish the thought.

“So,” I echo.

We stand awkwardly across from each other—him propping himself up behind the couch and me leaning against the dining table. Like we needed to get as much furniture between us. Like we hadn’t shared a bed a few weeks ago.

“We should sit?”

“Yeah,” he attempts a laugh and sits on the sofa. I choose the closest chair and turn it to face him. “Yeah. Um, I don’t know how you feel about Saturday. But I haven’t told Josie yet. I haven’t really told anyone.”

I nod, “Me too. Not really. People at work think we’re on a break.”

“Right. Good.” He says. “I’m not tryna lie to people but I don’t really want to get into it…”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “So Josie?”

“I’ll let her know once…once you move out?”

Move out. Of this flat. It’s been home for nearly 3 years.

Gray had surprised me with it when he found it—I had been broke and only been able to pitch in for utilities and groceries but he’d been gracious. He’d been supportive once. But I guess his support had boundaries too. I didn’t entirely blame him for that.

“Sounds good. Or later, maybe when she’s done her exams.”

He leans back on the couch, arms spread over the back and sighs as he studies me. “Yeah of course. I should’ve thought of that. You’re always good at that stuff. She’s gonna be gutted.”

I nod. Not sure what to say to that.

“So you’ll be out on Saturday yeah?” He asks after a while. It seemed both of us had a lot on our minds. But his question stings a little.

“Yep. I’m off for most of the week so I’ll just pack things up. Uhm, with Josie and whatnot I guess we’re still acting like a couple? Will that be weird?”

“Yeah. It will be but we’ve got no other option.”

“Right.” I respond. His voice grows an edge I’m not a fan of. “Well. Thanks for letting me stay here. If you need anything else I guess you can grab it now.”

I want to ask how he’s doing, who he’s staying with, and just hold his face one last time to really remember. But his cold apathy grows like frostbite over the room and creeps into my heart. I always thought where there was love there would always be love but I’m not as sure tonight.

I stay busy and when I can’t sleep at night; I map out a dream, an exit plan home. I write up my resignation letter, I look at flights and rentals and talk things out with my family, I cancel wedding and couple shit, and grieve a fair bit.

On Friday afternoon, my only formal shift this week, I head to Harry’s with an anxious weight in my chest and a buzz in my head from the hope. Hope that this chapter of my life could end soon, and I can head home and recuperate and plan out what my life was going to look like.

Harry’s on a call when I get in. He spares me a glance but I head to the office with my stack of mail. Today was mostly for some housekeeping/admin but I hope to avoid Harry for the most part like I’ve done since that night. My letter sits like a bar of gold in my bag.

I hear him move about the flat. I restock some pantry items, and we speak as little as possible. Going with him to his meeting was my final task for today so I decide it’s a good time to hand in my letter.

I find him sitting in the studio, tapping a pen against the table.

“Mr. Styles?”

“Hm?” He drags his eyes away from his screen to look at me.

“So we’re heading to your meeting in 10. Before then I just wanted to hand this in.”

The envelope stays outstretched in my hand and he eyes it, not taking it.

“What is that?”

“Can you just take it?” I shake it a little, like a bag of treats for a puppy.

His muscles move one inch every ten seconds, that’s how slow he is to sit up in his seat and finally take the letter from my hands. I almost let out a big sigh of relief. The process was finally in place.

“What is it?” He asks again, tearing the corner and down the side like he usually did.

I wait for him to unfold the thirds before answering, “my resignation letter.”

His eyes scan the sheet left to right right to left and when he looks up at me it’s hard to say what he’s thinking.

“Is this a joke?”

“No? Obviously not? I’m handing in my 3 weeks. I’ll also email a copy to Jeff and you.”

“Why are you doing this?” He stands, his tall frame rigid.

“Why? Because I’m…I’m quitting? I think I’ve learned everything I could here a-and it’s time to move on.”

By here I don’t mean working for Harry Styles and co but just here as in London. I’ve learned a fuck ton of life lessons here, and it was time to process them elsewhere.

“Is this to get back at me somehow? I don’t understand,” the papers crinkle in his fist as he grips it tighter. “Do you want a raise? Can we talk about this?”

“No.” I say and even though there’s so much more I could say I think that sums up my answer.

He looks puzzled, then annoyed. Just then my phone buzzes. The car was downstairs.

I grab my laptop and we head down. I was coming along to take minutes and then head home. In the car I reassure Harry,

“I plan on wrapping things up in the next three weeks and making sure everything is set up for an easy transition. I’ll leave continuity notes and reach out to people I regularly communicate with to break the news. The next couple months are pretty easy anyway coming out of tour and going on holiday so there should be plenty of time for the new PA, whoever your hire, to catch up.”

He doesn’t say a word. It reminds me of our first drive to the studio together. How naïve I was. How things changed.

He continues staring out the window, resting his face on his fist. I remember my teeth dragging over that jaw. I blink the image away; this was why I had to go.

When we get to Graham’s office Harry tells Jeff, “we don’t need minutes.”

Jeff looks over at me for answers and I shrug. I guess I came here for no reason but at least I had my laptop to work.

“Uh y/n please come i-“

“She’s fine working out there,” Harry cuts Graham off. Graham looks offended, his gaze drawing between Harry and I. Again, I shrug. I wasn’t leaving today I don’t know why he was acting like it.

For the next hour or so I sit at a spare cubicle and do just as I said in the car. I type out lists for upcoming interviews and studio days. I send emails for information to note for whoever the poor person was to replace me.

I had been keeping the Dos and Don’ts updated over the last year and it feels like a baby the way it came together with so much thought. I was almost sad to part with it.

Nobody tells me the meeting is over. The door simply opens and Harry breezes past.

“I’ll be in the car.” He mutters. Any faster and I would have to hold down the papers around me.

When he’s gone beyond sight, I turn back to the open door.

“What’s the matter with him?” I hear Graham asking inside.

“You keep pushing him,” Jeff responds with irritation. “That’s not his brand Graham.”

“Well that’s a different tune. Prior to this you were singing my praises with these new ideas.”

“I don’t know. Something’s been up with him for…a while-“

“Since that article isn’t it?” Graham references the Harry Styles slander when we were in Spain. Little did they know other things had also happened.

“We dealt with that article.”

Shit, I think. Has he been any different? I think I was keeping too much distance from him to notice.

“Y/n,” my name snaps me out of my thoughts.

“Mhm?” I’m beckoned to the meeting room. “Yes?”

“Find out what’s wrong with him. Or better yet just convince him to be a bit more alive at his last show tomorrow with his usual charm? He hasn’t been his full capacity the last few shows has he?”

Shit. “Um. Burnout?”

The two men look at each other. They make a face like that couldn’t possibly be why. I tell the men what they want to hear, that I’d try to find out and get him back to his charming self (yuck) before joining Harry in the car.

“Jeff and Graham aren’t all that happy with you,” I say when we start driving. Harry was giving me a lift home. “They’re insisting you do it right at your final tomorrow. Be your charming self.”

He grunts in response, head facing the window again. Was he allergic to look forward in the car or something?

“Are you coming?” He asks after a good ten minutes of silence.

“Tomorrow?”

“Mhm.”

“Yeah. I gave my extra tickets to…my fiance,” my brain fumbles my words as it remembers what he was and now is. And the lie I had to keep up. “And his sister and her friend.”

He just nods in acknowledgement, somehow stonier.

When the car pulls up to my familiar building I thank his driver and begin my shimmy out but Harry puts a hand to my knee to stop me. His touch sears right through my stockings and he must feel it too because he slides his hand back.

“Answer this,” he looks at me for the first time tonight. Wow, this really did feel like my first week on the job.

“Sure,” I reply.

“Is it because of that night?”

It’s the first time it’s been mentioned, and his gaze burns brighter than a forest fire. It’s mesmerizing and I can’t look away.

Wait, he wanted an answer.

“It’s because of a lot of things,” I answer truthfully.

He clenches his jaw. Leans back in his seat. The seatbelt reverses to hold him in place again and he’s no longer looking at me. I take that as my cue to go.

***

Josie bursts into the flat dressed to the nines in a groovy floral jumpsuit and boas in her hand. “Don’t worry. I have one for each of us.”

Her friend trails behind her in an equally 70s inspired look.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” Josie judges her brother’s hoodie and jeans. “You’re lowering the vibe Gray do better. Y/n? Why didn’t you brief him?”

“I did!” I eye Gray. “Don’t blame me.”

This was way more awkward than I thought. Or I really was not as good of an actress as I wished.

“What am I supposed to wear?” Gray asks. “I’m not wearing a jumpsuit.”

Josie rolls her eyes. “Y/n please drag him back and find a decent tee or something?”

“Yes ma’am,” I take Gray by the arm and take him back.

“This is kinda weird hey?” I whisper when we close the door.

“I don’t really like it either,” Gray scratches his head. “But it’s for the best.”

I nod and then louder announce, “Well it’s Jo’s night so find something a tad more retro?”

We end up with a red tee and find a belt to tie the look. Josie hugs her brother with thanks when she sees it.

I had on a pair of black bellbottoms paired with a blank tank. My hair was in spacebuns and Josie plucks a few boa feathers to accessorize my hair. It’s cute.

We head off and I have to make a conscious effort to remember my mannerisms with Gray before all this. I feel woozy while I slide my hand into his on the ride there, as Josie snaps our pics on her disposable, as she tells us to get one of us where Gray’s kissing my cheek and she’ll save it to show our kids. It makes me sick.

He keeps an arm on my waist as we walk. I want this night to be over so bad but every time I look Josie’s way I perk back up a little. I wanted her to enjoy this.

And she does. I’m sure she’s lost her voice by the end of the concert. At one point we drift away a little and breathe easier to drop the act but when she’s back Gray wraps his arms around me from behind and we act like a happy couple. Again, I felt sick.

Being in Gray’s arms held none of the spark it used to. I just feel awkward and sad.

At one point Harry looks my way, I don’t know how he spotted me in such a big crowd. It’s between songs and he looks at the group I’m with. I give a pathetic wave and he nods ever so slightly, his gaze sliding off soon after. Gray’s arm tightens around my shoulder and my heart gives a squeeze in response. I’m reminded: this era was ending.

The band told me to meet them backstage at the end, to join in on the final-show celebration. Josie and Gray would wait at a local pub and with the way Josie’s Instagram stories were glowing I could imagine her sitting there uploading it all.

“I couldn’t have done it without any of you,” I catch Harry saying as I slip behind stage with my pass. “I know I’ve not been the easiest to be with but you all sit in my heart. This is our Euro tour, concluded.”

Somebody pops bubbly and I congratulate the whole team as they drink. They insist on going out for proper drinks and I’m denied not going. They tell me to invite my guests to party with them and I know, based on where we were going, Josie was going to flip.

Juniper, a club that gets us all in on Harry’s face card, is opulent and lively on the inside. Josie is buzzing about with her friend—Gray had opted to go home, claiming he had early morning sessions. Josie didn’t think twice about him, but we pretended to go back and forth with a final warning from Gray to Josie to behave.

“He’s a broody one,” Charlie comments on Gray as we chatter while we get drinks. “Sister?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t know yet though so,” I put my finger to my lip.

“So no Barcelona dancing tonight?” Sarah teases. I laugh and tell them to keep me tamed. “We gotta do some shots with the team though where is everyone?”

We gaze around the room and manage to get everyone together. After one round of shots and another that Harry forced on all of us I feel the tension I’ve been carrying with me most days slide away.

We end up sticking together as a group and dance together, laughing and cheering each other on. Even Harry’s in a cheery mood—I suspect the alcohol. I catch him watching me at one point and when I raise my brow he takes my hand and spins me in a friendly twirl. I trip on my wide-legged pants and he catches me from behind. With my back to his chest I have the urge to turn around and kiss him and feel the peculiar comfort I had received from him before. That thought drives me away from him again. Despite the tight knit group there’s too much between us to even attempt being close.

I call it quits when Josie finds me and announces she was going home. I hug the newfound family I had made over the last few months one final goodbye, knowing I might never see them together like this again.

***

Jeff’s reaction to my news surprises me the most. He’s visibly upset and tries to sell me anything to stay. I tell him there was nothing to keep me at my job but I would rely on him for a good reference. I think it’s the first time he’s ever reassured me.

