#god it’s just annoying. i sound american as hell and it’s still not obvious to so many ppl. i had a high school teacher who asked me like 3 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mypunkpansexualtwin · 3 years

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Pegoryu week 2021 is here and I have two whole entries that are gonna be done on time! The rest will happen, I promise, they'll just be late.

Anyways! the fic is under the cut and the link is in the reblogs as per usual. Hope y'all enjoy!

“Man, y’know you don’t hafta let Ann bully you like that, right?” Ryuji whispered over to Akira and reached for the flower poking out of his hair. To his surprise, Aki actually batted his hand away with a huff and tucked the thing a little more tightly behind his ear.

“First off, I do have to let Ann bully me. And then I bully back. That’s just what our friendship is,” he explained, not bothering to lower his voice while the girls were off getting more drinks. Not that it woulda made much difference, he was a pretty quiet guy even when he was being obnoxious. Usually. Ryuji cringed as Aki noisily sipped the meltwater from the bottom of his glass and held up a second finger. “Second, I like flowers, thank you very much. And thirdly,” almost against his will, Ryuji’s eyes tracked the swipe of Akira’s tongue across his lower lip as it shifted the straw from one corner of his mouth to the other before he continued, “red’s my color.” Ryuji swallowed.

“Y-yeah. D’you gotta chew your straw like that, dude? It’s kinda... gross.” Gross. That was the word he was trying to hold onto in his brain with both damn hands. Gross. It was gross, dammit. The straw chewing and the obnoxious slurping were habits that usually grated on his brain worse than a Metaverse confusion-and-psychic-attack double whammy. Today, though? Today he barely noticed it, he was too distracted. Maybe it was the heat or the jet lag, or the fact that seeing all these American girls with bikinis and curves that made Ann look downright bland by comparison meant that his brain had glued itself into the gutter. The fact that he almost never saw Akira with his glasses off sure as hell wasn’t helping either, considering the damn things had to be for everyone else’s sake. Under the scruffy nerd look Akira Kurusu was as much of a damn pretty-boy as Yusuke Kitagawa or that asshole Akechi with those effin’ eyes. That was an objective fact that even a guy as straight as Ryuji could see. Hell, if it weren’t for the glasses he’d probably be Shujin’s favorite bad boy--regardless of which way any of the students swung--instead of Ryuji’s fellow delinquent outcast. This wasn’t news to him, but for some damn reason something was different today.

Today, some goddamn wire got crossed in Ryuji’s brain and he kinda wanted to beat its ass. Today, he’d lost track of how many times he’d caught himself staring at those stupidly long eyelashes that any of Ann’s coworkers would kill to have, and the way they cast soft shadows over those perfectly smooth cheeks. Or the way Akira’s usually dark grey eyes looked almost silver in the sunlight. Or how they’d crinkle just a little at the corners when he smiled that soft little hint of a smile that already did weird, mushy things to Ryuji’s guts on a normal day. Or the way his lips were just a little fuller than either of the girls’ were but just as soft-looking. Ryuji wondered if maybe he used some kind of lip balm or something, but one without any color. If it didn’t have any color, would it at least have a flavor--

...Anyways.

Ryuji had decided to blame it on that damn flower. Akira stared at him, a little confused, the straw still resting on his lower lip as he breathed out a quiet, “huh?” Then he glanced down at his mostly empty drink and then frowned sheepishly as the realization hit him. “Oh! Sorry, I know that drives you crazy.” Oh right, Ryuji had asked a question and had already forgotten. Akira set the glass on the table next to where Ann had given up and dropped the other hibiscus she’d been hellbent on putting in Ryuji’s hair. He had enough time to grimace at the sad, mangled end of the straw--and the thoughts his traitorous, overcooked brain conjured up about where it had just been--before Aki reached out, swiped the other flower, and tucked it next to the other behind his ear.

If Yusuke were there (because that was what Ryuji needed, more clueless pretty-boys punching holes in his sanity), he’d have his hands up in that finger-frame thing he always did when he was planning out a painting in his brain. The artist would be ready and raring to try and turn Akira into his latest masterpiece... that he’d end up bitching about not being good enough to capture right a week later. That wouldn’t be Yusuke’s fault though, Akira was just weird like that; in every picture of him he just looked like Some Dude, like a background character in his own life, Guy With Glasses #3 or something. But right now, right in front of Ryuji he looked… compelling, or some shit like that. Pretty as a damn painting that you couldn’t help but stare at for a while and contemplate your life, ‘cause that was easier than tryin’ to understand what was in front of you.

“Seriously, Aki?” Ryuji sighed at the second blossom now peeking out of Akira’s unruly frizz. He shoulda kept his damn mouth shut, let Akira keep chewing on his damn straw and drive him crazy in the annoying way and not… whatever this was. It had to be the heat. Ryuji was secretly dying of heatstroke, that had to be it.

“Red. Is. My. Color.” Akira crossed his arms and pouted, and Ryuji had to bite back a laugh at how his best friend had puffed out his cheeks while he sulked. Cute, but a safe kind of cute. Like back at the buffet, in that open kind of way that made Ryuji wonder what Akira had been like as a little kid. That looked like his opening to get things back on track, back to something resembling their usual dynamic.

Ryuji cracked a grin and flicked the bottle that everyone had passed around earlier. “Yeah? That why you didn’t put any sunscreen on, you gonna be the first guy to pull off havin’ a sunburn?” Akira deflated slightly, then snatched the bottle off the table and-- Oh goddammit.

That had backfired spectacularly. Genius move, Sakamoto. You can’t quit ogling your best friend like some kinda weirdo, why don’t you convince him to oil himself up! That’ll help! Effin’ brilliant. Ryuji hastily turned around in his chair and fixed his eyes on the shoreline. He occupied himself with trying to guess how quickly he could sprint to the ocean, and for once he hoped that the water would be cold cold. The girls walking by, all dressed in bikinis that’d look small on skinny little Futaba and were probably held onto those insane curves with more wishful thinking than fabric, might as well have been invisible to him. Since he had apparently pissed off god or something, all he could think about was Akira, very intentionally just outside the edge of his vision, slathering his chest in sunscreen. His incredibly flat chest; if he’d at least had enough bulk on him to have pecs or something, that might have taken some of the sting out of his stupid brain fixating on his leader instead of any of the women who looked like they’d walked straight out of his dreams. Ryuji was gonna set those stupid flowers on fire when he got his hands on them.

He swallowed around a mouth that had gone dry and tried to break the awkward silence that had settled over them. At least, Ryuji sure as hell felt awkward, Akira was usually fine with a little quiet and didn’t seem bothered at the moment. Still, Ryuji had to do something before he went crazy. “Man, I thought Ann was impressive, but compared to these foreign ladies… eh.” Akira snorted somewhere behind him.

“I’m sure she appreciates the break from being leered at,” he deadpanned. “Do you not have anything better to do than check people out?”

Ryuji’s stomach dropped a little as he whipped back around to shoot Akira a dirty look. Sure, he’d felt pretty obvious, but he hadn’t actually been obvious about staring-- Wait. Aki meant the girls. False alarm, no need to panic. “Man, shut up. And don’t even try to tell me you don’t agree. Like, these ladies are massive, the girls back home don’t even compare!” Ryuji snapped. Someone had to be appreciating all these beach babes, otherwise what even was the point of staying out when it was so damn hot?

Akira actually paused and glanced over at Ryuji with a weird look on his face before he sighed and shook his head. “I’m not really interested, honestly.”

“Man, I am gonna rip that tongue outta your head!” Ryuji exclaimed. Seriously, all those lovely ladies going unappreciated had to be some kind of crime. An international one. It was probably too much to hope Ann or Makoto would be taking up the slack, wherever the hell they were. It was apparently definitely too much to hope that Akira would let that comment pass; even if he was quiet, the guy almost always needed the last word.

This time, it was muttered irritably under his breath. “Yeah why don’t you come take it, then?”

...What?

“What?!” Ryuji didn’t even bother turning around, he just broke down laughing. “What the hell does that even mean, dude?”

“You heard me,” Akira sounded serious, except for where the last word turned wobbly at the end. And then he dissolved into his own fit of laughter, snorting once before he continued, “I don’t even know, man. I just kinda blurted it out.” The two of them cracked up a little longer, glad to be back to something a little closer to normal--and Ryuji didn’t think Akira’s laugh was cute, it was quiet and dorky and weird, definitely not cute--before Aki caught his breath and then stretched. And sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“You alright, man?” He may not have been able to see Akira’s face with the two of them sitting facing in opposite directions, but Ryuji still caught how his leader had winced when he tried to raise his arm over his head.

Akira nodded. “Slept weird on the plane.” He rolled his shoulder again, then tossed the sunscreen to Ryuji. “At the risk of putting you in tongue-ripping range, can I ask you to get my back?” Ryuji was already up and moving his chair behind Akira, always eager to help his best friend.

“Sure thing, dude.” He had the bottle open and hovering over his hand before his brain caught up to him. Wait. Shit. Bad idea, bad bad idea! If he’d gotten all weird about Akira doing this for himself, how was Ryuji gonna survive getting his own hands involved, especially now that he was thinking about it? But he’d already agreed and if he backed out now, Akira would ask why. He sure as shit wasn’t gonna explain that.

“Earth to Ryuji?” Akira turned his head to peek back at him and… Welp. Apparently this was just Ryuji’s life now. The image of Akira looking over one bare shoulder with those damn eyes just barely visible past the flower petals, his face a little bit pink from the sun overhead, and his lips all flushed and swollen--because, oh right, when Akira didn’t have something to chew on, he’d worry at his lips instead--was seared into Ryuji’s brain. Straight or not, that picture just lived in his head now. And apparently so did about half of his blood, mostly in his face. And the other half… Again, he wondered again how cold the water was. Act natural, Sakamoto.

“Uh, sorry dude. Bottle was stopped up, I got it now!” He laughed nervously as the bottle squirted into his palm with a loud ‘pbblblblt’. Definitely no awkwardness here, no sir. Just a totally normal assist with sunscreen between bros. He was fine. He definitely wasn’t red enough in the face to look sunburnt. Deep breath. He was cool.

...God, he was gonna throw those stupid hibiscuses into the ocean. Hell, from this angle, he could probably grab them and slam them into one of the mostly-empty drinks before Akira could stop him. And Aki wouldn’t want to put them back in his hair after they were all covered in sugar water, right? It was a flawless plan. Ryuji was a damn genius.

He was just gonna finish putting on the sunscreen first, ‘cause he was courteous like that. No sense in letting Akira get a weirdly shaped sunburn because he chased Ryuji down for a couple of damn flowers. That was definitely the only reason he was still rubbing his hands down (and down and down) Akira’s back. Smooth and pale and soft, but surprisingly well muscled underneath, Akira’d been holding out on him while they were training. And those damn dimples on his lower back. Had he been wearing his trunks that low a minute ago? Ugh. Ryuji would definitely be going for a swim after this. He winced as he ran his hands back up over Akira’s shoulders.

“Shit, Aki, I think I found that knot in your neck. No wonder you couldn’t do this yourself,” he muttered and dug his thumb gently into the muscle. Akira sucked in another breath through his teeth, but tipped his head forward and let Ryuji work. The damn thing was probably about the size of a ping pong ball, and Ryuji couldn’t help but feel a little guilty every time Akira tensed up or hissed under his breath when Ryuji dug in a little too hard. And a lot guilty at the temptation to just bury his hands in his bro’s hair. But finally, after the longest two minutes of his life, the knot released and Akira…

Akira fucking groaned.

Ryuji was done. He reached out, snagged both of those stupid red flowers--and a little bit of Akira’s apparently insanely soft hair, oops--and stood up to walk away, ignoring his friend’s protests. The ocean could have both of the damn things, and Ryuji right along with them. He was done. Unfortunately Ann and Makoto had chosen that exact moment to return with fresh drinks, cutting off his escape route. Effin’ great.

“Aaannnnnn, Makotoooooo,” Akira whined as he draped himself dramatically over Ryuji’s shoulders, halfheartedly reaching out to try and reclaim the hibiscuses. “Ryuji deflowered meeee--” Makoto’s face fell into the most unimpressed look any of them had ever seen from her, Ann snorted loud enough that it sounded painful, Ryuji about jumped out of his skin with an indignant yelp that probably could have been heard back in Tokyo, and Akira continued whining undeterred, “--make him give it baaaack.”

Ann had doubled over cackling, and didn’t seem to care that she’d just sloshed about a quarter of one of their drinks onto the sand when she did. “I- I don’t- *snrk* I don’t think it w-works like tha-ha-ha-ha-at!” She managed despite howling with laughter so strong that it looked like she was gonna fall over. Makoto had set her two drinks down long enough to drop into one of the empty chairs and bury her face in her hands with a long, drawn out sigh.

“Why are you two like this?” She glanced up long enough to shoot that tired, unimpressed look up at Akira and Ryuji.

“Hey, don’t look at me!” Ryuji all but shouted as he shrugged Akira off of him and started stomping down towards the water, flowers still crushed in one fist. “This is all on him this time!”

God, Hawaii was off to one hell of a start.

#my writing #pegoryu #persona 5 #fun fact this is kind of a deleted scene from wingman #because apparently that's just 90% of what I write these days is wingman stuff #have I mentioned wingman y'all should read wingman

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melyaliz · 3 years

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Remember Me 9

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Fandom: My Hero Academia

Pairing: Bakugo Katsuki x OC

Notes: I'm due in a little over a month... and it's the weirdest feeling.

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--------Olive---------

“Oh my god, I can’t breath” Olive giggled, crumbling into Eliott’s lap. Her husband smiled down at her gently playing with her hair.

“This is serious Olive!” Eliott said, his smile melting away to a very strained serious one. His dark brown eyes studying her face, “it’s the greatest story ever told. Guy dates a woman, woman’s ex is a mob boss who is involved in an illegal fashion, mob boss’s daughter almost gets killed. Now the guy must use his skills from the years of being in the other four movies to get revenge on his girlfriend’s daughter’s father. Tale as old as time “

“I’m just saying they should have killed the guy and the daughter could have gone full ninja killer and taken out her father and his gang.” Olive giggled, wiping her eyes from the tears of laughter that had been rolling down her cheeks.

“That would probably have been a better movie… but would it also have bad dummy shots?” her husband asked.

“Of course” sitting up inspiration struck, “I have an idea!” Eliott watched her as she sat straight up. “You write the action and I will write the romance.”

“How much romance will there be if the daughter is 12 years old.”

“Well romance and character stuff.” she shrugged, “And you can add in all the poorly done dummy blow-ups you want.”

“I will,” Eliott said nodded, “But only if I can use sex dolls.”

“Like, Hard Ticket to Hawaii? Oh, wait! Now hear me out” Olive giggled scooting up so she was now straddling her husband taking his hands in her own. A goofy smile spread across Eliott’s face as he weaved his fingers into her own.

“Oh are we at the wait stage of drunk Olive?”

“Shhhh” she giggled leaning forward slightly brushing her nose on his, “But really, this is serious.” Cleaning her throat for dramatic effect she continued, “a Hard Ticket to Hawaii Death Wish 4 crossover.”

“Oh girl,” Eliott said, his voice hitting a higher pitch on his girl . Olive giggled pushing herself forward so she was resting on his chest.

“I love you.”

“No way really?” Eliott gave a fake gasp “That’s sooo weird because you know what? I love you too”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“ So just be ready,” Kirishima said, prepping the gang, “She’s… the same but different. ”

The group nodded in unison, game faces ready for whatever was coming. And that something was slowly walking toward when in the form of Bakugou and Olive.

Right off the bat it was obvious something was off. While they were holding hands it looked unnatural. Bakugou’s shoulders were hunched and he seemed to be looking anywhere but at Olive who was talking in the city as if she had never walked down this street before. Her large hazel eyes taking in everything, mouth slightly open.

“Olive! Bakugou!” Kirishima said, waving. At the sound of his voice, Olive looked up and waved, a smile on her face as she looked over at the group of others standing with them. Her eyes intently taking everyone in as if searching for something that wasn’t there

“ Hello! ” she said as they both stood there awkwardly. Hands had been let go and now hanging at their sides. Limp as if unsure what to do.

There were a few more awkward nodes before Kirishima led them all inside toward the balcony seating, their usual stop. “T his place is amazing! ” Olive said looking around her eyes wide as she took in the atmosphere. Everyone froze as the blissfully unaware woman turned to her husband, “ How did you find this place Katsuki? ”

“ I didn’t, you did,” he said as everyone around him winched slightly. The awkwardness was so thick you could almost taste it, and it didn't taste good.

“Oh.” her voice soft as she bit her top lip looking down at her purple painted nails. She had found her polish that morning and had decided to try out the fun colors.

There was a long pause when Mina spoke up, “How’s Clare and Lilly and the others? ”

Olive blinked looking up, “ You know the girls? ”

“ Yeah, we have wine and Rupaul's Drag race nights. I think the last one we did was about a month ago wasn’t it? ” the last statement, more of a question than a comment.

“Uhhh” Olive shrugged unsure how to respond

“ She doesn’t remember it ” Kaminari mumbled to the little pinked haired girl. And again there was a lapse of awkwardness. Turning to Momo from across the table Olive pointed to her shirt.

“ I love your shirt so cute! ” she said, stumbling slightly over her words. Momo lit up pointing to the shirt that Olive had gotten Momo for the hero’s birthday. The words “Females are strong as hell” in English was written in script across the chest. She had gotten it because she always told Momo, who was the 4th hero and number 1 female, that she was the most badass out of everyone (and that ranking didn’t mean shit). Also, they were both addicted to “Unbreakable Kimmy Shimitt”

“Thank you, I’m Momo '' the dark-haired hero said, noticing how much Olive was struggling trying to piece together who was who. Before they had come Momo and her fiancee Shoto Todoroki had decided to treat her like they had met for the first time. “ and this is Shodo, my fiancee .”

“I’m Mina! ” Mina said quickly and everyone else followed suit with a quick round of introductions.

“Yeah, I have pictures ” Olive lit up at the introduction. “The fair.”

“What picture did you have ?” Momo asked, leaning forward.

“This one of the fair? ” Olive said, holding up the phone leaning over the table to hand her the phone. Watching them Kirishima chuckled leaning toward Bakugou.

“Why are they across the table from each other?”

Bakugou shrugged, rolling his eyes, not shocked by the poor seating choices. After coordinating this whole night was he really now in charge of seating as well?

“Oh, that was so fun. ” Momo smiled looking at the photo. Memories of her trip to the US where Olive had given her the grand tour.

“ Oh is that the American Fair? What other pictures do you have? Do you have the one from when we all went to that spa? Do you have the one of us in those masks making the peace sign? What about... ” Mina was bursting with questions going way too fast for Olive to keep up. The poor girl’s smile looked slightly strained as she tried to look like she was understanding more than every other word from the excited pink haired girl.

“You’re going to fast for her! ” Bakugou barked out noticing the very overwhelmed look in his wife’s eyes, “ She's still learning .”

“Oh sorry Olive” Mina whispered looking down at her hands feeling her face flush.

“Don’t yell at her.” Olive said good naturally in English nudging Bakugou playfully with her shoulder. The blonde looked like the wind had been knocked out of him her words cutting him harder than he wanted to admit. “Which picture did you want to see Mina?”

Before the pink girl could respond the waiter came up to introduce herself and take drink orders. A look of desperation came over Olive’s face as she looked down at the menu. Anxiety quickly flooded her system. The social pressure of trying to be normal while navigating a language she was still learning was extremely stressful. And this was besides the fact she had no idea what was good here or what she would like to order. Did she had a regular drink here? If so, what was it?

Desperately she looked down at the Japanese characters as if they would suddenly jump out and give her all the answers.

A large hand slammed over the menu making Olive lookup. Bakugou’s intense red gaze met her hazel one.

“I’ll order for you,” he said softly in English, more of a statement than an offer. His red eyes studding her as if reading all her thoughts. She smiled softly at him making him flush slightly looking away from her to the waiter ordering quickly.

“Thank you” she whispered, her hand gently brushing against his arm. Her fingertips leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake. It felt like her touch was fire.

Quickly he rubbed his arm as if he could put out the flames that were licking at his skin.

Fuck. He had it bad.

“Yeah well you looked so lost.” he grumbled looking away turning to Kirishima who was intently watching the conversation with the most annoying smile on his face. “ What are you looking at? ” Struggling Kirishima’s annoying smirk didn’t fade but he offered no explanation for his expression.

Typical.

Lucky for Bakugou the conversation shifted to other things. Work, life, weird food Kaminari had tried last week on his trip to Bermuda.

Olive quickly picked up her conversation with Momo about the place she was looking into for her wedding and life in general. Since they were - as Kirishima had pointed out- sitting across the table from each other, Olive had to basically lean up over the top of the table to shout of the music that was playing in the background.

Bakugou couldn’t help but frown watching as his wife literally looked like she was crawling over. Her eyes bright as the two talked. It was the most enthusiastic she had been in a long time.

“If you want to be with her so bad go sit over there, ” he said, it came out much harder than he had meant it to be. But he was annoyed and sometimes -ok most times- had a hard time masking his emotions. Olive blinked looking up at him confused for a moment before getting up from her seat moving over - much to Momo’s delight- to sit down next to her. He could see her pulling out her phone probably to show off pictures of Dolemite. Or maybe to ask more about the people who littered it. He could tell she felt awkward about asking him those questions. Knowing it hurt.

But also he wanted her next to him. To feel her next to him. To know she was still there with him.

“ OMG I love this song !” Mina squealed as a song came on.

“ Let’s dance, ” Momo said, getting up knowing Olive loved to dance. Normally she was the one dragging the girls onto the floor. At the promise of dancing Olive lit up as she stood to follow them. However before she left she glanced over at Bakugou, as if checking in with him.

“Why are you looking at me? Go!”

Olive flashed him a wide smile before following the girls into the crowd. The other two girls grabbed her laughing as they swayed with the music. Not having to talk just laughing and enjoying each other’s company. The universal girl code of good music and alcohol.

Three songs later and she was slowing down, taking a moment to breathe looking around the dance floor.

And that was when she thought she saw him.

Long blonde hair pulled up in a man bun. A basic flannel shirt, on the shorter side with broad shoulders leaning on the bar, his back to her.

Eliott

Her brain zoned in on it, for a second she forgot he was dead. Forgot he was gone.

That first month after his death she saw him everywhere. Heard his laugh. Sensed his presence. Slowly it had gotten better. His presence slowly fading from the bright sun of the day to the dark of night or in those first moments when she was waking up. And even more recently his presence had slowly faded. Her brain too busy trying to understand this whole new life she was living to focus on the loss.

But as the man turned and she saw it was clearly not him something washed over her. Hit her right in the face crushing her inside.

She didn’t even realize she was crying until Momo came up and hugged her.

“What happened?” she whispered in English as Olive raised her hands to her face trying to stop the tears. But they wouldn’t stop. Her chest so heavy it felt like her whole body was filled with sadness and the only way out was through her tears.

“I just… I thought… I saw Eliott.” she hiccuped, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Momo asked, frowning as she studied Olive. Mina, whose English was not as good, hovered around them both rubbing Olive’s shoulder trying to understand what had happened.

“I just… can't stop crying.” Olive sobbed trying to take deep breaths to gain control of herself.

“It’s been a lot for you.” Momo said, “come here” she hugged the girl for a moment before pulling away.

“ It’s ok to miss someone. ” Mina said, holding out a napkin she had grabbed from the bar.

“Yeah and for you it’s been very recent.” Monmo added nodding

“I just feel guilty… Katsuki.” Olive fumbled through the words trying to explain all the emotions that were swerling like some muddy concoction in her chest.

