#i can go to bed and lay awake for 4 hours but that's a waste of time right | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

headkiss · 2 years

Text

stay a while

pairing: eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: wanted for murders he didn’t commit, eddie needs a place to stay, and you’re able to help.

word count: 11k

warnings: some injuries (just his bat bites but not fatal), smut, a little angst, fluff. season 4 spoilers but i change the timeline a little and obviously eddie is alive lol

a/n: i had a small idea and this is what it turned into.. i really hope u guys enjoy, please let me know what you think!!

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Knocks on your door startled you awake. Loud, frantic, and constant enough to have you hauling yourself out of bed, putting your slippers on and shuffling over to see what was going on.

A small glance through your peephole revealed a panicked Robin, hair messy and eyes wide despite the hour of the night. Or early morning, you could say. Next to her stood Eddie Munson, someone you only knew through glances and rumours that you never believed. He was leaning heavily on Robin, his shirt bloody and his hands shaky.

You opened the door without any more thought.

The relief was clear on their faces, and you gestured for them to come in right away.

“Oh my god. What happened to you?”

You were focused on Eddie, on his poor state and the way his eyes seemed to lull shut every so often, like he couldn’t keep himself awake. Robin’s the one who replied, keeping her friend from wasting anymore energy on talking.

“Um, it’s a long story. You got a first aid kit?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get it,” you shifted to look at the boy again, still leaning on Robin and his hair falling in his face. “Here, you can sit. I’ll be right back.”

You all but ran the few steps it took to get to your bathroom in your small, ground floor apartment. Your mind was whirling with fears, questions, and what ifs. There wasn’t time for that, though. You decided to help Eddie first, ask later.

When you came back, he’d removed his jacket, leaving him in his Hellfire Club shirt, red staining through the white fabric. He was sitting in one of your kitchen chairs, his chest heaving, leaned back like it was too hard to sit up.

You got to work straight away, kneeling between his legs with your first aid kit on the ground next to you. Shyly, your hands grasped the hem of his shirt, looking up at his face as you did.

“I’m gonna pull this up so I can see, okay?”

“Okay.”

Eddie’s voice was strained, forced out of him in a rasp that almost sounded painful. You decided you wouldn’t let him talk again, you wouldn’t let him pain himself even further.

He was taken by you right away, even in his hazy state. You were so quick to help him, to take care of him even when there was no doubt you knew what everyone was saying. What everyone thought he was. You were different, though. Eddie thinks he wouldn’t mind staying a while.

You winced as you pushed his shirt up, at the way it stuck to his wounds and peeled away slowly. What happened to you, Eddie? You couldn’t stop wondering, thinking about who would want to hurt someone like him.

Of course, you knew about the murders, about him being the prime suspect. But what proof did they have, really? And you trusted Robin, and she seemed to trust Eddie. So, you did, too.

Your first step was wiping the blood away, a washcloth dipped in warm, soapy water provided by Robin when you asked. It was silent, the three of you watching the water turn red the longer you worked.

Next, you disinfected it the best you could with what you had, apologizing softly each time Eddie made a noise of discomfort because of it. Minutes ticked by, a stillness overtaking the room. You didn’t know what happened yet, but you could tell it was heavy, that it weighed them down.

Once Eddie was bandaged and taken care of, you lead him to your couch, letting him lay down and hopefully get some rest. He protested, not wanting to stain it with blood, but you urged him to relax. You covered him with a blanket, brushed his hair off of his face without really thinking, then went to sit with Robin in the kitchen.

“So, can you tell me what’s going on?”

She sighed, but ultimately spilled every detail in that way of hers that was fast, a ramble of details and other dimensions. Monsters and curses and how your town had been in danger. How it wasn’t anymore, but Eddie was.

“Now, he’s still wanted for murders he didn’t even commit and you’re the first person I thought of who would help. That’s it.”

It’s true, Robin did think of you straight away when everyone realized Eddie needed a place to stay, to hide. You lived just far enough outside of Hawkins that the cops wouldn’t think to come question you without reason. You were a close enough friend to Robin that she knew you were trustworthy, that you would do your best to help her.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean, I believe you. How could you make that up? Even with your imagination, and your face while you were talking.. yeah, I believe you.”

She was shocked that you didn’t even question any of what she told you. Yes, it was the truth, but it was a lot to take in. Like, a lot.

“I brought him here because I think you can help.”

“With what?”

“Eddie needs a place to hide. Just until his name’s cleared and I thought this might work… him staying here.” She knew it would be a lot to ask, but she thinks you might be the only person who’d say yes.

“How do you know his name will be cleared?”

“They won’t convict him of crimes he didn’t commit. They can’t. We—me and Steve and everyone—we’re gonna find proof.”

You looked over at the boy now asleep on your couch, your blanket tucked against him, his hair a mess around his head. You watched the pattern of his breathing. You think you wouldn’t mind him staying a while.

“Okay, yeah. He can stay, I’ll take care of him.”

A smile spread on Robin’s face at your words, at the way you looked at him in that moment. She knew you were a careful person, someone who valued truth and kindness. She knew that this would work. It had to.

You sat by Eddie in the living room for the rest of the night. The dark sky giving way to the warm glow of the sun. You were on the floor, your back against the couch by his legs, close enough that you could make sure he was still breathing, that he was okay.

You may not have known Eddie, but you felt drawn to him, like you had to protect him. You figured that you would know him, since he was staying with you.

A groan drew your attention to his face. Your first thought was that he was in pain, which might’ve been true, but he was simply stretching, waking up slowly. His eyes blinked open, bleary and lazy, and the first thing he saw was you.

“Have you been sitting there all night?”

“I was worried you’d die on me. So yes.”

Was it weird to say he had a crush on you already? He couldn’t believe that you stayed there, on the floor, just to make sure he was okay when you could’ve been sleeping in your own bed. It might’ve been the kindest thing someone ever did for him.

“You could’ve slept, at least.”

“Wanted to watch over you. You bled a lot, Eddie.”

“You know me?” He wasn’t focused on the rest of the sentence, just the sound of his name on your lips. It sounded better when you said it, like you should be the one saying it the most.

“My family lives in Hawkins. I went to school there.. with you, actually. And Robin tells me about pretty much everything, including you.”

How the hell did he not recognize you? He was sure he would’ve noticed you, there was no way he wouldn’t. He was noticing a lot now, at least.

“Why don’t I remember you?”

“My haircut was different, and I didn’t really want people to talk to me then. I was kind of a loser. ‘S okay, you can remember me now.”

You stood up, moving over to the kitchen before he could reply because his gaze was making you nervous, flustered. His eyes were shiny and a shade of chocolate brown that sucked you in, velvety and rich. You were doomed.

“You can use the shower, I’ve got towels and stuff in the bathroom,” you offered, knowing he must want to wash off the grime from the night before.

Eddie stood up slowly, walking closer to the kitchen so it was easier to talk to you, to see you.

“Are you saying I smell?”

“No! No, I’m not. I just thought-”

“I was teasing, angel.”

“Angel?” The nickname left a warmth in your cheeks, a couple butterflies in your stomach. You never had anyone call you any sort of nickname with affection like that, and he did it in a way that was extra sweet, smooth.

“Well, you saved my ass, so you’re basically an angel. And I think I’ll take you up on that shower, if that’s okay? I don't have any other clothes, though.”

“That’s okay, I have some sweats that should fit you. I buy guys' clothes ‘cause they’re comfier. Um, and I can redo your bandages after, too.”

“‘Kay, thanks.”

You told him where the bathroom was, not that it was hard to find, and he shuffled there slowly, a hand on the wall to steady himself. He felt a lot better than last night, that’s for sure, but he definitely wasn’t at a hundred percent. He thinks in your company he could get there quickly, though.

While Eddie showers, you decide to make breakfast for the both of you, but mostly for him. You sigh at the emptiness of your fridge, and you decide you’d go grocery shopping later today. For now, toast would have to do. You made a couple slices for Eddie, deciding that it’s important he eats so he can get better.

The water shuts off after a bit, and he soon comes into the kitchen wearing the sweatpants you gave him, a towel on his head, the sweatshirt in his hand and the first aid kit in the other. You did say you’d change his bandages, after all.

“Here, sit down and eat, I’ll patch you up again.”

He did as you asked, because he was hungry and maybe he wanted your hands on him again. Maybe.

In the same spot as the night before, you kneeled with the first aid kit at your side. The first thing you did was tear off the wet bandages he currently had on, whispered ‘sorry’s when the adhesive took an extra tug to come off.

Eddie ate the toast you made him while you took care of him, eyes on you and the softness of your touch. He could feel your tenderness in everything you did for him in the hours he’d known you. He’s sure that you’re the most special person he’s ever met.

Smoothing the last bandage over his abdomen, you looked up at him, a soft smile to let him know it was okay, that he was all fixed up for now.

“There, all done.”

Eddie caught your wrist when you went to throw out the used supplies, his eyes steady on yours to show his sincerity. “Hey. Thank you.. for everything. Letting me stay and taking care of me. Just, thank you, angel.”

“‘Course, Eddie. I trust you and I trust Robin. You deserve that from the town, too.”

“She told you everything?”

“Yeah.”

“And you believe her.. us?” He was in awe of you and the way you wholeheartedly put your faith in your friend like that. The way that you seemed to be willing to do anything to help.

“I do.”

His fingers squeezed your wrist before letting go, “I think I’m gonna like you a lot.”

I already do, he wants to add, but he doesn’t.

You offer him a smile in return, small but still beautiful. A sight he wants to see more often, one he wants to be the cause of. Eddie wasn’t used to being cared for this way, certainly not by strangers. He was used to being judged, mistreated, but you never did any of that.

“I’m gonna go to the grocery store in a bit,” you slid a small notepad and a pen over to him on the table. “Write down anything you want.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Just write stuff down, okay?”

He picked up the pen and wrote a few things, stuff he knew was cheap and easy to find because he didn’t want to be a burden to you, he didn’t want to complicate your life more than he already had.

“I can get you stuff from your house, too. If you need anything.”

“‘S okay. I’ll get Steve to do that.”

“Alright.”

You finished off your breakfast in silence after that. One that was a little awkward, but not uncomfortable. The table was eventually cleared, dirty dishes set in the sink to worry about later, and you were off to get groceries. Eddie’s list in your pocket and a promise to be back as soon as possible.

You wouldn’t tell Eddie that you spent extra time browsing the aisles for things he might like, searching for stuff similar to his very short list because you wanted him to be comfortable, to feel welcomed.

You certainly wouldn’t tell him that you kept the list he wrote just because you liked the look of his handwriting.

He tried to pay you back for the groceries time and time again. You always found a way to give him the money back, though.

Steve did end up dropping off a bag full of clothes and toiletries and necessities for Eddie, even his guitar. He also brought a walkie-talkie, a stern suggestion to keep it on just in case. Steve asked you how you were doing, caught up with you without his high school persona in the way. He hugged both you and Eddie on his way out.

It was odd to see the two of them act friendly. The most popular boy and the freak. You guessed they were different now, and having traveled to another dimension together to kill some kind of evil villain brought people closer.

Eddie’s been staying with you for a couple weeks now, and it felt easy, natural. A routine built that worked for both of you and you knew it was hard for him, to be stuck inside constantly, but you tried your best to make it more bearable.

You hated leaving him to go to work, it made you worry the whole time you were gone. The closer you and Eddie got, the more anxious you felt being away from him. The worst scenarios would conjure up in your mind. Coming home to him being gone, the cops telling you he’s been arrested.