Between Harry and I it remains curt. Sometimes even edgy. I post my own job replacement and Jeff keeps me updated on potential candidates. By the time my last week rolls around I’m host to a roil of emotions.

The first week homeless, Charlie had let me crash on her couch and promised not to say a word to anyone. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome and so I had checked into a hotel and called it home for now.

I’m on my way back home to the hotel after being at Gray’s. We’d invited Josie over for dinner now that her exams were over and she’d been suspicious from the start.

We had told her the truth and she refused to believe it, hurt and betrayal in her eyes as she looked at me and realized she had been kept in the dark for the last week. I felt worse then, than I did when Gray and I called it quits.

I promised her a lunch together this week to talk more. Just because I was out of Gray’s life didn’t mean I had to be out of hers. I thought I could also tell her then that I was leaving to go back home.

On my second last day at work, Harry sends me on an errand near the end of the day. When I get back there’s a small group of friendly and familiar faces waiting to surprise me. I’m touched by the gesture, and I try to corner Harry to say thank you but it feels he avoids me at every chance, always in a larger crowd.

I finally catch him while I’m heading out of the bathroom and he’s heading down the hall.

“Oh hey,” I step in his way. He looks cornered. “I just wanted to say thanks for throwing this.”

“Yeah,” he gestures it was nothing. “It was Jeff’s idea.”

Ouch. I hide the sting. “Well. Thanks regardless.”

He nods, staying mute, but his eyes speak a thousand words—just none that I can read. They stay trained on me, communicating whatever.

Slowly the furrow between his brows eases and the sharp edges of his face give way to a softened expression. I’m scared to move in case I break the trance and don’t get to hear whatever his racing thoughts spit out. Just when it looks like he’s about to say something, a guest turns the corner up the hall.

“Anyone in the toilet?” It was Mitch. Damnit.

“Nope,” I step out of the way, inadvertently brushing Harry. A shiver runs up my spine and I try to act casual but he stiffens beside me. Was it that awful being around me, jeez.

I give up. If he wanted to continue staying moody, so be it. I leave to go back to the party and don’t look back.

My final days in London are hard. The same way I arrived, I go: alone and unsure of what’s ahead.

I always thought here was where I would stay forever. And maybe one day I would return but there was a little too much friction between me and the Capital.

I finish work on an unremarkable note after going through processes with the new hire, and dotting all of my i’s. Harry is nowhere to be seen and I’m gone before he gets back. I’m frustrated that he’s behaving this way but there’s also too much between us for the simple goodbye I yearn for.

I visit all of my old favourites, have one last drink at my old local pub somewhere in between Gray’s flat and Harry’s. I shed a lot of tears on my pilgrimage through the city’s veins. I promise the paved and cobblestone roads I would be back one day.

The walls of my lungs ease open on the flight home. Still, tears cascade down my face silently as the plane sleeps. Eventually I do too. When I wake the sky is filled with bright blinding sunrise, and American soil peeks out below me: I was finally home.

••••••••••••••••••••

Present (2 years on):

My heart flutters seeing Harry here, I chalk it up to anxiety. But it annoys me that despite all the distance and the growth, he still had an effect on me.

Harry’s head turns and before I can be smart about it our eyes lock. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly before his face falls into a nonchalant facade again. I don’t even want to know what my face looked like.

Then he gets the nerve to smirk, hang his head, and then grab his drink and walk towards me.

“If I had a cross I would be holding it up right now.” I have to shout a little so he hears me before he gets to me. He was an emotional vampire feeding on all of mine.

“Now why’s that?” He continues towards me. My emotions swirl through me. “I thought time heals all wounds. Why the unfriendly welcome Mrs. Duran?”

I grit my teeth at the name, he was still filled with poison. “Right, the timeless wisdom of clichés.”

“I like to think I’m pretty timeless.” He smiles.

“I’ve found that time may heal wounds, but scars make sure you never forget.”

“Well, scars aside, you look good,” he moves on and I feel like an idiot the way I was used to feeling around him.

“Of course I do.”

“What are you doing in London? Last I checked I was getting a reference check from America.”

I debate not answering him but I was trying to straddle the line between indifference and confidence. It was like walking a tightrope.

“I’m in London for a little while,” I give vaguely.

“Ah,” he smiles and damnit I forgot how handsome he could be. How handsome could then turn into seductive so quickly. I had to remember: Still a devil. “Are you looking for a new employer? Because I could be hiri-“

“No.” I cut him off. “I finally have a job I love so I’m good.”

Something flickers in his eyes but surprisingly he stays quiet.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I sort of wish I still had a drink in my hand, they feel awkward and clunky and I want to avoid playing with my hair. Gah. “Global star drinks alone at his local bar?”

He laughs but I can tell I hit a minor nerve. “Here I’m just a local. Always have been—it’s nice to be anonymous for a little bit.”

I roll my eyes. I didn’t believe that for a second. He loved his fame and everything that came with it.

Plus I used to come here all the time, I would’ve known if my employer was a local too. He was lying for some reason.

“Mr. Styles if there’s one thing I remember about you, you’d choose death over anonymity.”

“Firstly,” he leans in and I get a whiff of his usual cologne with a hint of malt. “A person can change a lot. So maybe you don’t know me as much as you think you do-“

“Oh I don’t think anyone can change that drastically in only a year-“

“You seemed to have.”

His words take mine out of my mouth. I hadn’t changed, not really. I’d always been this y/n but the further I got away from him the more reassured I had gotten being that y/n.

“And secondly,” he continues before I could think of a response. “You no longer work for me. Harry is fine.”

The smile he throws me is almost sweet if I didn’t know the cruelty that could hide underneath. I don’t return the smile, I only raise my brow and look back down at my phone. My cell service hasn’t gotten any better and I’d missed the wifi password.

I could connect to Harry’s wifi, ask him so that I could order an uber.

I’d rather van gogh my ear.

I weigh all my options and consider the last one again. I look up to see what Harry was doing in the silence and find him looking at me. A shiver runs up my spine as our eyes clash. So much history and words unspoken fall in between. A very specific night flashes through my mind. I wonder if it does him because he looks down first. Damn.

“So I’ve gotta get going,” I say.

“Let me buy you a drink.” He says at the same time.

He laughs awkwardly and repeats, “One drink?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“We’re not drinking buddies.” I pull my purse to my chest, wanting to hop off this stool and run home if I need to. Put as much distance between myself and this man that was put on this earth to confuse me.

“Then what are we y/n?” He asks, his voice silky smooth as he leans in. The voice that whispered sweet nothings into my ear in my worst nightmares, nightmares of cotton sheets and heated limbs, of passion and shame.

“Ex-employer,” I point to him. I point to myself, “Ex-employee.”

“Exes have drinks together,” he grins full well knowing the double meaning.

“Never ends well,” I eye the door.

“Just as stubborn as I remember.”

“And you were saying people change?” I raise my brow.

He drops the smile and sighs, “I’m not gonna be able to convince ya am I?”

I shake my head. He should know that by now.

“Can I walk you out at least?”

I shrug, couldn’t hurt.

“What is this?” I ask as he opens the door for me.

“What?”

“This? Why are you trying to be so friendly?”

“I thought we could be friendly exes.”

And when did he get so cheeky.

“Something weird is going on,” I watch him stay in step with me as I walk up. With no service I was going to take the tube. “And I don’t like it.”

“Nothing weird is going on don’t get all paranoid on me.”

“Don’t call me paranoid! You never call a woman paranoid.”

“I thought that was conspiracy theorists?”

“Nooo. You’re being weird.”

"Alright, no need to get all Freudian on me. Just trying to be a decent human here."

I shake my head, somehow in our exchange my face had decided it was okay to smile. To forget what he put me through and remember instead that when things were good between us we actually got along.

Damnit. The devil knew how to play tricks. I wipe the smile off my face while he continues walking with me.

“So…what have you been up to?” He asks.

“Working, you know me.” I say after trying to figure out what his angle was but unable to find one.

“Oretta Smith I hear, how did you manage that?”

“I’m just that good Harry,” I say. His name is weird in my mouth. Sure I called him that in my head but I usually used Mr. Styles. I can tell he feels the same with his quick glance my way.

“How do you like that?”

“Yeah, she’s a great employer like I said. Very professional. Lots of flexibility.” Each praise is a knock to his ego. But it was all true, plus with Winnie joining the team I had a friend my age that felt great.

But there was also a darker side called burnout that I barely admitted to myself. Ever since we landed in London and I had time to orient my new self in a city that molded my old self, I felt the familiar singe of purposeless. But I keep it to myself of course.

“Great.” Harry responds curtly. “What about yourself? How’s your life, are you finally married?”

My instinct is to raise my defences and chew him out, he must know Gray and I were done what with me living in the States.

And yet, when I peer past the defences and take a long hard look at him I realize he is asking earnestly and without another angle.

We’re nearing the tube now. I hesitate in lying or telling the truth.

“We broke up,” I choose to confess. I peek at him and he looks surprised, even sorry.

“I didn’t know. Sorry.”

“I’d hope not,” I reply. “Otherwise you’d be an asshole calling me Mrs. Duran.”

He huffs an awkward laugh.

“Anyway this is me—

“I can give you a ride home—wherever that is right now?” He asks.

We’re stood in front of the glass doors. There’s not a lot of people this time of night. And as tempting as his offer was, the way he looks at me right now sends poisonous butterflies to my stomach and I think it’s best I get home for the big day tomorrow and not make any regrets.

“I’m not too far,” I lie. I point a thumb to the doors behind me. “I’m just gonna…”

“Yeah. Yeah right.” He’s awkward, which is a first. He clears his throat and stuffs his hand into his pocket. I watch him with a removed sort of curiosity. Eventually he coughs out his question. “How long are you in London for?”

“A few weeks,” I reply.

He finally meets my eyes again—and there goes my stomach. He was supposed to have zero effect on me, I was supposed to stay mad at him. Why was my body betraying me? Why did it continue to loop memories from that night and remind me of the things he whispered in the dark?

“A few weeks,” he murmurs back.

His gaze travels over my face openly, no longer holding back the barely-hidden expressions from before. Because I told him Gray and I weren’t a thing? Because I was entertaining whatever bullshit this was?

“Yep,” I nod. Awkward. Nervous. Cautious.

“My number’s the same,” his eyes snap back to mine. “If you want to go for that drink later.”

“Harry,” I try to break it to him another way. I wish I could just say I never want that drink. “I don’t think-“

“Don’t think,” he cuts me off. He laughs when I furrow my brows. “I mean, I’m right here for most of the next few weeks. When you feel like you want to have that drink just give me a call. Or text.”

Why, I want to ask him. Why, after all this time, after everything that happened? And it’s like he reads my mind in the silence.

“I know you left on a pretty poor note.” He shuffles his feet. “I know a lot of that was my fault. I apologize for that. Um, but I did enjoy having you around. You were excellent at your job and…you are missed. Even Jeff remembers you fondly. Which is saying something.”

This was some sort of prank. Or Harry had gotten so famous he now had a doppelgänger roaming the streets as him. It couldn’t be that Harry, my Harry, would say something so sentimental and so…genuine.

“So uh yeah, I would love to see you again while you’re in town.” He says when I don’t respond.

“Right.” I choke out.

He shrugs when I can’t bring myself to say anything more. “We do change, whether you believe it or not y/n.”

I swallow, hoping to lubricate my vocal cords and find my voice. “I-I really do have to go.”

Crestfallen, he nods. His hand comes up to touch my elbow. “Yeah ‘course. Just…think about it?”

I look down at his hand and he lets go, we stay in another bubble of silence. His eyes flicker down to my lips and I feel a wave of warmth as I try not to do the same.

“Goodnight,” I blurt and get to the other side of the glass doors. He watches me go.

On the escalator down I risk a glance back and he’s still there, watching until I’m out of sight. That ended incredibly awkward.

Leave it up to Harry to confuse me in coming back into my life. Damn him, he could never be consistent.

***

Waking up super early to catch the train out to Cambridge is so worth it because I get to watch Josie walk the stage and graduate with distinction wearing her famous smile that beams over the vast room.