“ Oh Bakugou can get over it. ” Momo said, waving her hand trying to keep her words simple so both girls could understand what she was saying, “ he gets all moody but he really cares about you. ”

“ Yeah, the first time I met you he was so… relaxed. ” Mina said, trying to find the right words, “ None of us had ever seen him that way before. ”

“ He was happy. ” Momo nodded, “ He will be fine, you need to focus on yourself.”

From across the bar Bakugou had lost sight of where the girls had gone. The crowd was getting thicker and thicker as the night had dragged on. He knew Olive would be safe with Momo and Mina there but still, he wanted to make sure she was ok.

And then he caught a glimpse of them. Standing at one of the far corners of the dance floor. Momo and Mina standing over Olive, hovering around her with concern on their faces. For a moment Mina moved and he could see Olive clearly, holding a small white napkin wiping her eyes.

Shit.

“ Hey bro where are you ?”

“ Just drink your beer. ” Bakugou interrupted Kirishima as he quickly made his way to the dance floor. Momo’s eyes met his and she shook her head but he didn’t care. Olive wasn’t Momo’s wife, she was his. They were supposed to be distracting her, not reminding her about her memory loss.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out for her. Olive turned eyes wide, still slightly glassy from her tears. Her makeup smudged. “Dance with me.” pulling her away from the girls who looked like they were about to protest. But one death glare from Bakugou told them not too.

He led her across the floor, his red eyes studying her as she took a few shaky breaths. Trying to compose herself. After a few moments her body slowly relaxed letting him lead as he felt her slowly lose herself in the music again.

“You dance?” she asked looking up at him.

“Depends.” he said shrugging

“Humm” she hummed, nodding like Eliott was what she was thinking. Eliott Eliott Eliott. Even Momo got more out of her than him. He felt like she was more comfortable around everyone but him. “You know” she said leaning forward resting her head on his chest catching him off guard. “I like to be with you too.”

He froze, his stomach clutching tightly, his breath coming out in a short gasp. She looked up at him with those hazel eyes studying him. “What you said about Momo, I like being with you too.”

“I heard you the first time” he said sharply only to soften quickly.

“I… I obviously liked being with you before or I wouldn’t have married you.” she added a genuine grin spreading across her face.

“That would make sense.” He said nodding as they swayed in the music both caught up in their own thoughts. Eyes meeting, dancing in the lights overhead. For a second it felt as if time stood still and Olive was sworn she wasn’t in real life but in some weird musical romcom. As if her whole life was some televised novel filled with hi-jinks and drama.

Caught up in the moment Bakugou gently leaned forward, his nose brushing hers before pausing. Her heart leapt into her throat at the soft intimate touch. Crimson eyes searching hazel for a moment before moving closer, his warm breath caressing her ear.

“Let me kiss you?”

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Story Tag: @0hmydeku @inumorph @it-jinxed-us @myraticm

#bakugou katsuki smut #bakugou katsuki x oc #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou katsuki

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vanchlo · 3 years

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The Partner / Chapter One

Word Count: 10.4k words / Story Masterlist / Read The Assistant / Read on Wattpad / Song: Green Eyes by Coldplay

“The best love language is being irritating. I will annoy you because I love you.”

- Unknown

It smelled next to awful, and the feeling beneath my hands made me cringe. I didn’t know what I was expecting when I had wandered in here after a long day of work. Several other people seemed to have the same idea at five o’clock on a Tuesday, so I wasn’t the only one. Their drinks aren’t that great, either, I quickly found. Nevertheless, they did their job, and they were cheap, so I’m not sure what more I could ask for.

The flat screens above the bar area played nothing but American baseball and footie matches. I silently made a promise to myself that if I ever opened a pub of my own, that Rom-Coms and FRIENDS would fill the tv screens, not bloody sports.

“‘s this seat taken?” a voice hums, pulling me away from my inner monologue. My eyes begin their lull back into my head at the stranger’s question.

“Ye-,” begins on my lips when my eyes tear away from the orange colored drink before me. That is, until, they still when I look at the stranger who stands in front of me. He’s bloody gorgeous - all curls, legs, and those dimples. Hell, you own this seat already. Please, do sit down. “N-No,” my words come out rushed and therefore, sloppy. He doesn’t seem to mind as he pulls out the wooden stool to sit down beside me.

I swallow against a dry throat when my eyes nervously flit away from him. Never have I had an actually handsome bloke talk to me at the pub. I sound more than selfish, and far bitchy than I intend, but it had always been some lousy drunk who had a bit too much liquid courage. Not that I’m anything special, especially compared to him.

Listening to his slow drawl as he orders a drink, I can’t help but try to remember as many details about him as possible. First, there were the chocolatey brown curls. Then, there was the way his violet button up was opened to show ink donning his chest, a cross sitting in the middle, and the wildly attractive chest hair around it. I only saw a glimpse of his unwrinkled, black suit that looked far too good on him. That wasn’t the best part. No, not by far. That award went to the cavernous dimples that sat in his cheeks when his lips spread into that heavenly smile. One that made me wonder how it could be just for me.

“Ta, mate,” he murmurs to the bartender, the gold liquid greeting his lips. All of a sudden, I’m quite jealous of a lousy pint of beer. He doesn’t notice me watching him, the way he licks the foam from his lips, or how I admire his thick eyelashes. Most of all, I catch the long sigh that passes his lips, tugging on his drooping eyes with circles underneath them.

“Rough day?” bravery finds me a moment later, but I don’t announce

myself until I’ve looked away.

“Huh?” he hums distractedly, and not in a rude way. I wait a moment before doing anything, looking at him or even replying. It feels longer than several seconds, and stirring the ice chips around with my red straw doesn’t make it pass any quicker.

“You look like you’ve had a hard day, is all.”

“Oh,” he rasps, clearing his throat after taking another drink of the amber colored liquid. At last, I turn my head to look at him, finding that light stubble covers his cheeks in every place. I don’t know how in the hell I had missed that, because, God, does that look good on him. “Ya, reckon you could say that.”

I nod along with his words, feeling like we belong in the same boat. It only rings all the more true when he shifts in his seat, and my eyes catch something on his breast pocket.

“It must be a hard case, then.”

“What?” he asks. When I see the way his bold eyebrows near his inquisitive sage colored eyes, a laugh escapes my lips. It warms my cheeks and surely reddens them furthermore at the appearance of those dimples again. “How’d you know?” his smile is heaven and everything more than that.

My shoulders rise and fall, answering his question, before I do, “I just had a feeling.”

“Yer good,” his answer is concise, finished with a staccato like laugh. The next sip of his pint is silent, and I would know because I can’t help but watch. At last, there’s something good to watch at this pub. It only took me two drinks and far too long of waiting for it to happen. “What ‘s it now?” his question is light and affable when he finds my eyes waiting on him, holding back a laugh.

“You have something,” I begin, pointing a finger to his mouth, but he doesn’t get it. Instead of wiping the foam donning his upper lip, he brushes under his eye, and then his nose. “Here,” it’s louder than I intended it to be, but my laugh makes its way out with a soft snort, something else I didn’t intend. His upper lip is sand papery from his stubble when I wipe away the foam from his pint.

“Thanks,” he murmurs gingerly, and all I can do is nod, because my lips had begun to fall. “Y’know, I usually don’t let a bird get tha first flirt in befo’ I introduce meself.”

“I wasn’t-,” I start, but his shaking head of curls stops me, and so does the hand that he holds out. More ink marks it up in places when his sleeve rides up above his glinting watch.

“‘m Harry.”

“Becky,” I announce, once again greeting the ball that’s appeared in my throat, ever since he asked me that first question. His hand is cold at first from caressing his pint, but then it warms in my own. The rings that adorn nearly all of his fingers greet my own, lingering a few moments too long. His handshake is firm, and yet gentle. Surely, I must have set the world record for how quickly you can fall in love with a stranger.

“How’d y’know ‘m a lawyer? Really, ‘s it that obvious?”

“Yeah, Mr. Styles,” I tell him, reaching a hand out as his face contorts with confusion again. My fingertip comes under the plastic corner of the name tag against his breast pocket. “Harry Styles of Styles and Lawson law firm.”

Surprise gives away to realization on his face when he looks down his nose at the name tag that gave it all away for me, just a little.

“Oh, ‘d forgot ‘d been wearin’ that,” his answer is giggled, and it truly couldn’t be any more cuter. He slips a hand into his blazer and removes the name tag held to the fabric with two magnets. “I had this convention thing t’day, speakin’ at a uni t’ promote me law firm.”

“Ah, I’ve heard of those. I know they used to have them quite often, those job fairs, when I was at King’s.”

“You went t’ King’s College too?” the surprise rises in his voice, and it fills me when he pushes the basket of chips over that had just been dropped off. His eyes are patient as they wait on me while he feeds a hot chip between his rose colored lips.

“Yeah, I graduated last year, after taking a bit of time off and coming back to my degree,” I answer him, relenting after he nodded his head at the basket and then to me. Ignoring him in part, I reach for the heavy glass bottle of Heinz beside the napkin holder.

“What was yer focus of study?”

“Really?” now, it’s turn for my lips to rise, as if they hadn’t been stunted for the last several minutes, hiding their secrets.

His question comes out in that breathy laugh of his, in between munching on chips and licking his fingers. Good God, Mr. Styles.

“You’re a lawyer yourself and you can’t tell when you’re speaking to another one?” it doesn’t come out haughty or anywhere near cocky, but I still relish in the astonishment that comes over his face.

“You too?” Harry says, excitement loud in his voice, and which I nod at. “Where at?”

“Turner and Jones.”

The chip is perfectly salty when I take my first bite of it coated with ketchup. I echo his laugh as he shakes his head, murmuring about how stupid he is, and it takes everything in me to not tell him he’s the least bit of that.

“I see, so how’re you likin’ it there? ‘ve heard good things, but y’know, I may be a bit biased towards Styles and Lawson. They’re rather great, ‘ve heard.”

“Oh, I can only wonder why,” it’s becoming difficult to say all of my words before they’re overwhelmed with laughter, especially when his are too. “But, I like it. I did my clinicals there for my degree, and was offered a job. You couldn’t really ask for much better than that.”

His eyes are brimming with laughter as questions float between us until the basket of chips is no longer. Then, when the greasy tacos come, and the next few drinks only loosen our lips more.

“So, ya got a crush on that Ben Sanders there like ev’ry other bird?” Harry drawls, words muffled against the rim of his third Scotch Coke a little later on.

“What? No, why would I?” my response is framed with laughter, especially as I think of what to say next. “Are you worried or something, that your reputation for London’s heartthrob lawyer is being threatened?”

“‘Scuse me?” his drink is soon running down his chin. He coughs again after it had went down the wrong pipe when I stole a laugh from his lips.

“God, learn how to breathe, would you?” I tell him, slapping him hard on the back a few times as he presses a napkin to his mouth.

“No,” his chuckled reply comes a few moments later.

“No, what?” I say, taking the turn for furrowed brows when I set down my own pint.

“Don’t reckon me heartthrob status ‘s bein’ threatened,” he shrugs, plucking one of the taller billiard cues from the rack on the wall. “I seem t’ be winnin’ my way with you, afta-all.”

Now, it’s my turn to choke on my drink. Thank God, my back is turned to him so he can’t see it dribble down my chin, or more importantly, the scarlet that fills my cheeks.

“Would you shut up? You’re so cocky. Newsflash, you’re not in the courtroom anymore, mate, you don’t have anybody to win over,” I insist, grabbing a shorter cue and stepping up to him where he sets up the balls.

“I have you t’ impress, don’t I?” his greens lift for a moment to find mine. I can’t help but notice the way that they sparkle.

“You already have,” my answer is gentle and quiet enough for only me to hear. I thought wrong, because he steps towards me and keeps going. For the first time tonight, the sour pub smell has gone, and replaced by it is his cologne. What is that? Leather? Warm vanilla? His nose just brushes past mine, his lips hovering above mine until they pass and press softly to my cheek.

“Have I now, ‘s that right?” his breath is warm against my ear. The skin there sings when his teeth graze it. “Winner buys tha next round ‘o drinks?” his proposition is laced with a knowing glint on his lips when he’s facing me again.

“I thought you had agreed to cover the tab, Mr. Hotshot Lawyer? I only remember one of us being a partner and co-owning a firm.”

“Ah, givin’ me that lawyer lip o’ yers, are ya now?” Harry smirks, dusting the tip of his cue with the blue block.

“Maybe, I am. What are you going to do about it?”

His shrug is accented by his lips turned down with a thoughtful question, “‘m sure I could find somethin’,” he muses aloud, staring off into the distance. When his eyes turn back to me, a corner of his lips pops the dimple out of one cheek. It only falls deeper when he walks around me holding his cue proudly. I feel his hand pinch my ass.

“Harry Styles!” it comes out as nothing less than a giggle, all firmness absent in my voice.

“Y’know, yer not very convincin’ with that voice o’ yers. Ya sure yer a lawyer?” his shit eating grin spews another line as he leans down, readying his cue. “Yer bum ‘s rather nice, ‘ve been wantin’ t’ do that all night,” he has to shut his eyes to ride out the rest of his laugh when I walk over to him and swat him on the shoulder.

“You’re bad,” I murmur, stepping away to grab my drink again.

“And who said that’s not a good thing?”

Turning, I find him mere inches away from me, cue forgotten on the table amongst the array of billiard balls he’d just cracked.

“I dunno,” is all I can think to say, until it hits me. “Why’re we playing billiards when we could be playing Truth or Dare?”

“Truth or Dare?” he wheezes. My insides continue to melt when his large hand comes into view, dragging his fingers through my hair. “What, are we thirteen ‘gain, Becks?”

“Becks? My name is Becky,” I protest, but all he has to answer with at first is those shrugging shoulders of his.

“Don’t care, I like ‘Becks’ better. It sounds mo’ like you,” he insists with lips that haven’t stopped smiling since . . I can’t remember when. “I choose tha dare, then.”

Setting down my finished glass, the hops-y flavor remains on my lips, sending courage into my veins. I ready my question, staring back into his eyes, trying not to think so hard about his thumb nudging at my bottom lip.

“What, are you a pussy or something?”

“N’body calls me a pussy, love,” he denies softly, his quiffed curls shaking with his disagreeing head.

“Then, show me . . I dare you to kiss me.”

“Oh, d’ya now? I see you went right fer it, didn’t beat ‘round tha bush one bit.”

“Yeah, but you are, because you’re still talk-,” I have one syllable left when his lips steal it away from mine. His hair that I’d wanted to touch and caress all night is at last between my fingers. I taste Scotch and Corona on his pillowy lips, and feel the warmth of-

“Becks, wakey wakey, my love,” comes a voice, ripping the dream away from me. Grunting, I shift under the covers, feeling my tired limbs. My expression tightens when I feel lips sponge kisses across my face slowly.

When at last I open my eyes, I find my favorite face in the entire world hovering above me.

“Mornin’, bubs. Did ya have a good sleep?” Harry murmurs with a dopey grin stuck to his face. His voice is deep and slow like molasses, even more so after sleep. It only makes him all the more attractive as my eyes dance along his shirtless chest.

“Yeah, did you?” I yawn, and his mumbled reply is heard between kisses pressed to my lips.

They stir a laugh from me, especially when his own wander to the crook of my ticklish neck.

“Time t’ get up, my Mrs. Styles,” he coos, his words sending an instant tingle up my spine.

“Harry, I’m not your Mrs. Styles.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he replies from his position underneath my chin where his lips lie. A smile doesn’t come this time though, and even if it did, it’d leak of melancholy, at best.

“What were ya dreamin’ ‘bout, li’l one? You were extra hard t’ wake up t’day.”

My answer is framed by yawns, “What’s it to you?”

“Oooo, I see somebody ‘s upset I woke her up,” his response tickles against my cheek in his warm breath tinged with the taste of mornings. I squirm away from him, tugging the covers back up my shoulders, feeling their returning warmth. “It must’ve been good, then.”

“I was having a good dream, and you ruined it.”

“Oh no, poor baby Becks,” the pout couldn’t be stronger in his answer, and my groan couldn’t be louder. His facial hair leaves zings of irritation across my cheeks and temple where his lips trail. “‘s time t’ wake up, bug. We hafta go t’ work.”

“Why can’t we ever just have a late day, like a ten to six, instead of eight to four?” I moan, taking the covers back when he pulls them down my body.

“Hey, you were tha one who wanted t’ have three rounds o’ sex last night, so don’t be gettin’ mad at me now.”

“Harry, don’t act like you didn’t want to too,” I sigh after twisting and turning until I find that perfect spot again.

“‘Kay, but doesn’t change tha fact that we hafta be at work in a li’l over an hour, my love,” my lips sputter a short laugh at his admission. “Alright well, ‘ll be in tha shower, and if yer not up by tha time ‘m out, we’re gonna be late. Again. Y’know how I feel ‘bout bein’ late, bug.”

“I miss the time when you liked being late. You being this responsible boss isn’t much fun anymore,” my words are muffled by the firm pillow. They’re ended with a yelp after he pinches my ass. “Fuck you, Styles!”

I know my regret the second his sweet laugh hits the air, “You already did last night, Becks, but . . if ya wanna have a quickie befo’ work, y’know where t’ find me.”

“Ugh,” I groan into the off white pillow case, turning my head to find his naked ass walking away from me. “You’re a tease, Harry Styles! A proper, no good tease!”

“And what’re ya gonna do ‘bout it, Rebecca Styles?”

The cold air greets my skin when I at last sit up, our duvet cover falling to my waist. Any words that had been ready to spring off of my tongue stop there, replaced by others, “Don’t call me that!”

“Why not? I thought you liked it,” he calls back, raising his voice to be heard over the hum of the shower starting.

“Just . . don’t.”

“I don’t like it when yer crabby in tha mornin’s. I can think o’ somethin’ that’ll cheer you up, tho’,” Harry comments wryly. I take the bait unknowingly, mumbling a ‘what’ when I step foot into our walk-in closet. “Dick,” his voice is right behind me. I should’ve known, is what I think to myself when I’m lifted off of the floor and soon have hot water hitting my skin.

“You’re so bad, Harry Styles,” it comes out in a giggle that grows throaty and belly deep as he pulls the shower curtain shut behind him.

“Am I, now? I rememba you sayin’ you liked that ‘bout me last night, so why ya seem all upset?”

A squeal jumps from my mouth when his teeth nip at the corner of my neck. By habit, his name leaves them next when he surrounds me with his body, and his fingernails dig into the flesh of my ass. It’s carried with a laugh as he takes the brunt of the hot water, sponging kisses to my neck that the shower washes away.

“When’re you gonna work again with me, bug? Huh? I swear, you’ve been with Rose fer months now. Simon and that intern Jilly are hoots and smart ones, but I miss workin’ cases with you,” by now, his nose has reached to my shoulder, and so have his lips.

“I dunno, Harry,” is all I say, because those are all of the words that I can find right now.

If I’m telling myself the truth, they are the only words that he can handle to hear. I had been with Rose off and on for the last six months, and my off with Harry had never been longer. We hadn’t talked about it for a while now, but it may have had something to do with him having a fit when we last worked a case together. Like, a proper fit. It was a difficult case, to say the least, and because of that, it made things outside of work hard for us too. I usually loved working with him, but I’d found out the hard way that it’s already hard enough having your boyfriend as your boss. You’re only adding more hell to the handbasket when you throw in working with him every minute of every day, leading to being with your significant other quite literally twenty-four/seven. I loved him, quite a lot, but I also get sick of him, quite a lot. Just don’t tell him that part, is all. I try not to as his lips wander my body and so do his hands, first with cloudy intentions, and then with body wash.

“Eat,” the word comes out clipped until a stubborn curl comes to my lips.

“No.”

“It’s not a question, Harold, eat your fucking breakfast. Since when did you stop liking eggs?” I insist playfully, shoving a plate towards him where he sits sipping his plain coffee.

“Since I said I don’t, Mum. Now, would ya leave me be t’ drink me cuppa and read tha paper?” he returns with a lift to his brows, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And me name’s not Harold, dunno why ya fancy callin’ me it lately. Yer not funny.”

“I am, you just don’t want to admit it,” it comes out in a sigh. A shock of cold air slaps me in the face when I open the freezer, grabbing a plastic wrapped block of chocolate ice.

“Are not.”

“Are to,” I grumble in response, scraping his plate of eggs onto mine. Shaking my head, I turn around with the plate in hand, grabbing the toast peeking out from the toaster. “Grape or strawberry today?”

“Mix ‘em, please.”

“I’ve never met somebody who likes to mix their jams,” I comment playfully, soon hearing the nostalgic sound of a butter knife against toasted bread.

“‘ve never met somebody who cared so much ‘bout eatin’ bloody breakfast.”

“What, as if I didn’t used to get you Starbucks breakfast every morning three years ago?” he tries not to smile at my wheezed words, but I see it when I set down the new plate in front of him.

“Now, eat something, Harry. We need to leave soon, since somebody is intent on being on time.”

When I turn my back, the silence is interrupted by him biting into the toast. The microwave beeps and I gingerly carry the plastic wrapped steaming muffin, plopping it onto his plate.

“Our kids better not be picky eaters like you someday. These chocolate veggie muffins are like, the only way I can get you to eat vegetables for breakfast.”

“Why not, Becks? You think ‘s cute,” he smirks, cocking his head to face me when I take a seat next to him.

“Do not.”

“Do to,” I can hear the grin in his voice as he devours the rest of his toast. Shaking my head at his stubbornness, I pick up my fork to fill it with scrambled eggs.

“What features o’ mine would you want ‘em t’ have, then?”

“Um,” I idle, unsure of why I have to, seeing as how I’ve thought this through about a hundred times, by now. It’d only made it harder before, his hand cupping my knee, but it brings me comfort, by now. “It’d be easier to say what I wouldn’t want them to have of yours.”

“God, do I even wanna know?” he scoffs, showing me his dimples sunk into his cheeks full with food. Licking the dollops of jam from his fingers, he picks up the wrapped mozzarella cheese to peel the wrapper off.

I almost choke on my eggs when a laugh finds me, but as I chew and then swallow, his hand rubs circles on my leg through my sheer black tights.

“Ya sure ya won’t consult with me on my new case startin’ t’day? I know ya jus’ finished that Doud theft case with Rose.”

“What, are you spying on me?” it comes out hearty and laced with a joke. I listen to him sip his coffee and flip the paper, scooping eggs onto my buttered toast.

“No. Did somebody fo’get who their boss ‘s now?” Harry smirks, flashing me those god awful eyes that by now he knows I can’t resist. I sometimes really hate it when he pulls that card, but at other times it’s undeniably sexy, and he knows it.

“Yeah, his name is Myles Lawson. There’s this other guy he works with, Harold something or other, he’s this rubbish lawyer who keeps hitting on me.”

“Hush, you, or no tacos t’morrow,” his words make me groan through my mouthful of food. It’d become hard for us to honor our Taco Tuesday dates when I teamed up with Rose, and we had different schedules. Eventually, they’d fell away to consist of random days here and there, until we’d started it back up again.

“Be nice,” I warn, feeling the cold wood under my feet when I get to them. The warmth from the toast and eggs is replaced by the cold wetness when I pour orange juice into two glasses, setting one before Harry.

“I am?” he laughs, holding up his glass in question before gulping half of it down. “C’mon, Becks, jus’ give this case a shot with me, please? Ya can quit after a day, and if you don’t like it, that’s fine and you can go back t’ Rose.”

“You know it doesn’t work that way, and so do I after working with you for a year and a half now.” And dating each other for the same length, just about.