But, you had to go, and you knew that.

You sighed as you clipped on your name tag, your work polo unflattering and uncomfortable on your figure. Working late shifts at your local gas station wasn’t horrible, it was mostly quiet save for the few creepy men or quiet people passing through. Mostly, you just stood behind the counter with a book in your hand.

Lately, you haven't done much reading. You simply thought about Eddie while you watched the minutes tick by.

He was sitting on the couch when you walked out of your room to leave, a sort of manual in his lap that he was reading. His attention flicked over to you when he heard your footsteps.

“What are you reading?”

He ran a hand through his hair, kind of embarrassed and suddenly shy at your question. “Oh, it’s.. uh, a D&D handbook.”

“D&D?”

“Yeah, dungeons and dragons. Kind of a nerd thing. I’m in charge of the club at school. Or, I was.”

“Oh,” you nodded along, not an ounce of judgement on your face. If anything, you were interested in what he had to say. “Will you teach me to play sometime?”

He thinks he could kiss you right then. The prettiest girl he’d ever seen, wanting to learn about this game that so many people judge him for. No way it was real.

“Seriously? It’s a lot to learn.”

“We’ve got lots of time around here, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, guess so. I can teach you, sure.”

“Thanks, Eds. I really gotta go now. Working late tonight so there’s no need to wait up, okay?”

His heart beat a little faster at your nickname for him. He thinks the only other one he’s had was being called ‘boy’ by uncle Wayne. Yours was much sweeter.

“Have a good shift, angel.”

“Bye.”

You walk out with a smile on your face.

The fluorescent lights of the gas station store hurt your head, dried your eyes. The hours went by slowly, only two customers came in to occupy you and they were both quiet and grumpy. You were tired, body aching from standing for so long, and you couldn’t wait to go home.

You missed your bed, the safety of your apartment, and the boy with the most beautiful brown eyes and long, messy hair.

It was a relief when your coworker arrived for the next shift, your sign that it was time to go home.

Sliding your key into your front door felt like a reward, the work day extra long and the relaxation needed more than usual. The soft murmur of the TV playing was heard as you walked in, locking the door and slipping your shoes off before walking deeper into your home.

Eddie’s book sat open on the coffee table, and he was sprawled on the couch, asleep in a position that made it seem like he was trying to stay awake. The blankets bunched by his feat instead of laid over him, his face lit up by the switching colours of the TV.

It looked like he did try and wait for you to get home, even though you told him not to. Like it mattered to him if you got home safely.

You snuck over as quietly as possible to shut off the television, the room going dark apart from the moonlight slipping in through the blinds. You pulled the blankets over Eddie, a hand brushing his hair from his face softly when you were done.

He blinked up at you when he felt your hand on his face, mind still foggy with sleep.

“Mmm, hi.”

“Hi, Eds. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“‘S okay. I didn't mean to fall asleep. Wanted to wait for you.”

Your hand was still playing with his hair, your eyes roaming around his face, his soft yet striking features.

“I’m here now. Go back to sleep.”

He grabbed your hand that wasn’t occupied, bringing the palm to his lips and placing the softest of kisses there before just holding it.

“I miss you when you’re not here.”

You convince yourself that he’s not thinking about what he’s saying, that he’s just sleepy and unaware. Even then, you can't deny the flutter in your chest.

“I miss you too, Eds.”

He falls asleep shortly after, one of your hands still in his and the other tangled in his hair. You pulled yourself away as gently as you could, leaned down to place a barely there kiss to his forehead, and you were off to shower and go to bed.

That night you did a lot of thinking.

You figured out that you liked Eddie. Well, you liked him when you met him, but now you know that you like like him. A romantic crush you think started the minute you saw him stood at your door.

He trusted you, to keep him safe and to be there for him. It felt good to be trusted by him. He didn’t seem to be one to put faith in another person that way, used to judgement and loneliness, but he was different with you.

You’re pretty sure you’re falling in love with him, actually.

He’s already up when you walk to the kitchen, coffee already made. It’s little things like this that make you feel things for him, the domesticity.

Mornings with Eddie are something you’ve come to love, to look forward to. He has that scratchy voice that comes with earlier hours, that fades away with each sip of coffee or water he takes. His bed head and pyjama-clad body gave him the softest look. It made you want to hug him, to surround yourself with his warmth and never let it go.

You’d never get tired of waking up and seeing him in your kitchen. He seemed to belong there.

“Good morning, sweet angel,” he greeted you as you sat at the table next to him, a warm smile and eyes that melted each time you looked at him.

“Hi, Eds. Thanks for the coffee.”

“‘Course.”

He had his D&D book out again, a notebook he must’ve had Steve bring him open next to it. He held a pen in his grasp, taking notes every couple of minutes like he was planning something.

“Can you show me how that game works now?”

“Really?” He peeked up at you, seeing genuine interest on your face. He thinks you’re really cute.

“Yeah. If you want?”

“Okay.”

Eddie reached over to pull your chair closer to his, close enough that your legs touched and your arms would brush every time they moved. Close enough to feel like more than friends.

You spent hours there at that table, heads bent together to look at the handbook as Eddie’s ringed fingers pointed things out to you. He was patient, even when he teased you for not getting things, it was lighthearted and fun.

It felt like an escape from the reality of why he was really there with you. Out of need for a place to hide and nothing more.

No matter how much you wanted to pretend like he was here because he wanted to be, because it was his choice, you couldn’t make it true.

He went as far as to create a mock campaign for you, one that was as quick as he could make it so you’d learn how to play as you went. Eddie couldn’t grasp the fact that this was real, that you were real. You sat by him, playing his favorite game, looking all soft and pretty and glowy. He doesn’t think he could find a nickname that fits you any better than the one he has.

Angel.

“Eddie! What am I supposed to do? I’m stuck,” you collapsed into your chair dramatically, drawing a chuckle from your current roomate.

“C’mon, think. I taught you, so you have to be good.”

“Can’t you give me a hint?” You pouted at him, using your best puppy dog eyes. “Pretty please?”

“You know I can’t say no when you make that face. Menace.”

“You like me too much, Eds. It works every time.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.”

You didn’t catch the way his eyes lingered on you after that, the look of longing spread across his face because you had no idea. No idea at all about just how much he liked you. He could think of a four letter word that would work.

He did give you a hint, and he cheered you on when you figured out what to do next. When you finished his campaign, he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. You both stood up to cheer like idiots, and he wrapped you up in a hug without thought.

Time slowed when his arms winded themselves around you, your nose pushed into his neck to breathe him in. His face in your hair and arms holding your waist tightly to him. It was more intimate than it was meant to be, but neither of you were complaining about that. If anything, you basked in it.

You both pulled away slowly, your arms still slung around his neck loosely, his hands coming up to hold them there. Your eyes stuck on his, and his on yours. Faces moving closer, glances flickering between lips and eyes, again and again.

You think he’s about to kiss you, or you’re about to kiss him.

Sirens broke the moment, your eyes going wide and heart speeding up. The loud, blaring noise of emergency vehicles approaching.

Eddie was terrified, more than he’d ever been in his life. He was sure they were coming to get him, to take him away from you and this perfect bubble you created. He thought his life was about to end.

“Shit,” you moved quickly to grab Eddie’s hand and pull him to the bathroom, the smallest room in your place besides the closets.

He followed behind you in a daze, fear seizing him and clouding his senses. All he could hear was the sirens, his heartbeat in his ears. He can’t breathe.

You closed and locked the bathroom door behind you, Eddie leaning against the wall with his hands over his ears and his eyes squeezed shut. You wanted to cry at the sight. Nobody should ever feel that afraid, especially not him. He was the sweetest boy you ever encountered, attentive and goofy, radiant. You wanted to take everything bad away from him, to make it better.

Gently, you grasped his wrists in your hands, pulling them away from his head so he’d be able to hear you. Despite your own pounding heart, you tried your best to soothe him as the sirens faded away.

“Eds?”

He shook his head, eyes still closed and his breathing uneven. You knew what panic attacks looked like and you’d do anything you could to talk him down from it.

“Eddie, hey. Look at me, please. Open your eyes,” your thumbs ran back and forth along the delicate skin of his wrists, your voice quiet and as calm as you could manage.

He took a moment, then, he looked at you. He couldn’t ignore the shine in your eyes, the tears that sat along your waterline, “I can’t.. I can’t-”

“Shhh, Eddie. They're not coming for you. Listen, no more sirens.”

“No more sirens?”

“That’s right. You’re safe here. Breathe with me, okay?”

You took a deep breath in, audibly so he could follow along. Nodding at him when he did the same, and breathed out. You repeated it as many times as it took to calm him down.

He slid down the wall to sit on the ground, and you were quick to sit next to him.

“I was so scared. Still am. That they're gonna find me and take me away from you.”

“I’m not letting that happen,” you grabbed his hand in yours, gave it a squeeze. “Neither is Robin, or Steve, or any of those kids. You have people on your side, Eds.”

“I’m so sorry you got dragged into this.. I can find somewhere else to go.”

“Absolutely not. I want to help. I want you here, don’t ever doubt that. Please.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting him be quiet and think. You just wanted him to know you were there, that you wanted to be. Even though you didn’t sign up for any of this, you wouldn’t change anything. It brought Eddie here, to you, and you think that was fate.

“Thank you,” he kissed the top of your head before resting his against yours. “I really do think you’re an angel. At least, you’re my angel. You saved me.”

You’d stay in that bathroom with him forever if you could.

The next few weeks went by without any close calls. No sirens, no panic. It felt like things were going to be okay.

Robin would call, even visit. She would update you and Eddie, say that progress is being made but not exactly how. You think maybe she’s just trying to make it sound better than it was.

The rest of them stuck to the walkie-talkie, less risky that way. They would talk to you and Eddie at random times, brightening your days and especially Eddie’s. You could tell he missed them, that he wanted to see his friends. It was hard to ignore the look on his face when he would hear how Dustin was running Hellfire, how the club was doing.

It was bittersweet.

You knew Eddie wanted to be back with them, in person and without fear. You also knew that he was happy to be able to speak to them at all. It was just a tough situation.

All you could do was hope that you made it a little easier.

Eddie wasn’t sure how to tell you he thinks you're the best thing that’s ever happened to him, that even in the hardest point in his life you brought him solace. He wasn’t sure how to tell you he’s in love with you. And he wishes every single night that you love him, too.

He wants to tell you soon. Maybe at dinner one night.

Today was another day that Robin would be coming by, bringing news and groceries and anything Eddie needed that he didn’t already have. She stopped knocking now, simply using her spare key, walking in and announcing her presence with a ‘honey, I’m home!’

“Robin!” You call back from the kitchen, your hands and forearms submerged in soapy water doing the dishes.

She walks into the kitchen and finds you there, Eddie standing next to you doing the drying.

“Hi guys. Looking like a proper married couple right now.”

“Very funny, Buckley,” Eddie plays it off but she doesn’t miss his blush, the tips of his ears going red.

“I know I am. Anyways, how are things here?”

“Good! Really good. I’m learning D&D and even some guitar. In return for my lessons I make some mediocre meals.”

You think about the times Eddie’s tried to show you how to play guitar. His chest against your back with you sat between his legs, his hands covering yours to place them the right way. You can feel your cheeks growing warm.

“Hey! Your meals are better than mediocre, angel. Trust me,” he’s quick to defend your cooking, even though it consists of simple things. He likes it because you make it.

Robin doesn’t miss the nickname, either.