Despite what happened with Gray and I, Josie and I have kept in touch steadily over the last year. It started as weekly facetimes which reduced down to monthly calls and have now become a steady stream of texts and memes swapped back and forth.

When she found out I’d be in London around her graduation dates she gave me no choice but to show up, sending me a ticket without asking.

I knew I’d see Gray, and a part of me was nervous and curious how that was going to go. But mostly I was grateful to still be in Josie’s life and spend time with her in person. She was the part of this life I missed most.

I’m sat somewhere in the middle of the room and Josie was smart enough not to seat me with the rest of her guests. But I know I would see everyone during photos and the dinner we were having later on. I try keep my focus on the ceremony however.

“Y/N!” Josie rushes towards me when she sees me after the ceremony. The group she departs from I recognize is a mix of her girl friends, her family, and a few others.

“Josie!” I return the same energy and she leaps into my arms. I squeeze her tight to me. “I’m soo proud of you my girl.”

We sway side to side, until we get enough hug.

“Look at you!” She exclaims when she leans back. “Your hair looks amazing and you are glowing. Please tell me you have a boy in your life.”

“No,” I laugh.

“A girl?” She asks hesitantly.

“No! I’m just…happy where I am right now! How about you look at you! You look phenomenal as per.”

“Oh thanks,” she takes the compliment and giggles. “I asked my dad to grad gift me a salon and spa visit so I am rejuvenated and blown out.”

“Aren’t you ever,” I touch a lock of her hair. “Congratulations.”

“Eek!” She squeals. “Finally finished this hellscape! I can’t wait to never write an exam again—ooh wait I want you to meet my boy…”

“So that’s why we’re actually glowing,” I tease as she tugs me towards the group. That definitely has Gray. My stomach drops the closer we get, he doesn’t seem to notice. He looks busy talking to one of Josie’s friends.

“Anyway,” she deposits me in front of a 6 foot something guy made of angles. “This is Jax. My boyfriend. We met during a Friendsgiving Myles threw last year.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jax smiles. “Y/N right?”

“Yes!”

“I was supposed to get around to that,” Josie huffs.

“Sorry she talked about you a lot when she found out you were coming. She was really excited.”

“Ugh,” she turns to me like she was embarrassed but her face is glowing. Josie was in looove.

“You two are so cute,” I tease which just makes Josie blush a little harder. “So are we getting any pictures?”

“Oh yeah,” Jax swivels his head. “Liliya has the good camera if you want to get-“

“Oh we can use our phones,” Josie cuts him off.

“No get the high res one—Liliya, camera?” Jax motions a shuttering action to the friend Gray was talking to. He’s so tall above the crowd that both look up at him and comply.

“Y/N,” Josie drags my arms back and takes me on the outskirt of the crowd. “I’m so sorry I never mentioned because I thought you wouldn’t come if I did tell you but you-“

“Y/N?”

Josie’s rushed whispers are cut short when Gray notices me and calls my name. He looks stupefied. I spare a glance to Josie and she’s paled.

She didn’t tell him.

“Hey,” I force a friendly tone. I was going to kill that girl.

“Did you all want a photo?” Josie’s friend Liliya shoulders her way back into the circle with the camera on a strap. She turns to Gray, “Babe?”

It’s an odd sensation, like all oxygen has left my lungs and they’re being squeezed as if tightened in a vice. Gray’s eyes drag away from me to his…girlfriend? Definitely not Josie’s friend.

It shakes me in the moment how much I realize I still cared, still carried a shred of hope for…something. And not consciously knowing this makes this moment feel a little like a slap in the face.

What did I think? I was going to leave this country for a year and people were going to pause where I last left them? Of course Gray’s moved on. Aside from the end he was a great partner and anybody would want that.

These thoughts race through my head in the few seconds Gray responds to his girlfriend and I look at Josie. She looks guilty as charged.

“I tried to tell you just now?” She whispers.

Deep breaths, I remind myself. You’re not the hot-headed y/n these people knew last. This day is not about you. It’s about Josie.

“It’s cool. Let’s get some photos,” I smile. “Don’t want to miss having them with you.”

She sighs but keeps her eyes on my face as we walk farther out.

“I am really sorry,” she whispers.

“Hey it’s alright,” I lie. This was the worst of it—Gray had moved on, had a great girlfriend, and I was living the life I wanted. No harm and no foul. “Honestly Jo I get it, you wanted me here reallllly bad.”

“I did!” She says. “But I’m also gonna kill Jax.”

I laugh and we straighten up when we realize the camera was already pointed at us. Josie flashes her degree and a few of her friends join the pictures too. We hustle back to Gray to see them and flipping back on the first few makes my breath catch in my throat. There’s one in particular where Josie is turned to me talking and my mouth is in a big grin because I’m laughing.

I catch eyes with Gray in an uncomfortably intimate second.

“Send me that one for sure wow Gray that’s a really good shot.”

“Oh wow,” his girlfriend peers over. “That’s a great candid.”

“Yeah,” I agree. I’d love a copy too. And of course that’s when Gray’s girlfriend notices me and introduces herself.

“I don’t think we’ve met—is that an American accent I detect?”

“It is,” I smile. “I’m Y/N.”

“Oh!” Two spots of pink appear on her face. It seems she’s heard of me. “Well it’s nice to meet you—nice that Josie invited you! I’m Liliya but Lily works too.”

“C’mon!” Josie interrupts the awkward by grabbing her brother’s arm and pushes him in the direction of where her friends are posing for photos. He takes some shots but Josie hates the look of them and gives the camera to Lily instead.

With just Gray and I left behind it grows very awkward.

“I thought Josie told everyone I would be-“ I say just as he says, “I didn’t realize you would be-“

We stop and chuckle awkwardly.

“Sorry,” I shake my head.

“No,” he shrugs. “It’s cool. It’s cool you’re here actually.”

“Okay,” is all I can say. Until the awkward silence stretches. “So…Liliya?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Liliya. You?”

I want to lie, but I shake my head. “No. Sorta needed the year to breathe a little.”

“Fair. How’s America?”

“Oh y’know, still super-sized and politically a guessing game.”

“Have you turned on our news while you’ve been down at all?” He raises a brow. I laugh because he was right. It was all a shitshow everywhere.

He asks me about my family as Josie jogs up to us.

“Okay, tell me the truth is my hair going flat?”

“No,” I look behind her where her friends are hovering over Lily and the camera going over their photos.

“Good. Where’s mum and dad?” Josie asks Gray. “Dad was just here 10 minutes ago he said he’d come by for—oh there’s mum! Look!”

We turn to where she points. Michelle—what I’ve always called Gray’s mom, spots her daughter at the same time and waves. She starts to walk towards us.

It’s nice to see her but I also feel a bit nervous; going cold turkey on relationships you only had because of an ex are always weird to come back to. Especially ones you were fond of.

“Mum! You’re missing all the pictures!” Josie says. “Where’ve you been!?”

“I just saw somebody I knew back from my first job as a librarian can you believe that?” Michelle says as she joins the group.

“Crazy. Well mum look who got to show up today! Isn’t that crazy too?”

Michelle looks at me and the bright smile that was intended for her daughter dies like a flower in overnight frost. The look wipes the anticipation off my face.

“Who?”

That one word shades the sun from the sky and brings forth a gust of western winds through the group.

“Mum,” Josie look between me, her mum, and Gray. She’s confused. “Y/N?”

“Hey Michelle,” I croak. Maybe my hair was too different for her to recognize me, or maybe she had early onset alzheimers. Surely this woman who I’ve had a better relationship with than her own son has wouldn’t be treating me like your worst frenemy at your high school reunion.

But Michelle looks right through me. I can’t explain how it feels, not in the moment. I’m gutted, and feel an unexplainable wave of sadness.

“Mum…” Josie sounds hurt and Gray finally decides to swoop in.

“Mum let’s check out the photos we took already. We gotta get some of the three of us.”

They walk away and I feel seven inches tall but I turn to Josie with a brave face and face her teary one.

“That was kind of awkward,” I downplay.

“Y/N I’m honestly so sorry I-,” Josie blinks rapidly.

“No it’s ok!”

“I don’t know why she acted like that-“

“Hey It’s natural for her to feel that way I’m alright don’t get upset-“

“It’s not alright though! That was such a…she never acts like that.”

It was true. Michelle was a free-spirit as she called herself. That’s why Gray had such a hard relationship with her; in his words, she was too emotional and ungrounded for him.

Yet apparently, she was able to find enough ground to stand on when it came to treating me like a nobody. I wonder if it’s because she heard Gray’s biased side of the story or she was hurt herself—still, the way she’s always talked about herself never struck me as someone who would believe a one-sided story. Or be a bitch to someone they previously called their daughter. It hurt like a mofo.

I didn’t want Josie to find out this way, here of all places, that her mom was just human after all. She idolized that woman.

So even though it hurt, I comfort her instead.

“She probably just feels betrayed by me leaving and stuff since we were close too. Imagine if Jax broke up with you and she gave him the cold shoulder—wouldn’t you feel justified?”

Josie scrunches her brows to think about the simplified story I’ve just fed her to feel better. I can tell it still doesn’t sit well with her but she nods in acceptance, “I guess.”

“Yeah, just forget it Josie. Plus you’ve got pictures to take so dry those eyes.”

“Shit I know,” she blinks some more. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to invite you here and twist the knife at every bloody turn.”

“Jo I’m honoured to get to be here and see all your hard work pay off. Don’t worry about anything else.”

“It’s unfair,” she says before she drifts to her group of friends. “I feel like nobody understands how…how understanding you are. But I’m really glad we’re still in touch. And you came for me.”

Her words bring tears to my eyes and I nod, afraid that talking would bring them forward. I watch her crash her group and start instructing photo coordination. I help hold things for people while they take photos and feel like a stranger outside the crowd. If it weren’t for Josie, I think I would have regretted coming here. I feel homesick and unwanted. A tough combo.

I was supposed to crash on someone’s couch tonight and do brunch with Josie tomorrow before going back to London but from the last half hour alone I know I’m going back to the city no matter how late it gets tonight. I think of the hotel room that was home right now, of how lonely that was going to feel to go back to too.

Home right now was in America, in the same time zone as my family, and comfortable in my shared apartment with one of my high school best friends who I reconnected with after going back home. I miss it so bad. And I feel like I’ve bitten into an unripe fruit coming back to the UK before I was ready apparently. My experience feels soured.

I shake off the doom and gloom when the party breaks. We were all going to meet at the restaurant at 6–my plan was to explore the university city and find a place to kill some time in. Maybe go outside to a park with lunch. Josie tries to convince me to join her and her friends for their mid-day celebration but I lie and tell her I had some work to do.

I call Winnie on my stroll through the city. I insist she update me on last night first, and she has more to tell—the guy had a yacht and he was inviting her to a party tonight. She tells me to join if I came back early and we cross our fingers that Oretta wouldn’t need her before then.

I originally called her to rant about Michelle and Gray but I don’t, I didn’t want to kill her vibe. So I scroll through my other contacts but don’t want to worry my mom and it was too early back home to reach anyone else.

My eyes catch on Harry’s name, he was at the top of my texts currently because he sent me a link this afternoon asking me for thoughts on it. I hadn’t opened it yet, I wasn’t sure what to think about this new persona he was wearing or that he thought yesterday’s run-in went okay enough to casually message me for my thoughts.

I remember the weird electricity of yesterday and shove my phone back into my pocket.

He genuinely wanted to have a drink? And talk??

I did enjoy having you around. You were excellent at your job and you are missed.

Was he trying to make up for his cruel words? But he also seemed a lot more mellow than before. Maybe that was just because I didn’t work for him. What did he want? And was I twisted for believing the new schtick?

Most curious of all was him at the pub in the first place. He was not a local there—that was a big lie.

I try to conjure up my previous hatred, calling him the Devil in my head. But it’s harder to do. Seeing him yesterday, he was just a man standing in front of a woman with a head full of cautionary tales and bad experiences.

Without warning images from that night come back and I feel my heart flutter. I shut them down just as quick. Not all bad, my body tries to remind me. I tell it to shut up.

I’ve barely stepped foot in this country again and already my mind was running circles around my heart. How exhausting.