“Why you bein’ so mean t’ me, bug? I jus’ wanna work a case with you, ‘s been ages,” he whines from my side once again, feeding the last chunk of mozzarella between his grumpy lips. It’s always boggled my mind why he doesn’t peel it, and instead, eats it in chunks. He really is a weirdo, but he’s mine.

That thought sticks with me as my eyes remain glued to his handsome figure. Some sleep still clings to his captivating green eyes framed with thick lashes. His hair couldn’t be more curly these days, cropped to its usual length below his ears and longer on top. He had caved, letting Skye work her magic on him, and to the surprise of both of us, he had been happy with a recent cut from her. Even if it had only been a measly trim, as well as giving him some tips to keep it styled so the top wasn’t always in his eyes. Bringing his coffee to his lips again, a question sits in his eyebrows.

“Whatcha thinkin’ so hard ‘bout?” he wonders aloud, rosebud colored lips moving under a dark brown beard claiming the outskirts of his mouth. If that wasn’t enough to get me going, that new maroon suit he dons does. It’s fitted perfectly for him, just how he likes it. Me too, since I get to see his bum in nearly all of its glory in it. His legs. His crotch. His arms, too. The dusty black button up beneath leaves little of his chest to imagination, just the way I like it.

At times, I still catch myself wondering how he was all mine. Well, almost, that is.

“Oh, here’s one. I hope that they don’t have your weird eating habits.”

“What weird eatin’ habits?” Harry wonders aloud, leaving smears of chocolate against his lips a moment later from his muffin.

Declining to answer, I finish off the rest of my eggs after checking the time. “Eat your banana and clementine.”

Sure, I’d missed working with him too, but not his micromanaging, how he’d sometimes pick the most challenging cases as if he had to prove something, or how I still couldn’t get past the added pressure I felt working with him. I’d wished for so long that it’d be the opposite, but it was wishful thinking, at best.

The hum of the air conditioner fills the silent space as I tap away on my phone, sighing at the weather forecast. The warm front that had come in a few days ago wasn’t leaving anytime soon, leaving me in dresses for work. I find Harry without his blazer once again when my eyes turn to the window, admiring his attractive backside while pumping petrol.

“What?” I murmur, lifting my head when the door opens, sending a rush of hot air inside.

“I said d’ya need anythin’ from inside? Ya want a soda or anythin’?”

“No, and don’t you get one either. I know what you’re doing, Harry,” the reply comes out giggled and with a finger pointed at him.

“Becks, I jus’ want one Coke, please.”

“No, you said you wanted to do a no soda challenge, and we’re only a week in and you’re caving.”

“Am not, but I crave it bad, bug,” his response is whined, pulling more happiness from my lips.

“I know, but don’t even go by the coolers. Just go in and pay, please, or better yet, pay at the pump.”

He mutters a defeated ‘fine’ before closing the door, walking away from the car and towards the small building.

I hope that our kids have that feature of yours, I think a few moments later after watching him pick up and return a dolly a little girl had dropped. From here, I can even see the dimples fall into his cheeks as he speaks to her. The selflessness you’ve always had, even if it took awhile for you to share that page of yours with me.

We didn’t drive separately to work very often, unless he had an early meeting or a long day. It didn’t make sense to spend money to drive two cars to the same place five days a week when we usually get there and leave at the same time. Sure, one of us sometimes had to wait around for the other, but it worked rather well, we’d found. I usually won the fight of who got to pump petrol less than half of the time, if we were together, and even less in the winter. Mr. Stubborn usually beat me to the punches, first one out of the car got to do it, and it’d become a little race of ours that we enjoyed. I hope that our kids learn from their father about how to treat others, even doing things that you dislike to show your love for them.

“I don’t care what you say, it’s never me who makes us late, it’s always you. Usually, it’s something to do with your hair or suit, and you know it,” I jest when the lift doors close in front of us.

“Sure, it ‘s,” Harry sighs, leaning his back against the furthest wall. My head soon finds his shoulder, and his arm wraps around me. “Sorry, ‘ll see if we can get done early t’day. I know you’ve been up late tha last few nights finishin’ yer last case.”

“It’s okay,” I yawn from my place in his arms, not opening my eyes until he’s standing up straight again, my forehead itchy from his kisses. “I’ll tell you what.”

“What?” he grins at me. It takes a lot in me to not roll my eyes at his dad joke once I’ve come back to full attention. Forgotten it is when his fingers dive into my hair behind my ear, and his lips press to the imperfection below my eye. “Are you gonna say you’ll reconsider me offer o’ workin’ with me on me case?” “Yes,” my sigh is everything but sad, and neither are my lips when they meet his own.

The same word flies from his lips with excitement when we part. “Missed you, bug. I think it’ll be easier t’ have sex in me office now if we’re workin’ a case t’gether.”

“Shut up,” I giggle, savoring the feeling of his lips against my forehead, and my arms laced around his middle warm underneath his blazer.

“‘m glad I don’t have t’ say goodbye t’ you this mornin.’ ‘s been a while since ‘ve gotten t’ keep you fer tha day, my love.”

“What happened to absence makes the heart grow fonder?” I titter beneath his sporadic lips covering my face happily in kisses.

“Reckon we’ve had enough o’ that rubbish, dontchu?”

Indeed, we have, Harry. Indeed, we have.

“Ooo, the salmon’s on sale,” the whisper is soft as I pour over the page, numbers and pictures jumping out at me. Switching my attention, I press the pen to the paper until I stop. “Wait, does Harry even like salmon?” Pausing for a second, I think until shaking my head.

“Okay, what else did we need? Bananas, veggie muffins, chicken bullion, garlic, quinoa, broccoli . . ,” the words dropping from my lips soon show up on the notepad held in my hand. Call me old fashioned, and Harry will, believe me. “Granola, roasted pumpkin seeds, pistach-.”

“Beep beep,” somebody chirps from behind me. A scoff leaves my lips next when a cart bumps into my behind. Whipping around in surprise, my mouth is open in astonishment. It only falls further when I find the culprit. “What, not happy t’ see me?” Harry smirks with his face squished into a question, head cocked to the side. His hair is more disheveled by now after our day, a busy day two of researching for his new case. “Meetin’ yer other boyfriend here, or somethin’?”

“No, I just . . I thought that you had a meeting after work today,” I murmur, feeling my lips oblige with a smile.

“It was cancelled, and moved t’ t’morrow. Some schedulin’ thing fer tha space, I dunno,” his lips hum against my forehead when he wraps an arm around me. My reply is measly and suffices for a verbal understanding, interrupted by his lips on mine for a second.

“How are you feeling about that?”

“Fine, things have been good lately,” I nod my head along to his response, flipping through the grocery ad, finishing up my list. “Journalin’ has helped loads, so ‘m glad I picked that up again . . ‘m jus’ sorry you can’t enjoy a glass o’ wine at home, anymo.’ I feel bad I took that away from you.”

“It’s just wine, Harry, I’ll survive. Plus, I have one every now and then at Skye’s. Your sobriety is more important . . you are.”

“Thank you, dunno what else I can say ‘sides that,” I feel his smile on my face not just from the sunshine it spills, but through his lips on my forehead.

“That makes me happy to hear that things are going well, though. I know that it’s hard to talk about together sometimes, which is okay, and how you had a tough day this past weekend,” I murmur, setting the list and ad in the front basket of the cart his hand sits on.

“Ya, me too, bug. ‘m better now . . So, what’s on our list t’night seein’ as how we ran into each other at tha supermarket, havin’ told tha other we’d get tha groceries.”

“Yeah, we didn’t communicate that too well,” I wheeze, feeling his arm come around my shoulder, giving it a squeeze.

“That’s okay.”

We’re quiet except for the sound of the moving cart, and our feet amongst the chatter of the shop. I wish I felt that way.

“Are you sure you are? You’ve been quiet t’day, Becks,” his question comes at the exactly wrong place, and the wrong time. How is it that he can always read my mind? I wish you would pick up on that one thing stirring up trouble in there, Harry.

I murmur a convincing enough answer, hoping that he believes it. It only reminds me of the promise I made to myself last February to not lie to him, and it only gets worse when that memory pulls with it another. The one of how he couldn’t stop saying that communication is key, and that we’re no good without it.

“Stop it,” I scold him with a light laugh, pulling on his arm when he wanders over to the cases of soda. Turning around, his lips dip into a pout. I hook my arm with his and keep walking down the aisle, having to pull him back when he goes to reach for junk food and sweets.

I’m just not sure about how to communicate this one.

“Reckon our case ‘s comin’ along nicely so far. Dontchu think?” his murmur threads its way through my thoughts, but it doesn’t quite succeed. Instead of a reply, my silent words wander to describing the way he tugs at his briefs that ride up his legs. “Becks? Babe, can ya focus mo’ on what ‘m sayin’ and less on me gettin’ undressed?”

“Oh, s-sorry,” the words are rushed out with a shake of my head as he titters. I try to apply myself to the conversation, but my eyes hold the remote, gluing themselves to his round bum when he turns around.

“Yer doin’ it again.” My voice is small when I yawn a question in return, waiting for him to return from the closet. With a hand caught in his hair, he does, rushing over with his arms around his otherwise naked body. “Actin’ weird, ‘s what.”

“Warm me up, bug,” Harry chatters, hurrying under the covers and over to me. My spontaneous giggle only lasts until the sound of his next words, “And while yer doin’ so, would ya please tell me what’s botherin’ you lately? Y’know I can’t help unless you tell me.”

The words escape me, like they have for the last few days as I’ve thought and thought of how to say them. More than anything, I’ve debated whether or not to even put them into a sentence that I could speak to him.

“No lies. Rememba, sweetheart?”

“I remember,” my voice is small and quiet. His hairy legs feel contrasting to my smooth pair tangled under the covers.

“Ya gonna show me those pretty eyes o’ yers, love? Tha ones I love so much I hope our babies have ‘em?” his question is answered with my head, and a denial at that. “‘s it easier t’ tell me what’s wrong without lookin’ at me?” this time, my head says something else. I hear his gentle hum amongst the drowning guilt.

“‘s okay, Becks, but y’know, ya never hafta be afraid t’ tell me anythin.’ Y’know that, right?” I myself hardly hear my vocal confirmation, but it’s hard to make it out over the hammering of my heart. I can’t decide if it does or doesn’t help the way his fingers are losing themselves in my hair, his cold toes against mine. “When yer ready.”

My head goes up and down with his words until it lifts, and his eyes are patient. I don’t need to look that hard to see the sunshine waiting in them for me, and how it curls his lips into his cheeks. With each second, I doubt what I’m about to do, and my body takes the brunt of it.

“Will you marry me?”

“What? No,” Harry chuckles, his face screwed up in confusion. My own falls indefinitely, turning away to hide in my pillow. “Becks, honey. C’mere.”

“No, I can’t believe you said that you wouldn’t marry me, Harry,” the whining in my voice is mostly authentic, but I do my part to milk it, as well. My guilty regret only comes once I’m on my feet and walking into the ensuite bathroom, having forgotten to take my contacts out.

“Hey, where d’ya think yer goin’?” Harry insists. As I unscrew the caps to the case, the worry almost overwhelms his voice. “I didn’t mean it that way, bug, please believe me.”

His cheek against mine from behind brings back that tingly sensation as I remove my contacts. “Why’d it sound that way then?”

“It didn’t, I promise you that, Becks.” I give him a smile when I turn around, taking his hand to pull him back into our bedroom. “Babe,” his laugh continues, seemingly never going to end as it grows deeper and heartier. Despite my upset, it finds the crack in my armor once we’re under the covers again. “‘Course ‘ll marry you, that’s not what I meant, bug- Hey, stop ignorin’ me and come gimme a cuddle.”

After a bout of failed attempts, his strong arms hook under mine until he’s pulled me into his chest. His warm hands manipulate my slack body until my chin is lifted, “Look at me, would you?”

“No.”

“Rebecca Ann Holte, look at me, so I can talk t’ you,” he replies firmly, but laced with honey. Always. Sighing, I oblige and open them. “Hey, dontchu cry on me. You bloody well know that I want nothin’ mo’ in tha world t’ marry you and have a family with you.”

“Then, why don’t you? It’s almost been a year and a half, Harry,” all fight and joking aside, my voice drips of a melancholy type of honey. Instantly, I see the effect it has on him, pulling his lips down into a sullen line.

“Where’s this comin’ from all o’ a sudden, huh? What’s happened, baby?” his question is spoken aloud. I avoid answering it, not wanting to share. I don’t need to, because within seconds, I watch the lightbulb go off behind his eyes. “‘s this ‘cos Amelia jus’ got engaged? ‘s it, Becks?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, looking away, and he lets me. Swallowing against a dry throat, my hand ventures to one of his where I remove a ring. I slide it onto a blank finger of my left hand, two others already claiming a spot. “They haven’t even been together five months . . it’s not fair. Jennings too, the other day. It’s like everybody else is . . “

“But you, love?” his murmur is gentle, and so are the pads of his fingers on my cheeks. “E’vrybody’s different, Becks. ‘m not innna rush, I didn’t know you were, love. That’s why we hafta communicate.”

“That’s why I’m telling you . . although a few days late, and I’m sorry.”

“‘s okay. Thank you fer tellin’ me,” his lips warm my face, willing the sadness away. “‘m gonna marry you, y’know that, right? . . Right?”

“Yeah,” again, I sound like a mouse. This time, he lifts my chin so I’m looking at him again, and no longer his ring dotted with black figures.

“Ya don’t sound very convincin’ . . but maybe that’s my fault. I didn’t mean t’ say no at first like that. ‘course ‘ll marry you, my bug, but I wanna be tha one who asks,” Harry explains, catching the dwindling tears that remain on the apples of my cheeks. A softness sits in his eyes that makes me pool with sour regret.

“How come? You said we could just go and do it at the courts one day, easy as that.”

“That’s not whatchu want, nor do I, Becks,” he states. Despite my stubbornness, I know that he’s right. “Same goes fer askin’ you t’ marry me . . I know we both want it t’ be special, and I need some mo’ time t’ make sure it ‘s.”

“You’ve jokingly asked me how many times now? Called me Mrs. Styles how many times a day lately?” I muse aloud, unsure of how to stop once I had taken the plug from the drain.

His laughing lips are what I first see, and then hear, “Yes, I joke ‘bout it ‘cos I can’t wait t’ ask you . . figuratively, bug. And, I love callin’ you that, don’t think it could sound any better . . But, you and I both know that we want it t’ be special . . t’ have a grand story t’ tell our kids one day. ‘m only plannin’ on doin’ it once, so I wanna make it unfo’gettable, Becks . . ‘m sorry if I made you feel like ‘ll never do it, and that yer sad it hasn’t happened yet, but it will. I promise you that.”

“When?” my question appears in the air before I can stop it. So do the dimples in his cheeks, again. “Thank you, I mean. I’m sorry I��m being impatient and rude, I know there’s more to getting married than just a pretty ring.”

“Yer okay, li’l one, I understand. Well, that wouldn’t be very much fun if I told you, now would it? It’d take away tha surprise.” his brows do the rest of the talking for him. Letting out a long breath, I dive into his arms, and start to relax when his chin rests on my head. “Soon, ‘s that good enough fer you? . . ‘kay, good. Bloody hell, yer a funny one, thinkin’ you can get away with askin’ me like that. And thinkin’ that ‘m not over tha moon mad ‘bout you that ‘m not gonna marry you one day,” he chuckles. I feel his stomach shake with the sound, and soon, mine does too.

“I can’t believe your knee jerk reaction was to say no.”

“C’mon, Becks, I didn’t mean it that way. I jus’ meant it as in, I don’t want you t’ beat me t’ it.”

“Yeah, well, I did. Again,” I giggle, and he joins me with that lovely sound his lips make.

“Seems ya did, like always . . Would you like t’ come with me t’ look at rings t’morrow afta work?” at the sound of his words, something blossoms inside of my chest, and quickly on my lips. It’s that effervescence that I find sitting in his eyes at times, an unbelievable bubbly feeling.

“I’d love to, Harry.”

“Good, I thought that’s what you’d say,” his trademark wheeze is like music to my ears, and at last, I feel my heart start to beat normally again.

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothin’ t’ be sorry fer, bug. I feel as if I do, leavin’ you in the dark ‘bout this. I thought you knew from our talks that I was plannin’ on it soon, my love,” and the guilt train just speeds along, taking me with it.

“You’re too good to me, Harry.”

“Hush, li’l one, you deserve it and so much mo’, my Mrs. Styles. Now, let’s get some sleep, we have a big day ahead o’ us t’morrow. Interviewin’ witnesses, and engagement ring shoppin,’” he coos with an excited lilt to his voice. I can’t do any longer without seeing it in those sage abyss eyes. “Hi, Mrs. Styles. That sounds rather perfect, dontchu think?”

“Yeah,” I smile, combing stray hair away from those beautiful eyes. I don’t know, I think I want our kids to have his eyes, instead.

“Rebecca Styles. Becky Styles.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Styles.”

“Tha married lawyers,” he whispers until his lips explode with a laugh made of dreams. I taste it on his lips when he kisses me.

“I love you, Harry Styles.”

“I love you mo’ than you will ever bloody know, Rebecca Ann. Can’t wait t’ put a ring on yer finger, see you walk down tha aisle t’ me, and have so many babies t’gether,” he speaks animatedly, holding me tight and still holding my eyes with his. “Love you, Boops,” is the last thing he says before kissing my nose, and then underneath my eye.

I love you, Styles.

“He’s still alive, ‘s he? Hmm, dunno if ya have a green thumb quite yet, considerin’ you’ve killed ev’ry other plant ‘ve gotten you.”

“Hey! Plants just aren’t my forte, okay? But, succulents? Eh, they’re better . . easier. Plants are harder than they look, Harry,” my protest is weak, and we both know it. He wheezes while thumbing at a thick leaf on ‘Frankie the Succulent,’ the very plant that’s been here just as long as I’ve been a lawyer here.

“So am I,” I nudge him away when his lousy dad joke drifts over my shoulder.

“Shut up. I’m going to go and fill my water, so he can have some too. I’ll be back and then, we can have lunch.”

“Noted. I bloody well hope yer better at keepin’ kids alive than plants.” I have to roll my eyes at him this time too for the lame comment. “Hey, watch those eyes o’ yers, Rebecca Ann, or no churros fer you.”

“You never have, and you never will, Styles.”

“Oh, ya sure are temptin’ me now, woman,” he sighs with a finger wagging at me. Rolling my eyes again on accident, and from pure habit, I hurriedly leave the room, giggling after seeing the look on his face. “Yer gonna get it, Rebecca Holte!” I hear called after me, only urging my lips further.

When I return, his lips are still twitching with a smile, and part of me grows nervous. In one way, ever since we looked at rings last week, I feel on edge every time he has that glint in his eye, never knowing when he’s going to fall onto a knee. This time, I’m nervous about the way he bites at his bottom lip.

“What’s that look for, Styles?” my lips twitch with nerves. Swallowing against a dry throat, I lift my water bottle to my mouth briefly as I walk up to the succulent.

“Frankie’s jus’ lookin’ sad, ‘s all. Ya better hurry and water him befo’ he dies on ya too.”

I hear it, and the puzzle pieces all click together when I spot the long box adorned with glittery, purple wrapping paper in the middle of my desk. That definitely wasn’t there before.

“Harry-,” I begin, setting down the water bottle as my body turns to face him.

“Open it,” he interrupts softly, something I once hated him for. At times now, he’s become rather good at finding the best moments for it.

Squishing my lips together into an eager smile, I pull the box into my hands, unwrapping the violet colored bow. My body jolts when his arms come around my waist from behind, his massive height allowing his chin to rest on the top of my head. Lifting the lid of the rectangular box, I’m greeted by a surprising sight.

“Harry,” his name drops from my lips, something that had become so easy over the years, despite the times it had been the hardest word for me to say. His lips are touching the sky almost and his dimples couldn’t be deeper as he beams at me.

“Try it on, Ms. Lawyer. Figured you needed one too t’ stay organized.” Nodding to it, he licks his lips while watching me.

“This is too much, Harry, I-.”

“Happy One and a Half, bug, and congrats on yer sparklin’ review, as always. Ya deserve it. Now, try it on already. I wanna see it on you,” he wheezes with that sunshine smile spreading even more warmth across my face. The redness coating my cheeks I’m sure only reaches further when he turns me around to steal a kiss from my lips.

The lavender colored band feels buttery under my fingertips. I have to ask for Harry’s help, but within moments, an Apple watch similar to his, despite the purple band and purple hard case, sits on my wrist.

“You like?”

“Yes, I love it,” I sigh happily, exploring the small device’s possibilities. His giggle eggs me on, especially when he shows me the Walkie Talkie feature that he insists we experiment with from opposite sides of the room. “But, I didn’t really get you anything. Well, nothing as nice as this.”

“Hush, you. You didn’t need t’ get me anythin.’ ‘m mo’ than pleased with our dinner planned fer t’night. ‘m excited t’ cook with you, bug. Steaks, alfredo, honey glazed carrots, and yer famous chocolate cake. There’s nothin’ mo’ that I could want.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll just take back your present then,” I huff with sarcasm laced in my voice, plucking the present wrapped in Beatles paper from a drawer in my desk.

He too holds back an excited smile, reaching his hands out while walking towards me. “Gimme,” he nearly squeals, and I oblige. Biting on my nail, I watch as he tears the paper away, oooing and awwing at the square box that now sits in his palm. “Oooo, another wordy board game, me likey.”

Chuckling, I relish the way he turns it over in his hands, examining the front and back, “It’s called Boggle. You shake up the dice with letters and then have to make words from the touching letters before the timer is up. Then, you go through what words you have, and whoever has the most unique words wins . . My gran and I used to play it loads when . . when she was alive. I found it at my Dad’s the other weekend when I was there, so it’s not a new one, I’m sorry.”

“Becks,” he begins, having forgotten the game entirely to meet my eyes. Stepping forward, his hand comes to cradle my elbow, all smiles gone. “You shouldn’t have, bug. I can’t imagine how special this ‘s t’ you, thank you so much. ‘ll keep it safe and be careful with it. ‘ll keep it at home, then. We should play it t’night afta dinner. ‘ve been wantin' some new games.”

“I’d like that, and don’t worry, it just goes to show you how much I love you,” I smile, feeling his honesty when his lips touch mine. “But, for the record, I get it in the divorce. I’m putting it in the prenup.”

“Shut up, would you? Stop talkin’ and kiss me, honeybug,” Harry smirks, whisking all of my words away with his lips tasting of honey. “Love you.”

“I love you mostest,” it’s a titter against his lips, but it grows fuller as he shakes his head at me, gnawing at his lip.

“God, I can’t believe you did that. Ya went right fer it. What am I gonna do with you?” he tuts, clucking his tongue at me. Before I know it, his fingers are dancing along my sides, and his laugh is mingling with mine.

Who knew that it could ever be this good?

It had been information overload, and my noggin was ready for a break a few days later. Beginning it with a coffee in hand, my legs inch closer to his door. My reprieve is closer with every second as I near the door with my favorite person’s name on it. That was the last thought in my mind when that frosted glass door swung open, and two men turned around to face me with surprise. At first, I have a hard time telling them apart, until I blink a few times.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry. I should’ve knocked,” the words are automatic on my lips, and so is the apology on Harry’s face.

His parting lips are fast, but they don’t beat those of the man who stands closer to me, “You’re okay, love. I was just leaving.”

I nod along with his words, but I don’t have any of my own. Instead, my eyes veer to Harry’s pair with a question in mine. The alarm that had risen inside of me at the sight of the man only worsens once I find his pages unreadable to me. His lips curls just the slightest, but there’s something else there I see as they ready themselves to speak.