“Damn, maybe I should live here, too. It sounds fun!”

“If you wanna sleep on the floor, sure.”

“How come Eddie doesn’t get the floor?”

“He was here first, Robs. Sorry.”

His smile is small, but it’s visible and he’s quick to try and change the subject, to gather himself. He thinks he’s doomed with you.

“So, anything that can prove me innocent yet?”

You’re both shocked when she nods, a grin growing on her features before she starts talking.

“Yes! Hopper‘s back.”

“Wait, what? I thought he was dead,” you didn’t think this situation could get any crazier but here you were. “He’s alive?”

“Yeah, he’s alive. And he knows about the Upside Down and all that so I think he can help us with Eddie’s problem. Like, really help us.”

“Oh my gosh!” You dry off your hands on a dish towel before turning to Eddie, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Eddie, this is great!”

He hugs you back, of course he does, but he’s almost frozen other than that. He didn’t want to admit it but his hope had been dwindling, going down with every vague update and promise of ‘soon.’

“Holy shit,” is all he can manage to say.

Robin leaves shortly after that, happy that she was able to finally share some good news, and happy that you and Eddie got along so well. Well enough that she could sense the feelings there, something more just waiting to happen.

She was rooting for you two.

It’s later that night and you and Eddie are both tipsy, feeling lighter and giddy.

You decided the news Robin shared was cause for celebration, a small one that really was only you and him, but it was perfect. Music was humming softly from the record player in your living room, you and Eddie sitting on the couch facing each other, bent knees touching and eyes wandering.

Your drinks sat loosely in your grips, sips stolen between laughs and stories.

It’s the best night you’ve had in a long time. No shift to worry about, nothing keeping you from letting loose and just living for a couple of hours. Well, there was the fact that you were hiding someone wanted for murder.

“Did I ever tell you I’m in a band?”

“Eddie! That’s so cool! What’s it called?”

“Corroded Coffin. You can come see us play,” he realizes that this is one of the first times he’s talked about the future, about what comes next. He realizes maybe that means his hope has been restored, at least partially. “When this is all over, I mean.”

“I would love to! I bet you’re a real rockstar on stage,” a small gasp escapes you when you think of him that way, with makeup on, maybe. “Do you wear eyeliner?”

“Sometimes. I’m shit at it, though.”

You love the small giggle that comes out of his mouth, the smile that hasn’t come off his face in a while.

“I could teach you. I’m sure you look really hot with eyeliner on. All smudged and stuff.”

“You think so, angel?”

“Oh for sure.”

He notices your eyes are closed, your head tilted back like your dreaming while you’re awake.

“Why’re your eyes closed?”

“Shhh! I’m imagining rockstar Eddie. Mmm, it’s great in my head.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, here,” you grab his hand and place it on your forehead, like you could share your vision that way. You giggled, “can you see?”

“Definitely.”

He humours you because, how could he not? You’re really cute, the cutest ever, he thinks. You have a way about you that makes him want to protect you as well as you’ve been protecting him. He wants to stay with you, fugitive or not.

After a minute you open your eyes again, taking the hand still on your forehead and holding it in yours. You place your drink on the coffee table so you can keep his hand in both of yours, head bent down to look at all of his rings.

“I like this one,” you tap the skull ring placed snugly on his ring finger.

“You want it?”

You look up at him with the sweetest smile, excitement big enough to make him feel like he was offering you the best gift in the world, not an old ring he wore every day of his life.

“Really?”

“‘Course, here.”

He takes the ring off, grabbing your hand and placing it on your thumb where it fits best. You twisted it around, enjoying the way it looks on you, a small token of Eddie to keep.

“Thank you.”

“It looks better on you, anyways.”

You realize his face is close to yours, your noses almost touching. You also realize that this is the perfect chance to kiss him like you’ve been wanting to do for god knows how long. One of your hands trails up his arm, settling on his shoulder, the other curled in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Eddie takes a moment breathing you in, basking in your touch and the small breaths puffing from your lips colliding with his. He cups your jaw with both hands, thumbs at the corner of your mouth to push it into the perfect pout for him to kiss.

He doesn’t hesitate anymore. No, he’s leaning in and his lips are on yours and it’s everything you’ve been dreaming about. It’s everything.

It’s a little messy, the alcohol in your systems not helping in that field, but it’s still perfect. Your heart is pounding and your mind is all Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. His lips are soft, yet he’s clearly the one leading the kiss. His grasp on your face tilting you in whichever way he wants.

You’re moving into his lap without thought.

It grows heated, heavy, and his hands are shifting to your waist to guide you over him, to let you move and give you both the friction that you need.

He rests his forehead on yours when you whimper into his mouth, breathing with a heaving chest and swollen lips.

“Take me to my room, Eds.”

“You’re sure?” He pulls back enough to look at your face, to see your pupils wide and your lips just as swollen as his.

“I want you.”

“Are you drunk?”

“No, promise. Just tipsy. I know what I’m saying and I want this.”

“Fuck. Okay.”

He stands with your legs wrapped around his waist, his hands under your ass to carry you down the narrow hall into your bedroom. He’s quick to drop you on the bed, to lean over you to kiss you some more before stripping you both to your underwear.

“Angel. Mmm, pretty baby,” he’s hovering over you again, his nose nudging into your throat and his hands wandering all over.

“Eddie.”

“What is it?”

“Please,” you’re squirming, hips rutting up into his to get any sort of relief. “Do something.”

“You’re needy. ‘S cute.”

You whine at him again, and he shushes you with a teasing grin. He gets rid of the rest of your clothes, both of you bare and ready for more.

He spends more time working you up, kissing your neck and your chest until you’re drunk on it. On him. Another whimper from you and his hand is trailing between your legs, running over you and then circling your clit.

“Eds. Shit.”

“Yeah? It’s good?”

“So good. I want you.”

“You have me, angel.”

It’s true, you do have him. Whether you’re aware of it or not he’s yours, completely.

“Will you fuck me now?”

“You don’t wanna come first?”

“Wanna come with you in me. Please.”

He can’t really say no to that. He fumbles for a condom, slides in on then he’s nudging himself at your entrance. Still teasing you despite your pleas. He likes to see your reactions, to hear you tell him how much you want him.

When he finally pushes in, he’s convinced he’s seeing stars.

“Oh, fuck. You feel like heaven,” his thrusts grow faster with time, a push and pull that has you squeezing his shoulders, scratching at his back. “My angel. So good.”

“You feel really good, Eds.”

It’s true, he’s surrounding you. His smell, his body, everything. You absolutely love it. Your senses are completely full of this boy and you wouldn’t mind if it stayed that way.

“You do too. Best girl.”

His head is buried in your neck, moans falling into your ear and kisses pushed into your skin. His chest brushed against yours and it’s slick with sweat, it’s brilliant. He’s brushing against that spot inside you that has you tightening around him, toes curling.

“There. Oh shit.”

“Yeah? Will you come for me?”

“Yes, Eddie,” your arms squeeze around his neck, your legs around his waist once more and you’re wrapped around him. Just like he is with you. “Please.”

“I’ve got you, sweet girl.”

He slips a hand to your clit, giving you the last push you need to finish, moans and Eddie’s name repeated, eyes rolling back into your head. He pushed himself up enough to watch your face as you came, fucked out and gorgeous.

“Fuck, I’m there,” his movements are messier, more frantic. He’s teetering.

“Come, Eds. It’s so good.”

That’s the shove he needs, hips pushing deep against yours and stilling as he spills into the condom. You were right. It was so good.

He cleans the both of you up with a washcloth from the bathroom, letting you stay in bed all heavy-eyed and cozy. Yeah, he’s really in love with you.

When he goes to leave after that you stop him, “where are you going?”

“Um.. to the couch?”

“You don’t wanna stay with me?”

He thinks he can feel his heart skip at the question. If he’d known it was on the table he would already be next to you, holding you.

“Yeah. I do.”

“Then get over here, silly.”

He climbs into bed beside you, pulling the covers over your bodies and pulling you into him with an arm over your waist. He thinks tonight will be the best sleep of his entire life. Because right now, he’s not thinking about what the sex you just had meant, he’s just thinking that it was the best of his life and it was with you.

His perfect angel. His.

You snuggle close to him, and he welcomes it completely. You’re drowsy and probably almost asleep by now and he thinks you look really cute when you sleep. Relaxed and sprawled next to him.

“Night, Eds. I really really like you.”

“Goodnight, angel.”

He waits until he’s one hundred percent sure you’re asleep to whisper the next part.

“I love you.”

A kiss to your forehead, and then he falls asleep, too.

Eddie wakes up first, stretching as much as he could without disturbing you. Your face is squished against his chest, your breath hitting his bare skin. You have a leg thrown over his and an arm draped across his stomach. He loves it.

You're a cuddler, that’s for sure, and he wouldn’t mind sleeping this way every single night.

His arm is almost numb where you lay on top of it, but he can’t bring himself to care, only holds you tighter. He uses his free hand to lightly push the baby hairs from your face, to see you without obstruction.

As much as he likes to look at you, he also misses you. Misses talking to you, so he wakes you up gently. He shifts so he’s able to press small pecks across your face. Your forehead, cheeks, nose, eyelids. He knows it’s selfish, but he just wants to see your smile again, your eyes and their expressiveness.

Your face scrunches up, a small groan leaving your mouth. You can feel warmth under your cheek, all around you. The first thing you see when you open your eyes is Eddie.

“Hi,” he’s smiling, sheepishly because he woke you.

“Hi, Eds,” you push yourself up to lay with your head on the pillow next to him, your eyes looking into his. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Are you kidding me? Best sleep ever.”

“Me too. You’re really comfy.”

“Why thank you.”

You prop yourself up on an elbow, hands trailing down his torso until they stop just above the healing wounds on his stomach. They look a lot better now, and you know they’ll heal well because you’re the one who takes care of them.

“Do they still hurt?”

He thinks for a moment, looking down at your hands on him, “no. No, they don’t.”

“That’s good.”

He pulls you back in by the back of your neck to kiss you, soft and languid. Lazy as the morning and you know it won’t lead to anything more, it’s just a good morning, an appreciation.

He doesn’t really think about it, he’s in love with you and he thinks you might feel the same and so he thinks kissing you is okay, and you welcome it without question.

Eddie pecks you once, twice, three times before pulling away. Tucking your hair behind your ears, he smiles once more. It’s as if he isn’t even aware he’s looking at you a certain way, but he is. It’s a subconscious smile, the kind that spreads when you watch your favorite movie or hear your favorite song, and it’s on his face.

You’re sure that you’re in love with him, you’re just not sure how to say it.

“Okay,” he kisses the tip of your nose. “I’m gonna shower. You’re welcome to join, obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“Well you’ve already seen me naked, so.”

He’s up and out of the room just like that. You realize that he’s comfortable with you, more so than ever. It makes your heart burst. He’s touchy and snuggly and it’s the sweetest thing. He’s the sweetest boy.

You only wish other people had a glimpse of the gentle person he is.

The shower turns on and you decide to join him, because you love him and you want to. Simple as that.

It’s later that evening and Eddie insisted that you spend an hour or so in your room, reading or doing whatever you pleased to occupy that time.

You eyed him suspiciously before shutting the door, wondering what he was up to. You tried your best to ignore the noises coming from the kitchen as you waited, to leave whatever he was doing as a surprise. The book you picked up was left unread, too excited at the fact that Eddie was doing something for you.

Finally, a light knock on the door sounded before he opened it, peeking in at you where you sat against the headboard.