***

I’m early to the restaurant, before anyone else apparently. As the hostess finds my name on her floor plan Josie comes in behind me with Jax.

“Oh! Y/n you’re early!” She seems flustered.

“Yeah I didn’t think I would be,” it was only a few minutes to 6.

We make small talk while we’re led to the table, Josie’s eyes keep darting to where our table might be.

“Sorry I was hoping to do this before you came,” she says when we get there. There are name cards along the 7 seats and she picks the one in front of me. “I’m just gonna move mum to my other side so it doesn’t get weird. Which means she’ll be closer to dad but…I think he’s bailing since his girlfriend doesn’t want to do this.”

Josie shrugs, I know how she feels about her dad’s girlfriend. She begins explaining the plans she has to do dinner with her dad later this week and the more she talks the more I can tell that she feels awkward. And I hate that it’s because of me. At one point Jax and I catch eyes and pass an awkward smile.

“Josie,” I walk up to her fiddling with the name tags. She stops talking immediately. I grip her shoulders. “Thanks.”

“Sorry,” she whispers. I wrap my arms around her and she melts into me.

“Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry. I can’t help it. It’s a disease.”

We let go with a laugh and she seems more stable. “This is going to be fine.”

Famous last words.

It’s definitely not fine and very awkward. Jax ends up sitting in front of me, and even though Liliya’s name tag was beside mine it’s suddenly swapped as they slide in and Gray sits beside me. I guess it might be too awkward for her but not awkward enough to fit someone we both dated between us.

I can sense Michelle’s pinched face as she notices us sitting beside each other and I feel badly for Josie the most as she tries to play the gracious host. At one point I sense Jax laying a hand on her arm and taking over, asking Michelle questions about her yoga and getting her talking.

“Did you need more?” Gray turns to me with the wine bottle, it’s the second thing he’s said to me tonight. Otherwise he mostly just watches me talk and leans back enough when others are talking so I can be involved.

“I’m okay,” I whisper. I didn’t want to draw any attention while Michelle was talking. She hadn’t said a peep to me, even when Josie tried to involve us both in a shared memory. She continued acting like I was Casper the ghost.

I can feel Lily’s eyes on us as Gray offers wine, of course they would be. No wonder Gray barely spoke to me all night. Fuck me, what was I doing here.

Jax is a sweetheart, asking me about my job and encouraging conversation between the both of us. I’m so happy for Josie that she found a partner like him.

By the time dinner is over I mostly want to cry. I feel spent. But I also feel like I crashed an intimate dinner and everyone’s polite enough not to mention it. Despite Josie, I do actually regret coming.

As we pay the bill and shuffle out, Josie grabs my arm.

“So I have two friends where you can crash at their place or Jax can sleep over at mine and you can sleep at his or-“

“I think I’m gonna head back to the city.”

Her face falls. But it’s like she knew I was going to say that.

“Sorry Jo. I think you should come to the city next week—maybe visit your brother? And while you’re down we’ll do brunch then. I’m mostly free while I’m here. I’m just pretty tired and have to help Winnie with something tomorrow.”

“Really?” She says in the smallest voice I’ve heard out of her. Salt to my wounds.

“Yeah, I’m sorry. I know we were looking forward to getting time together.”

She juts out her lip and I’m reminded of the girl I met when I first started dating Gray. How she’d taken to me so quickly. How the whole family had. How things could end up like this.

And suddenly I see the future laid out in front of me. After tonight it would be hard to keep this relationship going—Josie and I. She’s just seen her mom be an unreasonable bitch for the first time, I can tell she’s been trying to compensate all night but the cracks won’t go away. It’ll always be a sitting duck between us.

We might try to stay in touch, maybe I’d reach out if I was ever in London or if she ever visited the west coast. But this would fizzle out.

She was still young and naive enough that her mom hung the moon and stars; mom’s beliefs were gospel, her opinions were rulings, and she’d just delivered my ultimate sentence: I was a black sheep to the family. How could sweet Josie walk through a mess like that?

“I’m so proud of you,” I tell her as I fight tears. “Congratulations again and thank you for inviting me.”

“Thanks. And you don’t have to be so nice. I know it was kind of a shitty invite.”

“No,” I insist. “I loved being here. I don’t regret showing up for you. I can’t wait to hear what you get up to.”

“I’m going to make sure to make it to the city next week,” she squeezes my arm. “We’ll see each other soon.”

“Exactly,” I look over at the rest of the group, where her boyfriend waits for her. Her family. “And I really like Jax, so good on you for that.”

“He…” she twists her lips, swallowing what she was going to say before vomiting it out. “I always aspired to have a relationship like yours and Gray’s. I never wanted to settle for anything less so that’s…that’s why Jax.”

“Hm I think you made us the bar and you leapt over it babe,” I wrap my arms around her again. I ache with the loss of what we used to be.

“See you soon,” she says before she drags herself back to the group.

I stand off to the side, awkwardly ordering an Uber. The group begins to walk the opposite way waving bye to me. I breathe easier without the weight of them around.

As I tap my foot in anticipation of the ride to the station arriving, I feel a hand tap my shoulder.

“Y/n,” it’s Gray. “Hey I…I just wanted to say something before you left.”

“Oh. Hey yeah. Shoot.”

What was it with everyone wanting to say something to me.

“Uh…ok give me a minute,” he laughs in the way I know to mean he was feeling nervous. “I just sort of jogged back impulsively.”

“Yeah well you have,” I glance at my phone. “4 or so minutes.”

“Damn,” he ruffles his hair. “Alright. I think I just wanna say sorry.”

“Oh.” That was it. Everyone had something to say to me and the something was apparently sorry.

“Yeah I’m sorry. I…when we broke up I was so upset and caught up in my own head. I blamed you for everything. I think it only hit me when you just up and moved out of the country how things actually went down.”

I hadn’t told anyone but Josie that I was leaving.

“Yeah you were just like gone.” He continues. “I guess a part of me thought we’d get some space, maybe circle back later…”

“You really betrayed me,” I remind him.

But even I know what he means. He hurt me bad and it might be crazy stupid but on some level we were both aware we were in an ugly place and maybe with some space we might come back to the place that was good for us again. Maybe bump into each other one day, strike up a conversation, find there might still be a small amount of love left. Enough to water and grow again.

“I know,” he sighs. “I know. I hate that I hurt you like that. I regret…I actually don’t really hang out with that group of friends as much anymore. I sorta have myself to blame but I didn’t like who I was with them.”

I listen, letting him speak. It hurt too, knowing this was the Grayson I had fallen in love with. Kind and supportive, and now apparently he’s learned to communicate. Maybe that was a Lily thing.

“I guess,” he blows the air out of his cheeks. “I want to say I’m really truly sorry. I missed you a lot after you left. Nothing was the same and life was fucking hard. I wish things didn’t end the way they did and I stayed mature but I was just jealous and angry.”

I nod to acknowledge what he’s saying and watch him take a breath to continue.

“And I always appreciated how you never let us shake your relationship with my sister because she bloody loves you—I don’t think how mum treated you was right today but I never really understood her in the first place. I’m sorry about that.”

“Yeah,” is all I can manage without making it obvious how emotional this was all making me. How one year could make me feel like a completely different person. How this man I loved, and still love in some way, could stand in front of me talking about us as something in the past. Because we were. Long past.

My phone dings with a notification that my ride would be here. We glance down and out into the street.

“Anyway,” he swallows. “I just wanna apologize. And say I genuinely hope you find love y/n. Love that’s as fierce and loyal as you are. I hope you can forgive me one day. And I hope you’re successful as hell in whatever you pour yourself into.”

“Thank you Gray,” I want to say I was sorry too. For what it was worth. But my car pulls to the curb.

I wave at the driver to let them know I’d ordered it and we walk the few feet to the back door.

I face Gray and open my mouth to say it. Say something more: how I appreciated his words, how I was sorry for how things ended too, how I hope he is happy. But nothing comes out of my mouth. I just stare at him, my eyes welling with tears instead.

Gray holds out his hand and I look down at it. I knew those hands well and it’s like walking into a place you used to frequent in the past and have memories rush towards you as you remember: those hands held me and wrapped around my own and comforted me, they made me food and stroked my hair, and carried my bags when they got too heavy. They once wore an engagement band I gifted, they once held a small box with a life-changing question I had said yes to.

Now it was just a hand.

I clasp it and he squeezes.

“I know,” he says, his eyes trained on my watery ones. He squeezes again and lets go.

I rush into the car, those two words nearly cracking me in half. I wave goodbye through the tinted window and feel a wave of despair that pulls me down into the depths of darkness.

Too much was happening at once.

My emotions spiral out of me and I feel alone in this foreign country; I needed comfort where none could be found.

I don’t mean to. Or maybe I do. But on the train back to London I text Harry: is it too early to cash in on the drink?

His response is immediate: no, I was waiting for this text last night

I smile, despite myself.

Can I come over? I text with shaking hands.

H: For drinks?

Y: For drinks

H: Ofc.

***

The taxi drops me in front of the familiar building. I feel an echo of anxiety pierce through me as I go through the familiar doors. I nod at the concierge, the night replacement was new and I’m grateful nobody can recognize me making this potentially stupid decision.

For a brief second I wonder if Harry had other plans tonight but decide not to overthink it. He’d invited me openly. And maybe I was making a decision based on sadness and loneliness and grief and needing to be wanted but I make it. And I would make it like a grown woman—ready to accept the consequences.

I didn’t want to go back to my lonely hotel room. I didn’t want to call anyone and talk about what just happened. I didn’t have words. My body was taking the beating, feeling everything under the sun and now bruised and battered for it. I just wanted my body to forget that. And there was only one person in this godforsaken city that could help.

I’m let up to the penthouse and I forgot it had a distinct smell, wood-like and something indescribable. Weird that it felt comforting.

“You made it,” Harry comes into view in a simple pair of shorts and a long-sleeved white tee pushed up to his elbows. It’s the sleeves that really do it.

“I did.”

I leave my bags beside the elevator next to the umbrella stand, keeping my eyes on him. He doesn’t take his off mine either. I’m glad he doesn’t. Now I know he knows we both said drinks but meant something more.

He reaches out for me before I even get to him, and I know I would think about that later. A lot. But right then in the middle of his entryway I wrap my arms around his neck and lean up on my toes to reach him too.

His lips are soft against mine and he tucks me into him, his hand splayed out on my lower back. It feels like a return to a lover, someone who knows you, like I would’ve thought seeing Gray again would feel. But it’s just Harry, and the thought of baseless familiarity freaks me out a little.

The next time I feel his lips they’re on my jaw and neck and down to the base of my throat. He murmurs my name as he makes his way down and my body reacts immediately. He takes me by the waist and backs me up against the nearest wall, and I have a feeling I might fall.

I had made the conscious decision to walk into the devil’s lair because it was the only place I could get what I needed.

My fingers dig into his shoulders. My body wants this. Every part of me wants to pull him close and hold him and never let go. I wanted all of it tonight.

But I am so tired.

I put a hand on his chest and press gently. I can feel the warmth of his skin, the firmness of his muscles and the beat of his heart as he pauses.

“Sorry, I should have started with a hello. That was too fast was it?” He whispers, looking me straight in the eyes.

I have a million answers, but nothing comes. He puts his hand over mine and I feel it as a shiver runs up my spine.

"Is this too fast?" he asks again, and I hear the worry in his voice.

I shake my head.

He gives a breathy laugh, "Then tell me."

"I think I-“

“Don’t,” he covers my mouth with a laugh. “Please please. Don’t think.”

I smile under his palm and he drops his hand, I can tell he’s proud of lightening the moment by the sheen in his eyes. The moment is tender in a way that takes me back.

He brushes back my hair and kisses my forehead. I close my eyes, breathing in his cologne.

“That’s not where I want to be kissed,” I tell him.

“Then where?” He plays along.

“Anywhere but there.”

He kisses my nose. “There?”

“Not there,” I open my eyes to look up at him. “I’ll have you know that was very snotty just an hour ago.”

He groans, “you really have a way of taking the desire out of a situation.”

But his brows furrow and he watches me even closer.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I respond to his unasked question.

With that statement he takes a painful step back and I nearly slide down the wall without his support.

“What?” I ask.