“Becks, this ‘s me Dad, and Dad, this ‘s me girlfriend, Becky,” he announces warmly, removing a hand from the pockets of his beige blazer, pointing to the tall man in a dark suit. I can’t stop my eyes from widening at my boyfriend and he nods at me. I don’t have any more time to look, because Harry’s dad is stepping towards me.

“Reckon we’ve met once before, if I remember correctly. Anyways, I’m Dez. Dez Styles, ‘s nice t’ meet me son’s girlfriend at last,” the man says in a slow drawl with an accent similar to Harry’s. A smile appears on my lips from nowhere as I take his hand in my own, shaking it. If I look hard enough, I think I can see a hint of Harry’s eyes, and more in him.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m Becky.”

“Pleasure t’ meet you, Becky, but I best be going. I have to get back to work meself. Maybe we could talk more another time. I’d love t’ hear more about you, and how the two of you met over some fish and chips, or a pint some time,” he continues, and so does my nodding.

“Ya, we’ll see,” the words are soft, but they’re from Harry as his dad nods to the both of us before leaving the room.

“Have a good day, the both of you. Talk soon.”

Suddenly, we’re joined by the silence, and Harry only feeds it when I wish he’d end it. No matter the looks I give him or the questions that shout from my eyes, he remains silent, despite the recent bombshell.

When he does speak, at last, it’s the least from what I expect, “Wanna play some Boggle? Reckon ‘s that point in tha day, I need a break.”

“Really, Harry? Boggle?” my question graces the air, long overdue, even if only for the last few minutes it’s sat inside of me being a bother.

Again, he deprives me. Instead, he plops onto the trusty old sofa, removing the playing items from the box to set them on top of it. When I find my seat, a blank notepad and pen both with the logo of Styles and Lawson await me across from him. The loud clatter of the plastic dice bouncing around inside of the container fills my ears when I wish it was something else. Somebody else.

When he removes the lid to set it aside, and tips the sand timer over, I leave it at that. For the next minute, we sit in an absence of words, concentrating on forming random ones of our own from the arrangement of random letters.

“Time’s up,” I announce when the white sand has completely filled the bottom half of the timer. His frantic scribbling comes to a stop, but my lips resume, with a laugh.

“What’re you laughin’ at over there?” Harry hums, lifting his narrowed eyes at me. Despite the number of times I’ve asked, he’s never let me near his beloved eyebrows, but of course, they’re rather perfect as it is. Big surprise, there.

“Your handwriting has gotten so bad, Harry. How do you even read it, anymore?”

“Hush, you. I can read it, that’s all that matters,” he whines, carding a hand through his hair.

“I hardly can, though! I barely could when I was your assistant, it took me forever to learn.”

“‘Kay, thanks fer tha lecture. Now, ‘ll start,” he shrugs with a laugh, pointing the tip of his pen to the first word on his list. His handwriting was a cross between cursive and chicken scratch, that’s all I could ever explain it as.

“Can we please wait, Harry? I want to talk,” my question is slow and gentle, or so, I hope. If anything, my hand is when I place it on top of his. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but it’s enough when he forgets the pen to cradle my hand in his.

“Are you mad I didn’t tell you?”

“No, of course not, Harry. I-.”

“Thanks, ‘cos I don’t wantchu t’ and ya don’t hafta be. I didn’t know it was gonna happen, either. I . . ,” a sigh steals his words away as his thumb worries away at my promise ring. “I texted him, askin’ him how he proposed t’ me mum . . and if he had me gran’s ring. His mum’s. He asked if he could stop by tha firm t’ speak ‘bout it, and I said sure, not thinkin’ ‘d actually happen. Things had been good lately, y’know. He was at Gem’s a few weekends ago when I stopped by, you were at a show with Skye, I think.”

“Yeah, I remember. How’d it go today with him?” my broaching of the question is careful, but if anything, this is a topic I know how to talk about. We both ride the parent trauma train, unfortunately.

“Good. It was brief, but it went good,” he answers, gracing me with a look of his beautiful eyes. Finally, they hold all of the pages to his books, open for me to read, as I like. “He gave me some tips, and we spoke ‘bout rings. It was actually really nice, and I think he was really tryin,’ which meant loads t’ me. He wants t’ get t’gether t’ meet you- Well, reckon he already did, once or twice, now. But, I think ‘d like that, too. ‘m not jus’ lettin’ him back into me life tho’, but I want to try with him again. I want t’ have a Dad again, Becks,” a happy wheeze accompanies his words, and so does a glassiness to his eyes.

“I’m so happy for you, honey.”

I feel his breath on my cheek, and then his beard when I surround him with my arms. Laughs dripping with hopes and dreams pass between us as I hug him back, stroking the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Thanks, babe. I jus’ hope it’ll stay this way . . that it’ll stay good.”

“I know. I’m sure it will, Harry,” trying to ignore the weight of our words, and the impending future that settles in my thoughts.

Me too, Harry. Me too.

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t-o-m-hollands · 4 years

Text

PARIS PART II of III

Warnings: Swearing, heavy drinking, smut. +18.

SUMMARY: Timmy is an artist living in Paris in the 1950′s. You come to him to model for a painting but you have an unusual demand for the artist.

R E A D P A R T O N E H E R E

1st of October, 1952 - Paris.

It’s Tuesday and Timothée is tired. It’s 1 in the afternoon but his head is still aching from last night. It's been seven months since you left Paris, and somehow, life has gone on.

The sun is shining mercilessly bright and he wishes he was back in his studio, so he could hide from it. But it’s a place he spends as little amount of time as possible in as of late. Instead he’s sitting on a bench just below Sacré-Cœur, wearing last night's clothes, a mess of curls framing his tired face. In one hand a cigarette and in the other a freshly printed copy of the Tatler. On the front page is your face, radiantly beautiful, in a wedding dress and veil, diamonds in your ears and diamonds on your head. Next to you is your Freddie, looking straight at the camera, unnecessarily smug; or so Timothée thinks. Inside the magazine there’s an entire montage in the happy couples’ honor, complete with exclusive pictures from the high-society occasion.

“Dubbed the wedding of the season this intimate affair took place on a drizzly September morning between baron Freddie Fairfax and his blushing new bride. Freddie, who is the son of the 9th Earl of Abington, was overheard by some guest remarking over the beauty of his new bride, who was wearing a bone-white couture gown signed Christian Dior and accessorized with a diadem, an heirloom of the Fairfax family that has been in their possession for generations and borrowed to the bride on this special occasion. The nuptials were exchanged in St Margaret’s Church, gloriously decorated with bunches and bunches of yellow chrysanthemums, aconites and white lilies, in front of an audience including representants from most of the royal households of Europe and the English social elite. The reception took place at the Earls 25,000 acres estate in Oxfordshire and upon arrival the guest were served ice cold”

Timothée stops reading and throws the magazine down on the bench. For a long time he sits there, watching as people climb their way up the stairs to the church, and smoking cigarette after cigarette until his throat feels sore. It’s a fine October day, the air crisp and clean. The leaves on the trees changing from emerald green to vibrant shades of orange and yellow. Some have already fallen to the ground. A melancholic part of him, the majority in fact, can’t help but to think of it as a metaphor of his life. He’d met you and the entire world had seemed in bloom. Now it was rapidly fading.

Someone sits down beside him on the bench, but he ignores them, mind too far away to care.

“You are monsieur Chalamet, I presume”. With a startle he looks at the person next to him. It’s an elderly lady, possibly in her 80’s, with hair in a sophisticated updo, burgundy lips and sparkling eyes. She’s clothed in an expensive fur coat and with diamonds on every finger. He suddenly feels dirty in his unwashed clothes.

“Yes madam, and who are you if I may ask?” he answers politely.

“Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright” she introduces herself, stretching out her heavily bejeweled hand. He shakes the elderly woman’s hand. It feels strangely cold in his.

“And what can I do for you, madam?”

She doesn’t answer at first but looks down on the magazine between them. “Pretty, isn’t she?” she asks. He doesn’t answer at first, doesn’t know what to say to that. “Yes, very pretty” he answers at last.

“It was a terrible wedding” she continues. “Terrible”.

“And how do you know the bride?” He asks, feeling rather uncomfortable

“She’s my grandniece” she says and looks up at him again, studying his face. “She lived with me for a period, here in Paris. I believe you know one another?”

He doesn’t answer her question, knows she already knows the answer to it, instead he asks “and why was the wedding so terrible?”

“Oh” she says and swats with her hand, but there’s a look of worry on her face he can’t look past. “When the bride’s wearing the wrong dress, or the bridesmaids won’t behave, or the food’s terrible, well those are all things one expects at a wedding. But when the bride marries the wrong groom, well, that’s not quite as easily overlooked. Then you find yourself actually praying for an ill-fitted gown instead”.

He stares at her in confusion. “What do you mean, the wrong groom?”

She observers him with shrewd eyes. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Madam, with all due respect, I not sure what you want with me” he says slowly. He finds himself wondering if maybe he’s still asleep and this is a strange dream produced by too much absinthe. If he’ll perhaps wake up in a ditch soon, with a hangover from hell.

“But don’t worry” she says with a kind smile “We can still fix this”.

He wonders if he should leave, for this is not a conversation he wants to have, especially not with a complete stranger. But despite himself he says “there’s nothing to fix”.

Then she takes him by surprise, for she grabs the magazine from the bench and hits his arm with it, not hard, but enough to get a reaction out of him. “Ow!” he bursts out, “what was that for?”

“For you to get a grip of yourself! Don’t be so defeatist, I told you we can fix this. You still love her and she loves you, not that absolute buffoon”.

“It’s too late, she’s already married him. And I'm over it” he lies, trying to keep on to some kind of dignity in this bizarre situation.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t moved on from any of it, I know an idiot in love when I see one, and you’re it”.

“Gee, thanks” he mutters, rubbing the sore spot where she hit him with the magazine.

“Now, what are we going to do? Are you going after her?”

He stares at her in disbelief, “no, she’s married, I told you, it’s too late”.

“Do I need to use this again?” she threatens and holds up the magazine, but there’s a humorous gleam in her eyes that makes him smile.

“Why are you trying to help me?” He asks.

“Well, quite frankly dahling, I'm not trying to help you. But that girl, my dahling niece, is miserable.” There’s sadness now in her old eyes and something twists uncomfortably in Timothée’s chest.

“It’s that bloody women's fault, her mother!” She bursts out, taking him aback. The venom in her voice almost palpable, “She’s whispering ideas of self-sacrifice in her ear. Not that her father’s any better – defeatist! That’s the only word to describe him! Never could fight for himself. To think that my dahling sister could have given birth to such a fool. And now my grandniece...” she trails off, sadness in her voice again.

“Now your grandniece has a title and is married to one of the richest people in England.” He states firmly.

She throws the magazine down on the bench again and swats her hand in front of her, as if to get rid of a particularly annoying fly, and the diamonds on her hand sparkle in the sun. “Yes, but it’s not what she wants. Is it? What she wants is, well, it’s you.”

There’s something so penetrating about her eyes and the way she looks at him. Crinkled and full of wrinkles her face may be but those shrew eyes shine bright as ever. They are very familiar eyes, a strong remembrance to another pair of eyes that haunt his dreams. He looks away,

“But she did decide to marry him, that was her decision. Doesn’t mean I don’t understand it, but there’s where we’re at. There’s nothing to be done.”

“I saw the painting you made of her” She says in a voice that make him think she’s fishing after something and in the corner of his eyes he can see her inspecting him. He lights a new cigarette and avoids her eyes. “The one with yellow tulips?” she adds, making it sound like a question.

“’s just a painting” he mumbles, feigning nonchalance.

She continues to observe him before sighing. Then, she pats him on his arm and in a gentle tone she says “we both know that’s not quite true”.

And suddenly he wants to weep. Weep in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. Without holding back, without grace or shame. Weep, and subject the poison from his body. But he doesn’t. Clenching his hands around the rim of the bench with all of his strength he manages to keep the storm at bay. Only when he feels he has his emotions locked up and under control does he look at her again. Her familiar eyes, full of sympathy, observes him and something inside his chest is screaming.

“Could I paint you, madam?” he asks with a smile, to lighten the mood.

She throws her head back in laughter. “Oh, how sweet of you, but I'm afraid my modelling days are far behind me. But if you ever need something, a listening ear or” and she looks at his dirty clothes “or perhaps a loan, then feel free to keep in touch.”

She gently pats his shoulder, then gets up and leaves.

February 12th, 1953

In a dimly lit club in Pigalle Timothée is writing a letter. Smoke surrounds him and the dim light shining through gives the illusion of a halo around his head. It’s a bad place to conduct letters in. People around him are cheering and talking, singing and howling with laughter while a modern band plays experimental jazz. It is rowdy, and it is wild, and it’s the perfect distraction.

It’s a shabby sort of place, where the floors are sticky with god knows what, the music is loud and the liquor comes cheap. Timothée thinks it’s heaven.

A man sits down next to him in the bar and orders a Gin Rickey.

“Terrible, aren’t they?” He questions in a broad American accent, gesturing toward the band as the bartender hands him his drink. Timothée nods in agreement and gestures with his empty glass to the bartender, implying need of a refill of his whiskey neat. The barman catches his gesture and pour him a new glass of Glenlivet and hands it to him just as the band begin a new tune.

“Hardly Duke Ellington” he says to the stranger and nods to the scene. He folds the unfinished letter and puts it in his pocket for later. The other man snorts in response, “that’s putting it kindly” he says, amusement in his voice. Timothée takes a good look at the stranger. He looks to be about his own age and is wearing a nice grey suit and hat tilted to the side. With a square jaw, a tall stature and piercingly blue eyes he could pass for a movie star. Lighting a cigarette, the man then offers one to Timothée, who gladly accepts the offer in a gratified manner. He’s been running low on his own stash these last few days.

They start talking. Discussing the differences in American and French jazz, the best drinking holes in Paris and who really is the great American writer. Timothée claim it’s Hemingway (“mark my words, he’ll win a Nobel price one of these days) whereas the stranger argues for F. Scott Fitzgerald (“the way he writes about the promise of the American dream, no one can rival Fitzgerald” he proclaims and Timmy wants to argue that surely he writes about the failed promise of the American dream, but they move on to a less dividing topic). The discuss bourbon and whiskey and rum as the bartender refill their glasses and the liquor no longer burns his throat and his eyes have adjusted to the smoke in the room as they mindlessly chat on. Timmy finds out that the strangers name is William and that he’s originally from California though went to boarding school in ‘good ol’ England’ but that he’s spent the last year in New York. Also, that he’s just separated from his wife. Timmy in turn tells him of his own life in broad strokes, his American mother and French father, art school and life as a painter in Paris. A few drinks later still and they get a hold of an old, wooden table at the far back of the room and so they cross the room, avoiding collision with the dancers, all in various states of drunkenness, and they begin a game of cards. The jazz band plays on.

William turns out to be quite the gambler and Timothée, who’s been walking around for months now with a feeling that he has nothing more to lose, can’t help but bet on the few things he has. They laugh and play and share stories of their youth while the jazz band play louder and louder. Perhaps the good company and distracting surroundings goes to his head, because a couple games in and Timmy is indebted to the American. He has had a bad hand overall as of late and he tells his opponent as much. The man in turn laughs and leans back in his chair, his cards in one hand and a cigar in the other. He takes a long drag from it before blowing out smoke across the space between them. Around them people dance to the chaotic music.

“Hell, I’m feeling generous tonight and you’ve been good company. Not many people I can talk to here in France, my French is terrible. So, you’re a painter, how about a painting, then? And I’ll write the whole thing off.” he suggests and smiles broadly.

Timothée hesitates. His apartment has been unusually empty of paintings as of late. The few ones he had he sold just last week in order to meet rent. Inspiration to paint new ones had not been with him. Not since you left. Everything he had managed to paint had come out drained of colour and bleak and he ended up losing interest in it.

He only has one painting left. But he couldn't, could he?

“Alright” Timmy agrees. Because what choice does he have? Maybe it’s time to put this ghost to rest, once and for all. Your gone and no wishful thinking or practices in gratefulness can change that simple fact. You’re married and there’s nothing he can do about it, despite madame Marguerite’s words of your misery ringing in his ears. There’s nothing he can do to save you now. You’ve made your choice, and all there is now is the aftermath. The post mortem. You have to live with that decision and so does he. Even if he doesn’t want to. So, why should he keep the painting? The baron got to keep the real you after all, and the only thing he has is the picture of you. A picture that can’t talk or laugh, can’t smile or play with his hair or touch him or dance to Chopin or lecture him about classical music. A painted image that he has stared himself blind at for these past few months, grieving that he cannot bring it to life, while the baron got the real you.

His unfinished letter burns in his pocket but he ignores it.

And so they leave, on unsteady legs and heads swirling with liquor, and the jazz band plays them out to their worst tune yet as they exchange the smoky club air for a cold night’s breeze.

“Fuck” William mutters as they enter the night. “Fucking freezing” he adds and shivers in his nice suit. “No worry” Timothée slurs “not far”. They stumble their way across the cobblestoned streets. “You damn Frenchmen” the other man mutters after some distance, “always got to fucking walk everywhere, taxis where invented tor a reason, you know!” Timmy snorts and points to a building just a couple of meters away. “Live there, yeah?”

And with a lot of effort they help each other up the stairs to the loft. Once inside William asks if there’s any brandy, for ‘recovery purposes after their hellish journey’ and so, they drink some more. They start discussing politics, a bad idea all around, before venturing into the less dividing topic of French cinema. It’s not long after that they’ve both fallen asleep, William slung on the sofa, his long limbs hanging over the edge, and Timothée’s sprawled out on the carpet, the bottle of brandy clutched firmly in his hand. (For recovery purposes.)

A few hours later and Timmy’s hurling down the toilet. He wants to check his head for bullet holes, that’s how bad it’s aching. After having cleaned up, although there’s nothing to be done about the mess of curls that is his hair, he joins the American in his living room.

William is sitting up on the sofa, but it looks very much as if he’s just woken up, hair a mess and a 5 o'clock shadow, his expensive suit all wrinkles now. The sun is shining mercilessly bright and its rays lights up the room as he rubs his eyes. “Coffee?” he requests in a gruff voice. Timothée nods, before realizing that any movement of the head is a terrible idea as pain shots through it.

“What a fucking night” William mutters some time later as they drink their coffee. “And I’ve got a meeting with the lawyers this afternoon, not the sort of thing one should do hungover.”

“Oh yeah?” is all Timothée manages to get out, head still too sore to put any thoughts together.

“Yeah, divorce proceedings”

“Rotten business” Timmy states and the other man laughs. “Rotten business, indeed” he agrees and cheer him with his mug of coffee. “Still, a necessity that must be endured.” He looks around the loft. “But I’ll have a new painting to hang in my bachelor pad, that’s something to write home about!” he says, more cheerful now.

And fuck, he’d forgotten that part.

Feeling nauseous again he puts down his coffee cup. “Yeah, you’ll have a new painting” he agrees, mostly to fill the silence.

“Haven’t seen any of your work yet though” William considers. “You might be shit. My five-year-old niece might be a better painter, and I’ve just promised to write off your debts to me” he adds and laughs. Timmy gets up, there’s no putting this off. “I’ll go get it and you’ll decide” he says and heads for his bedroom.

The paintings leaned against the wall. He doesn’t turn it, doesn’t want to see it one last time. There’s not enough brandy in the world for that recovery. Something inside his chest is rioting against the very idea of handing the picture over to anyone else, but he pushes down the feeling of nausea and heads back to the living room, canvas clutched firmly in his hands.

“Well” he says and holds it up, so the other man can see. “Here’s your winnings”.

William looks up at it and then, the strangest thing happens. His entire being freezes, his mouth ajar, stuck mid-movement as he had begun to say something before having seemingly been struck by lightning. Bells are ringing alarmingly in Timothée’s head, going off like sirens. Somethings wrong.

He observes Williams glossy eyes taking in the portrait in front of him, mouth still agog in chock. He places to painting on the dingy little table but William still doesn’t take his eyes off it. He gets up slowly and walks over to the painting, as if in a trance, like a man bewitched, and he reaches out a hand to touch the painting and with hesitant fingers he gently touches your cheek. The nude portrait of you, the one Timothée had painted on the day that you left him, posing slung on the very same sofa William’s just slept on.

And it hits him then, like a collision.

That this is William. The William. The man who broke your engagement and sailed across the Atlantic with his new bride. A bride he’s apparently already separated from.

“How, how-” William begins but he seems unable to finish the sentence.

A sudden feeling of being a side character in somebody else’s story settles inside of Timothée. Words like destiny and star-crossed comes to mind as he observes the other man and his wide, wild eyes, the way he looks at the painting in absolute wonder.

“Is, is she still here? Is she still in Paris?” and his voice is weak but full of hope. Slowly Timothée shakes his head. “She’s left.” He confirms, and the crushing disappointment is so clear in the other man’s face that it feels cruel to continue, but he does. “She’s married now. To a baron”.

William’s head snaps away from the painting for the first time since he saw it. “Freddie?” He asks, voice bitter and Timmy nods. “That fucker” he swears “he always was sniffing after her” he adds resentfully. He looks back at the painting and his expression soften, but he looks sadder too.

“That’s why you came here, isn’t?” Timothée asks hesitantly. “To look for her?”

William nods, seemingly unable to look away from the picture. He reaches for it and an overwhelming urge to stop him, to remove the painting from his sight washes over Timothée. To hand this portrait of you away to a stranger had seemed like a sad but unavoidable thing to do. But to give it away in due for his debts to your ex fiancé… It felt dirty and cruel.

But what choice did he have?

And so, he watches William take the painting and watches him leave with the only thing he has left of you.

Because Timothée is 26 and he still hasn’t got any money. And he can’t compete with handsome William, or to Freddie the baron. Because Timothée is 26 and all he’s got to show for it is an apartment he can’t afford anymore and a broken heart.

He runs to the bathroom and hurls in the toilet again, unable to ignore the feeling of nausea and guilt any longer.

That night you come to him in his dreams. Like a vision you appear at the end of his bed, drenched in water. White, wet silk clenching to your body, hair slicked to your face and such a haunted look in your eyes that he involuntarily reaches out for you, to hold you, to help you, to save you. He’s not quite sure. But before he can reach you the scenario changes. Because suddenly – as is the way of dreams, you’re the Tate museum watching John Everett Millais Ophelia. Your standing next to him, water dripping from your drenched body down on the floor. He looks at you, but you keep your eyes on the painting.

And when he looks back at it, it’s no longer a portrait of Ophelia lying dead in the water. It’s you.

He wakes with a jolt, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for air. It feels like he has to force fresh air into his lungs, like he’s been under water for too long. He feels around himself, automatically, to feel for your body, make sure you’re safe.

Bur you are miles away.

February 14th, 1953

Timothée writes a new letter.

It’s 5 am and I'm drunk and I am thinking of you and in a few hours it’ll be 12 am and I'll be drunk and I'll be thinking of you. And so the story goes.

I met your William, charming bloke, shame about his wife. He came here looking for you, you know? Don’t worry, I told him you got married to a baron. Your wedding pictures looked lovely in the Tatler, by the way. Diamonds suits you.

I haven’t painted much since you left. I have no inspiration. For anything.

You know, we've made a beating heart out of my pain. It’s a living, breathing creature and it walks with me everywhere, hidden somewhere under my ribcage. Like a second heart. Where I go it follows. What I feel for you, it’s a Frankenstein's monster kind of grief, bits and pieces cut out from us both, turned into a living creature. Can you hear it beating for you? Can you hear it screaming out for you? Saying ‘where did she go? Where did she go? Why can’t I follow?’ Like a child begging for its mother. Come back, come back and collect your second heart, take it out of my body, remove it from me, I cannot stand its begging. I'd kill the monster, but it’s the only thing I have left of you now. Don’t think I could stomach the loss.