“Come with me, please.”

You stood up, taking his hand when he offered it to you and let him lead you into the kitchen, to the table. Dinner was made and ready, the table set with napkins and everything. Candles were lit and he squeezed your hand as you took it all in.

“Eddie,” you turned to face him, your eyes shining. “This is so sweet.”

“Thought it was time I cook for you for once.”

You kiss him then, chaste and innocent but a way to say thank you. To show him you care.

He walks to the chair you usually choose to sit at, pulling it out for you and gesturing with his arm for you to sit down. You do, thanking him, and he opts to sit next to you, as close as he can.

“Thank you for this, Eds. Seriously.”

“You deserve it. I would take you out on a real date but… you know.”

He looks down, almost sad. You don’t let it last, taking his hand in your to kiss the back of it before digging in, calming him with a simple gesture.

“It’s okay, Eddie. Soon you’ll be able to.”

“Yeah.”

The mood is lightened after that, you compliment his food and he takes it while blushing. You talk between bites, laugh even when things aren’t that funny, and you stay at that table long after your plates are empty.

“Hey, angel?”

“Yeah?”

He looks like he wants to say something, probably important and it grabs your attention. He’s gathering all the courage he can, breathing in and preparing himself.

“I wanted to tell you that-”

The phone ringing cuts him off.

Normally, you’d let it ring, ignore it in a moment like this. But it could be news from Robin, it could be about Eddie and his situation and what Hopper has been able to do. It could be what changes everything.

“I’m so sorry, I need to get that. It could be Robin, or Hopper.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

He was disappointed, of course. The stupid phone had to ring then. But he knows you’re right and he just hopes it isn’t important, that it won’t take the moment away.

You sigh when you hear your boss's voice on the other line, asking you to come in at the last minute because your coworker got food poisoning. Timing wasn’t on your side today and you wished you didn’t pick up the phone.

“Fuck,” you muttered after you hung up. “It was work, I have to go in for a couple hours. I’m so sorry.”

“‘S okay, angel.”

You went to change, rushing because you didn’t want to be late. You felt awful, having to leave especially when Eddie seemed like he wanted to say something that you needed to hear. It just sucked.

Eddie was cleaning up while you were on your way out, slow and quiet like he was thinking. You felt awful.

You went up behind him at the sink to hug him, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. He turned around, leaned his forehead against yours. You pecked his lips, wishing you could stay.

“I’m sorry. I really want to stay.”

“Stop apologizing and go or you’ll be late. I, um, like you a lot, okay?”

“Me too. I’ll see you soon.”

You were off, grabbing your keys and slipping out the door with one last goodbye.

Eddie’s head was bent, the dishes not doing much to occupy his mind. He was going to tell you he loved you, and he couldn’t get it out. He’s wondering if it’s the universe telling him that it wouldn’t be a good idea, that it would end with whatever you two had going ruined and a broken heart.

Maybe it was better this way. A silent something between you two that never changed, never hurt anyone.

He still falls asleep in your bed, after trying to read the book you left there and dozing off between chapters. You come home to him that way and once you’re in your pjs, you cuddle him just like the night before.

You’re there hoping you can get the words ‘I love you’ out as soon as possible, and Eddie’s dreaming up a thousand scenarios of what could happen if he says them first.

He wakes up with you beside him, tucked in even though he knows he fell asleep atop the covers. He knows you’re the one who made sure he was comfortable, too.

When he’s been awake for a couple of minutes, his mind starts to race. He’s wondering what he should do, how he should go about whatever is happening. Yesterday, he was so sure about telling you exactly how he feels, and now he’s afraid.

He decides he needs advice, from someone who might know what to do. Someone like Steve.

Eddie tried to pry himself away from you and gently as possible. Moving slowly so that he doesn’t wake you up in the process. Once he’s up, he pushes his pillow into your grasp, watching you settle and cuddle it just like you were him. He resists the urge to get back into bed.

He leaves you a note on the way out, his messy handwriting scrawled across the first piece of paper he could find. It’s left in the centre of your kitchen table where he thinks you’re most likely to see it.

Your car keys sit on the counter. He feels awful for it, but he takes them. He hopes that you’ll understand once he has it all figured out.

Once he’s in Hawkins, Eddie realizes he doesn’t know the way to Steve’s house. He knows it’s risky, he really does, but he needs assistance so he heads to Family Video hoping nobody other than Robin or Steve are there.

Luckily for him, the store was empty apart from his friends. He walked in with his hood over his head, hands in his pockets and eyes cast downward.

“Eddie, what the fuck are you doing here?!”

Okay, so by the sound of Steve’s voice his disguise isn’t really working.

“I seriously need advice. Please?”

“God, Eddie. Just be honest with her, tell her how you feel, I promise she feels the same, blah blah blah.”

“Robin!”

“I knew this would happen!” She couldn’t deny the fact that she was excited about the realizations coming up, the idea of you and Eddie getting together.

“What are we talking about?”

“Steve, really? Catch up!”

The discussion goes on from there, the two workers dragging Eddie into the back room so nobody else sees him, Robin catching Steve up in her rambly way that he sometimes doesn’t understand but he pretends he does anyways. Both of them tell him the same things: ‘be honest,’ ‘just tell her,’ but they make it sound so easy.

On his way out, with advice that he’s not sure even helped, he sees none other than Hopper, in his uniform, motioning for him to go with him. His stomach sinks.

You wake up with a pillow in your arms that smells like Eddie and his unofficial side of the bed cold. You listen for any noises in the apartment and your heart sinks when there’s none. It’s silent.

You’re out of bed so quick you get a little bit of a head rush.

The first thing you do is walk around the whole place, looking for any sign of Eddie. All you find is his note in the kitchen.

Hey, princess.

Please don’t freak out! I’m just visiting Steve and I swear I’ll be careful. I need to talk to him about something. I’m kind of new to all of this stuff and I want to do it right.

Yours, Eddie

His writing is a little messy, but it’s charming and it reminds you of the grocery list he wrote you all those weeks ago. The one you still have. As sweet as the letter is, it doesn’t do much to calm you down. Your heart is racing and you don’t know what to do.

You know that logically staying here and waiting for him to get back is smartest, that he should be back if he was as careful as he said. However, your mind is telling you that you need to go find him, to make sure he gets home safe yourself. Then, you notice your car keys are gone and so is your car and you’re freaking out even more.

You’re dialing Robin’s number as quickly as you can, fumbling and almost dropping the phone along the way. Her mom is the one who picks up, letting you know she’s at work and so you call Family Video next.

“Family Video this is Steve speaking.”

“Steve? Hi, um, have you seen Eddie?”

“Shit, hi,” he pauses, saying your name almost sadly like he doesn’t want to continue talking. “Yeah, um..”

“What happened? Steve?”

“Eddie came by, talked to us about you, actually, anyways Hopper came here to get him. They’re going to the station now. Robin went with them.”

“Fuck. Okay, thank you.” You’re about to hang up when you realize you don’t have a car to get there. “Is there any way you could come get me? Eddie sort of stole my car.”

“Yeah. It’s dead here anyways. I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks.”

The phone goes dead after that. You rush to get dressed and brush your teeth, then you’re pacing while you wait for Steve to arrive. You hope he’s not opposed to some speeding.

He simply honks the horn when he arrives, letting you run outside and get in without saying anything. Both of you are scared, for Eddie and for what comes next. It’s a lot and now that Steve knows you’re probably in love he’s trying to keep himself on the calmer side.

You want to tell Steve to drive faster, but you refrain because you know he’s already going way over the speed limit. You take to looking out the window and bouncing your leg to pass the time. The short car ride feels like eternity for you.

When Steve pulls into the station parking lot you think you can feel your heart up in your throat. You’re scared, terrified of what’s happening to Eddie in there. To the boy you love.

You want to cry because you didn’t even get a chance to say it yet and now you don’t know if you’ll see him again. It might be dramatic but it’s true and you’d do anything to get him free, to be with him and not have to hide anymore.

You get out of Steve’s car before he even shuts it off, running over to where Robin stood against the brick wall. She was kicking her feet and dodging your eyes. It couldn’t be good.

“Robin, what’s happening?”

“I don’t really know. Hopper just showed up and told Eddie to go with him. I wish I could tell you I knew it was good but…”

Steve lingers by his car while you and Robin talk, taking a breather and trying to gather himself. He’s just stressed, you all are.

“Fuck, Robin,” you press the heels of your hands into your eyes, trying to keep yourself from crying because once you start you don’t know when you’ll stop. “I love him and now I’ll never get to say it.”

You hate the way your voice cracks, the way your body seems to deflate.

“Hey, no. We don’t know that it’s bad news,” Robin puts a hand on your shoulder, trying to comfort you as much as she could even when she isn’t feeling so optimistic.

You all trusted Hopper, you did, but you don’t like being in the dark. You don’t know that he has enough power to prove Eddie innocent when the only piece of evidence for the whole case is his trailer, you don’t know anything at all.

You pull your hands from your face, hugging yourself instead.

“I can’t lose him now. I've barely even had him.”

Robin thinks she might cry, too. She knows you and she’s gotten to know Eddie, too and she can tell that this runs deep, that you’re both so far gone. She also knows that you have a hard time opening up that way with people, and that each time she visited everything seemed so natural with you and him.

She squeezes your shoulder and moves her hand, walking over to where Steve is so she can talk to him and give you a moment. It’s hard for all of you to deal with this, hard to see each other in distress.

It’s even harder when you can’t even reassure one another because you don’t know if what you’ll say will be true.

You don’t want to give up or lose hope, but every second spent standing out there waiting feels like torture and you don’t know how much longer you’ll last without breaking down.

You think about Dustin and Erica and all of the kids that have become like a family for Eddie, and you think of how they would feel right now. You hope that things turn out well so you’ll never have to know.

You think about his band mates and what they’ll do without him in the long run, how they could replace someone with as much talent and personality as him. They couldn’t replace him, not properly anyway.

You think of Wayne and the love you know he has for his nephew based on nothing but the stories you’ve heard. He sounds amazing and you hope to meet him one day.

Every single person who truly knows Eddie has grown to love him. He’s sweet and funny, charming and so, so special. Even while being wanted for the most horrible crimes that weren’t his, he never lost himself. It’s something you’re proud of him for.

When the first tear falls down your cheek you hear the station door open, head whipping up to see who it was. Hopper walks out first, eyes downcast and steps slow. You’re about to lose all hope until you see the messy head of hair that belongs to Eddie.

His eyes roam about the parking lot until they find you, and time seems to slow. It’s as if the area was deserted and it was only you and him. A misunderstood boy and the girl who took him in without question.

You’re crying even more now but it’s because he’s here and he seems to be okay.

He’s running to you, or maybe you’re running to him, you don’t know but you meet each other with a crushing hug. His grip around your waist is tight enough that you’re forced onto your tippy toes. Your arms around his neck and your head perched over his shoulder.

You catch Hopper’s eyes and mouth ‘thank you,’ he nods at you in return and goes to see Robin and Steve.

“Eddie,” it comes out in a sob, one of relief. “I was so scared. So, so scared.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” his head is buried in your neck, the words spoken into your skin. “Sweet girl, it’s over now. I’m a free man.”

You pull back so you can look at him, you’re still crying and you think it’s just the emotions of the entire day catching up to you. Eddie’s quick to hold your face in his hands, to swipe away your tears with his thumbs as they fall.

“You’re okay?”

“Completely okay. I promise. I’m sorry for stealing your car.”