“We should take that drink first.”

I feel the loss of his body pressed against mine, I realize miserably.

“What do you mean? I thought the drinks were just an excuse?” I ask.

He laughs a little, “Maybe tonight, but I really did want to have a drink with you. And talk.”

“Harry,” I groan. “I’m all out of talking tonight. Truly.”

“As much as I want to say forget talking and take you to bed I need to do this…just follow me,” he leads me and my flushed body through to the main living area which I was well familiar with but it’d gotten a facelift. I make commentary on the changes and he tells me more about it as he pulls a wine he wants out for us.

“I changed things around a little after you left,” he says as he hands me the wine glass. “I needed it. The change.”

“Oh.” Is all I can muster. I follow him to the sofa, tonight he doesn’t leave as much space between us but it still feels like a weird parallel to the night I landed in the hospital; a confrontation with Gray leading me to wine with Harry. “Look Harry I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Why not?”

“I…I’m at minimal capacity right now I just-“

“Just let me talk then.”

“Why does everyone want to talk!”

“I need to tell you what I should have said a long time ago and I want to apologize-“

“You already did-“

“Properly.”

I cross my arms and sigh.

“Y/n bloody hell I forgot how quickly you can get under my skin.”

“So this isn’t a great thing then.”

“Y/N,” he says my name like a warning and I want to comply. I roll my eyes and knock back my glass of wine, the buzz from the glass at dinner has long since worn away.

“Part of me wants to top you up but another part remembers what happened last time.” Harry eyes me.

“No I’m okay with just one glass. Drinking when I’m upset doesn’t end well.”

“Yeah…I don’t want you concussed on my watch again.”

“No we don’t want that,” we smile at each other, a soft and sentimental smile that gets the anxious stuttering of my heart to calm down a little. He just wanted to talk, so what?

But the anxious voice runs through the scenarios he might want to—his recent text, or something I did as his PA he wants to take up now. Gah.

“I really have missed having you around,” he says softly.

“Didn’t feel like you would with how you treated me.” I raise my brow.

“I know.” He pauses then mumbles something before talking to me directly. “You must have heard about the PA before you? Maybe from Riley?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Hmmm this feels like a trick question.” I say but he tells me he just wants to know what I knew. So I rip the bandaid off. “You had a fling with her.”

He hangs his head back over the seat of the sofa and sighs. “I knew that piece of…Riley makes me really mad when I think about him sometimes.”

“Does he?” I raise my brow. “I can think of someone else who makes me madder.”

“I know that’s supposed to be me. And I don’t know what to do about that except come clean right now.”

“And why is that?” I ask. “Coming clean? I came here just to get distracted in bed with you. I never thought I’d live to see the day where a guy like you wants to talk instead.”

“Y/N,” he says with such an intense look my way my stomach flips. “Trust me. I want to have you in my bed more than you do. But I told myself if that day ever somehow happened it would be after this.”

I shrug, let him continue. In reality his words make me weak and I can’t speak. Which kind of annoys me—why did he have such a strong pull over me? How did he so easily admit he’s thought about me, about having me in his bed!?

My heart flutters amongst other things.

I remember a brief conversation I had with my mom last year when she asked me why I wasn’t putting myself out there and dating again and I told her I just didn’t have the heart for it. She had said it seems I left my heart in London—my passion and my heart. Sitting here with Harry stirs something inside of me, scares me, and I want to distract that with more wine. But I manage to control myself.

“I was fairly new to the industry when I hired Riley and it was his second proper job or something so we were both a bit young and we ended up being friendlier than we should have.” Harry starts. “But he was great at his job and never gave me any issues. I stayed naïve that people in this industry would look out for my best interest-“

“That’s really naïve,” I can’t help but comment but he throws me a look and I zip my lips. “Sorry.”

“I was lucky that the first few relationships I built as I got my foot in the door were genuine but I realized too late that it wasn’t a norm. Everyone wanted a piece of me and they all wanted me to be someone else. Some angle. Shit hit the fan pretty quickly. So when I needed more help I decided to create a new role for Riley and hire a PA. She was seasoned and came highly recommended.”

I nod along to his story.

“Long story short, she started out good but she kept trying to get me alone and get me talking. And back then after being friends with my old PA I didn’t have the wisdom of setting boundaries—don’t give me that look.”

“What!” I raise my hands. “I’m just listening.”

“You’re judging me.”

“Just continue,” I encourage. I was judging a little.

“Anyway, where I thought we were just friendly she thought I—I dunno I was falling for her or something. And one night she was working late so she had dinner here. She kept refilling my drink I didn’t realize she wasn’t drinking as much. It’s not much of an excuse but by the time she came onto me I was pissed and it didn’t take much.”

He continues the story like it was nothing but his voice catches a little and he doesn’t look me in the eye. My insides grow colder. I want to reach inside of him and hold the old Harry, the naive one who didn’t know better.

“Please don’t feel bad for me,” he cuts my sympathy short. “I didn’t turn into a great person after that. Especially with how I treated you.”

“That’s right.” I pretend to be unaffected by his story like he wanted me to be. But it’s near impossible.

“So that’s how I decided it was best for me to play the asshole. I couldn’t fire her after that—it would look awful and she could report me and screw me over. But I could make working for me a nightmare and so I did. A few months later she quit.”

He sighs and takes a swig of his wine, “Then you came along and I thought ‘I should play the asshole from the get go.’ I had gotten good by then at compartmentalizing my personality in the industry.”

“Hmph,” I raise a brow. He has the decency to look embarrassed but he continues.

“But the more time we spent together the worse I felt. You were nothing like the previous PA. You were genuine and down-to-earth. Pretty fiery but I wouldn’t find that out until later,” he grins. I roll my eyes. “I tried to ease up a little but things kept happening to push me back into the asshole box.”

“But you were so snappy, and a dick.”

“I know. I didn’t know how to tell you you worked too hard without dropping the asshole act and making you feel even shittier.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had to be the villain in your story-“

“What?” What was he talking about?

“Yeah like, you were working all the time even though there were some times I told you to wrap it up for the day.”

I remembered that, thinking he was kicking me out.

“But you took the job so seriously. I appreciated everything you did but you were dogged at making sure you did the best at any cost.”

“What do you mean? At any cost?” I ask, a cold sensation running down my back.

“For example take that one time a few months in when I asked you to call me because you forgot to order wine. You bloody came all the way back to hand deliver it-“

“Yeah because you said to call you and you were gonna be pissed if I-“

“No, y/n,” he lays a hand between us. “I just wanted you to call to know where you usually ordered from so I could order that for myself. You weren’t in any trouble! But I could only blame myself for playing the hard asshole too well.”

I think about that night, Josie’s birthday party. How I left early and upset Gray. How I didn’t need to but I had been following the Dos and Dont’s list.

Shit, the lists. They were added onto by the last PA who, now I know, was having her life made into hell just so she would quit. Some of those lists were on an extreme I didn’t even have to follow. Fuck. That was on me.

My face must be a painting of regret because Harry apologizes again.

“I’m sorry but I didn’t want you to…I just felt like I had to play the villain so you could do what you had to do. So you could continue hating me and we could establish the clear boundary.”

“Right.” I have a bitter taste in my mouth.

“But I genuinely liked you, I thought you were funny and sensitive-“

“You don’t like my sensitivity.”

“I do. I just hated how angry you were-“

“Because of you.”

“I know. I created a monster, I’m Frankenstein.”

“Damn straight.” I agree and we pause a beat before laughing.

“Anyway,” he continues. “You were funny and sensitive and resilient, passionate and smart, and you cared so deeply. It was rare meeting people like you in this field. I wanted to wrap you in bubble wrap but I think I shattered you instead. I’m sorry for the way I just let my past colour your time here. I feel like you left because of me-“

“It was really a lot of reasons.”

“I know but I was part of that and I felt no good. After you left I was a miserable son of a bitch for a while. I couldn’t even enjoy my holiday because I kept thinking of you. I was miserable so I barely even said goodbye—I didn’t realize you were going to run away so far. But I also didn’t want to say goodbye because I was scared I would convince you to stay by spilling my truth.”

His words sit on my chest and they slowly sink down to my stomach. I don’t know what it meant, what he wanted me to do with this confession. It’s too much.

“Mostly,” he continues, shifting closer to me on the sofa. He lowers his voice, “Mostly I’m sorry about Barcelona.”

I flush at the mention of it. At the heat and passion from that night. His eyes roam my face.

“I’m not that guy. I should have treated you nicer, should have been the one to keep my patience.”

“I didn’t make it easy,” I admit.

“No,” he chuckles. “You really fucking did not.”

We smile.

“But you’re so much more than anger y/n. I could barely sleep that night, I kept regretting giving into the anger and not being slow and soft with you the way you deserve. I regret it all the time.”

His confession pulls the veil off my eyes and I see a sharper image of my past. Of everything. It all comes at once and I can’t sort through it in the moment but I know what I want to do.

I shuffle over until I’m up against Harry, I hold his face in mine and he cups my face in his hand.

“You drove me crazy,” I tell him. “Made my life hell.”

“I know. But you drove me crazy too. Nobody got under my skin like you did.”

“Same.”

His hand snakes down to my thigh and he nudges it over his lap so that I’m straddling his body. I feel vulnerable and scared—not the first time these emotions have coursed through me in this very room. But today I don’t feel powerless.

His lips are soft against my cheek, my jaw, down my neck. Unlike the first time he’s slow and deliberate like someone who’s waited so long to unwrap a cherished gift and can’t stand ripping even the gift wrap. He pushes my hair out of the way and trails his fingertips down the back of my neck.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers in my ear. The more he talked the more nervous he was making me. I turn my head to capture his lips, run my fingers through his hair which is too short to really grasp. I missed his old hair.

We break apart for a breath and I can feel the tension. The desire to have him near clashing with the need to go slow. To savour this. Somehow we both feel it.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” Harry promises me, his finger trailing down my arm. “Just having you here is enough.”

Oh god. How did he know just the things to say. This man was way too suave. He really was the devil.

But I needed him. It’s scary to admit but I did. I wanted to be here, I really did. I needed to be in this moment with him. Fulfill some shut-out desire that had grown dusty in the corner of my heart.

“I want to do this.”

With a gentle kiss he gets us up and takes my hand. I feel myself being pulled through the living room and towards the bedroom. The sheets are cool, but not cold and when he crawls in beside me I forget that I had ever been anywhere else.

He’s attentive and deliberate and I’m buzzing with anticipation. I decide to pick up the pace, propping myself up to take off my blouse. I watch his throat bob up and down like he’s never seen me like this before even though he has. It’s endearing.

The way his hands fit in the curve of my waist makes it harder to breathe. He moves his hands up my torso and to the straps of my bra. He pauses, as if asking permission, and when I nod, he kisses me. He unhooks it and slowly slides it off my shoulders, eyes fixed on mine.

The intensity of his gaze is overwhelming.

I pull him close to kiss him again, and he pulls me under him so I can feel the full weight of him against me. This is what I needed. To be physically present and not stuck in the after tremors of the earthquakes of my past. Not that he wasn’t part of my past but this is different. A non-verbal agreement to just be present. I knew his ways with women, it could be a one-night thing and that’s what I needed.

But that’s why the moments of tenderness and adoration nearly take my breath away. I don’t know where to put these things.

He kisses down my shoulder while his hand trails down to my trousers. He hooks his finger into the belt loop and tugs gently, looking up at me for consent.

I nod.

He slowly takes them off, and when his fingers brush against my bare legs, my breath hitches.

It happens again when he presses his lips against my hip bone.

He stops for a moment, and I can almost see the cogs in his brain whirring.

He moves up to press his forehead against mine.

"I don't know how to do this right," he says quietly, and his eyes search mine.

“What do you mean?”

“This is always how I should have treated you,” he whispers. “I want you to know-“

“Harry,” I smooth out the lines on his forehead.

"No," he grabs my hand and kisses it. "I don't want you to feel like I don't care because I do. I don’t want to hurt you. I'm not good at saying these things. But I want you to know how much I value you. That I like you as a person. I respect you. I want you to be okay.”

“I-“ who was this Harry, seriously!? “I get it. I’m okay. I am.”