I’m not the same I was before I met you. This love has made a different man out of me. This love has made a bitter man out of me. This love sure feels a lot like drowning. In my dreams you come to me, all Ophelia-esque and suffering, and I want to pull both our bodies out of the water, but you’re determined to sink and I don’t want to let go of your hand and so – we drown.

I know it’ll pass, this longing I have for you. It must. I cannot keep walking these streets wrecked with grief. One day at a time. That’s what I tell myself each morning as a watch the sun rise over Paris, my head and heart pounding in revolt, one day at a time.

There’s a Swedish saying that goes ‘a lot of water shall run under a lot of bridges before I forget you’. What it essentially means is that it’ll take a lot for me to forget you, or the way you made me feel.

But I'm sorry. One mustn’t be morbid. I won’t write you again. I’ve tried to be grateful; I am trying. I hope married life is treating you well. I hope you’ve gotten all you ever wished for. I hope you’re happy. I honestly do. You deserve the best life has to offer. I’m just sad I can’t be the one giving it to you. Being without you is a hard thing to be grateful for.

One day at a time.

Yours,

Timothée

The next morning, he calls the model agency. Later, just as his headache is subsiding, a blonde model named Lucy knocks on his door. She’s chatty and friendly and moves around too much when he paints her. Her laugh is loud but childlike and she keeps the conversation going. He plays a Benny Goodman record and her hips gently swing along to the rhythm almost involuntarily and she sings along in a sweet voice to ‘The Sunny Side of the Street’.

Outside the sun is shining and the whole world seems at rest. It’s not the same – God knows it’s not the same – but for the first time in months it all seems, not alright perhaps, but bearable.

Later that night as he washes himself clean from the yellow paint that’s stained his fingers, he tries to push the feeling of guilt down from where it seems to be stuck in his throat. When that doesn’t work he tries to wash it down with absinth but as he lays down on the livingroom floor, too tired to make it into the bedroom, he watches the golden painting of Lucy gleam even in the dark, he wonders if perhaps absinth is what makes guilt grow.

1st of Mars, 1953

Timothée wakes to sunlight streaming in through the large and unwashed windows. For a long while he lays there completely still, sprawled out on the white linen sheets, curly hair draped over the pillow; trying to force his eyes to get used to the light. His head is pounding, and his body aches, but the sensation feels as familiar as the scent of turpentine and oil paint. Slowly he moves his limbs, first wiggling his toes and his hands; as if to count them all, and then, with monumental strength of character, he gets out of bed. Naked as the day he was born he walks over to the window. Far down on the street Paris is already awake, cars and passer-byers chasing down the streets. Some have changed out of their heavy, winter jackets to lighter coats as the bustle off to their individual destination.

It is the first day of spring.

He turns away from the window, in search for some clothes but stop in his tracks. As if seeing the room with new eyes he takes it in. Around the bed lay bottle after bottle of liquor, the sheets are old and dirty, the room hasn’t been dusted in months, and various pieces of clothing lay scattered everywhere.

He can’t go on like this. It’s time, whether he wants it to be or not. He has to go on.

He pours down the absinthe, the rum, the whiskey and the brandy down the kitchen sink and watches as it disappears. He cleans and wipes the floor, washes his sheets and clothes and then carefully folds them and puts them away in his closet. He finishes his painting of Lucy and then starts on another. He calls his delighted art dealer and informs him of the progress, tells him that he’ll have more ones in no time. He then swallows his pride and calls madam Marguerite, asking for the loan she offered. Pride won’t keep him warm if he loses the apartment due to not paying rent. She too sounds delighted and tells him he can pay her back by coming over for dinner. They both need the company.

And so, he walks to her apartment, a bouquet of daffodils in hand, smelling like clean laundry and with his newly brushed hair it all feel an awful lot like going to church. Upon arriving at Marguerite’s home, a maid opens the door for him and he tries not to smile when she wrinkles her nose and takes his old and patchy coat. The apartment is palace-like in grandeur, white marble everywhere, and decorated with expertise. She leads him into the lounge and announces him.

“Mr. Chalamet, madam”.

“Yes, thank you Louise” Marguerite answers and the maid leaves them.

“A cocktail?” she asks, holding up an empty martini glass. He politely accepts and looks around the room as she prepares it. “Is that a Picasso?” he asks astonished, pointing at a blue portrait of a woman on the wall opposite.

“Yes” she says and hands him a martini.

“How- how?”

She smiles at him indulgently. “I knew him in my youth” she explains and takes a sip from her own drink. He stares at her in amazement. “You know Pablo Picasso?”

She scoffs. “Oh, don’t be jealous of that, man’s an absolute fool”.

And so, they talk, all through drinks and then dinner. About art and music. About both of their childhoods, different though they both may have been. She tells him stories from her long and impressive life. About dahling Humphrey. After dinner, which had been a superb affair of duck confit; served on the finest of porcelain and paired with the finest of wines, they’d gone out on the terrace for drinks and smokes. He sticks to his old Lucky Strikes and she to imported Russian cigarettes, (a habit she’d picked up during the war, she’d told him).

“Darling Humprey would have liked you, he would have rooted for you” she says and leans back in her chair, a Hermès blanket in her lap to keep her warm.

“Oh really? Was he a good gambler?”

“Oh god no, he was terrible better. And a sore loser.” she says and smiles in the fond way she does when she thinks of her late husband.

“How reassuring for me” he says dryly.

“Dahlinh” she begins in a drawl that would have made Betty Davis proud, “what should be reassuring is that I’m fighting in your corner, and I don’t believe in a losing hand”. Then, changing the subject she says “My niece is quite right you know, your knowledge of classical music is subpar, so I'm educating you. Next week, I'll take you to the opera.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, indeed. Gianni Schicchi. I have a spare ticket so feel free to bring someone along with you”.

“Puccini?” he says with a grimace.

“Now boy, I'm fond of you but if you say bad word of Puccini I will throw you of this balcony myself”.

He smiles, but she reminds him so much of her grandniece in this moment and something in his chest is calling out for you

Later that week he calls Lucy and they go out dancing. He doesn’t take her to Pigelle, wants to keep away from its smoke-filled rooms and sticky floors. Escapism isn’t heaven. Not anymore. Instead he takes her to La Noyade, a nice place where nice people go to have fun. And they dance, and she makes him laugh and it’s not world-altering or butterfly-inducing but it’s a good way to pass the time. They mindlessly chat about movies, and music and film stars over glasses of Champagne and they never once wade into personal territories. She wears a nice and tight dress in a sunny color, her golden blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and as he watches her seductively move her hips to the live band's music, he finds himself thinking ‘why not?’ And when she kisses him with painted-pink lips under a streetlamp he kisses her back. Because why not. And when he takes her to bed that night and fucks her into the mattress, her moans ringing in his ears, and her yellow hair sprawled over his pillows he nearly manages to forget you.

Nearly.

He holds her as she falls asleep and he tries to get used to the unfamiliar scent of her hair, the unfamiliarity of her body next to his. One day at a time.

(In his dreams you come to him, through the haze of a misty beach. You take his hand and guide him into a boat. And there you lay, as the boat drifts away and you watch the stars. You hold him close, and breathing feels easier. The rioting creature inside his chest finally at ease.)

Walking of the stairs of L'Opéra Garnier one can’t help feel anything but small. The supreme grandeur of the palace is designed to make you feel inferior after all. The high ceiling, gloriously painted by Isidore Pils, is enough to knock the breath out of anyone, and then white marble and gold for as far as the eye can see.

Timothée is wearing a tuxedo, the cheap rental kind, and the collar hasn’t been starched properly. It itches, and he fights the urge to scratch at his neck, and so he keeps his hand occupied by taking Lucy’s hand in his, and they make their way forward.

They make their way down the grand foyer. All around them people are dressed up to the nine’s in evening dresses, furs and tuxedos and more diamonds than he’s seen in his entire life, and god, Timothée misses Montmartre. Through the crowd he can see madam Marguerite, fitting her surroundings perfectly.

“Madam” he greets and kisses her cheek.

“Timothée” she responds, and she sounds fond. However, before he can introduce Lucy to her Marguerite looks over his shoulder and excitingly exclaims “Oh, there you are darling!” Without thinking he turns around to look at whomever Marguerite is greeting.

His body reacts before he does and goes completely still and for a moment he doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

It’s you.

With your hair up in an eloquent hairdo, wearing a black velvet gown that he bets costs more than his apartment, and diamonds around your neck, you’re walking towards them. Arm in arm with you walks a man Timothée recognizes from the Tatler, Freddie, with blond hair and upturned nose. He’s certainly not wearing rental wear. “Timothée?” you ask in a weak voice as you reach him. You’re seemingly unable to believe your eyes. “Is it really you?” And with your painted blood-red lips you lean in to kiss his cheek, but they never touch his skin. You pull away and he sees how Freddie’s arm tightens around your waist.

Then you look at Lucy.

“Oh, yes of course, this is Lucy she’s my, uh” he halters.

“Muse” Lucy fills in and Timothée wants to protest, wants to catch the word midair and change it for something else, something less familiar. But he can’t. So, he watches in silence as she stretches out a hand for you to shake, which you elegantly do and even though you’re politely smiling there’s a frozen look on your face that unsettles him. With effortless grace you introduce yourself.

Then, “and this is my husband, Frederic”. You smile up at him and something inside Timothée chest is wreaking havoc. Freddie looks bored.

“Should we move along?” Freddie says in a drawling, posh voice that makes Timmy’s skin prickle in displeasure.

“Of course” Marguerite says, and leads the way, calling out ‘hello’s’ and ‘dahling’s’ to various familiar faces as she goes. Lucy crosses arms with him and they follow the older women's lead, you and your husband at your heel.

Timothée feels disorientated, head swimming with thoughts. There are too many feelings at once inside of him, too many different emotions fighting for dominance. But somehow, he continues to put one foot in front of the other and before he knows it, they’re in the auditorium. They’re in one of the boxes, and Marguerite places herself front row, next to an elderly gentleman she greets with fond familiarity. In the row behind them Freddie guides his wife and then sits down next to her. He and Lucy take the two seats behind them, Timothée ending up in the seat right behind you. He sees how Freddie leans in to whisper something in your ear, but he can’t hear his words. All he can see is that you stiffen, and slowly shake your head.

He looks at you, you’re perfect updo, not a hair out of place, the immaculately painted lips, the swan-like neck and perfect stiff posture. Your face still with that unsettling frozen look, as if you’ve retracted somewhere far inside yourself and he remembers how you used to dance in his studio, unguarded and free. Laughing and dancing while he painted you. A sudden urge to take your hand grabs hold of him. To take your hand and lead you away from all of this, away from the man sitting down beside you. To loosen your hair and limbs. To take you home and play Chopin and make you laugh again. Erase that frozen, still look from your face.

The lighting dims in the auditorium and then the orchestra begin the dramatic first chords of the opera but Timothée finds it hard to concentrate. Lucy has her eyes set on the stage, her hand on his knee. He feels like a trapped animal.

He thanks his lucky star that it’s at least only a one-act opera he tries to focus on the performances, but his eyes keep moving back to your neck. Your dress is backless and if he reaches out his hand, he could touch your skin. But doesn’t. Knows you wouldn’t want him to.

When O Mio Babbino Caro starts playing he sees how you lean forward, mesmerized by the beautiful voice of the soprano and he smiles, for he remembers you telling him it’s your favorite aria. But he sees how Freddie puts a hand on your arm, making you sit straight again.

‘Huh’ Timothée thinks and looks at your husband, ‘so this is what pure hatred feels like’. He digs his nails into his hand, leaving little half-moon shaped marks.

Eventually the wretched thing ends and after having applauded the performers and the orchestra you all rise up to leave. You turn and look at him and he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch your cheek, tell you how beautiful you are, how brave and wise and kind, and how undeserving the man next to you is. But he doesn’t.

Once outside it’s decided that you and your husband are going back to George V with your aunt for drinks. Politely you invite him and Lucy but he reclines with a bad excuse. He observes you, and even with your perfectly polite manners it’ like you’re walking around half-asleep, still with that frozen look in your face that’s beginning to scare him. And Christ, you’re just so guarded. You bid your goodbyes, and kissing her cheek he thanks Marguerite for the tickets, but when he tries to say goodbye to you, he can see Freddie’s arm tighten around your wait again. So instead of leaning into a kiss on the cheek he politely bows his head and you and in a gentle voice he says “goodbye then, it was nice seeing you again”. You smile back, eyes glossy and for a moment he wonders if you’re about to cry but a moment later you’ve pulled yourself together and politely bids goodbye to Lucy. And then you’re walking away, Freddie’s arm still around your waist.

* The next morning he goes to visit madam Marguerite, a book in hand. Louise lets him in, looking down on him as usual. “Would you like me to mend this, monsieur?” she asks, both sarcasm and contempt clear in her voice, as she looks takes his coat, indicating the big tear in one of the sides. “If you wouldn’t mind” he answers cheekily and walks past her.

Marguerite is sitting on the terrace eating breakfast, Le Monde in front of her. He puts down his copy of Jane Austen’s Emma in front of her.

“There” he says and sits down in the chair opposite her “your literary soulmate”.

She scoffs “Mr. Knightley really isn’t my type”

He rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly at her “No I shouldn’t think so. And I meant Emma, not Mr. Knightley. You and Emma are the same”. “Oh what utter nonsense!” She burst out, indignant, “I’ve never meddled a day in my life!”

Timothée stares at her in disbelief.

“Honestly!” she defends herself “I didn’t know they were coming to Paris until the day before and then, well, it seemed unnecessary to tell you”.

“You should have warned me she’d be there” he says sternly. “If nothing else then because then I wouldn’t have invited Lucy”.

She has the decency to look ashamed. “Oh, I dare say I should have warned you. But I was afraid you’d cancel, and I needed you to see it with your own eyes.”

“See what?”

She looks him dead in the eye then, a grave look, “the change in her, of course”.

He stays silent, doesn’t know what to say, drags his hands through his hair in distress.

“So” she says after a few moments of silence, “what do you make of Freddie?”

“The words princeling comes to mind”.

She observes him for a second, a sceptic look on her face, “I’m sure that’s not the only word that comes to mind”. He can’t help but smile at that, because she’s right. “True, but those are not words I'd use in front of a lady. She bursts out in laugher. “Darlinh, I practically invented swearing, no need to hold back in front of me.”

“What do you think of him?" He asks instead.

She huffs. “I prefer Picasso”. *

14th of Mars, 1953

Timothée is painting. Specks of yellow and gold adorn his hands and white shirt. The afternoon sun is lighting up the room and Chopin is playing for the first time in months on the record player. The knock on the door startles him, and since he was in the process of painting the details of Lucy’s eyes a stroke of dark paint ends up on her eyebrow as his hand jerks in surprise at the sudden noise.

“Fuck” he swears, and with a great deal of annoyance does he go to open the door.

You look surprised as he flings the door open.

“Sorry” you say, apologetically. “Is this an inconvenient time?”

He doesn’t answer, can’t seem to find his voice, just steps aside, inviting you to come in. You do, and move into the studio. He walks after you, seemingly in a daze.

“Drink?” he asks eventually, interrupting the pressing silence.

“Yes please” you answer. He looks at you, your hair is elegantly styled and your wearing another expensive looking dress. You’re not looking at him though, but instead at the golden portrait of Lucy he’s in the process of making. You don’t say anything. There’s still that still look on your face and it unsettles him.

He hands her a glass of gin. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” he asks, in a feigned nonchalant manner as he offers you a cigarette. You step closer to him so that he can light it. You’re so close he can smell your familiar perfume, and feel the heat from your skin. He looks down on you as you try to get the end to gleam. He can count your eyelashes from this distance, see every single feature in your face, every crook and corner. In the beginning, when you had first come to this studio, he had felt obsessed by the idea of painting your perfect likeness. But the closer he looked at you, the more impossible it felt. “Freddie is at a business function. I was not required” you answer and steps away from him, blowing out smoke into the room. “And where’s your muse?” you ask, and there’s a certain amount of resentment in your voice that you can’t seem to keep at bay.

“Right here” he answers simply, looking at you.

“And Lucy?”

“I don’t know” he responds truthfully. “I got your letter” you say, calmly.

Ah,

“Sorry” he says. “Shouldn’t have sent that. I was drunk”.

You keep looking at him, seemingly deep in thought. And before he loses all courage he asks, “may I paint you again? One last time?” “In what colour?” “In all your colours, just as you are” he answers, and then “I don’t have rose-colored glasses when I look at you anymore”. The room goes very still for a moment. “Do you still want me?” you ask, voice small. And with sincerity clear in his voice he answers. “More than ever”.

“No” you say and put down your drink, stubbing out your cigarette in the ashtray. “No, I don’t want you to paint me”.

Something twists painfully in his chest.

“That’s not what I want you to do to me” you continue and step closer.

And then you kiss him.

He grabs hold of you and kisses you back, trying to express every ounce of longing he’s felt since you left into the kiss. But he can tell part of you is holding back. “Don’t do that” he says in a low voice, pulling away from you. His eyes are bright and shining. “If you’re with me, you’re with me. Don’t keep foot out the door. If you’re with me; be with me. If you don’t want to be, then you have to leave. I don’t want you half-heartedly. I understand you can’t stay with me longer than today but if you’re with me then don’t keep your mind on him.” You stare at him, taken aback. “Well?” he asks “is this what you want?” Your answer is a red-hot kiss. Your answer is your hands, trying to tear his shirt off of him. Trying desperately to get your hands on his skin and he wants to cry from the sheer relief of feeling you touch him again. Frantically you’re tearing at his clothes. He grips your hands to stop you. “Slowly” he whispers in your ear. He can tell that you’re worked up from your labored breathing, chest rising and falling quickly, your eyes gleaming as you look up at him. The frozen look finally gone. You look alive again. He can tell that all you want right now is for him to lay you down and fuck you as hard and fast as he can. But he doesn’t want to rush this, knows this is all the time he’s going to get. And he feels like a man living on borrowed time. He kisses you, languidly, and your lips taste like gin. He leads you down, so you’re lying on the soft carpet, hovering above you. For ages all you do is kiss, your hands roaming his body, like you can’t stop touching him. Eventually he starts to remove your clothes, the silky material of your dress soft like water in his hands as he takes it off you, sneaking in kisses all over your body as he does so. You in turn help remove his dress shirt and trousers. Until eventually there’s nothing but air separating you. He looks you directly, deep into your eyes “Sure?” he asks, because he must hear it. Couldn’t live with himself if you ended up regretting this. “Yes” you say, voice barely louder than a whisper, but it doesn’t waver. The last rays of golden sunshine lights up the room and maybe it’s his overactive imagination, but he swears the light forms a halo around your head. He’s prowling over you, settled in-between your legs. He thinks you must see, surely you must see, all the wonder in his eyes that he feels when he looks at you. He kisses your sensitive nipples and you shiver in delight. Your hands in his hair and you move up against him, desperate for him to touch more of you. He bites, nips, licks and sucks your breasts, leaving wet traces as he goes and god, he’s missed this; missed you. The taste and feel of your soft skin, your gasps and moans, your hands tugging at his hair. Some part of him, a particularly cynical part of him, thought he’d must have made it up, that in the aftermath of you leaving his brain had beautified the memories of you until you’d reach almost divine proportions. But it was all real.

He grinds his body against yours, fill his hands with your breast, kisses you everywhere he can. He reaches down a hand to the wetness between your legs. “So wet” he murmurs against your skin “have you been thinking about this all day?” He pushes a finger inside you and you buckle up against him in response. “Mon cœur” he continues as he presses wet kisses against your throat, and adds another finger inside you, touching you with expertise in just the way he knows will send sparks of pleasure all down your spine. He remembers exactly how you like to be touched. “I asked you a question”. “Yes” you moan. He looks down on his fingers, moving in and out of you, glistening with your wetness. “Have you missed it?” he asks, voice low, and he speeds up the pace, his thumb moving over your clit. Your head thrown back you let out a deep moan and in a breathless voice you answer “yes, yes, missed it so much”.

Your hair has fallen out of its elegant hairdo, your cheeks flushed and wet and lips swollen from kisses. You look wild and free.

“I’ve been thinking about this, touching you; fucking you, ever since the opera” he leans down and kisses your clit, fingers still moving inside of you. And then he sucks on it and you explode around his fingers, cramping down around them, hips bucking and moans falling freely from your lips.

He strokes your cheek and kisses your face as he lets you catch your breath. Eventually you start kissing him back, softly at first, then ardently. He so hard he feels he could self-combust but as he lines up at your entrance, he looks you in the eye and asks “sure?”

“Never been more certain” you reply, voice like honey, and you wrap your leg around his waist, trying to guide him inside you.

He lets you get used to him, adjust to his size, before he starts moving. Your hands are in his and he can feel your wedding ring against his skin.

You try to incite him to move faster, bucking your hips against him, but he doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t want to go too hard on you.

“I’m not made of porcelain” you hiss, frustrated “you’re not going to hurt me. Fuck me like I'm yours”.

He’s starts fucking you with more force then, grinding where he knows you like it. Your nails are scratching his back, pulling at his hair. Sounds – moans, whimpers and begging's of more – escaping your mouth uninterruptedly. You can’t seem to stop them. He looks down on you and he swears out loud. The good damn sight of you like this, he knows he’ll never get the image out of his head. Knows that in months from now – when you’re back in good old England with your husband and he’s all alone here in this apartment – that he could paint this moment with picture-like perfection. Your glossy eyes filled with bliss, wild hair and flushed skin, lips still painted red and formed in a moan. But he won’t. He’ll let it be a memory, the thought of anyone else seeing that painting too unsettling for words. You come again then, eyes tight shut and head thrown back, mouth wide open in a silent scream. He feels your orgasm, can feel you spasm around him and he swears he’s gone to heaven. And as the final rays of sunlight disappears outside, he calls your name – half prayer half cry– and releases inside you, white hot pleasure racing down his spine, and then the whole room goes dark. The only reasons he knows the world hasn’t ended are your warm and sweaty body beneath him. The only sounds in the whole, wide world are both of your breathless gasps. * After, you put on your clothes in silence, avoiding the others eyes. He feels almost shy. The thing inside his chest is crying, knowing that you’re minutes away from leaving again, that this time it’s forever. How do you do something even though it kills you? “I’m sorry, for everything” you say and it startles him. “For everything?” “Yes. I’m sorry I came back” you avoid his eyes as you speak “well, I’m sorry but I don’t regret that part. And I’m sorry I can’t stay. I’ve never meant to hurt you.” Because it’s the right thing to do.

You are staying with your husband. This is your decision. He can’t force you to leave, or stay. He can’t save you, no matter what Marguerite says. Not when you’re determined to drown. “I’ve loved you wholeheartedly and I have no regrets. I’ve loved you of my own free will. You don’t owe me anything.”

The frozen look is back on your face and your spine straight again, hair fixed in place. You’ve put your armor back on. And like this, you leave.

* 18th of April, 1953

It’s a fine morning in April and Timothée is headed over to madam Marguerite’s apartment, a box of treats from her favourite patisserie in one hand and bouquet of magnolias in the other. Later this week she’s taking him to the opera again, Rossini this time, and he wants to give her something as a thank you.

Outside on the street an ambulance is parked. He walks past it and starts climbing the many stairs to her apartment. When he gets to Marguerite’s floor he’s taken by surprise. The apartment door is wide open and in the doorway stand a sobbing Louise, being comforted by a medic. Dread settles in his stomach.