A wet laugh escapes you, muddied by your tears but he manages to make you feel somewhat better, calmer. That’s just how he is.

“You better not do that again. You really scared me, Eds.”

He kisses your forehead, then dips down to press his lips to yours. He wants you to feel him, to grasp that he’s right there with you and he isn’t going anywhere. Hopefully not for a long, long time.

“I don't plan on it.”

“I woke up and you were gone and I know the note said not to panic, I know, but I did and I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know if you were safe or if you’d come back to me and I didn’t know what to do. I can’t imagine my life without you anymore and-”

Eddie’s mouth is on yours before you can work yourself up even more. He stops your rambling and slows your thoughts, effectively quieting you so he can reassure you properly.

“Hey,” his forehead is resting against yours. “I’ll always come back to you, okay? Always. You don’t have to worry anymore.”

Your hands hold his wrists, his hold still cradling your face. You close your eyes and breathe him in, the smell you’ve grown so accustomed to. It’s another thing that brings you comfort, that calms you because it’s his.

He can feel you nod against him, forcing yourself to take deep breaths.

“Now, how ‘bout we go home, angel.”

Home.

Not as in his trailer, he means home as in your apartment. The place he’s been staying, the place he wants to remain. As much as he loves his uncle Wayne your place beats the trailer park by miles, and your presence would make it win no matter where you lived.

He wants to be with you.

“Okay. What about my car?”

“Robin drove it here, baby. C’mon.”

He leads you over to where Robin and Steve are waiting, giving them both quick hugs when he’s close enough and taking the keys back from Robin. He’ll be able to celebrate properly with them later. For now, he needs to decompress with nobody but you around.

Saying his ‘see you soon’s to the two, he opens the passenger door for you, deciding that he’ll drive so you have more time to recover from the stress of the day. He feels awful that he’s the reason you were so afraid, but everything’s taken care of now and he’ll make sure it stays that way. For you and for him.

The car ride is silent, the time spent gathering thoughts and winding down. Eddie reached over to grab one of your hands and held it the entire way home. Quiet support, unspoken but clear in its meaning. He's saying, I’m here for you, angel. And when you squeeze his fingers back, his rings still snug on your thumb, you’re saying, I know.

When he parks the car in your driveway, neither of you get out right away. You don’t know if it’s because you know things are going to be said once you’re inside and that makes you nervous, or maybe you just don’t want to let go of his hand. No matter the reason, you both take a moment before getting out of the car and going inside.

You left the door unlocked on your way out, stupid, you know, but you weren’t worried about it at the time. You’re lucky you live in a safe area, and that you don’t really have much to offer to a thief anyways.

Eddie locks the door behind him, walking you over to the couch and sitting down next to you. He knows someone has to speak first, and he thinks he has more to say to you.

“I really am sorry for leaving like that. It’s just, I needed to talk about you.”

“About me?”

He scratches the back of his neck, nervous and shy, but he continues. “My feelings for you, really.”

Your face is warm, you think you know where he’s going with this and you really hope you’re right. You think he’s going to tell you he likes you, maybe loves you, even. You think your relationship is about to evolve into something beautiful.

“Ever since I got here you’ve been so nice to me, even when there’s a whole town of people against me. You weren’t, never were. I was drawn to you, to the way you took care of me and let me in. Not to mention you’re like the prettiest girl I've ever seen in my entire life.”

“Eddie,” you press your hands to your cheeks to try and cool them down.

“It’s true, okay? It is. I’ve never felt this way about anyone else and this shit is so cheesy it’s insane,” he pulls your hands away from your face, his gaze landing on your eyes. “I’m in love with you. My sweet angel.”

“I love you, too, Eds. In love with you. I want to treat you well, the way you deserve. I want to be that for you. If you’ll let me?”

The smiles on your faces are so wide, so genuine and you think this might be the best moment of your life, one you’ll always look back to. Eddie feels like he’s on top of the world. He doesn’t care what anyone else thinks, what they say, he has you and that’s what’s important.

“You’ll be my girlfriend? Be my girl?”

“‘Course I will, pretty boy. You know I will.”

“Think I’m pretty?”

“Shut up, you know you are.”

He’s kissing you once again, it’s familiar and it’s natural. Kissing him is easy, you don’t even have to think about it now because you know him. And he knows you.

You’re together, and he’s free now. He can’t wait to take you out on that date and he can’t wait to let you meet all of the kids. They’re gonna love you. Even his uncle Wayne who isn’t always easily impressed, even he will love you because you’re you.

Eddie knows it.

You pull away and look at him, your boyfriend. Even thinking about it has your heart fluttering. He’s your future and you’ve never been more excited about what’s to come in your life.

“Stay a while, won’t you?”

He looks at you, around your apartment. He’s tucking your hair behind your ear, kissing you again, and staying close when he breaks away.

“Yeah, I will. Forever sound good?”

It sounds perfect to you.

༄

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ultramegagigamax3 · 5 months

Text

1: its just not my year / toby rogers

but im all good here

sunday morning

hands over my knees in a

room full of faces

im sorry if i seemed off,

but i was probably wasted

and didnt feel so good

masterlist ~ next

!Content Warnings!: homophobic slurs, bullying, references to drug use, vomiting

Somewhere, rural America

Your mother says that God is always giving signs, to never be surprised, always be prepared, and take whatever He gives you with open arms, no matter how you may hurt. You had believed it as a child, but after that day, you aren’t so sure. It had been a day like any other, as generally excruciating today as it would be tomorrow. Perhaps the maddening repetition of each passing day was a sign in and of itself? God had made the rising hours of the day so excessively same it had crossed over into the unusual, therefore being a supernatural sign, right? Repetition is said to drive anyone insane, let alone a tweaker like you. You splash your face with water, then grip the edges of your dirtied and broken bathroom sink; yeah, you think, that has to be it. God hasn’t abandoned me yet.

Earlier that day

You were lazing on the couch in your living room, one of your younger siblings lay across your chest. You were resting your head back on one arm rest and your legs dangled over the other; there had been a time when they didn’t hang like that, and you had begun to miss it. The 4-year-old is resting his little head on your collar bone, turned to the side as he has his eyes glued to the T.V. He had drooled on your pastel yellow tank top and was fighting to stay awake, so as to continue watching whatever garbage was playing. He is small and very chubby, making him heavy on your lungs. You didn’t mind though, a fat baby was better than a starving baby, you knew that better than anyone else. You stare up at the popcorn ceiling, an expanse you have studied a million times over. You had pulled an all-nighter, as per usual, and so you had been the only one awake to catch Joseph, the boy, crying from the living room. You didn’t know how to comfort him, you didn’t know how to comfort anyone, you just gave him a hug and turned on the T.V. Your eyes drift to the wall above the couch, every corner filled with tacky crosses of various styles and designs. You had stared at these crosses many times, during lectures and scoldings that you tuned out. You had once been in awe at the wall, when you were a child, but the novelty and charm was lost on you long ago. You have been like this for about an hour, and you would continue like this until the boy fell asleep. Staying still for long was a challenge for you, constantly twitching, cracking, rubbing, and itching at your hands. Your feet twist and bend in their sockets, your legs swing, bounce, and kick at the air. It was as if there was a constant electrical current going through your body. No part of your body felt relaxed, at ease, eternally nervous and tense, even in your own home. You could feel Joseph’s little heartbeat against your stomach, and you wonder if that’s what it feels like to be pregnant. You squirm at the thought, and your mind and body are filled with dread. Just the idea of it makes you feel sick, fills you with the sort of existential fear you might feel when thinking about death. Your brother’s breathing slows, and now you can finally push yourself off the couch.

You hold the sleeping body tight as you bring him to your room. Well, yours and three of your sisters. You place the boy in your bed, not your choice but waking your mother now would raise hell, and tuck him in. The sheets are baby pink with an outdated brown pattern, totally 2000’s. You placed your stuffed childhood lamb against his chest and swiftly escaped. It was early in the morning, about 6 am now, the time you should be waking up. Your steps are near silent on the stained grey-brown, once white, carpet as you begin your morning. You push open the door to the family bathroom and lock yourself in before showering and brushing your teeth. You track a trail of water back to your room and grab the first pieces of clothing you see, quiet as to not wake the tiny beast in your bed. You make your way back to the bathroom, trailing more water, and, again, lock the door. Theres a small window high above the shower, to let light in while still having privacy. It was never glazed over or given a curtain, and so you had a habit of staring at it, as if you would catch someone trying to peak in. You assess the clothing you had grabbed in the darkness: a pair of small jean shorts, a red T-shirt, and your underwear. It would have to do. You dress quickly and turn to the mirror above the sink, the countertop littered with makeup. You decide on something simple; makeup is a habit drilled into you by your mother. It wasn’t about liking or disliking in this house, it is about what Mother and Father want. You finish and slip on your white socks, escaping the bathroom to search for a pair of shoes.

When you exit, a couple of your brothers and sisters are already scurrying about the house, rushing to get ready. You dodge and weave both small and large bodies, making your way into the kitchen. There, you find the 15-year-old Laura, the second oldest girl, after you, and the second mother of the household. She has made seven bowls of cereal, all the children excluding the two babies. Laura is dressed in a private school uniform, the smartest kid in the family, and is making quick work of tying the twins’ long hair into ponytails. Savannah and Violet, a mischievous 8-year-old duo, are whispering to each other about some anime or whatever they had watched the day prior. You silently chew at your Fruit Loops as you watch Laura struggle.

“You know, you could actually, like, help, you know?” She spits, earning a small yelp from Violet when she pulls her hair too hard.

You shrug, even though she doesn’t see it, “Uh, maybe later.” You lie.

The 10-year-old Zack barrels into the kitchen, snatches a bowl off the counter, and makes a break to get away. “Zack!” Laura hisses, and the boy stops in his tracks, “What are you doing?”

“Breakfast.” He replies, innocently.

“Eat at the table.” You demand, though more casual and less irritated than Laura, gesturing in the table’s direction.

“But I don’t want to.” He states, matter of fact, as if it were stupid to even think of giving the boy a command.

You walk over to the boy and place a firm grip on the back of his neck, marching him over to the table. He sits with a defeated huff and begins to eat. You raise your brows at Laura. “There, I helped.” You smirk, before leaving the kitchen and ignoring whatever little witty quip she spat back. As you walk out, you’re almost run over by Benny, 12, followed by your mother. A strange silence falls over the kitchen.

“Get the hell out of the way.” Your mother pushes past you as she shoves Benny, still in his pajamas, into the kitchen.

You don’t bother to stick around and find out what she’s so pissed about, just keep your mouth shut and move on. Behind the muffling of the door, you can hear Laura talk back to your mother, thus beginning the first argument of the morning. Back in the living room of your tiny, dilapidated house, you find Michael, 17-years-old. He is sitting on the couch, fully dressed but not making any move to go to the kitchen.

“Food’s ready.” You slur, mouth full of cereal. He doesn’t reply, he either didn’t hear you or is just straight up ignoring you. Most likely the latter. If life had gone back to the way it was 2 years ago, you would’ve pulled his hair or pinched his cheek. But that was then, and this is now, and things between the two of you wouldn’t ever be the way they were before.