He smiles at me tentatively and my heart does a somersault.

I grab the back of his neck and pull him down, pressing my lips against his. I could taste the sweetness of the words he had said.

I tug at his shirt and it flies into the darkness of his bedroom. His skin is heated against mine.

It feels like an eternity before he finally reaches the band of my panties, and my heart thumps wildly.

"May I?" he looks up.

"Please," I whisper.

For the first time since I’ve met him he doesn’t make it about himself or what he needs. It’s almost intimidating how intense he is as he looks after me and it’s hard to reconcile this man with the man in my head. We’re of one mind and it’s like he knows everything I’ve been through in the last 24 hours; he just attends to my every need reminding me that I was here, right here, in his arms and in this body.

And it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you staying the night?” He asks later with a final kiss to my shoulder.

“If that’s alright?” I ask. I didn’t want to be alone in a cold hotel room.

“I’d love nothing more.” He says earnestly.

Love. I brush the word away.

He warns me that he was a slug if I stayed and he’s not exaggerating, with his arm draped over me and tucked up against him he’s like a child with a plush. He falls asleep just as quickly.

I should too but can’t. I feel so intensely about this body laying beside me, I want to crawl inside of him, understand him, understand us and how this worked.

Or maybe I wanted to just understand me, and why I felt a piece of myself sliding back into place tonight. I had to be the most fucked up person in this city.

Instead of sleeping I lay awake thinking about everything and I can’t help it. I go over this morning—god it felt like weeks ago. Josie’s graduation. Josie. Gray. Even Michelle.

I feel slightly paralyzed by everything that transpired today—it truly felt like peering through a glass window into a life I used to have. I try to break open the glass, sort it all out.

On one side is me and everything I’ve done this whole year to move on from the crumbs of my life here in London. I don’t know why but I really did think that coming back I would be 100% untouchable by my past. I was an idiot for thinking that because I was bothered that Gray seemed to have a steady girlfriend. Why did I think anything would rekindle between us?

I dig deeper, did I even want that to happen? Or did I just want to prove to myself that I was the one Gray let get away because I was too scared to face the possibility that I was the one who let Gray get away.

But clearly something didn’t work with us, I think bitterly. A few months with his new girl and he found the balls to open up with me and communicate his grievances and his apologies.

Love that’s as fierce and loyal as you are, he had said. Was I too much for Gray? Is that why we were made to burn out? It hurt too that he had damaged all my relationships I made in my life here in London only to cut those same people out of his life immediately after I left. The more I think about it the angrier I feel.

And his mom, I still feel bruised by her acting like she didn’t even know me. It stokes the anger higher. Her own son has called her crazy on multiple occasions, I was always nothing but kind to her. Gray was the one who put the final nail in our coffin yet the woman who called me her daughter and claimed to love me had been cruel. Even in the face of getting along for Josie’s sake she had put her petty feelings in the forefront.

These people made me so angry.

How did I ever think I could rekindle anything with Gray? As much as I was to blame, I realize, Gray couldn’t even be kind in the end. Just because the year apart was good to him didn’t mean he would still be good for me.

I think about the man laying beside me, in a hypothetical situation if things got ugly I instinctively want to say he would be cruel too. But I have to push past the persona he claimed to have put up and think about the glimpses of the man I saw underneath. Something tells me he would be just as fiery in letting me know how he was feeling. But with his recent apologies I’m not as convinced he would go out of his way to hurt me again.

Even in the bar last night, I just assumed he called me Mrs. Duran to be cruel but he hadn’t known. Or when I had assumed at Josie’s birthday party I would be fired for forgetting wine because he was an asshole when really he just acted like one so I wouldn’t feel worse.

How many times had I judged people because of how skewed my own lens was? It’s a sobering reminder.

Josie’s face flashes through my mind and I tear up at knowing we were going to cut each other out. No matter how much we loved each other staying in touch at this rate was no longer sustainable. For her best interest.

I think of my younger brother back home, my older sister, our family of 5. When I went back home there was so much to catch up on and eventually, apologize for. I had missed out on so much of my family’s life because I believed I needed to leave to grow. Well, life sure handed me a lot of lessons but I needed to go back home to plant them and let me grow.

Harry stirs beside me, nuzzling my neck in his sleep. I feel myself go teary eyed for no reason.

I wondered if this was just a one-night thing. If we would see each other again while I was in London. Did I want to see him? My heart sings yes immediately.

Damn.

What was it about him that pushed my emotions to the highest highs and lowest lows. How did he know every button to push and every bruise to kiss. This had to be toxic, we couldn’t just take our great big baggage of a past and see each other casually while I was in London. It couldn’t be that easy.

What if it was, hope whispers. I squirm. Could I forgive Harry for everything he’d done?

“Y’sleeping?” Harry mumbles to my left. Shit.

“Yeah,” I say which invokes a throaty chuckle from him. I check the time, it was nearly 4. Double shit.

“Liar,” he tugs on my hips and I turn to face him. “Talk to me.”

I couldn’t. Half of my thought were about him. And how could I tell him I was thinking about my ex after spending the night with him. So I just shake my head.

“Please?” He brushes my cheek with his thumb. “You need to sleep.”

“I-“ I try to say I can’t but the words get stuck in my throat. The emotions of everything I’d been thinking in the last couple hours threaten to dislodge the words from my throat so I close my mouth. But it doesn’t work.

A sob bursts out of me and before I can reel it all in the floodgates swing open and it carries all the pent-up sorrow and confusion, grief and anguish I had bottled up.

Harry freezes for a moment, probably very confused to wake up and have me reacting this way. But he recovers and pulls me into his warm chest.

“What is going on in that head of yours love,” Harry murmurs. Love. I sob even harder.

He murmurs reassuring words whilst stroking my back and I cry an embarrassing amount in the same bed where just hours ago I was blissed beyond comprehension. Life moves fast.

Finally when I gain enough composure I lean away, covering my face because crying into him was one thing but seeing my ugly cry face was another.

“Here,” I feel his body move and then tissues pressed into my hand. I’m grateful for them but I wasn’t going to blow my nose here. I sit up and try to dry my nose. His hand reaches out and the tips of his fingers rest on my spine like he was tethering my lost body to him. Somehow even that is reassuring.

“Don’t go trying to kiss my nose this early on again,” I try to joke through a stuffy voice.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he tugs my arm a little and I fall back beside him. He holds me in both his arms and I watch in horror and affection as he kisses the tip of my nose.

“Stop being so nice,” I laugh and cry a little too.

“You’re actually complaining about me being nice?”

“No I just—I’m not used to it,” I press the tissue to my eyes again.

“Well get used to it,” he peels the hair off of my face and pushes it back. “I don’t want to be the one hurting you. I swear to never ever be the reason you cry like this to anyone.”

“Don’t say those sorts of things if you don’t mean it.”

“I do,” he caresses my face. “You’re breaking my heart y/n, I don’t know who hurt you but I never want to see you like this. Especially not because of me alright? I’m sorry if I ever-“

“Stop,” I put my hand to his mouth. Which is kind of gross since I just blew my nose but I’m pretty sure him kissing my snotty nose means he didn’t care.

“But-“ he says behind my hand.

“I’m embarrassed right now,” I admit.

“You have seen me in every compromising situation,” Harry says. “And we have been through too much together to be embarrassed right now.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “It is tiring.”

“Maybe you can finally sleep now that it’s…almost 5?”

“Sorry,” I sigh. “I hope you don’t have something early?”

“Nope,” he kisses the top of my head. “And even if I did it wouldn’t matter.”

So we both try to go back to bed and I manage to fall asleep, all of those tiring racing thoughts washed away by a good cry. I feel warm and cared for and vulnerable and protected. A stark change from how Harry has made me feel before. Maybe this was temporary or maybe this was the start of something new. I’m just taking it minute by minute while all I can think is Do I or Don’t I?

***

It’s my final week in London and if you’d asked me a couple weeks ago if I was looking forward to going back home I would have said without hesitation yes.

But that night at Harry’s and putting my past to rest brushes away an old and tired film I had been viewing the city with since I landed.

We had seen each other a couple times a week since—I’ve been cautious despite my body saying otherwise. There were many days I had been free but I had made up some excuse not to see him, I was scared of getting too attached and having to leave.

But I can’t deny how nice it was to be with Harry without any labels. Most of the time I went over to his, it was tricky going out somewhere too public and risking getting papped. Together we just talk about life and work, my life back in America and my relationship with my family, his life growing up and his relationship with stardom. We watch movies and listen to music and make jokes and I open up a little about what had been weighing on my mind that night.

Winnie teases me that I was lighter than she’s ever seen me, that London looked good on me. I tell her she’s crazy. But even Oretta admits it when Winnie brings it up to her.

Harry makes the effort to make up for how he acted until it’s not just words. I believe what he was saying. And I admit to my faults too.

We still get under each other’s skin.

The thing we argue about the most is an opportunity Harry tries to get me to sign off on. The link he texted me when I was in Cambridge was an upcoming single one of his friends was releasing and he wanted to get me to bid on executing a music video for it. I tell him he was nuts and that I had no experience, plus I had a job. But he persists. He thinks I should explore putting my creative skills to use and not just my organizational skills. The arguing continues.

I have a date with him tonight, at the same bar we bumped into each other that first night. I have a question I’d been meaning to ask him.

“You aren’t actually a regular here are you?” I ask when we’ve settled.

“Of course I am,” he says but I know he’s lying. I raise my brow and he looks everywhere but at me. “Fine. I’m not.”

“So how the hell did you end up here that night?”

“Coincidence.”

“Liar.”

“I’m an honest man.”

“Truth please?”

“You’re embarrassing me here let’s move on.”

“Nuh-uh,” I’m enjoying his bright cheeks and darting eyes. “Did you stalk me or something?”

“I…I knew this was a local spot for you. Or was.”

“Really? How?”

“You mentioned it a few times? And I dropped you off here once after work.”

He might’ve. I’d met many friends and especially Gray here. I motion for him to continue.

“I might’ve known you were in town, might’ve found out you were here and…”

“So you did stalk me,” I gasp. “Oh my god ladies and gents he is obsessed.”

“That’s a strong word.” He argues.

“You. Stalked. Me.”

“Oh fine, I’ll confess: I’m used to the stalkers and I thought it was high time I did some stalking and see what the fun was all about,” he joins in on making fun of himself.

“Someone get me a restraining order,” I say just as someone approaches our table with drinks. As soon as they leave we burst out laughing.

“So have you given the music video any more thought?” Harry asks as the evening continues.

“Can we not talk about this right now?” I ask.

“I just think you should give it serious thought. I know you want to go into PR, be somebody’s Graham, but you have a really good eye for this thing. Before you pursue what you think you want, try this out.”

“You’re one dude,” I say again. “Who believes I can do this. You want me to throw away the career I’ve worked on for years to dabble in this and potentially waste time instead of getting to where I want?”

“Firstly, if you love doing something it’s not time wasted. And secondly you only ever need just one person to believe in you, angel.”

His fingers brush mine on the table, the familiar electricity courses through me just through the small touch. And of course, his use of pet names always turned me to putty. I hated how malleable he made me.

“Consider it. Just write a proposal y/n, it’s not betraying Oretta or anything. I can talk to her if you want if they choose your idea.”

It was scary putting myself out there for something I didn’t believe in myself for. But my echoes of burnout grow towards the idea of doing something less demanding than being an assistant just like a sunflower to the sun. It basks in letting my creativity flow.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Not for too long,” he taps my fingers again. We were cautious about being too touchy in public, even in a place like this where people genuinely didn’t care who he was. “Proposal’s due at the end of next week.”

When I would be back home in America. Away from here. Him.

We hadn’t talked about it, if we would try to keep in touch. I can’t really imagine a long-distance thing with Harry. Not at this stage. Mostly we enjoyed being in each other’s company and I was scared forcing labels just because we would be apart would ruin this fragile thing.

“Fine.” He’d worn me down and I submit. “Fine I’ll get something in for you.”

He pulls back with a shocked expression. “Did I just convince the stubborn y/n y/l/n to do something she didn’t want to do?”

I scowl. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t,” he laughs, waving his hands around him like he was fanning in an aroma. “I’m soaking this in though.”