“What’s going on?” he asks, and he can hear the panic in his own voice. “Where’s madam Marguerite?”

Louise starts sobbing even louder and the kind-looking medic pats her sympathetically on the shoulder.

“She passed away in her sleep last night. This woman here found her this morning”.

Something falls inside Timothée and is lost forever. The ground feels unsteady under his feet and for a second, he waivers. “Have you notified her family?” He asks.

The man shakes his head, “no, not yet”.

“I’ll do it” Timothée says firmly, letting it be known that this isn’t up for discussion.

* “Frederic Fairfax speaking” Freddie’s drawly voice answers when Timothée calls your London address.

“Hello, it’s Timothée Chalamet, could I speak to your wife, it’s urgent”

Silence for ten long seconds.

“No, anything you want to tell her you can tell me” Freddie eventually answers and there’s tension in his voice.

“Is she not in?”

“Yes, she is, but I'd rather you take this with me, Mr. Chalamet”.

“I see” Timmy answers, and he somehow manages to keep the rage he feels out of his voice. “But I have some very distressing and urgent news I have to pass on”.

“Then I suggest you share them with me”

Timothée wants to bang his head against the wall. But he keeps his voice calm. “You see, her greataunt Marguerite has passed away.”

“I see” the other man answers in a cold, unfeeling voice. “Well, if that was all, Mr. Chalamet, good bye.”

And he hangs up.

* May 1st, 1953.

In a red brick building on Chancery Lane, London, Timothée is sitting smoking in an armchair. The solicitor’s office looks like you would imagine a solicitor's office to look like, with oak furniture and cabinets full of files with important documents, outside busy men in suits hustling by and secretaries in pen skirts tapping on their typewriters’.

Madam Marguerite’s solicitor Mr. Lancaster looks on the crowd gathered for the reading of the will.

There’s Timothée, lounging in his chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and avoiding looking at you. There’s you, perfectly poised and wearing black, hands clapped in your lap to stop them from shaking. Then there’s your parents, your black-clad mother sniffling into a tissue and your father, with a grave look on his face.

Freddie is nowhere to be seen, and this surprises Timothée.

“Shall we begin?” the solicitor starts, organizing the papers in front of him. There’s a general hum of agreeing from the crown and Mr. Lancaster clears his throat. “Very well then. I had the great fortune of knowing Mrs. Beauchêne-Wright and I considered her a personal friend. She was a remarkable woman” he clears his throat again and Timothée shuffles with his feet, still not understanding why he’s been called to be present at this occasion. “An extraordinary woman” he repeats and look down at the papers in front of him. “Very well then” he says, before beginning to read from the will. “This is the last will of me Marguerite Beauchêne-Wright of 55 Rue de Châteaudun 75009 Paris -”

* It’s raining outside, a gentle but persistent drizzle. TImothée stands under his umbrella and observes as your mother storms off, her husband at her heel, into a taxi. She slams the door and they drive off, water splashing up on the sidewalk. His head feels foggy. The whole situation feels unreal. He’s standing outside the red brick building smoking, trying to get a grip on the situation. In a few hours he has to get back to Victoria station to take the night train back to Paris.

You walk out of the solicitor's office, a dazed look on your face, seemingly not even noticing the rain falling down. You seem him and walk up to him and he lifts his umbrella so you’re under it too.

“Gotta admit, didn’t see that one coming” he states and hands you his cigarette. You take it gratefully and inhale deeply.

“No” you say, some seconds later, “no I didn’t quite see that coming either”. A homourless laugh escapes you. “They’re furious about it” referring to your parents. “Asked if they could contest the will. Mr. Lancaster told them they didn’t have a leg to stand on”. “So” you say and look up at him. “What are you going to do with the money?”

The money. Marguerite’s entire estate divided between him and the woman in front of him. There had been a few smaller bequests to various people and charities, but the absolute majority of the fortune where to be split between you. Even after all the death duties it was by all consideration a fortune.

“Dunno” he answers. ”Haven’t really thought ahead that far”. And then, because he can’t contain his curiosity anymore. “Where’s dear Freddie then?” You’re silent for a moment, avoiding his eyes as you watch the rain create patterns in the puddles. “Freddie’s left.” you say eventually. “He’s seeking for a divorce. God knows he’s got grounds for it.” the cigarette shakes in your trembling hand. “I’ve been a terrible wife all things considered.”

He’s stunned into silence, too much life-altering information having been dropped on him already today. Eventually he gets a hold of himself and states, because he already knows it to be true, “he knows about us, doesn’t he? About what happened in Paris.”

You nod, and two tears fall down your cheeks. “They’re furious with me.”

“Who are?” he asks, confused.

“My family” “Why?”

A grimace, then “doesn’t matter”. Drop the cigarette on the ground and stomp it out. “Mr. Lancaster says we have to go to Nice. Apparently, most of her possessions are there and we need to go through them. He says that since we own the house now, we can live in it while we do so”.

He observes her for a moment. “I have an exhibition in Paris this month, I can’t leave before that’s done.”

You smile, but it’s still devoid of humour. “And I have a divorce to settle.”

The rain keeps falling around them.

“How about this” you say “we’ll go there in July, a summer on the riviera doesn’t sound too bad, and we’ll...” you trail of for a second “and we’ll settle everything then”.

Gently he puts his fingers under your chin and tilts your head up so that you look at him. You look as if you’re bursting at the seams, like you’re at your last straw. “Alright” he says and leans in to gently press a kiss on your forehead. “Alright, sounds like a plan”. And then he looks you in the eyes again “Everything will be alright, you know. Everything will be fine”.

You smile again, and this time it’s more genuine. Then you lean in, and place the softest of kisses on his mouth.

Then you leave. A/N: jesus christ, I spent a good 25 minutes of my life googling the rules of aristocratic titles in England. Freddie’s father is an earl, that makes freddie as the oldest son a baron and his wife a baronet? Right? If that’s not correct then, well, sorry, but those rules are mind boggling.

Other things I've googled a lot is the language of flowers and what different flowers symbolizes.

That ‘Swedish saying’ timmy refers to in his letter is not a saying but in fact from a song by Veronica Maggio called Stopp and very badly translated by me.

Also. I know that timothée’s letter is a bit... disturbing, but the thought of it wouldn't leave my mind so I had to write it.

I am planning on writing the last part, but this story always takes a lot of effort to write so it’ll be a while.

#timothee chalamet #timothee x reader #timothee x you #timothee x y/n #timothee chalamet x reader #timothèe chalamet #timothée x reader #timothée x you #timothée chalamet #timothee imagine #timothee fanfic

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artificialqueens · 3 years

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Taste of a Poison Paradise, Chapter 4 (Multi) - Joley

Chapter Summary: Brooke Lynn and Kameron finally meet, Denali starts spending more time at the diner, Jaida starts her OnlyFans, and Gigi realizes she can’t avoid her feelings for Crystal forever.

ao3 link

Vanessa has never been the best at focusing all of her attention on one task. Often, when she was dancing on stage, her mind was in three other places. It was a little more obvious when giving a lap dance, but most men didn’t seem to mind or even notice. Except for this time when she called attention to it by stopping mid-gyration and exclaiming, “holy shit!”

The man wasn’t annoyed, instead, he curiously looked behind him. “What? What happened?”

“Some dude’s getting hauled out of here, dumb fucker’s trynna put up a fight. Fly ain’t undone so he must’ve been getting too handsy,” she observed, though her eyes were honed in on Kameron, who took the offender down and dragged him out of the club. “God damn, she’s good,” she murmured, fanning herself.

“Wouldn’t it be more effective to have a man–”

Vanessa decided she was no longer interested in what the client had to say, and was already walking towards the front of the club, getting a better view as Kameron unceremoniously tossed the man out of the club. “What’s his damage, huh?”

Kameron shrugged. “Jan flagged me down, dickwad kept trying to play grab-ass and started throwing a temper tantrum when she cut his dance short,” she explained, then looked over at the bar. “Looks like Nicky’s taking care of her now, though.”

“I’m tryna take care of you, though,” she winked. “You know, take you into the VIP room and…”

“I’m still on the clock, Vanjie,” Kameron gently reminded her, but looped her arms around her waist. “But once our shifts end, we can go in the back and play grab-ass instead, okay?” she offered, punctuating her point by moving her hands down and squeezing Vanessa’s ass.

Vanessa huffed and pouted, but nodded nonetheless. “Fine, but you know how impatient I get.”

Kameron chuckled and kissed her cheek. “Don’t I always make it worth the wait?”

She couldn’t argue with that, so she went back and did her next set, alternating between being on the stage, among the clientele, or waiting in the back. It was the late shift, at least, meaning she and Kameron would be able to clock out at the same time.

There were still about ten minutes left before closing, but Vanessa had considered herself done for the night. She tied her robe around her waist and sat beside Kameron until the last customer left the club. “Fuckin’ finally,” she murmured.

Kameron snorted. “You’re such a fucking brat,” she teased.

Vanessa smirked, getting up and pulling Kameron with her. “You knew what you signed up for, boo. Bratty as hell, but you know I make it worth your while.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that logic,” she chuckled and allowed Vanessa to drag her across the club, back to the VIP room. Then, she scooped the smaller woman up in her arms and carried her to the couch, gently dropping her on it before crawling on top of her. “I bet you’re expecting me to take care of you now, huh?” she purred, kissing at her neck.

“We ain’t here to talk politics,” Vanessa retorted, already trying to tug off Kameron’s shirt and grinning when the taller woman acquiesced.

Meanwhile, Brooke Lynn had done a lap through the club, stopping at the bar with a perplexed expression. “Pri, is Vanjie still here? I told her I’d come to pick her up.”

Priyanka shrugged as she loaded up a tray of glasses to take into the back. “She’s probably still getting pounded out by Kameron in the VIP room,” she told her before taking the tray into the kitchen.

At first, Brooke figured Priyanka was joking, trying to get a reaction out of her. But as she sat and thought for a moment, she realized that there was no reason she would lie about that. She thought she would feel some semblance of jealousy or anger, but they were noticeably absent. Instead, her curiosity – and perhaps arousal – was piqued. She got up from the bar and made her way into the VIP room, quietly opening the door and slipping inside.

Just as Priyanka had predicted, Kameron and Vanessa were in the midst of a passionate encounter. They were both naked and Kameron had one hand loosely wrapped around Vanessa’s throat, the other was steadily thrusting two fingers in and out of her while she showered her with a mix of praise and dirty talk.

Brooke’s eyes widened. She couldn’t have predicted how it would feel to watch her girlfriend having sex with another woman, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Still not announcing her presence, she moved to the loveseat perpendicular to the couch and let her legs spread. She hiked up her dress and dipped her hand into her panties, biting her lip as she touched herself to the sight.

“You just gonna sit there and enjoy the show?”

Vanessa’s words caused the other two to stop in their tracks. Kameron looked confused while Brooke froze in place. “You knew I was here?”

Vanessa scoffed in response. “You think I wouldn’t recognize my woman’s pumps click-clacking from a mile away?” She didn’t wait for a response before she continued, “you want in or not?” She nudged Kameron lightly, who nodded in agreement.

Brooke scrambled to her feet, shedding her dress as she moved over to the two of them. She finished stripping down before kneeling beside Vanessa and kissing her languidly. “You want me to sit on your face, baby?”

Vanessa nodded enthusiastically, helping Brooke position herself on top of her and grabbing onto her thighs for balance. Her nails dug in as she eased her tongue into her, trying to match the pace of Kameron’s fingers.

“Shit, that’s it, baby. Such a good girl,” Brooke praised, her head tilting back as she moaned out. But when she held her head upright, her eyes locked with Kameron’s and she didn’t think, she just kissed her heatedly, smirking a bit as she felt the other woman melt into the kiss.

Kameron balanced one hand on Brooke’s shoulder while she thrust her fingers steadily into Vanessa’s pussy, alternating now and then to rub her clit with her thumb. Although the brunette was stifled verbally, it was very obvious when she came. She sat back on the couch, getting herself off while she watched Brooke ride Vanessa’s face.

Brooke’s hips stuttered to a halt as she rode out her orgasm shortly after, then gracefully dismounted off of Vanessa, then sat on the couch. “You know,” she said to Kameron, “I’d been meaning to reach out and get to know you, but this method is a lot more fun.”

——

Denali leaned against the jukebox, humming along to ‘Those Magic Changes’ until she saw Rosé walk in, which prompted her to relocate to sitting at the counter. “I thought you said your shift started at ten.”

“Today’s Tuesday, babe. I start at ten on Wednesdays,” Rosé replied as she tied her apron around her waist. “But it’s cute that you waited for me,” she winked.

“I had to, muñeca,” Denali insisted with a pout. “No one else makes the coffee as good as you do.”

Rosé couldn’t help but laugh softly as she got a pot of coffee going. “It’s the same shit every time, Dee,” she pointed out. But still, she had to look away and focus on the coffee to hide the broad grin that spread across her face. She poured a mug, setting it down in front of Denali. “What’re you eating, today?”

“You, ideally,” she murmured under her breath before looking up at her and replying, “patty melt, extra crispy onions, please,” while batting her lashes. “And a side of fries.”

The waitress nodded, scribbling the order onto the notepad. “You got it, baby,” she hummed, ripping the page out and hanging it up in the window, then ringing the bell for someone in the kitchen to come grab it. “So, how’re you liking the club? I’ll tell you, Jackie is the only person around here I’d trust running a place like that.”

Denali smiled, adding two packets of sugar and a splash of milk into her coffee, stirring slowly before taking a sip, though her eyes never left Rosé. “I mean, of all the strip clubs in the city, I’m glad I managed to find the one run and entirely populated by lesbians. You can’t plan for that sort of luck.”

Rosé snorted softly. “Guess not. You live in the neighborhood?”

“Nah,” she shook her head, “moved to Flatbush from Chicago.”

“Chicago, huh? You get into any fights with anyone over pizza yet?”

Denali shook her head. “Can I tell you a secret?” she leaned in closer, speaking in a stage whisper, “I’ve always liked New York-style pizza better.”

Rosé leaned in closer when Denali did, their faces only inches apart, close enough for her to take in the scent of her perfume – something woody and spicy with a hint of something heady, something almost as intoxicating as she was. “Oh, she’s a culinary rebel, huh?”

She let out a soft breath of laughter, biting down on her lip. “It does sound kinda hot when you say it like that,” she mused. The distance between them seemed to lessen, albeit by the tiniest bit at a time. But then she became aware of the background noise. “You have an order in the window, I think.”

Sure enough, one of the cooks had been ringing the bell for several seconds in an attempt to get Rosé’s attention. “Oh shit,” she laughed, turning and grabbing the plate, setting it down in front of Denali. “Enjoy,” she winked.

“I sure will,” Denali grinned and batted her lashes, her eyes following Rosé as she went to wait on another table. She gazed at her from across the restaurant. She would make a move, she thought, as soon as the moment was right.

——

Jackie stepped out of her office and noticed Jaida on her laptop in the common area. “Whatcha working on, honey?” she asked, sitting down beside her.

“The next great American novel,” Jaida told her. “Nah, I’m finishing up my OnlyFans page. Denali gave me a crash course in how to get this shit done right. Turns out it’s more than just taking what I do on stage and doing it in my room for a camera.”

“I mean, you’re welcome to make whatever content you need to on the stage or whatever if it helps,” she offered with a slight smile. “Anything I can do to help, let me know, okay?”

Jaida smiled warmly. “You’re the best, Jackie,” she tilted her head in thought for a moment before continuing, “maybe you could review the content before I post it? I’ll know it’s ready for the public if it has your seal of approval.”

Jackie nodded, ignoring the warmth that rushed to her cheeks. She nodded quickly, enthusiastically. “Oh my god, yeah. I’m honored you trust my judgment like that.”

“Hey, you stocked this club with top-tier bitches, you’re clearly onto something,” she offered with a reassuring grin. “Check it out, though,” she turned her laptop towards Jackie, “she’s open for business.”

Jackie leaned closer to the laptop, committing Jaida’s username to memory. “Impressive, I’m sure this is going to go over well for you.” She got out, smoothing out her skirt. “I have to take care of some paperwork, you alright from here?”

Jaida nodded. “All good, do your thing,” she said and waved her off. After Jackie retreated into her office, she continued working on her page. She was sitting in silence, which was why she jumped when she realized she was no longer alone a few moments later. “Fuck, how did you do that?”

Gigi shrugged. “I’m not convinced I’m not a Victorian ghost that’s taken corporeal form.” She kicked off her heels and turned to sit cross-legged on the couch, facing Jaida. “Listen, babe, I can smell an ulterior motive from a mile away. You’re trying to show off for Jackie, aren’t you? What’s the tea?”

“Guess it does take one to know one,” she murmured, reclining into the couch and letting out a sigh. “Yeah, okay, maybe I am into Jackie,” she conceded, “but unlike you, I have a good reason for not acting on it – she hasn’t been out of the closet all that long, I’m not tryna bombard her with shit, you know? It’s a delicate situation.”

“My situation is delicate too,” Gigi insisted, only to sigh and quietly add, “okay, maybe not as much, but still. So you’re just gonna wait it out?”

Jaida shrugged. “I don’t wanna freak her out. You, on the other hand, are crushing on someone that popped out of the womb with Doc Martens on, so you have no excuse.”

Gigi flopped onto her back and let out a dramatic sigh. “I know, I know. I just wish there was a way to just… send out some feelers, you know?”

“I cannot fathom how someone can dance naked in a cage one minute and not be able to look a girl with a One Direction tattoo in the eye the next. Literally, all you gotta do is take that confidence you got in the cage or on stage over to Miss Crystal Methyd, it ain’t that complicated, sis,” she did try to stop herself from talking to her like it should have been obvious – Gigi was almost ten years her junior, she had to remind herself. “You just need to try to stop overthinking,” she added in a more calm and gentle tone.

It wasn’t that Gigi didn’t know that, it was simply much easier to think about than to implement. “I know you’re right,” she murmured and sat up. She looked at her phone, chewing on her lip. “Okay, I’m gonna do something before I talk myself out of it,” she decided and stood up. “I’ll report back to you.”

“Good luck, my lil ghost baby.”

Gigi took a deep breath as she walked downstairs to the main floor. Crystal hadn’t arrived yet, so she perched herself on the bar as she waited, swinging her legs and fumbling with the hem of her skirt. Her head popped up when she heard the door open and her heart started to race when Crystal came into her field of vision.

“Hey Geege,” Crystal greeted, playfully tugging Gigi’s ponytail as she walked behind the bar.

“Hi Crystal,” she replied with the lilted laugh that was only ever elicited by the bartender. She reminded herself of Jaida’s words as she got off the bar and followed Crystal behind it. Just use your stage confidence. Picture yourself naked, she reminded herself. “You’re looking hot today.”

Crystal arched her brow. “Thanks? It’s just my usual uniform,” she shrugged and smiled. “You look hot though, but you always do.”

“Thanks,” Gigi twirled her hair around her fingers, batted her lashes, she was doing all of the textbook flirtations she could think of, but she stopped just as quickly, frowning. “Fuck, why does this feel so weird?” she asked herself, but out loud.

Crystal’s perplexed expression deepened. “What are you talking about?”

Gigi groaned and stomped her foot. “I’m trying to flirt with you, but I don’t know how to flirt with someone I actually like because I haven’t in so long. But you’re here and you’re just… fuck, this was supposed to be easier.”

The confusion on Crystal’s face morphed into pensiveness. She was quiet for a moment, then took a few steps towards Gigi. “I’m gonna kiss you now, unless you stop me.” She waited, giving her ample time to back away or speak up. Instead, she got a quick, eager nod. So, she gently cupped Gigi’s face, pressing a deep kiss to her lips.

And Gigi melted into the kiss, relief washing over her body as her arms draped around Crystal’s neck. Her leg went up like the girl in every single rom-com she’d watched and for a moment she felt like she was sixteen, having her first kiss behind the school while cutting gym class. The magic of the moment was only broken when she sensed they were no longer alone. She turned with a glare. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ us,” Lemon retorted, gesturing between herself, Jan, and Vanessa. “We’ve been waiting for this to happen for ages.”

“You kind of owe us a satisfying conclusion after subjecting us to your mutual pining fuckery you subjected us all to,” Jan nodded in agreement. “We’ve been along for this whole journey whether we wanted to be or not.”

“What they said,” Vanessa chimed in for the sake of being included.

Gigi rolled her eyes, though she did not attempt to let go of or move away from Crystal. “You guys are so fucking weird,” she muttered. “But I guess it’s kind of endearing or whatever,” she added reluctantly.

“We’ll leave you guys to finish your moment,” Jan said gently, guiding Lemon and Vanessa out of the main room and upstairs to the common area.

Crystal watched them leave, then looked back at Gigi. “I love our friends,” she grinned.

“I could take them or leave them,” she joked. “Look, we don’t… need to put a label on this or anything just yet. I know this was sudden… I just needed you to know how I felt.”

“You’re overthinking things again, aren’t you?” Crystal looped her arms around Gigi’s waist. “Listen, I know you only allow yourself three emotions a year, so it means a lot that I got to be on the receiving end of one of them. And like, I’m pretty bad at talking about feelings too, so… I dunno, let’s just see what happens.”

Gigi exhaled in relief. This was why she had gravitated towards Crystal so effortlessly, they understood each other, they were on the same wavelength. “So… how about you come back to my place after work? We could get high, pretend to watch some movies…”

Crystal pressed a chaste kiss to her lips. “It’s a date.”

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bichlordstories · 3 years

Text

17: Turning Point

You were going to kill Todoroki when you find him.

Fucking running off and making you follow after him... what the hell does he think he's doing?

Just 30 minutes ago, you, Endeavour, and Todoroki were on patrol when the attacks began. There was screaming left and right, filling the air along with inhuman sounds that belonged to these mutant beasts with brains showing.

Fires and explosions went off and there were pro heroes dealing with these abominations that seemed unkillable

Endeavour was the first to react and quickly burned the thing to a crisp and you were quick to follow his lead.

Once activating your quirk, you punched one of the monsters to the ground and started beating it up, tearing it's limbs off.

The thing slowly regenerated, which brought you frustration.

You bit into it's brain out of rage and pulled its chunks out as it screamed at you.

"Blood God. Move."

You recognized the voice as Endeavour's and slowly got up. You hesitantly looked at the writhing beast beneath you before moving out of the way for Endeavour to burn it.

"You did quite the number on it." He said before fire left his fist.

The man let out a grunt as he roasted the thing alive before turning to you.

"I need you to go after my son and make sure he doesn't get into trouble. Is that understood." He said and proceeded to tell you where to find him.

You grew confused and infuriated when you realized that Todoroki was gone.

What the fuck is he doing? There are villains to fight here!

You had a moment of clarity and spat the brain bits out of your mouth.

"Yes sir."

Before he could respond, another monster came into view and tackled the man. Endeavour shot fire into its face, making it lose its control over the situation.

And thus here you were, trying to find the stupid bicolored brat.

You nearly passed an alleyway before a noise and a flash of yellow and orange caught your eye.

There he was, fighting a deranged looking ninja and... and the greenette brat. For some reason, when the man licked his blade, Todoroki fell to the ground, laying on the ground.

Just as the man was about to strike the bicolored moron, you leapt into action, quite literally.

Your body rammed the man, making him tumble back and rip up his clothes from the pavement. He was caught in a daze before shaking it off and searching for who was responsible.

"...All Might?" The man said breathlessly before narrowing his eyes.

"...no... you're not All Might."

You ignored this as your brain was registering who this man was. You knew he was familiar, no one can forget someone with his ugly mug. You heard of his ideas and his rants about society a few times before. Everyone has.