You feel itchy. You ignored it as you walk back to your room, but the ache persisted. It felt as if there were little bugs beneath the skin, crawling and mating and birthing and multiplying. Your flesh and bone suddenly felt illuminated by something like an electric shock. You shakily place your bowl on a messy dresser in your room, rubbing your hands together frantically, like a nervous fly. You knew this feeling all too well; you needed to get high. You told Laura you would stop, for her sake, but she wouldn’t notice, would she? You absentmindedly grab at your hair and scratch at your belly, no, you couldn’t do it, you wouldn’t. But you needed to take the edge off, at the very least. You grab your backpack, a brown sweater, and your beat-up converse, not bothering to finish your cereal. You leave your room and enter the living room, the whole house suddenly alight with noise. Laura is holding the youngest sibling, baby Mary, while juggling with dressing Violet, meanwhile Michael is handling Savannah and Zack. Your mother disappeared, your father now in her place, and Benny is left to frantically dress himself. You pull your phone from your backpack, an outdated and beat up little thing, checking the time, 6:40 am. Normal kids who didn’t live out in the middle of nowhere would be getting up now. The walk to the bus stop took almost 20 minutes, 10 on a good day, meanwhile Laura got to leave in your father’s car.

“Why don’t drive all of us to the bus stop?” Michael had asked once, years ago.

“Nah, I’m not doing all that! Waste of time!” Your father dismissed, the same response he would give for years to come.

You’re out the door before anyone could notice you, and the thought of rolling one up now doesn’t fail to fill your mind. You pull your arms through your backpack straps, backwards, the bag hanging off your chest. You put the hoodie of your sweater over your head, not fully wearing it, the pressing humidity (and rising heat within your body) making it too stuffy to adorn. If Laura or Benny (or Michael, if he still talked to you) were out here, they would’ve said you look stupid. You had stopped worrying about how you look years ago, a premature ego death, before you even had an ego. You gripped the sides of the bag, to distract yourself from the overwhelming desire for a hit. In the distance, you could hear the gaggle of children finally leaving the house. Distant giggles, obnoxious laughter, muffled words of conversation and “I love you”. And there you were, meters away and alone. With you gone, it almost seemed like a happy family. You hear a car come up behind you, and a loud honk pulls you out of your thoughts. You jump, your heart almost stopping, too edgy from the withdrawal. You look at the offending vehicle and spot your father and Laura waving and laughing. You can’t discern whether you feel humiliated, gawked at like a clown, or loved, noticed. That fades, and then the only thing you feel is that deep, distant itch, begging to be scratched.

Violet is running up to you, followed in tow by Zack then Savannah.

“Why you so emo.” Violet pokes at your side.

You force an offended scoff, “Shut up, ugly!” You pitch your voice in a whiny tone. The poke feels like a stab, and suddenly you’re sweating. Shit.

“[ ], can you carry me? Michael doesn’t wanna carry me!” Savannah pulls at the sweater hanging from your head.

“You’re too big. You’re a big kid, right? You sound like a baby.” Your head feels dizzy, the world begins to sway.

Savannah continues to whine. Zack pipes up now, “After school, can you take me to the skate park? Please please please please…” He continues, his little fists pulled into a prayer position.

“I dunno, we’ll see.” There’s a pounding in your head, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe.

“Wait, [ ], I wanna go too!” Benny suddenly appears as he chimes in, giving up his too cool to engage act.

“We’ll see.” Your body is buzzing, you feel wired. You don’t even notice that you had begun scratching at your arms, and although it wasn’t violent by any means, it certainly wasn’t gentle either.

“Why was Josie crying last night?” Savannah.

“How did you get up so early, LOL.” Violet.

“Did you even go to sleep? You look sleepy,” Savannah.

“My legs hurt, I’m tired…” Zack.

“[ ], can we skip and go to the gas station instead?” Benny.

“Benny! That’s bad!” Savannah.

“Yeah, mommy’s gonna spank us!” Violet.

“Mom’s gonna spank you.” Benny.

“Why would she spank me, stupid?” Violet.

“For being so ugly, ugly!” Benny.

“Nuh uh! [ ]! Mommy’s not gonna spank me, right?” Violet.

Yeah, you’re never having kids. You couldn’t even itch your arms anymore, as there were children hanging off each one, begging for your attention. Well, you don’t blame them, the only time they ever see you is early in the morning and late at night. Perhaps, to them, you were something special, the way a two headed rat may be special. You’re clenching your teeth now and struggling to walk straight. When you’re like this, it’s difficult to stay calm; there have been too many times where you have lashed out, saying and doing vile things. You held onto whatever sanity you had left, to stop yourself from doing something you would regret. You wondered if Michael could tell; was he just watching, waiting for you to slip up so he could call you a stupid piece of shit again? Or was he just a fucking idiot?

“[ ]?” Zack spoke up, almost tripping you as he got into your space.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you still in school? I thought you had to go to college already?”

Oh god, the dreaded question.

“Guys, come here.” Michael finally demanded, pulling the children’s attention away from you. You let out a sigh, immediately bringing your nails to your arms once again. You continued to walk quickly at your own pace, tuning out the world around you.

You look up at the sky, it’s a gloomy grey, but the wind was warm. The moist air clings to your skin, making you feel dirtied. Mosquitos have already begun their biting, leaving red spots along the exposed expansions of your arms and legs. You look out at the fields, vast and almost endless, save for the thick tree line in the distance. You liked the fields, although ugly and littered with red necks, only because of the childhood memories you had made here. You hadn’t been out in that distant wood until you turned 16, begging your father to take you hunting. You had killed a rabbit out there, and you cried, and now the ghosts of the dead cute little animals seemed to haunt that area. Dramatic. You look down at your feet, you had been walking along a gravel path, lined with wire fences meant for cows. Bugs scattered the area, a grasshopper jumped past your feet, went down the trail, and landed on Savannah. You only know it landed on Savannah because of the shrill scream that followed. You jump, again, at the sound.

The grasshopper sits calmly in your palm, Zack and Violet leaning over you as they observe the creature. Michael and Savannah are sitting on an old concrete bench, having reached the bus stop, the older boy wiping at the girl’s tears. You’re holding the pest in your left hand, meanwhile your right grips the left wrist, tight as to control the shaking.

“Can I hold it?” Zack asks, polite.

“Wait, no, me first!” Violet butts in.

“No, me! Back off, stupid!” Zack snaps, polite façade gone in an instant.

You still feel twitchy, though now you’ve gotten better at ignoring it. The three of you are crouched down, careful not to ruin your clothing with the damp grass. You knew that they knew what was going on, but you and the children all decided to collectively ignore the elephant in the room, apparently. They had asked questions in the past, only to be met with being shut down or lashed at, and so they now knew better. Benny is standing over Zack, half disgusted, half fearful, and totally trying to play it cool.

“Ugh, just kill it!” He sneers.

“I’m not gonna kill it, you little psycho.” You observe the creature for a little while longer, not placing it in either child’s hand.

“It’s just a bug! What is it gonna do, huh?” Benny talks down to you, totally too cool. He reminds you of how Michael had once been, and you begin to rub your wrist.

You stand, rather suddenly. Zack and Violet whine, a chorus of small pleas break out, and Benny takes a step back, hiding his terror of the creature. A beat passes, the bus begins to approach from the distance.

“Bus is here.” You nod toward the vehicle and the children turn around. Benny is trudging away from the scene when you grab the back of his school uniform, shoving the bug inside. He lets out a scream, and the kids burst into laughter. There had been a small congregation of students and parents standing around as well, all turning to witness the commotion. Benny is cursing you out while he rips off his backpack and sweater, batting at his back. You cackle, wicked and evil, as the boy panics.

“Ugh, you fucking bitch!” Benny snaps as the grasshopper finally escapes.

“Language!” You retaliate, the laughter making it difficult to get the word out.

“I’m telling mommy!” Violet yells at Benny through her giggles as she runs off to the bus, hand in hand with Savannah.

“Benny, hurry! Before we lock you out!” Zack teases and cackles, your little clone.

Savannah is still rubbing at her reddened eyes, “You guys are so mean!”

Benny flees the scene, not before flipping you the finger, and hops on the bus.

The bus leaves you and Michael there, and you hold your stomach as you try to catch your breath. Once your laughter finally dies, you find yourself standing in silence. Michael is still ignoring you, and the other highschoolers waiting by the curb are in their own little worlds. You stare at the back of Michael’s head, and you feel alone once more. You sit down in the wet grass, not caring about the stains, and scratch, twitch, and jitter in silence.

You hurry to the back of the bus, Michael in the front. Even on the bus, he tries to stay as far from you as possible. The front is quiet, nerds and losers, but the back is rowdy, losers in denial. You sit next to a girl, a skinny little thing. She’s engulfed in large hoodie and sweatpants, light grey with the school’s name plastered in red. You plop down next to her and pull off your hoodie, pulling it over your front like a blanket.

“Who’s the father?” The girl exclaims, bringing her hands to her face in fake shock.

You glance down at your backpack, still hanging off your front, “Shut the fuck up.” You reply, though with no real bite.

She is Mariah Smith, local pothead and one of your few friends. You aren’t the best of buddies, she had been a friend of a friend, but you were beginning to grow on her. She has dark skin, a rarity in this side of town, and wore short braids. She has a nose ring, done at home by one of your other friends, and had a girlfriend in the city. You two had met in pre-calculus the year before, when she was a junior and you were a senior. Then you failed, obviously, and now you two are in the same grade. You had a feeling she was trying too hard to seem cool because you were older? The thought of being respected, although slightly, filled you with both pride and dread. Pride, because someone thought you were cool. Dread, because you knew you were destined to disappoint. You almost wanted to turn to her and warn her not to get her hopes up.

“Did you see Kay?” You inquire. You had begun to dig your nails into your thighs, the overwhelming sensations of the bus would get to you if you couldn’t distract yourself.

“Yeah, fucking long ass drive, though. But her mom let me spend the night,” Mariah smirks, “very much worth it.” A beat passes before you force out a small laugh, forgetting you had to respond. Mariah goes on to tell you the story of her eventful weekend, trying to look cool despite her giddiness. “…And then we went downtown, and holy shit [ ], we…”

You can’t help but wonder at the feeling, being loved like that. Sure, you’ve had boyfriends… in the 8th grade. That last “relationship” you had was with some new kid in marching band when you were 13, and that never moved past awkwardly standing near each other. But, as far you knew, no sane male has attempted to even look at you since then. There was a time when this would eat you up from the inside out, and there was a time when you were happy to be finally left alone. Now, you feel as if you are better off not burdening your existence upon someone for longer than necessary, even if that pang of longing still runs within you. Maybe just once, with a shitty guy whose heart you wouldn’t mind breaking once his body has done its job… But what if he wants to kill you? Men are always killing their lovers after being tossed to the side, you’ve seen it. You wonder for a moment… you’ve dealt with worse at this point, there’s no situation you couldn’t snake your way out of. How much worse could it really get?

You don’t even know the half of it.

Suddenly, you realize Mariah is silent, you are silent. “[ ]?”

“Yeah?”

“You, uh, okay?”

“Huh? What? Never better!” You shake your head and rub your eyes, “Pulled an all-nighter s’all.” Among other things.

Mariah nods, not seeming convinced but not wanting to dig any further. An awkward silence falls over the two of you for a moment. You’re biting your lips, tearing off the dead skin. Mariah eventually moves her attention to other kids on the bus, making lighthearted and shallow conversation with the boys sitting in front of you.

Suddenly, you’re overcome with a wave of sick. Your eyes are squeezed shut, you’re breathing hard, and your leg is jittering.

“Fucking shit, [ ]…” She wasn’t angry, but she disguised her worry with frustration. “Are you good? What the hell is going on?”

You shake your head, slowly, always quick to give in.

“You sick?”

You shrug, kinda.