“Whatever,” I say with a smile.

“You make me work hard,” he smiles back. “For everything y/n. That’s one of the things I l-I-that I really like about you.”

We ignore the near slip of something far too serious for what we had going. We move past it but it sets my heart racing.

“So this friend of yours,” I change the subject. “With the music video. Didn’t you guys have like, beef when you were on tour? All that article stuff?”

“You of all people should know not to believe what you see online. It was all manipulated and put out of context.”

“I know but you were all moody for all your shows afterwards. I remember Jeff and Graham complaining. I assumed the articles had worn you down a bit.”

He raises a brow like he’s waiting on me to figure something out.

“What?”

“Really? You think it was the artcles?”

“Well what else happened that-“

Oh god. Was I that stupid?

Of course it wasn’t the articles, it was me! Us.

A smile stretches over the contours of his face as realization dawns on mine, “Twice in a row I’ve got you today, I should buy a lottery ticket.”

“I’m off my game today is all, don’t get used to it.”

I can’t believe it. Not that I didn’t believe Harry after the last few weeks but I—that night—really meant that much to him that his feelings over it had affected the rest of his tour? I had affected his tour?

“Why didn’t you say anything if it was weighing on you so much? If I recall I tried to talk to you a couple times.” I ask.

“What could I say,” he snorts. “You were engaged and my loss of control was why you cheated. Then you were quitting and I knew if I said anything you might have stayed. I didn’t want to keep you where you didn’t want to be.”

His words tug at my heart. He really had thought up a storm.

“Harry,” I lean back. “Gray and I broke up before I joined you guys on tour again. We weren’t cheating.”

His forehead creases, “What?! But you were together at my London show. I thought you two broke up after you moved back home?”

“No,” I guess in the last few weeks I’d just mentioned we broke up a long time ago. He didn’t know any specifics. “We were fake-together because he hadn’t broken the news to his sister then. But that’s why I was all…y’know in Barcelona-“

“Fuck me,” he groans. “No wonder you thought I was an ass for pulling you away-“

“Well you were-“

“Yeah alright-“

“Why did you really pull me away though?”

“I…I was feeling a bit possessive.”

“What?”

I wasn’t expecting that to come out of his mouth. He smiles sheepishly, “I thought we already came to terms with that.”

My stomach does a few somersaults. Until tonight I don’t think I’ve really focused on the magnitude of how Harry felt back then. Parts of my mind were still remembering him as a prick just because it was easier to remember my side of things. But this spins things in a brighter light.

“I was just your assistant though.”

“Y/N,” he tilts his head to the side. “Did I not already tell you what I thought about you that night in my flat?”

“Yeah but-“

“I’d never met anyone like you, I really liked you. I couldn’t have you though and I had to push you away constantly. And that drove me a bit crazy sometimes.”

I let out a noisy breath, wondering if how he felt about me was just as intense now as it was then. A part of me knows it must be. Feelings like that didn’t fade. But here I was, barely knowing what it was I felt for him. All I knew was that it was nice when we were together.

Why me, I want to ask. But I hold back. It wasn’t a question I could ask my ex-employer current-lover part-time-asshole.

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “Was that a bit strong?”

“No,” I sigh again and he laughs. “Fine. A little. But it’s fine, I’m okay.”

“Okay,” he believes me. “So you broke off your engagement and didn’t tell anyone?”

“Kinda, we weren’t in a place we could come back from. We decided that mutually after things blew up. He didn’t even know I was leaving the country actually.”

Harry whistles. “You ran out on all of us.”

I scratch the side of my head, “Maybe?”

“Well I’ve enjoyed having you again, here.” He says with sincerity. “I’m really relieved to be able to get to say everything I wanted to your face.”

I agree. Neither of us mention I was leaving later in the week.

Even by the night before I’m leaving London we still hadn’t discussed a thing. But there’s a heaviness to us as we have dinner at his, as we pretend to watch a movie only to cuddle on the couch. We lay there facing each other and I trace his eyes, his nose, his wonderful mouth. It’s so odd to me that this was the same Harry Styles performing in sold out venues and on the walls of teenage bedrooms. That I got to have him in these quiet moments and be present.

I feel so grateful for this. That I didn’t have to carry around these draining stories within me anymore, that it felt like it happened to someone else. In a way even if nothing came from all this, I got closure. I was able to move on now.

I imagine my heart and it feels like when you take a stroll mid-March and realize nature was healing from winter’s blues. Warm and blooming the earth was growing again—my heart was growing stronger. Now the idea of a date or a partner didn’t seem so daunting and exhausting. I would never have guessed that it would take the man who almost broke me to come into my life again for me to see how to fit those pieces back in place again.

“I don’t know what I’m gonna do not having you in town anymore,” his lashes flutter as I run my hand through his hair. It was still shorter than I was used to but it had grown in the last three weeks.

“Oh you’ll be fine,” I say. “I’ve worked on your schedule before: meetings and studio sessions and photoshoots and interviews.”

“A busy life isn’t always a full one,” he whispers. And it’s the closest thing to a confession we were going to get to. I cover his mouth with mine and we indulge in each other one final time.

There is a symphony of unexpected but undeniable intimacy woven between the beats of our entwined hearts. I know I would probably never feel this way with anyone and I don’t think I’d want to. Being with Harry was passion. It was losing myself and finding myself at the same time. It was being vulnerable and guarded and cherished and known.

My flight out tomorrow is around noon but I can’t stay the night as I’d have to help Oretta in the morning to make sure everything gets to the airport in time. Harry walks me down to his lobby and we stand there for a few, just holding each other tight. He doesn’t ask me to stay and I don’t ask him to come.

“This isn’t goodbye y/n,” Harry says when we part. His hand rests on his heart. I know the feeling, mine aches so hard I want to press my hand to it just to tell it everything would be fine.

“No,” I shake my head. My eyes had been teary ever since he squeezed me to him. “We’ll talk soon.”

“You’ll be directing music videos soon.”

I roll my eyes, “I’m still working on the proposal.”

“I have a good feeling about it.”

“That makes one of us. But…thanks for believing in me.”

“Thanks for believing in me,” he whispers. “Even when you didn’t have to.”

I’m glad I did. The only time in my life not paying attention to the warning bells had paid off.

“I’ve been working with this new producer and he wants me to come out to a studio in Cotati?” Harry mentions. “How far is that from where you are? Are you still in m Burbank?”

“Burbank’s where my parents are,” I shake my head. I look up what he’s talking about and feel a thrill when it’s less than a couple hours. Still, I try to maintain neutrality. “A little over an hour?”

“Well,” he brushes my hair over my shoulder and keeps his eyes looking just over it. “Depending on what you’re doing—maybe if you’re free…we can see each other again?”

I would love that. My heart is bursting just thinking of getting to have him in the place I called home. Of this meaning something. Of him wanting to see me again.

“Of course if you have a boyfriend by then and he doesn’t want you to see me that’s…I mean, live your life and if it works out we-“

“Yes,” I cut him off. “Yeah. Let’s see but that sounds good.”

He meets my gaze and I laugh a little, he was nervous and that was rare.

“Good,” he smiles with. “Until next time.”

“Until next time,” I step into his arms and it’s a quick affair before he steps away. I turn to head out the door, shielding my eyes from him. Not wanting him to see that this was stupidly hard to say goodbye.

He waves me off and I head back to my hotel with a heavy heart. But I think about him asking to see me again. Who knows when that would be. And I know this wasn’t the end of our story.

***

I’m happy to land in SFO the following evening, happy to busy myself with Oretta’s business, happy to have Winnie chattering away. I spent parts of the flight I wasn’t sleeping working on my MV proposal and it awakens a familiar passion inside of me I’d been afraid I’d lost.

I send out a silent thanks to Harry for knowing what was good for me.

I think of Harry often, Gray even less until I don’t think of him at all. I dream of London weekly; I missed it this time around. And as life resumes again I anticipate the change I sense on the horizon.

So when life gives me lemons I stop asking Do I or Don’t I. If one thing the last year has taught me was I had to listen to my gut and look at the signs. I had to start asking what I wanted and go after it. Even though Harry and I barely talk, I remember the lessons he’s taught me.

I stop looking to others to make decisions. There’s no guidebook or lists to help me make my decisions either. I take deep breaths and I believe in myself.

I build a new life on the remains of my old. I don’t let it dictate what I did anymore, I simply leave it as the foundation to elevate me even higher. I reach for the sky with my feet planted firmly on the ground. And I grow with reckless abandon.

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TAGLIST: @boomitsallie1 @indierockgirrl @ndunad @jerseygirlinca @sunshinemoonsposts @ninasw0rld @love-letters-to-uranus @mayamonroem @sassamanda77 @harryspirate

🤍

#writingsfromhome #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff #musician!harry #harry styles series #harry stylesxreader #enemies to lovers #dos and don’ts #this is DONE #I HAD THE MOST FUN WRITING THIS I REALLY POURED MY HEART INTO IT #IM SO HAPPY ITS DONE #AHHH #I LOVED WRITING THESE CHARACTERS #EVEN THE FRUSTRATING ONES #fic #<3 #i considered an epilogue but firstly not enough space and secondly idk if this open-ish ending suited the series? #if you didn’t like the ending I’m sorry just consider the alternate ending to be right after the grad dinner #but listen distance and experience provides perspective so nobody stay mad #okk byee #love ya

[happi-dreams]

Uhh silly au go woo!!!

Basic idea : catnap but he’s now a little magical dream being that can go into the critters dreams and help them out when they’re having nightmares and such (like princess luna but with cinderella’s grandmother aesthetics)

( lil comic under the cut!! :D )

#they’re very silly to me #catnap #dogday #art #smiling critters au #idk what to call this au yett #but i think its neat #all of the crittters wear jammies and they just sorta vibe #with catnap just kinda being a sorta mystery to them #oh yeah lil funfact bout him #his lil moon pendant glows whenever a critter is having a nightmare #and his little smoke trail thing is all red n stuff ish #this au is just mostly fluff stuff

[atlaswav]

LOST WITHOUT YOU ☆

INFO: 2812 words, Alhaitham x gn!reader, a little mildly suggestive content (16+) SYNOPSIS: after focusing your whole life on studies and beating Alhaitham, you find that you've lost yourself, and you don't know how to put yourself back together. AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is so rushed and bad but the ideas just kept flowing out and suddenly I wrote a whole short story 😓 (unedited pls lmk if u find errors! likes and reblogs also very much appreciated!!!)

It was never a competition – not to him, at least. 

Him, with his cold, unwavering demeanour and even colder, unshakable gaze. 

It never was a competition, but to you, everything was. You hated it all. You hated his expression, permanently arranged in disdain, and his withering glare. That look that he always gave you, always the same, blank stare. 

Above all, you loathed his overwhelming sense of self importance. He carried himself with such an air that you felt absolutely unremarkable next to him, and in your drunken wishes, you yearned for him to be put in his place. 

Wishful drinking, you called it, and such was suited to a night like this. The night before receiving the results for your final exams, the only one that really mattered in your seemingly futile quest to outshine Alhaitham. 

Your roommates were fully aware of your infatuation, though you wouldn’t call it that. They teased you for locking yourself up in your room while they went out socialising and bar streaking, most often returning with the reek of alcohol staining their clothes, passing out on the couch. 

They thought you weren’t a drinker, too, but truthfully, you only saved drinking for important occasions, and this seemed like an occasion important enough. With a flair for dramatic, you had claimed yet another bottle of cheap wine off the kitchen counter before retreating to your room, several glances of concern and curiosity following you down the hallway. Seated on the miniature balcony, you twisted open the cap on the bottle, wincing at the wine’s harsh bitterness as time slipped by, minutes blurring into hours with hushed murmurs outside your door. 

They cared, they really did. But you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge them, not with your thoughts too occupied with outdoing Alhaitham to amount to anything substantial. Your roommates already thought you were a studying fanatic – those looks of concern weren’t a first time occurrence as you trudged up the stairs with the wine in tow. You didn’t care enough to correct or reassure them  – though were they wrong?

You hardly left the house enough, if it weren’t for classes and your job, you’d be a hermit. It felt suffocating, sometimes, the life you’d given yourself. Though ahead in all other aspects, you couldn’t help but feel like you were falling behind. Everyone was falling in love, while you fell behind, caught in the grinding cycle of academics and validation.