You especially heard of what he did to a pro hero by the name of Ingenium.

"So... you're the hero killer: Stain."

The crazed man slowly stood up held his sword out, pointing at you.

"You... you're the fake that nearly killed the bicolored one." He spat.

You simply ignored this and looked past him to see Deku, Iida, and a man in a Native American themed costume. Midoriya locked eyes with you and immediately yelled to you in desperation.

"Don't let him lick your blood, His quirk will paralyze you!"

Stain shifted in front of you to block your view from the greenette, which you were thankful for.

"So you've come to save your fake hero friends..." he said.

"They're not my friends." You stated.

"Hm... doesn't really matter anyways..." he said before shooting forward.

He was fast, you wouldn't lie, but you were also quick on your feet.

You ducked down really low and grabbed his feet, which took him by surprise, and pulled them out from under him.

You didn't hesitate to drag him and spin around the ground before making him go airborne for a quick second and having him make impact with the wall. Hard.

He should have passed out. Should have. But he didn't.

This infuriated you more as you quickly went to grab his face, only for him to lift his sword up just as quickly.

He left a shallow cut on your shoulder, to which you quickly grabbed the blade and pulled it away from him. You weren't about to leave the blade with him since it caught a bit of your blood.

You backed away from the slightly dazed man, who slowly walked towards you.

"You dare... take my blade... you damn fake."

"You dare take my blood, you murderer." You said back to him in a mocking tone, holding his blade in your now bloodied hand.

The man smirked, narrowing his eyes at you as he started walking forward.

"Heh... you're skillful and intelligent... I'll give you that."

He lifted his bloody hand up and licked it, which confused you for a moment before you fell limp.

The sword that you once held clattered to the ground along with your body. Stain approached you slowly like a predator ready to strike.

"...it's a shame your quirk makes you bleed out naturally."

He picked up the blade and pulled out another before standing over you.

"Any last words, fake?" Stain said while placing his two blades on both sides of your neck.

"...of all the things..."

The man's nasty smile fell and he cocked his head to the left in confusion.

"What was that?"

"Of all the things to go after... you chose fakes that still did their jobs of saving lives...? You... you could have used your skills... your fighting experience to kill pedophiles... rapists... human traffickers..." you glared daggers into the now expressionless man's eyes.

"You could have taken the hero's jobs and still make a god damn statement about how unreliable fakes are... but instead you chose to target corrupt politicians, people with shitty fucking opinions over... over actual murderers." You spat out a bit of your blood as your quirk was still activated.

"There are people you could have saved that the frauds failed to do, but instead you go after a bunch of stupid kids who wear their hearts on their sleeves, one of which had his older brother sent to the damn hospital because of you." Your voice cracked as you grew both fearful and angry each second.

This man was going to kill you, you realized. He was going to kill you, and you wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

Everyone else was paralyzed including you.

Oh god.

You were going to die.

You never even got to save anyone and become a hero.

Fresh blood and tears trailed down your cheeks more and more, staining your (h/c) hair.

The man still stared down at you with no emotions on his face. His smile was long gone, replaced with a slight frown.

Just then, a flash of green knocked the man away from you, which caused one of the blades to leave a shallow cut into your neck.

You couldn't move your head, only your eyes and mouth, but you knew who it was.

The greenette held up against the man while the rest of you laid there paralyzed.

Soon, the ingenium kid, Iida, got back control over his body and joined the battle.

You were paralyzed both physically and mentally.

You almost died. You were about to be decapitated.

You were still in danger, after all, he isn't in cuffs yet.

But you were staring your death in the eyes.

In all of your 16 years of life, you had never been faced with something as severe as your own death.

You seen death before, you do visit the hospital and you have gotten to meet patients with terminal Illnesses.

But never have you battled your own death.

Is this what helplessness is like?

You didn't like it.

Not one bit...

You stayed laying there until someone came to pick you up.

"...No..." you croaked out, not realizing that it was the ingenium kid.

"(L/n)-san, I'm here to help." Iida said while giving you up into a piggyback ride.

"...Stain." You said, growing weaker as your quirk slowly deactivated itself.

"We took care of him..."

You could have sworn you saw tears collect in the kid's eyes.

"You all did..."

You couldn't hold onto consciousness any longer and slipped into darkness.

You woke up to the smells and sounds of a hospital, finding odd comfort in the familiar environment.

A formal voice was talking in the background followed by a woof. You didn't open your eyes but instead listened to what he was saying.

It took you a couple minutes to realize that he was talking about the legality that was the battle against Stain. A whole bunch of junk about how todoroki, Iida, and the greenette brat should be punished for initiating a fight against the villain.

"...they're the only one who was given permission by a pro hero to help keep you out of trouble and did what they were told."

It was obvious he was referring to you.

After chewing them out more in a professional way, the mutt finally told them that they have an option to pretend it was Endeavour who took out the hero killer and avoid punishment.

Although reluctant, they were forced to agree.

The police chief muttered his thanks to the kids and then left.

"...is he gone yet?" You said out loud, wincing at your dry throat and the scratchiness in your voice.

Your eyes were closed the entire time, so you didn't see the dog-headed man leave.

You heard a bit of gasping near you and some shuffling.

"You're awake!"

That annoying voice. That damn annoying voice you hate so much is talking to you.

There was a moment of silence, which made the three boys believe they were just hearing things before you spoke.

"...I believe I should give credit where credit is due..."

While you refused to open your eyes while saying this, you could still hear everything around you.

"You saved my life... Deku... and I... appreciate this second chance at life and shall cherish it..."

You could feel the shock radiating off the greenette. Tch. So obvious.

"...but don't think that for a second that I'll be picking daisies with you. I still fucking hate your guts." You said.

"Eh? How is that being appreciative???" Iida asked in a bewildered tone.

You didn't answer, which made the blue haired gentleman start making chopping motions with his broken arm before yelping when it let out a crack and pop.