“What, is this fucking morning sickness or some shit?” She chuckles, trying to lighten the mood.

You let out a huff through your nose, then shake your head no.

“Flu?”

No.

“Uh… cold?”

No.

“… Cramps?”

No!

There’s silence for a moment. “Did you, uh, relapse?” There is something strange and awkward in her voice. The tone you use when you get dumped with the burdens of a (near) stranger.

No, and she lets out a small sigh.

“Oh… is it, like, withdrawals?” She whispers, too ashamed on your behalf to risk being overheard. You nod. You’re terrible at keeping secrets. Mariah is different from the rest of your friends; unwavering cool with an underlying softness, and little experience with anything harder than a “special brownie”. She’s more innocent than she seems, more innocent than a creature like you. Mariah doesn’t know what else to say, so she doesn’t say anything.

You were clenching your jaw as you got off the bus, leaving Mariah behind. She calls after you, but it’s no use. She doesn’t follow or chase, and you disappear into the crowd.

You lock yourself in the stall and lean over the toilet. You’re leaning a hand on the eroding brick wall and bring the other to your thigh. You open your mouth, and the vomit just slides out, leaking like a faucet. It had come up somewhere along the bus ride, but you weren’t about to just start puking all over yourself. You had swallowed as much as you could, but now you could feel it coming back up. You drop to your knees, probably bruising against the dirty tiles, and hunch over the toilet bowl. Your mouth suddenly tastes like milk and cereal again, and you look down at the rainbow mass in the toilet. At some point during your little puke sesh, the empty restroom became alight with noise. A giggling and gossiping cancerous mass infect the dingy room, only quieting when you begin to gag and puke up some more of your breakfast. Keeping quiet is no use, and you know the bitches outside the door can hear you now. Someone gasps and another giggles, soft mutters of holy shit and what the fuck fill the empty spaces between each gag and cough. When you were done, you stayed there, silent, for a moment, until someone began banging on the door.

“[ ]? That you in there? You okay?” Jessie’s hick accent is so thick, her stupid words so slurred, it’s difficult to discern what she’s saying.

“How did you…” You slur, some bile still coating your mouth.

“We can see your ratty little backpack.” A squeaky voice whines, making you cringe and bring your hands to your head.

“Maybe she’s like anorexic now.” Mutters a friend.

“Or pregnant!” A shrill voice squeals.

“Oh, hell no!” another voice gagged, and the group breaks into laughter.

“Not… pregnant…” You reply, what is with you and pregnancy today? Was that a sign? Please, God above, don’t let it be.

“Get out of there, fat ass, puking isn’t gonna make you prettier.” Jessie bangs on the door. Their words shouldn’t hurt, by now you’ve been hurt worse, but they still haven’t lost their bite. You feel so utterly small and insignificant in that restroom stall. It’s not as if you aren’t aware of how unimportant and infantile their words are, but that doesn’t stop them from sinking under the skin like venom. You aren’t sure when things became this way. Jessie had been your friend once, as children, but things took a dramatic shift in middle school. Her parents are hardcore conservatives, lived in the “nicer” side of town, your dad used to work for them, and you go against all their values. Now which one was it? Is it because you’re poor? Because your dad quit? Because you aren’t cousin-fucking hick? Hell, Jessie could be in love with you for all you know.

“Are you doing this because of some,” Your mouth started running before you could stop it, like vomit you couldn’t swallow, “like, weird sadomasochistic lesbian… fetish… thing?” The words were pushed out of you with each heavy breath. There was a mix of laughter, surprise, and disgust behind the door. You rested your head on your palm, holding your skull to dull the throbbing, but it was no use.

“Ew! I’m not a nasty fucking dyke, unlike you! You fucking… dyke!” The girl screeches.

You reach around for your backpack, thrown off in your haze. You rummage around, cigarettes, weed, something, anything. “It’s okay if you are…” You mutter to yourself, bringing a cig to your chapped, dirtied lips.

There is more screaming and banging, and Jessie had even gotten down on the floor to crawl under when a teacher barged in.

You were all sent to the office, luckily you were able to hide your cigs in time, though. They question you lightly, send you to the nurse, and she sends you to class. No true effort is put into your wellbeing. Jessie and her friends are given a stern talking to, lunch detention, and are sent back to class. No justice served, like the movies, just simply moving on to class. Utterly anti-climactic.

A counselor walked you to class, so you couldn’t skip. You walk in late to pre-calculus with Mr. Davis, being met with giggles and snarky remarks by your peers, which you try to ignore. You scurry to your desk in the back corner of the class, pulling your hoodie over your head to escape the prying eyes. But it’s all in vain.

“Alrighty, students!” Mr. Davis’ voice is booming. You could puke, again. “My apologies, Miss Jones, but I need to have a very important talk with the class.”

You hid your face in your arms, as the classroom quietly erupted into stifled laughter at your expense. Your brain was spinning, and your face was hot with humiliation. The only thing you could do was lull yourself into a dreamless sleep.

The sound of the bell pulled you from your nap, the sound knocking through your skull as if it to crack the bone. You stand so quickly you almost knock your desk over, haphazardly pulling on your sweater. You zip it up to the collar, feeling exposed, and clumsily throwing your backpack over your shoulders. You speed out of the room, sweet escape. You make a B-line for the other end of the school. Through the commotion of rushing waves of students, you are able to slip out of the building and towards the football field.

The sun has risen on the dewy landscape, beaming down on you with bright hot rays. The wind chills, but the sun burns. You keep your hoodie on anyways, unable to help the bubbling insecurity within your veins. You hide away under the bleachers, practically tearing your backpack apart as you search. And, finally, you bring that little cancer stick to your lips, and inhale that nicotine infested cloud, feeling your body become warmed by the smoke. It’s not enough, obviously, it’s just a fucking cigarette. What you really needed was leagues harder than this. But you’ve quit, cold turkey or whatever they say. You’re running on pure love and spite… well, mostly spite. You were gonna prove to your stupid parents and stupid brothers and sisters, stupid Jessie and all her stupid friends, your stupid teachers, your stupid classmates, your stupid counselors, everyone you aren’t a pathetic fucking loser. Despite what other might say about you, you had a lust for life and a childishly ambitious mind. Sure, you had ruined your life two years ago, witnessed and committed many sins before you were old enough to even go to the bathroom without permission, but your life wasn’t over… was it?

You pull out your phone, you needed to call someone. You thought of the dealers on campus; Mariah, who only sold weed, and one Jack Petrović, a tall, creepy guy and the one of the other “super seniors”, besides you. Jack dealt with the heavier side of the scale, and, frankly, had some pretty shit product. You stare at the contacts in your phone; Mariah! Smith:) And Jack #6. You don’t know how long you sit there just staring, until you realize you’ve already smoked your whole cig. You groan and grab your crappy little black backpack again. It’s old and falling apart, you’ve used the same one since the 5th grade now. It’s then you notice the ringing in your ears. It’s not an uncommon occurrence, that metallic shrill is a familiar guest. However, the squealing in your skull is persistent, and only grows louder. The sound becomes so intense, you’re grabbing at your skull and pulling your head between your knees. Is this it? Is this how you die? After smoking a fucking cigarette? Eh, you had expected a worse death, but that didn’t mean you didn’t wish for a righteous one! You wanted something gentle, surrounded by your siblings and their children (like hell you’d have your own), if not, you wanted to go out with a bang, something to be talked about for years to come. But no, you were going to die with your cigarettes in your high school football field, probably to be found by a couple trying to fuck or your other junkie friends looking to get a hit before 3rd period, how ironic.

You’re squeezing your eyes shut, bracing for impact. Then it’s over. The ringing, that is. You’re not dead, though you think you are for a second. You looked up at the bleachers, “You fucking kidding me?” You hiss to yourself, “God, I really am in hell…”

“You… You could say that again!” A voice chirps up behind you.

#toby rogers x reader

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syncopein3d · 1 month

Text

Broken World

4: Bad Night

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

CW: badly injured whumpee, implied past violence, loss of consciousness, fear of death, discussion of death, offensive/ignorant cis questions, blood, bruises, broken ribs, difficulty breathing, stranger caretaker, uncertain fate

Ripper ate the noodles without much interest. They felt like they gouged on their way down, and it couldn’t taste much. It wouldn’t be able to for a couple of days. Mostly they kept an eye on Robert as they sat there, in case he dropped the fat styrofoam cup or threw up. Neither happened. Afterward, he set the cup on the nightstand and sloshed water from the bottle around his mouth before he swallowed.

“So, where do you sleep?” Robert asked.

“I’ve got a couple of things to do. Then I’ll lie on top of the other side. It’s a big bed,” Ripper said.

“Yeah, well, if I die just dump the body in the garage,” Robert said. “In case I get back up.”

“Do I want that?” Ripper asked.

“It’d mean your extra work wasn’t wasted.” He leaned back into the pillow stack, swollen eyes all the way shut now.

“Good point.” They threw away the trash and washed the cup and fork they’d used for the noodles. Then they grabbed the duffel and went to take a hurried shower and brush their teeth. In a few minutes they were cleaned, changed into different sweats, and padding barefoot back into the guest room. Robert was still breathing, the wheeze audible, so Ripper shut off the light and lay down facing him on top of the comforter. Its current cheapish smart phone made a small weight in one pocket. It actually thought he was asleep until he said,

“You sleep in a mask?”

“Nobody knows my face, and I’m not starting with you. Go to sleep.” It was all the Ripper could do to keep its own eyes open. Food eased the stomach cramps even if it didn’t affect the overall raw feeling that came from turning itself inside out to pass through the Other Place. Acetaminophen dulled the pain a little. And they were so very tired…

Ripper woke up with a start, rolling backward off the bed to crouch on the floor behind before they even registered why they were awake.

Then the noise happened again, a small, pained bark, and it realized Robert was trying not to cough and failing. They clawed their way back up onto the bed, stifling a groan. It felt like every raw place inside them had stiffened. A glance at the phone said it was six a.m. They must have slept for about six hours. There had been dreams, a snarl of uncolors and pain.

“You okay?” Robert asked. He was half-curled on his side facing away, so he could stay supported by pillows but keep weight off his left ribs. For a second his misshapen nose was there in silhouette as he tried to look over his shoulder.

“Better off than you are. How long have you been coughing?”

“Few minutes, I guess. Hurts like Hell. Is that normal?” His voice wasn’t any less graveled than yesterday.

“With broken ribs, yes. I’ll make tea.”

“All this time I thought people were really weird about pain,” he muttered. “Turns out I wasn’t feeling most of – kaff – fuck! Feeling most of it.”

“How sad for you,” rasped Ripper, already carrying the kettle away to refill. Robert coughed again twice while it was doing this. When it came back he was lying with his eyes closed, face half-buried in the pillow. Ripper thought he had passed out or gone back to sleep for a minute or so. Then, when it was pouring hot water over the black tea bags, he said,

“Why you doin’ this?”

“Good for a sore throat.”

“You know what – kff – what I meant.”

“You said your blood could heal me, remember?” Even to themselves, they sounded dry.

“It can. But you haven’t gone looking for needles or asked my blood type or nothing. Y’don’t believe me, do you?”

“I believe you’d say anything to stay alive.” Ripper shrugged. “I would, too, if I was you. But you did tell me where the carnite was. That’s worth something. And I can’t do anything with it for another couple of days anyway. I’m not busy.”

“Can’t. Why?” A thin sliver of bloodshot eye appeared to regard them.

“None of your business.”