Melancholic and dramatic, you were, when you were drunk. Though others may be hopeless romantics. 

“[name]? Someone’s here to see you.” Your roommate knocks on your door. 

You don’t glance over your shoulder as the knocking becomes more insistent. “No thanks.”

“May I come in?” A familiar voice echoes from down the hallway. Your hand freezes halfway to the bottle. 

The door creaks open, and you turn around, slowly standing up and steadying yourself on the railing. Alhaitham stands in the doorframe, only his silhouette visible through the light pouring in through the hallway. 

You’re suddenly far too aware of your pyjama pants and well worn hoodie, folding your arms across yourself. “Why are you here?” 

He stands there for a while, completely still. Then he sighs. “I don’t know.” Stepping across the threshold, he starts to close the door behind him. 

“I didn’t say you could come in,”

“Sorry.” He says. After a brief silence, he leaves. 

You stand there, confused, with unspoken questions hanging in the air. 

Then, the door opens again. 

You’d never seen him so unsteady before, gaze darting around the room and a flush high on his cheeks. His Emerald eyes are bright as he steps into the dim light of your room. “I have to come in.”

You frown at him in confusion. “Why are you here?” 

The moment doesn’t seem real as he crosses the room, joining you on the balcony. Quiet lingers around the two of you as you give up asking for his motive and simply reassume your position at the railing. Maybe you’re too tired or burnt out to care, but as he hesitantly joins you, casting you indiscreet side glances, you offer him the bottle. 

A show of camaraderie, perhaps. 

He shakes his head, and you take a swig from the bottle, yourself, before setting it back on the low, rusty coffee table.

He fidgets with his hands, turning the ring on his index finger over and over. It clicks with the ring on his other finger, occasionally, resonating an irritating ticking noise.

“Can you stop? What do you want?” You finally outburst, startling him. Alhaitham faces you now, entirely focused on you. But his usual look of casual disdain is gone, and you’re not sure you recognise the man staring at you. 

His features bathed in moonlight, his gaze looks softer than it ever had before. The soft breeze brushes his hair across his forehead, and you can’t help but wonder how soft they’d feel to your touch. 

“I want you,” 

Before you can fully register his reply, he draws you in, one hand reaching around your waist, another reaching softly into your hair, and kisses you. 

You fail to register anything at all – all other sensation is irrelevant with the sheer feeling of the warmth of his lips on yours. It feels so wrong, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away. 

It’s intoxicating. He tastes like wine. 

He withdraws, expression blank again. 

“What?” You utter, and abruptly, as if snapping out of a stance, he flees your room with such rapidity that you have to consider whether or not it was all a dream. As his footsteps echo down the hallway, you run a hand through your hair, tousled by his touch, snatch the bottle from its place and drink deeply. 

– 

The autumn chill drifts in the air. Other students dawdle about on the lawns, boisterous laughter echoing across the courtyard. Your class sits in solemn silence. You with your ringing head in your hands, and him with his back turned to everyone, focused on the lecture hall’s door. 

When you woke that morning, the morning after that, you were insistent on believing that it was a dream. But the empty bottle lying on the balcony and the ring on the ground said otherwise. 

You turn the metal ring over in your pocket, running a finger over the miniature inscriptions on the inside. 

‘Empathy, the double-edged sword’

You’d been fretting over how to return the ring, avoiding the primary subject on your mind – overshadowed with the return of the test papers. 

The minutes tick by in anxious silence until the door bursts open with a professor whose arms are filled with papers. 

If it weren’t for the pounding hangover, you’d be laughing at the anticlimactic atmosphere. The professor grumbles under his breath as he hands out the exam papers and results, not offering a general comment on the class’ results. 

He reaches Alhaitham, and gives him the pleased look he always gives him. The class launches into whispers of speculation. 

The professor’s walk down the aisles of chairs seems like it takes forever, and you have half a mind to snatch the stack of papers out of his hands and wildly search for yours. 

Until he stops in front of you. 

A slight smile as he hands the paper to you. 

“Well done.” 

A perfect score. 

Over your shoulder, someone announces it to the entire class. 

Alhaitham meets your eyes with a soft smile and a nod. A ninety nine is hastily scrawled onto the front page with red ink. 

Relief; Your heart and head feel light, but your stomach is filled with butterflies. It should feel liberating, but you’re unsure what – how – to feel. The past few years had led up to this moment, but it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like you thought it would, like the victory you’d hoped it would’ve been. 

As quick as it was, your relief is gone, quickly replaced by a sinking feeling of foreboding as you walk out of the classroom, congratulations falling on deaf ears. 

– 

It’s midnight, again, and you’re awake, tossing another empty bottle into the corner to join the others. 

Your roommates were overjoyed for you, they cooked you a celebratory dinner, toasted to your success, and teased you about going clubbing with them that night. Yet you turned them down like you always did, because nothing felt right anymore. 

That gaping hole in your heart, previously haphazardly filled with academics, now felt like a great, yawning chasm with no bottom in sight. 

Your entire purpose had been fulfilled, and you had a bright future with job offers lying in your emails, untouched, but it didn’t feel complete. 

You realised that you lost yourself. 

In trying to become better than someone else, you’d lost yourself, and you didn’t know how to find a way back. 

“[name], we’re going out, are you sure you don’t want to join us?” 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” 

A slight pause. “Okay. Also, your friend from before is at the front door. Should I let him in?”

You vividly recall the intoxicating, wine stained taste of Alhaitham’s lips against your own, the sensation of his fingers tangling in your hair, and his hand bracing your waist on this very balcony. The ring sits in your pocket, the tiny scrap of metal heavier than ever – a burning weight.

“Sure. Send him up here.” You manage. 

Melancholic and dramatic were a few of the things you were when you were drunk, but you were also known to have made horrifyingly bad decisions.

You hear your roommate walk down the hallway and down the stairs. You hear the front door open and close. You take the ring out of your pocket and start turning it over in your hands, pacing around your balcony all the while. 

A knock on your door, and you snap to attention, waiting a while before weakly calling for him to enter. 

The door slowly creaks open, and his silhouette fills the doorframe. He leans against it, seemingly unsure of whether or not to fully enter.

A long silence ensues. 

“Are you here to take your ring back?” You start, holding it out. 

“Oh. Yeah.” But he doesn’t cross the room. So you do. You walk toward the door, stepping into the light of the hallway as he steps back. 

His cheeks are flushed, gaze darting and fleeting. 

With more daring than you’d ever displayed, you grab his hand and slide the ring back on, marvelling at his fingers – long, slender, pale. Pretty. A scholar’s hands. 

“Thanks.” He murmurs, looking up from your hands, meeting your eyes for the first time. 

The soft look is back again. 

“Congratulations, by the way.” He starts, removing his hands from yours. “Professor said we were going to share valedictorian.” 

You nod, suddenly immensely uncomfortable. “Not surprised.”

He nods as well, seemingly sheepishly, muttering something under his breath that you don’t catch. 

“What was that?” 

“Kaveh said that if I don’t tell you tonight, he’d tell you himself.” 

“Well tell him that I said thanks.” 

He rubs his face with his hand, exasperated. “No, not congratulations,”

“Then what?”

He gives you a long look. 

“Are you going to stare at me all night?”

“Archons, I don’t know what you do to me.” He takes your face in his hands and brings your lips to his. 

It all feels so right. Alhaitham tastes just as intoxicating as he did the first time, only now, there’s a fervour behind his movements. The cherry wine on his lips is exhilaratingly rich. You could get drunk off his taste alone. 

His hands boldly move down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin – in return, your hands wander his torso, teasingly skimming the skin beneath his shirt. He shudders, pulling away, although the sheer intensity of his gaze tells you that he won’t be leaving you this time. 

“Does that tell you what I'm here to tell you?”

“Might have to explain a little more,” You rasp, catching your breath. 

Some sort of restraint within his self control snaps, and he pushes you into your room, locking your door behind you. 

In light of what happened after that, you were tremendously grateful that your roommates had left to go clubbing. 

– 

Neither of you were sure what it was. 

The morning after, he’d left before you woke up. Rather than feeling betrayed, you appreciated his absence, as it gave you time to gather your scattered, alcohol imbued thoughts. 

It soon became a regular thing, where he’d stop by your shared house – that you’d never given him the address to (although he later explained that he got it from Kaveh) – to see you. It wasn’t always a hook up, sometimes he dropped by in the middle of the day if you were around, and made conversation. 

The first few nights, however, were actively avoided. He would always hurriedly change the topic or avoid the question, averting your gaze. But it didn’t matter now – or so you thought – as he sat on your bed, watching you read. 

A month ago, you’d have kicked him out without a second thought, but here you were, making idle conversation about something as ordinary as TV shows and work with him while you read. 

It felt nice – right. It felt like you’d known each other for years when you were intent on resenting him for your entire college career. It felt so secure that you’d forget why you hated him. 

“What’s on your mind?” He asked, flipping through one of the novels lying on the bedside table. 

“You.” 

Alhaitham rolls his eyes. “Of course I am.”

You hit him lightly with your book. “Pretentious little shit.”

“Wounded.” He deadpans, setting the book back down. 

“Seriously though, I find it so weird that you’re sitting on my bed and making normal conversation with me when a year ago I’d have given you a black eye if you showed up to my house unannounced.”

He frowns. “Why?”

You level him with a blank stare. “Are you being sarcastic?”

He shakes his head, expression genuine. 

“You’re not kidding?” You set aside your book, leaning in. “I hated you, you know that, right?”

“What?” His expression is one of genuine surprise as he takes in the apparently new information. “Since when? Why?”

“You have to be kidding me.” You laugh at the comical nature of it all. “You didn’t know?”

He stares at you, mouth half open in shock. “The whole time?”

You nod. 

He lies down on your bed, still digesting the discovery. “I thought…”

“What did you think?” 

“Your friends always just said that you didn’t socialise a lot, I thought you just didn’t know how to socialise or something,” 

You sit and observe him in silence for a while. 

“Sorry, I don’t know why I’m surprised” he runs a hand through his steel grey hair. “It was so obvious, now that I think about it. How could I have not realised?”

“Your turn. Tell me.” You suddenly say, lying down next to him. “What did you want to tell me the first night you visited me?”

He goes quiet. He’s quiet for so long that you have to check if he’s still awake. His gaze is pointed at your ceiling, the glow in the dark stars there. 

“I’ve been somewhat in love with you for the longest time.” He finally admits, voice thick.

“You what?” You sit up, mouth agape. “What the fuck?”

“If you want me to leave, I’ll go.” He says, sitting up as well. “I figured I should tell you eventually, and that time is now.”

Quiet ensues, as it so often does when you’re around each other. Not an uncomfortable sort of quiet – the quiet that speaks louder than words. 

You’d both been blind the whole time. You, for your infatuation with him – with beating him, with his person, with his attitude and, though you’d never admit it to him, his looks – and him, with his one sided love for you. 

And though you’d both been too near-sighted to see the other person in their entirety, now your cracks are showing. The recesses in his facade of steel, and the fractures in your mask of indifference. 

Two puzzle pieces. Pieces that could mould to each other, shaping and weathering with time. 

So when he makes to leave, you grab his hand. A silent question. The tension eases from his shoulders, and Alhaitham pulls you off the bed, wrapping you in his arms. 

The past few weeks with him have proven nothing but the possibility of loving him. That the hatred that you’d accumulated over months of blind infatuation masked the presence of something far more confronting.

You couldn’t recognise yourself in the mirror anymore. So much of you was missing. But maybe, the two of you could find yourselves in each other. 

written by @delat1ne, published 27th of August 2023

#genshin #genshin impact #alhaitham #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham fanfic #alhaitham fics #genshin x reader #genshin angst #genshin imagines #alhaitham angst #alhaitham fluff #theres a tiny bit of fluff if you squint #melodramatic asf #college au #genshin college au #genshin modern au #academic rivals #academic rivals to something like lovers #open ending ish? #ive never actually written this much in one sitting this is a new record for me #i don't normally have the attention span to do this much at once cries #thank you to everyone who actually reads this absolute monster of a post