"Iida!"

~~~~~~

Old habits die hard, aye? Iida couldn't help but try to scold Mc, which didn't work out for him since he just made his arm worse.

Looks like Mc is slowly gonna respect Izuku... until they find out about All Might being their secret dad.

And when they learn that Midoriya knew before them.

#bnha x reader #bnha x gender neutral reader #bnha x y/n #bnha fanfiction #blood sport

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timextoxhajima · 4 years

Audio

Playlist Feels

*SHORT SERIES

Member: j u y e o n

Genre: drama with chaebol/lawyer juyeon

A/N: I’m investing way too much feelings and emotions into this i might cry when it ends. this chapter is more serious i guess i can’t be writing angst and smut every chapter LOL

Link to other parts:

I Never Wanna See You Again

Frustrated (light smut)

Love Somebody (light smut)

Play With Fire (smut)

“i’m playing with fire.”

all you wanted to do was have breakfast, but you walk out along the hallways of the second floor only to watch an entire crowd of staff members push and pull countless of racks across the living room.

the female staff member who recognised you from the previous week notices you standing awkwardly behind the wall, struggling to process the crowd at the foot of the stairs.

you watch her say something to another staff member, before she strolls across the living room and heads up the stairs to greet you.

“i’m going to hope you don’t have any clothes of your own,” she smiles at you, eyes flitting to your neck for a split second and looks at your bare legs.

“uh--” you stumble on your tongue, having trouble finding any words to say. you completely forget about the marks on your neck, and you were only in his underwear with the large pullover barely covering your rear.

“i’m gonna get you a robe while you choose your clothes for today and i’ll run you a bath before you have breakfast.”

you watch as she walks away into the bathroom, and again, you wonder why it was so difficult to think of anything to say. you had expected the house staff to be judging you for sleeping with him, but they all seemed so nice and candid, it was a little difficult to believe.

you just couldn’t get the idea of juyeon being such a kind, relaxed boss out of your head.

she returns from the bathroom with a robe, the water now running and a rose scent begins to waft through your nose. “here,” she hands you the robe and waits for you to put it on.

“mr lee wanted you to pick out as many clothes as you wanted, and he wants you to know not to worry about the price.”

you reach the bottom of the stairs with her standing right next to you, and you see at least three racks of clothes surrounding the living room. there were at least two full-body mirrors next to the sofas, and a separate mobile shelf with shoes.

“uh... do i have to? where are my clothes from yesterday?” your hand unconsciously reaches up to your neck to cover your skin.

“in the laundry! we’ll get it steamed and ready for you by lunch, but right now, he’s told us he wants to see you in something from any of these racks. he didn’t exactly give us much choice either,” she gives you a look that comforts you, gently patting your arm to encourage you.

you choose out exactly five different sets of clothes, which included shoes. you suddenly feel like you went on a splurge and your credit card would’ve exceeded by now, judging by the brands the clothes were from.

you soak yourself in the bathtub, the light from behind you illuminating the white, black and golden surfaces. you couldn’t help but to let your head replay the memories from the night before as the rose scent pulls all the knots in your body apart.

it felt like you were on vacation, when you were really just... feeding off your boyfriend’s wealth. you felt guilty, and frankly, a little worried that people were going to start thinking you were with him for his money.

you haven’t done anything for him besides curse at him, take the credit for his workings for the case and sleep in his bed.

you shake your thoughts away, deciding that it was time for you to get your due breakfast before working on the case.

you were pushing the last few bites of the strange looking pudding around in the bowl, and the female staff from before was in the dining room with you, arranging the cutlery and utensils away from sight.

“hey, uh--” you call out, looking at her while mrs jung comes out of the kitchen. you wonder why it took you three meals before you notice that you could see into the kitchen. the dining table was right next to a black counter where mrs jung would leave the food right after it was prepared, and the kitchen itself looked extravagant.

“you called?” the female staff lays down the plate and walks over to your side.

“yeah, uh...” you scratch your temple, slightly pulling on the turtleneck you chose to hide the bruises he left. “you don’t-- happen to think that... i’m with mr lee for his money... do you?”

the female staff blinks in surprise at you, and before she could respond, mrs jung does the honor.

“oh, my dear, definitely not! you’d be surprised at how good juyeon-nim is at picking out who’s genuine and who isn’t.” you turn and watch mrs jung carry some leftover food back into the kitchen.

“we were very surprised when he asked you to stay last friday, past the time where the house staff gets off work. he doesn’t like guests over, unless they are his parents... so it was nice to see him bring someone back.”

you let a small laugh escape your lips, feeling the blood rush up to your ears and cheek.

hold on.

‘someone’?

“you mean he’s never brought anybody home before?”

“not willingly, no.” mrs jung responds from the kitchen. “juyeon-nim is only friendly to people he trusts and even then he’s extremely cautious, though sometimes a little dense... but now that we know how comfortable he is with you, and we’re all just happy for him.”

you feel a second wave of embarrassment wash over you, your hand now wrapping around your own neck and pulling up the material to hide any possible marks that were peeking out from under.

“you don’t have to hide those as long as you’re here. everybody knows what happened,” the female staff member teases you, clearing the plates that you literally licked the crumbs off from before.

“awh... nooooo,” you whine, hiding your face in your hands.

the staff member laughs at your embarrassment, encouraging you to finish your dessert before she tells you where his office was.

you get the door open, and the first thing you notice was the similar L-shaped glass windows like his bedroom had. the desk sat on the right side, with a main leather seat back facing a large shelf. the levels were alternated between files and small, expensive-looking statues and souvenirs.

right before the glass panels were two single-seaters with a small coffee table between them, and your eyes took awhile to notice the little fridge under the table.

you log into the computer with ease, surprised that there wasn’t a password required. you remember mrs jung saying that he doesn’t have anybody over, and you figure that nobody else has been in his office anyway. the worry about someone hacking into his files was non-existent.

your suitcase was already placed by the table, and you wonder when did it get here. did he leave it in here last night? this morning? or did he get a staff member to do it?

the online system was perfectly synced with the system you had in the office, and all you needed to do was log in with your information before your case displays itself on the screen.

you get to work almost immediately, every now and then looking past the computer screen to look out the large glass windows.

the clouds were so fluffy against the bright blue sky today, and you couldn’t help but imagine chanhee, eric and sunwoo’s reactions when they notice you didn’t clock in today.

oh. chanhee, eric and sunwoo.

you reach over to your suitcase and pull out your cellphone, noticing the nearly ten missed calls you got from them starting about five minutes before the supposed reporting time.

chanhee: where the hell are you? its 7.55am!

eric: did she oversleep

chanhee: she doesn’t oversleep

sunwoo: not with that annoying ass alarm she’s got

you smile to yourself, unable to contain your happiness as you scroll down.

chanhee: why do we have to hear about your absence from our manager?

sunwoo: wait

eric: OH MY GOD

sunwoo: mf WAIT

eric: DID THE BOSS TELL OUR MANAGER THAT YOU WEREN’T COMING IN TODAY

sunwoo: DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM AGAIN

chanhee: but he’s in office!

sunwoo: so? he could’ve just left her at home and came to work to reduce suspicion cause it’ll too obvious if the both of them are absent

eric: unless...

sunwoo: i’m betting on that and OTHER REASONS

eric: i was thinking about other reasons

chanhee: whatever the reason, call us during our lunch break!

eric: yeah we want details

sunwoo: fucking disgusting

you snort to yourself, ready to keep your phone away and finish up the case.

but the aggressive vibration from your phone stops you just as you laid it down, and you sigh heavily when you see the caller ID.

“yello,” you put the phone down on the table, keeping it on loudspeaker.

“why do you sound so glum? i return from a two month trip and this is how you greet me?”

you roll your eyes, laying your hands right at the keyboard. “hi mom, how was your trip to san francisco?”

“oh, it was gorgeous!” she says with a strange accent. must’ve been the american air for two months. “i was pretty sad to leave, but nothing can stop me from coming back to see you!”

“when have you ever needed to see me?” your tone was unenthusiastic, and you resist the urge to hang up altogether.

“aw, no, honey,” she whines. “are you still mad about last year?”

“just so you know, i’m gonna stay mad for quite a bit, so don’t expect anything different.”

“aw, but you did say you wanted swavroski--”

“yeah, a swavroski ring! not the damn brand!” you huff, burying your face into your hands. your eyes were on the screen, staring at the case document, but all you could hear was the heavy breathing over the phone.

“i take it that you haven’t signed the contract to claim ownership of the brand.”

“of course i didn’t! i left home so i could build a life for myself. you promised me that you’d leave me and my finances and my life alone. you know i don’t want you or dad’s help but you go ahead and buy a whole jewellery brand?!”

silence.

“i’m never signing that contract, just so you know. it’s been sitting at home since you had it mailed to me while you ran off to canada.”

“are you still living in that tiny flat by the lake outside of town?”

you pick up a pinch of contempt in her voice. “yeah, what’s so bad about my 'tiny flat’?”

“nothing,” liar. “i just want you to have the best we can afford.”

“again with the ‘we’. how many times do i have to tell you that i don’t want you or dad’s help?”

“but--”

“no,” you snap into the phone, picking it up and hovering your thumb over the hang up button. “i’m gonna go now because i have work to do. don’t call me unless it’s to tell me that someone else already owns swavroski.”

you finally hang up and you throw the phone back into your suitcase, hands on your forehead as you return your attention to the screen.

needed me? what a load of bullcrap.

maybe if she didn’t treat you like some kind of trophy when you were younger, you’d believe that she genuinely loved you.

you were called to lunch when the sun was at its highest, the blinding rays bouncing off windows and the metal from buildings that it heated up the room like a toaster.

mrs jung’s food never fails to deliver, and the female staff from before struggles to tuck your napkin into your clothes so that the gravy doesn’t fly about.

you were mindlessly praising the hell out of mrs jung’s pasta when you hear a staff outside the dining room shout. you turn at the sound of the doors swinging open, and you find yourself standing immediately at the sight of a lady who looked like a million bucks.

“what do you mean he’s in offic--” the lady finally turns her attention from the staff outside the dining room and to you. “and... who are you?”

so much for that lunch phone call to your friends.

you find yourself sitting awkwardly opposite her, carefully watching as she swirls the wine in her glass. you feel her eyes pierce right through you, and your hands reach up to your turtleneck in a bid to pull it upwards.

“there’s no need to hide,” she nearly scolds you, and the harsh tone strikes a chord in you. “i know who you are.”

what?

“you’re the reason why my son’s fiance is in shambles right now.”

his what--

“i’m sorry, who?” you squint your eyes at her, for a split second forgetting that she was the mother of your now-boyfriend.

“he didn’t tell you?” she offers a smile of disbelief. “and here i was thinking he changed for the better.”

“’for the better’? he wanted to leave the country to do charity work, not run away.”

“he was running away from the responsibilities he was born to shoulder. we do enough charity for him to stay,” she leans forward on the table, one palm pressed flat on the surface.

“but he didn’t even want the damn law fi--”

“mother!”

the both of you turn to the door of the dining room. every staff member within your line of vision looked like they were scared shitless, which was a strange sight, considering how relaxed and candid they were in the absence of this... crazy lady.

who might be my mother-in-law? ugh.

“you should’ve told me you’re visiting,” juyeon walks in the doors and the staff members shut them behind him. he grabs a seat next to you, and it visibly stuns his mother.

“i wouldn’t have bothered if i knew you weren’t even at home,” she watches in slight disgust as juyeon leans into your face and plants a kiss on your cheek. your eyes widen and your heart feels extremely heavy. “care to explain what is going on?”

juyeon carefully sits his suitcase next to his chair as the kitchen staff serves him a glass of wine. you remember the only food that was prepared was only for you and the staff members.

“what’s there to explain? i never said i agreed to marry anybody i was told to.”

you watch anxiously, eyes switching between juyeon, who was calmly sipping on his wine, and his mother, who was so angry that you could almost see the steam escaping from her ears...

“and so you run off and sleep with some random girl?”

ouch.

“will she still be ‘some random girl’ if you knew what she was capable of? she’s closed more cases in six months than i did in a year, mother.”

“i didn’t think a lawyer would let someone leave such savage marks all over her body like this!” she berates you, hand carelessly gesturing to all of you.

“which year did you walk through a portal from? it’s not the 1800s, mother.”

wow, so she blames me and not the one who made these marks?

“girls nowadays.”

you could feel juyeon’s frustration hit the roof, and the atmosphere in the dining hall gets heavier as each second passes in silence.

“what are you here for, anyway? just to ask me about me dumping my fiance who i never even loved? i don’t even like her face, mother. she’s an incapable princess who does nothing but sit around and gets waited on.”

“forget about that, you’ve gone ahead and spent your weekend breaking off the engagement anyway,” his mother glares at the two of you.

didn’t he spend his weekend with his family--

“but i do want to know why you’re back in the office.”

juyeon locks his jaw in odd angles, and if you didn’t know it was his mother who was pissing him off, you would’ve thought he was going to throw a punch across the table.

“what do you mean ‘why i’m back in the office’? doing my job and accepting my responsibilities like you wanted to!”

“and you didn’t have the decency to at least inform us? we were ready to re-sell it to the bureau director!”

juyeon sucks in a deep breath and stands up, eyes tightly shut as you watch him collect his feelings. his mother remains relaxed in the seat opposite you, arms tightly crossed over her chest but her face still brimming with anger and dissatisfaction.

“okay,” he leans downwards, pressing his palms flat against the surface of the table. “if you’re so upset then i assume a contract has already been drawn up, yes?”

his mother doesn’t respond.

“alright, i’ll contact the bureau director and i’ll explain the situation. it’s you the bureau director has a problem with, anyway. it’ll be easy for me.”

your face was turned to juyeon, but your eyes couldn’t resist the temptation to look at his mother. she had just been outspoken by her son, and you felt so proud of him for standing up for himself.

his mother finishes the win, visibly angry. she gets up and leaves the dining hall, and when you hear the lift ‘ding’ followed by the sound of its gears shutting its doors, you heaved a sigh of relief.

the entire room relaxes and begins helping to clear the table. juyeon was the only one who looked like he was about to burst from anger and frustration.

you stand up and wrap your arms around his torso, leaning your chin on his shoulder.

“hey.”

“i’m sorry you had to see that.”

you shake your head, pulling away and hugging his arm instead.

“i’m sorry that i lied about what i did over the weekend, and i’m sorry i didn’t tell you i was already engaged.”

you let the pain of the realisation sink in for a moment, before giving him a weak smile. “well, it wasn’t really a lie. you said it was something to do with your family... and besides, you broke off the engagement.” you reach over his chest and find his arm to pull him to face you, looking up at him whose eyes were filled with remorse.

naturally, a shitty feeling swamps you when you lose sight of his prideful, authorial self, so you pull his face down to meet yours and you feel him melt into the kiss.

“do you need to go back to the office?” you let him go, his hands now resting on your waist.

“yeah,” he sighs apologetically. “i only came back because the lobby called to tell me my mother was here.”

“aw,” you grin in attempt to shake off the tension that was still hanging in the air. “nice to know you came back to save me from your mother.”

a smile appears on his lips, and he pulls you in all so suddenly, planting a soft kiss on your forehead.

“maybe i shouldn’t leave my marks so high up your neck next time.”

you sigh with your lips in smile, pressing your head into his chest as he wraps his arms tightly around you.

THE NEXT DAY

your arm was linked tightly with juyeon’s as he walks you up the stairs of the grand hotel, the ends of your gown dragging along the marble surface to the restaurant where he would meet the bureau director.

you couldn’t take your eyes off him, though the simple suit was nothing compared to the dress he had prepared for you within a day’s notice. you reach the restaurant entrance and the lady immediately recognises him, turning to lead you two into the restaurant and in the corner where the private rooms were.

“so just to be clear, ignore your mother and be nice to the bureau director, right?” you giggle as the restaurant staff knocks on the door.

juyeon laughs and pecks you on your temple. “maybe if you ignore her enough, she’ll start wanting your attention.”

you snicker to yourself, watching the door pull open and the light from inside spills out.

you trail behind juyeon and look into the room, and your heart stops in your chest.

the world stops revolving around the sun and your breath hitches in your throat, your grip on juyeon’s arm tightening instantly when you see the two people in the room.

“mother,” juyeon awkwardly starts, only noticing your sudden grip on his arm.

mother.

she looks at you with wide, surprised eyes before they dissipate into a wide smile.

“this is the bureau director, mrs--”

“it’s alright,” she stops juyeon. “i know who she is.”

you gulp and your chest collapses in on itself.

of all people, THIS bureau director just had to be your mother?

Part 6: Bourbon

#timetohajima #timetohajima playlist feels #lee juyeon #the boyz #the boyz juyeon #juyeon imagine #juyeon scenario #juyeon fanfic #juyeon

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tomdiddlyumptious · 4 years

Text

TH| You Monster

Summary: you want a peircing and Thomas says no at first, but let’s switch the language

Warning: exposed breasts, language and a bit of anger. Nibbling and white t-shirts.

You and Tom sat on the couch, eyes glued to your phones and sitting in silence. You bit your lip thinking about something that you want to do, but Tom might call it a stupid idea.

Jacob, jake, and zendaya left about 20 minutes ago, you guys were playing board games and having cold beers.

“Hey babe?” You ask, looking up at Tom. You finally had the courage to ask because it wasn’t that big of a deal, what’s the worst he can possibly say?

“Hm?” He looks up from his phone, eyes immediately scanning your face, “I know that face, you're either nervous or wanting to do something. Come sit!”

He smiles but squints his eyes, trying to read you as you give a big grin and stand, walking over and sitting next to him.

“Soooo” you smile, slapping your hands together before putting them on your lap. You look over and Tom who has his eyebrows raised, completely confused but amused wanting to find out what you wanna do.

“Would you hurry up? I feel like your breaking- wait are you breaking up with me!” He rambles, his eyes widening and his hands go to his hair. You scrunch up your face at his stupidity, shaking you head no as he looks at you and sighs in relief, placing a hand on his heart.

“Okay, I know your probably gonna think I’m fucking crazy or something buttt” you hold on to the t, biting the side of your lip before speaking up.

“I want nipple piercings”

One eye is squinted as his neck expands, his mouth open and the side of his lip sticking up. Obviously confused, but he laughs and shakes his head.

“No”

You smack your lips as his face relaxes, your head jerking back and to the side, You wanna pop him in the back of his head as hard as you can. But you decide it’s not a good look, but also you fume and lift your engulfed fists and look at them.

“And why the hell not?” You ask, fake hitting him and he jumps up, covering the back of his head knowing what about to come up. He slowly retracts himself and sits up straight letting out a hmph before explaining.

“Because I should be the only one looking at your breast-“

“That’s the most dumbest shit I’ve ever heard, Thomas” you say, crossing your arms and tilting your head.

“Well my answer is still no”

“Well since when did the fuck I ask? I just told you what I wanted”

“Then I’m coming with you”

…

There he sat in the car, lumped in the passenger seat with his jaw clenched and his arms crossed tight across his chest. Muttering things you couldn’t really catch as he was looking at the road, clearly annoyed that you're paying no attention to him.

Right now you are in the zone, bumping to your most littlest music while sitting up in your seat, only arching your back when the beat drops, your face scrunched as you bopped your head to the beat also, banging you hand on the steering wheel.

You turned to him as you stopped at the red light, lip singing to him, pointing at him as he just continued to look forward, his jaw only tighter. You laughed as you lifted your finger to his neck and digged in there, he’s currently trying his hardest not to laugh as he puts his shoulder to his ear. You twirl you finger and bite your lip trying to find a spot and break him.

“Come on babe! Loosen up a bit!” You giggles, grunting as you squeezed your finger between his shoulder and ear, he busts out laughing, “now there’s the man I know”

“Whatever, green light” he mutters, ripping your finger from his neck and sitting up straight, a large smile slapped across his face.

…

“Calm down Thomas, I’m pretty sure it’s a girl anyway” you say trying to cheer him up, he’s a bit self conscious because he knows you have a soft spot for people with tattoos and piercings, and the only tattoo he has is on his foot.

“Oh and that makes it so much better, I don’t forget that easily that you like girls also, let’s go please” he mutters the last part, reaching up and pinching the roof of his nose, slowly calming himself because your no help at this fuckin point.

You sigh and roll your eyes, opening and stepping out of the car, shutting it softly behind you.

“There’s no way in hell im letting this lil boy get to me” you whisper to yourself as the toddler steps out of the car, following you with a fake small grin on his face.

As you step in the tatto shop you see there’s a Asian male, young 20s with that glowing but inked skin. Holy shit, you thought.

He gave you both a smile, sitting behind a little stance waiting for you both to get there.

“Woah, this is so cool!” You walk up as you look around at the different styles, the tattoo guns and the rine stone little shop for your teeth.

He chuckles and taps the tall desk “what can I do for ya?” He says in a rather American accent.

“Oh, god I don’t know how to say this” you close your eyes tight, Thomas chuckling but putting on his bold face, trying to stand tall but he’s short… as fuck. Kinda

“I’m guessing the nips?” The worker chuckled.

“Yeah! How did you know?”

“Because you looked at the rings for it” you giggled as you looked away from them, finding his eyes and nodding.

“Alright, right this way” he stands up and moves from behind the desk, putting his hands out to gesture to the back room. Tom starts to slowly calm down, thinking that the worker is nice because he involved him.

“The names jordan by the way” he smiles and entering the room. It has black walls with designs on it with the window open, the sun beaming in the room for brightness and a nice percent of wind, two seats next to the table that you’re supposed to lay on.

Jordan goes to the room connected to the current one, shutting the door behind him.

“See! Jordan is nice, he isn’t after you!” You whisper yell, smacking the side of Toms arm as he bites his lip, still hesitant.

“We will see when he asks you to pull the shirt off, Y/n” he death stares you, his lips pursed as You smack your lips and roll your eyes, sitting on the table while he sits next to you. Silently waiting for Jordan to come back.

“Let’s get that shirt off- wait that sounds wierd” he cuts himself off, laughing off his stupid comment as he sits down with his hands in his pokets.

You smile and take off your shirt casually, not trying to impress anyone. Your breasts slap against your chest as Tom scrunch’s his lips waiting for Jordan’s reaction or response. Jordan puts on his clean rubber gloves and stares at your nipple, turning his head side to side.

“Mind if I?” He asks looking up and Tom, Tom raises his eyebrows, not knowing what he’s asking.

“Touching?” He corrects himself, his day going great, or atleast it looks like it. Not annoyed at all, buster.

“Y-yeah, g-go ahead” Tom stutters, jordan letting out a distant chuckle and lifting his hand to cup your boob.

Tom is instantly fuming but he knows better not to do anything, or else a hard ass slap on the back of his head. Which is very unpleasant, to him that’s a fucking understatement. His face a bit red, trying to think of something else other then the obvious sight of another man cupping your boob and moving it around. He silently balls his hands when really all jordan wants is really to go is find the right size.

“Alright I think we’re gonna go for the medium size” he lets them go carefully, picking up the medium sized ring peircing that has a ball on the middle of them and moving it to a little tray before picking up a needle.

“Oh shit, I don’t think I was prepared for this” you whisper as Jordan laughs, picking up any other necessary tools for your perky nipples.

“It’s gonna be a little pinch alright?” He asks, grabbing a little achol wipe and brushing over them, the coldness making you jump and let out and crackly “oh!”

And no, it isn’t sexually, youre suprised form the contact.

“I feel like your lying, hold my hand” you reach out your hand for Thomas that he gladly accepts, you give him a smile and a reassuring squeeze.

He smiles and stares at Jordan’s covered hands as he grabs the tools that look like scissors, but not a sharp tip, just squeeze thingies.

The clips it to one of your nipples and you really, like really, AINT feelin that coldness, your back jolts and Tom laughs at you, making you glare at him.

“Alright this let this over with” Jordan mutters before putting the needle next to your nipple.

“1, 2-“ he pierces them, you wince and suck a hard breath, only squeezing Toms hand a little, before repeating the process again.

Tom hurries and lays, taking the keys from you and driving home.

When he got there, he wanted to rip your shirt off but you continuesly told him he can’t because they need to heal first, he pulled you in the house and shut the door, taking you to the couch reminding himself to lock the door later.

“Can I finally see them!” He smiles before looking at your white t-shirt, the loop sticking through the shirt.

“Yeah yeah Thomas, hold on” you softly pulled off your shirt and set it to the side, Thomas’s mouth falling agape and slightly drooling from your breasts falling on your stomach, a noise made in the process. He admired them and carefully played with them.

You both didn’t even notice the door open as Harrison enters with some KFC in his hand, quietly placing it on the kitchen counter as starting to walk to the livingroom wanting to scare the both of you, once he’s right there.

“Boo!” He scares the both of you, you turn around finding Harrison, his face beat red as he notices youre topless.

“Oi fuck off mate!” Tom scolds, using his hand to cup your breasts harshfuly.

You shriek in pain “OW! Thomas!” You slap his hand away, along it hirt only more as you almost sob in pain. You put your t-shirt back on as Harrison’s eyes are closed shut, leaning on the wall for support.

…

Its been a while and they healed, Tom only falling more in love with them, knowing he can change them when he pleases.

Now for fun he nibbles on them, when you sit on that same couch and watch Disney channel he plops beside you, casually pulling out his phone before draping a leg over your lap and behind your back, him getting closer and reaching down to chew on them while he scrolls through Instagram as you wrap a arm around his hard and play with his hair, his favorite type of piercing on your nips is a steel barbell with marijuana flowers on the sides of them, it really complements your skin he always thinks but says “they make my teeth feel better”.

Your friends saying that they seen your t-shirt with a large wet spot around your nipples is normal is a understatement.

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plum-pudding-and-honey · 3 years

Text

MONTHLY RANGE : Eight & Charley

Storm Warning - 3.5/5 : the plot is not the best thing I've ever seen but it's still a good introduction story for Eight on audio and to be fair it just made me want to drop everything and hop after him. I like Charley's background but I really just can't stand her. I don't hate her, she's interesting and I totally understand that people love her but I've never really warmed up to her. I also have a problem with the "classic" format : 4 episodes of 20-30 minutes which, sure, allows the writers to give the story and the characters more development, but which I find particularly long. I just find it very hard to focus for two hours, unless the story is very compelling

Sword of Orion - 3/5 : (god this is loooong) The atmosphere was interesting, so was Deeva (although I thought her being an android was quite obvious but wtv). The other side characters were all quite boring though and I couldn't bring myself to care about them. The android/human war was also an interesting point, it's a shame it didn't get developed more than that

The Stones of Venice - 1.5/5 : Oh my God do I hate this. Two hours which felt more like six hours of whining and complaining and "Estella, my beloved, forgive me here" and in the end, I'm not even sure whether I want to kill the Duke or myself. Just... zero empathy for this guy and Estella. Pietro was a bit more interesting although fish gondoliers who have evolved to survive the sinking of the city? Really? No. (Not just because evolution doesn't happen over a hundred years. Try a million.) Churchwell was equally annoying (I mean, as a librarian, I'm all for art preservation but have some decency here man) and the cult, well I've got no opinion whatsoever on them, that's how useless they are in all of this. The only thing that kinda made this thing worthwhile was this bit of conversation between the Doctor, Charley and that gondolier guy about the Duke waiting a hundred years for Estella and how Charley points out how long it is waiting for someone to return and how Eight DID wait a hundred years before seeing Fitz again and I'm not okay about this (and this was released shortly after Escape Velocity was published so I'm definitely gonna take this as a Fitz reference fight me on this)

Minuet in Hell - 3/5 : The Doctor being imprisoned and amnesiac for 3/4 of the episode was very looong. I liked the interactions with Gideon Crane but since the viewer already knows which one is the real Doctor, I really didn't see the point of making this last for so long. Also it robbed us of more Eight/Brig time and that's a shame. And those American accents are just horrible, I couldn't understand most of what Dale and the Senator were saying. The vilains and the Psi (psy?) machine were kinda interesting (although they also sounded pretty annoying) but in two hours and a half, they really could have been developed a bit more. Same goes for Becky Lee and her supernatural hunter gig that was way underused. The Brigadier is a huge asset, let's be honest. And the EDAs are canon in the BF universe, so that's that. (yes there was a Fitz reference in The Stones of Venice, I will not shut up)

Invaders from Mars - 2/5 : I love the idea behind this episode : the panic caused by Orson Welles' reading of the War of the Worlds, a false invasion in fact hiding a real invasion. It could have been great. But it's not. First, those accents and voices, again NO. For a medium that relies only on sounds, it's really a big issue here (I mean how are you supposed to take the alien invaders seriously with those voices???). Mark Gatiss loves the Ice Warriors and we've seen with the Empress of Mars that he can write decent episodes with them so why didn't he use them here? It could have been so creepy (which, for a Halloween episode, would have been neat). Instead he gives us a cheap version of invaders, a nazi guy, Russians and an atomic bomb, and mobsters. And it's too much, it's too confusing, it's too many characters. It's a mess. The Doctor is adorable playing private detective but then he accidentally reveals his plan to the bad guys (I mean...) and the aliens are killed by the Russian guy everybody thought to be dead and his atomic bomb : no, that's bullshit. Also, bury your gays : totally gratuitous and unnecessary (what was even the point?). Yeah, huge disappointment.

The Chimes of Midnight - 6/5 : cHriStmAs wOuLdN't bE cHriStmAs wiThOuT oNe oF mY pLuM puDdiNgS (tfbgvfgtv) Finally something GOOD. Eight is at his best sassfull self, the different parts are well articulated, it's funny and creepy at the same time and the paradox surrounding Charley is well exploited. Robert Shearman even succeeded in making me care about Charley. Edith is touching, even the other characters are, and that ending is really nicely done and coherent. I also really like how Eight is depicted here, especially in his relationship to Charley (and his companions in general). He really cares about her and yet he doesn't tell her the truth, he's been lying to her ever since Storm Warning because he selfishly hopes that if he doesn't speak about it, it's all gonna go away, just like he will do later with Lucie and her auntie Pat and that's Eight in all his glory : he loves his companions but he's got this kind of superiority complex that makes him think he knows better than them and which makes him treat them like shit more often than not (and ok, Charley gets a lot of crap from him). They are all aware of that, as we are, and yet they still love him and we still love him and I don't even know why.

Seasons of Fear - 3.5/5 : The format was interesting, the change of scenery for each episode really helped to not lose interest in the story. I also liked Grayle, he's an interesting villain but the immortality thing could have been handled a bit better in my opinion, especially the losing your loved ones part. I actually liked Charley there and her varied suggestions to get rid of Grayle. The mystery around her thickens and I did not remember that ending! The Nimons were a bit unexpected but ok I guess. But I found the conclusion very disappointing, too easy.

Embrace the Darkness - 4/5 : I love the atmosphere of this one, especially the beginning : the "something touches you in the dark and you realise it's not your friend" trope is classic but the audio only aspect of the thing gives it something more (especially of you listen to it in the dark). Like the previous one, I liked the pace (it didn't feel like this thing would never end which is something worth mentioning). The fact that there aren't too many characters also helps a lot. And I can't help myself to compare it with Sword of Orion : the settings are similar, it's a huis-clos, and they're both written by Nick Briggs. I find Embrace the Darkness much better, the characters are actually likeable (and they all don't die at the end, quite the opposite) and interesting. The Cimmerians were also nicely done and I really liked how different senses are brought into focus here, how the viewer is brought closer to the characters because they can't see. Hearing becomes central then but taste and touch are also prominent (I especially liked the way the Cimmerians share their history with the Doctor and Charley). The Doctor is well-written (I love his "conversations" with Rosum) and this tendency to self pity himself every time he makes a mistake is very Eight (Orbis).

The Time of the Daleks - 2.5/5 : The first part was good. And then it got so confusing, I actually lost the plot several times because my mind kept drifting away. There are way too many comings and goings through those portals, too many side characters that weren't interesting in the least. Learman's motivations as a villain are ridiculous (she wants to kill Shakespeare to be the only one who remembers him because everyone else is too stupid to understand his works... yeah, right).

Neverland - 4.5/5 : Zagreus sits inside your head, Zagreus lives among the dead, Zagreus sees you in your bed and eats you when you're sleeping (sorry I had to put it). So … yeah, that was breath-taking. That was an amazing conclusion for Charley's arc, the neverpeople are pretty cool and Romana and Rassillon are a nice little treat. The plot is coherent and the two hours and a half passed very quickly which is always worth mentioning. About Eight and Charley, now. As I said, I'm not a fan of Charley : I find her too perfect (and I just can't stand how she speaks, I know it's kinda shallow but when her voice is the only thing you get out of her, that becomes kind of a big deal) and I really don't ship her with Eight (although I recognise that they might be romantically involved, a lot like Ten and Rose, I simply choose to not see it). That being said, I liked how she stood up to the Doctor at the beginning, how she called him out on his bullshit ("Happy Birthday, Charley! Happy Birthday, he says. Only it isn't my birthday. It isn't my birthday because I'm not supposed to have any more birthdays") and used the TARDIS against him. I also liked her comparison with Peter Pan because, yeah, that's the Doctor, she gets it. I understand why she asked him to shoot her at the end but I don't think she was fair asking him to do it because she knows, everybody knows, that he won't do it. He won't do it for someone he despises, so Charley? Nope. And yeah, her dying was the obvious solution, I get that, but that's the epitome of everything I don't like about her. Charley Pollard, always making the right decision even if it means sacrificing herself, Charley Pollard always nice and caring and clever and adventurous, and in a way she reminds me of Rose (although Rose was a jerk to Mickey) and I hate Rose. As for the Doctor... Finally he gets the consequences of his actions and yet you can't help but feel sorry for him. Because like Charley said he’s sweet and he truly thinks what he’s doing is good. And that cliff-hanger! I AM BECOME ZAGREUS! YES BABY. In conclusion, it’s a great episode, regardless of my feelings towards Charley

Zagreus - 4/5 : Let's be honest, the first time I listened to it, I hated it with all my guts (and I also fell asleep at some point in the middle), so I wasn't really looking forward to giving it another chance. But I'm glad I did. This time I really took the time to listen to it properly and knowing roughly where this was going, I loved it? I mean ok, this thing is more than three hours (not gonna lie, this was really difficult for me) and it's completely bonkers and WTF but there IS a certain coherence to the thing that I hadn't picked on the first time I listened to it. So, let's start with the obvious : Zagreus/the Doctor/Paul McGann giving us the performance of his life. He's GREAT and if I didn't already love him I would certainly after this. He's creepy and disturbing as Zagreus (he slapped Charley!!) and his voice when he's the Doctor, when he begs Charley to kill him ... yeah, I was dying inside there. By the way, I liked the parallel with Neverland and Charley begging the Doctor to kill her, except that she actually does it. The Brigadier/TARDIS was equally brilliant. I got a lot of the Doctor's Wife vibes here - except that the TARDIS is evil and HATES the companions, and her conversation with the Doctor, her fit of jealousy was brilliantly done. I also loved the bits with Five, Six and Seven (except it's not really them but it actually is) and they were hilarious when they're working together towards the end (Tweedledee, Tweedledum and Tweedle-ego). It was a nice hommage to Alice in Wonderland, coherent until the end (and let's be honest the bit with Schrodinger's cat only it's the Doctor who is in the box? Brilliant. Again.) And as an anniversary episode, it worked for me. I probably didn't get all the references but I picked up a few of them and it was nice to include the BF cast, even if it wasn't in their usual roles.

Overall opinion : This is not as bad as I remembered. I postponed relistening to these for a long time because I remembered it way worse than it actually is (in my defence, I listened to those episode some 8 years ago when my English wasn't so fluent). I still don't like the classic format because most of the episodes feel reaaaaally long and I'm not a fan of Charley. I did like her arc though, it was interesting to explore the fixed in time events and the consequences of the Doctor kicking the laws of time in the nuts, way before Ten. The resolution of this arc was also brilliant in my opinion with the anti-time and the Time Lords/Rassillon mythology. The quality is fluctuant : the Stones of Venice, Invaders from Mars and the Time of the Daleks being the bottom of the barrel while the Chimes of Midnight, Embrace the Darkness and Neverland/Zagreus are amazing. And Eight changes so much through his life : he's so hopeful and sweet and utterly optimistic, a drastic difference from the Time War series (which I just finished before listening to this) where, although his core qualities are still there, deep down, he's lost so much and been through so much crap from everyone. I don't know if any other Doctor went through that much (War Doctor excluded) tbh. His relationship to his companions is also quite unique I think, maybe I'll write something about that one day. Now for the Divergent Universe arc, which I don't remember fondly either. Let's see if I change my mind as well.

#doctor who #eight #eighth doctor #charley pollard #big finish #storm warning #sword of orion #the stones of venice #minuet in hell #invaders from mars #the chimes of midnight #seasons of fear #embrace the darkness #the time of the daleks #neverland #zagreus

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melyaliz · 3 years

Text

Remember me 9

Master List

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Pairing: Bakugo Katsuki x OC

Notes: I have about 2 other chapters “edited” (I use that term loosely) so I’ll try to take some time to post them soon as well.

All Masterlists @melyalizarchive

Connect with me! AO3 / Instagram / Pinterest / Newsletter

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-0-0-0-0-0-0-0- Olive -0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

“Oh my god I can’t breath” Olive giggled, crumbling into Eliott’s lap. Her husband smiled down at her gently playing with her hair.

“This is serious Olive!” Eliott said, his smile melting away to a very strained serious one. His dark brown eyes studying her face, “it’s the greatest story ever told. Guy dates a woman, woman’s ex is a mob boss who is involved in illegal fashion, mob boss’s daughter almost gets killed. Now the guy must use his skills from the years of being in the other four movies to get revenge on his girlfriend’s daughter’s father. Tale as old as time “

“That would probably have been a better movie… but would it also have bad dummy shots?” her husband asked.

“Of course” sitting up inspiration struck, “I have an idea!” Eliott watched her as she sat straight up. “You write the action and I will write the romance.”

“How much romance will there be if the daughter is 12 yearsold.”

“Well romance and character stuff.” she shrugged, “And you can add in all the poorly done dummy blow ups you want.”

“I will” Eliott said nodded, “But only if I can use sex dolls.”

“Like, Hard Ticket to Hawaii ? Oh wait! Now hear me out” Olive giggled scooting up so she was now straddling her husband taking his hands in her own. A goofy smile spread across Eliott’s face as he weaved his fingers into her own.

“Oh are we at the wait stage of drunk Olive?”

“Oh girl,” Eliott said, his voice hitting a higher pitch on his girl . Olive giggled pushing herself forward so she was resting on his chest.

“I love you.”

“No way really?” Eliott gave a fake gasp “That’s sooo weird because you know what? I love you too”

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“ So just be ready ” Kirishima said, prepping the gang, “She’s… the same but different. ”

The group nodded in unison, game faces ready for whatever was coming. And that something was slowly walking toward when in the form of Bakugou and Olive.

“Olive! Bakugou!” Kirishima said, waving. At the sound of his voice Olive looked up and waved, a smile on her face as she looked over at the group of others standing with them. Her eyes intently taking everyone in as if searching for something that wasn’t there

“ Hello! ” she said as they both stood there awkwardly. Hands had been let go and now hanging at their sides. Limp as if unsure what to do.

“ I didn’t, you did .” he said as everyone around him winched slightly. The awkwardness was so thick you could almost taste it, and it didn't taste good.

“Oh.” her voice soft as she bit her top lip looking down at her purple painted nails. She had found her polish that morning and had decided to try out the fun colors.

There was a long pause when Mina spoke up, “How’s Clare and Lilly and the others? ”

Olive blinked looking up, “ You know the girls? ”

“ Yeah we have wine and Rupaul's Drag race nights. I think the last one we did was about a month ago wasn’t it? ” the last statement, more of a question then a comment.

“Uhhh” Olive shrugged unsure how to respond

“ She doesn’t remember it ” Kaminari mumbled to the little pinked haired girl. And again there was a lapse of awkwardness. Turning to Momo from across the table Olive pointed to her shirt.

“ I love your shirt so cute! ” she said, stumbling slightly over her words. Momo lit up pointing to the shirt that Olive had gotten Momo for the hero’s birthday. The words “Females are strong as hell” in English was written in script across the chest. She had gotten it because she always told Momo, who was the 4th hero and number 1 female, that she was the most badass out of everyone (and that ranking didn’t mean shit). Also they were both addicted to “Unbreakable Kimmy Shimitt”

“ Thank you, I’m Momo '' the dark haired hero said, noticing how much Olive was struggling trying to piece together who was who. Before they had come Momo and her fiancee Shoto Todoroki had decided to treat her like they had met for the first time. “ and this is Shodo my fiancee .”

“ I’m Mina! ” Mina said quickly and everyone else followed suit with a quick round of introductions.

“ Yeah I have pictures ” Olive lit up at the introduction. “The fair.”

“ What picture did you have ?” Momo asked, leaning forward.

“ This one of the fair? ” Olive said, holding up the phone leaning over the table to hand her the phone. Watching them Kirishima chuckled leaning toward Bakugou.

“ Why are they across the table from each other?”

Bakugou shrugged, rolling his eyes, not shocked by the poor seating choices. After coordinating this whole night was he really now in charge of seating as well?

“ Oh that was so fun. ” Momo smiled looking at the photo. Memories of her trip to the US where Olive had given her the grand tour.