“You’re sick,” Robert said. “Worse than when you found me. That thing you do, it hurts you.”

“Shut up. You want milk and sugar or not?”

“Nah,” Robert said. He eased himself into a more upright position, gritting his teeth. “Thanks. So you can’t travel to sell this shit until you get better. DO you get better?”

Ripper glared down at him. Robert looked back up at him. Then he grinned, showing a couple of missing teeth.

“You don’t scare me,” he said. Ripper exhaled involuntarily, not quite a laugh.

“Fine, you ass. I get better until I have to tear again. It’s never right any more, but tearing is worse. Can you hold this?”

“Yeah. Gimme it.” He held the mug in both hands, inhaling the steam. “So you think you can find somebody to fix you with the carnite so it doesn’t hurt no more. Who would you even trust to do that?”

“I know someone,” Ripper said. “She’s operated on me. She’ll be honest enough as long as I pay up.”

Robert listened as he drank tea, nodding slightly. Then he said, “You don’t think you’ll wake up strapped down and she’ll cut bits off you until you tell her where the carnite is?”

“I think her reputation is worth more to her than nine hundred fifty million dollars.”

“That’s crazy.”

“She’s a very specific kind of crazy. Do you think you can eat a protein bar?”

“No,” Robert said. “Stomach feels weird.” He set down the mug on the nightstand and would have just flopped backward if Ripper hadn’t caught him by the shoulders to help lower him back down. He didn’t wince at the thumb on the bandaged ball of his shoulder.

“Robert?” There was a clotty mumble, then a cough, no real answer. Ripper wedged him into the pillow pile so he would stay upright. They would swear they heard a crackle to his breathing now, mucus sticking to itself and the walls inside when he breathed. He didn’t fight them.

The wounded man slept fitfully all day. He was never awake enough for a real conversation until evening, when he started to really have trouble breathing. At that point, it decided the risk of suffocation was as bad as the risk of a punctured lung. The Ripper peeled back the covers, put a towel over one shoulder, and straddled his legs, pulling him forward. Then, as he lay with the unbroken side of his ribs against their chest, they thumped his back with their fist to help him cough. The sound was awful, and it could hear the wet sound of tarry mucus and blood hitting the terry cloth. Their arms ached, and that made the ache inside worse, but they didn’t even think of stopping.

Afterward, he breathed a little easier. Ripper could feel him trying to wipe his mouth on the towel before he nudged it aside and rested his forehead on their shoulder. It rubbed his naked back silently for a couple of minutes. His skin still felt hot. The NSAID helped the fever, but had not eliminated it.

“Hey, Ripper,” he said weakly.

“Yeah.”

“I’m afraid to die. I thought I never could.”

“Maybe you won’t,” the Ripper said. “It’s too early to say.” Robert grunted, but he didn’t move, so neither did they.

“Will you tell me one thing?” he whispered.

“Probably,” Ripper said.

“You born flat, or you get ‘em removed?”

It pushed him back into the pillows, ignoring his wheezing laugh. He curled onto his side, but didn’t stop for a while as it stalked away to shove the now-horrible towel into the washer.

“Asshole,” they said, as they came to pull the covers back over him.

“You said you’d tell,” Robert gasped. A weak hand clutched at their wrist. They detached it, but carefully, setting his hand back on the mattress.

“I had top surgery. Why do you care?”

“I never knew an agender type – thing - before. Don’t want to die wondering. One more?”

“It better not be about my genitals again, because I’m not answering that.” The fact that he’d said “thing” tempered its annoyance a little. Usually it didn’t even bother with that, because no one would use it. Robert had.

“What d’you call yourself in your head?” he was asking. “Not he or she.”

“It,” Ripper said. “Sometimes they.”

“Yeah. That makes sense.” The swelling in his eyes might be a little less. It was easier to tell when he closed them. Ripper sat on the edge of the bed beside him for a couple of minutes, elbow resting on his hip. After a minute, he said, “Will you stay? It’s gonna be a bad night. If it’s going to happen, I don’t want to be alone.”

“You won’t be alone. I’ll be here,” Ripper said. “But it’s only fair you know that if you do die, I’m rolling your ass off the balcony.”

“Don’ make me laugh again, damn you.”

He couldn’t even drink broth that night. Ripper finished the cup itself. When they had showered they crawled into bed with him under the covers, wearing boxers and a loose tee shirt with the name of a college they’d never been to on it. They pressed up close to his burning body, arm carefully over his belly so that they could feel him breathe.

“Starting to feel floaty,” Robert said. “I don’t think it’ll be long.”

“Sh,” Ripper said. “You’re not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

Robert turned his face into their shoulder. He stayed that way for a long time, his labored breathing loud in the dark room. Ripper held onto him, thumb stroking one of the only unbruised parts of his side, listening to each breath get farther apart.

It was sure he would be dead before morning, that it would one moment be holding a living man and the next moment a corpse. That was bad, but it had done that before in a way that had been much worse. This couldn’t pay for that, but it could at least make it easier for Robert than it had been for Blackknife.

But that wasn’t how it happened.

Ripper snapped awake, arm tightening. Something in the sound of the room had changed. It could feel Robert still breathing –

But it could barely hear him. It lay still for a while, listening, but he had stopped wheezing. Under their arm he breathed easily and regularly, without a hint of obstruction. That couldn’t be. They sat up on one elbow. Robert let his cheek be slid onto the pillow with a small mumble of protest, bur he didn’t wake up. That let Ripper turn far enough to grope around for the hoodie with the smartphone in the pocket. Then it turned the dim half-light of the screen on Robert’s face.

His eyelids were a little dark, but they were smooth, barely swollen. His face was no longer swollen at all, the line of his jaw straight and perfect. His nose was still crooked. Ripper tugged the covers down from his chest to look at his ribcage and was staring dumbfounded at the unbroken and unmarked skin when something hit it so hard in the chest it was knocked backward off the bed.

It knew just enough to cover its head with its arms before it hit the rugs. The phone went flying. Ripper curled on its side, gasping, wondering if its sternum had cracked. Spots danced in front of its eyes, blacker against the black.

“Ripper? Ripper?? Shit!” It was a new voice now. Still a little rough, but strong, definite. They heard Robert slide off the bed, and then felt him scoop them up against his body as if they weighed almost nothing, pulling them into the vee of his legs. “Hey, talk to me. Are you okay? Is anything broken?” He patted at their chest, producing a protesting hiss but no shift of cracked bone. “Fuck. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean -”

“Robert,” it panted.

“Yeah.”

“ Are you better?”

“Yeah. It wore off, finally,” he said.

“Oh. Good,” Ripper said. It let its head rest against a more muscular shoulder than it remembered. Robert was saying something else, shaking them a little, but that was all right. Robert was all right. The thing inside that burned felt farther away...

Ripper felt themselves turning into dead weight, heavy and limp, but it didn't feel important. The world had gone soft and dark.

Part 5

#whump #whumpblr #syncopein3d future reference #cometverse #hurt comfort #hurt/comfort #sick whump #whump loss of consciousness #loss of consciousness whump #@whatwhump #small time villains #stranger caretaker #villain caretaker #agender caretaker #male whumpee

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justheretoreadfanfictions12 · 4 months

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The Love You Want - Part 3

Sleep Token Fanfiction - getting closer

The sun is bright, way too bright. I reach for my phone but can't find it. I open my eyes, I see myself laying on a couch, in an unfamiliar room & I can feel someone beneath me breathing softly. I turn my head to look at that person I used as a pillow, it's Vessel, of course it's him. I'm snuggled up in his arms, my head on his chest, my legs across his body. His mask is only covering half of his face, I see his nose, his cheeks, i can't help but stare at him. He's gorgeous. I try to get up without waking him, when turning my head even more i look into 3 faces, Alex, Dan & Ryle are sitting on the couch across the room, awake, watching me. I blush. Dan says quietly: "You can keep staring at him, we won't tell him, I promise." which makes me blush even more. I give him a sign to hep me get up without waking Vessel.

Sitting in the bathroom, staring at the walls,I can't remember much from yesterday night but my body is giving me hints. My chest is covered in black paint, a few spots look like lipstick prints. My stockings are ripped. My hair is a mess. I grab my phone to call an Uber, I need to get back to work now, I already wasted half the day. I push the door open & run into someone. "Jesus Christ you scared me, Iris." a deep voice says, it sounds sore & raspy. I look at his face, the mask is in place again, his dark eyes are leaving me longing for information what had happened the past few hours. "I need to get home." I say, looking away from his face, focussing on my boots. Vessel puts his hand on my chin, raising my face up to look at him. "I'm sorry Iris if last night may have been unprofessional. We had a blast, it was fun singing with you but I don't want this to interfere with what you are here for - work." he says. Wow, that kinda hurt. I know I'm here for work but something inside my is telling me, that he didn't hire me just because my work is good. "No, it's fine" I say & walk away.

After a long shower & a nap I'm ready to finish the last few tasks, at 2 in the morning I send them to Vessel's email adress, close my laptop & head back to bed. 5 minutes later he replies with a simple "Than you, I'm very satisfied with the concept. Come see us tomorrow morning in our studio to talk about a few things. Good night".

Next day rolls around, I throw my hair into a bun, put on some grey leggings, a black hoodie, my black boots & leave the house. I'm definitely not looking hot today but I don't care, I'm just here for work, nothing else, I don't need to impress anyone. I enter the studio, all band members are sitting at a rounded table, talking about new songs & listening to recordings. They all look up, I see 4 masks, but only 3 smiles. Vessel isn't smiling. He looks at me with a mix of surprise & regret. I greet them, Alex immediately gets up to fill up a cup of coffee for me. "We are so happy you came into our lives, this new concept is exactly what we needed!" Dan shouts. He hugs me & gives me tons of little kisses on my face. I laugh, the whole table laughs, except for Vessel. He stares at Dan, he bites his lip. Is he angry? Is he JEALOUS?

After some talking, mainly my talking, the boys agree to get some food, only Vessel says he isn't hungry, me neither. They head off to grab a snack, now only me & Vessel are left. He doesn't say a word for 10 minutes until I start the conversation: "What the hell is going on with you, Vess?" He looks at me in shock, then replies: "I don't know what you mean Iris, I'm just waiting for my colleagues to come back & finish recording. You are here for your job. Nothing is wrong." I get up, tears fill up my eyes, I walk down the hall to where the bathroom is. I hear quick steps behind me. "Wait, I'm sorry!" Vessel shouts but I walk quicker. Where is the fcking bathroom? I just open a random door & close it behind me. It's a recording studio. I sigh, great, now I'm trapped here. Seconds later Vessel opens the door. "Iris, I'm sorry for what I said but I told you, I can't let you change me. I can't play this game with you" he says. "Then don't. Leave me alone." I reply. He looks at me, his eyes are burning holes into me. "I can't" he says quietly. 'I can't leave you alone, I wish I could. I knew this would happen. I read your previous work, I saw your pictures, I knew you were going to have the effect on me". "What effect?" I ask him. Suddenly his hands are around my neck, he pulls my face closer to his. "This effect, Iris. You make me lose control over myself" he says. Then he spins me around, holding my neck from behind, kissing my cheek, his hands wander down to my chest, my waist, I can hear him breathing heavily. I feel him get hard behind me. Then he stops, spins me back around, gets on his knees & says: "Iris, let me touch you, please. Just once. I can't focus on anything since I met you. I need to taste you. Let me have you once & I won't ever bother you again. I promise." This is too much, I want to run, but my body is telling me otherwise. I get down on the floor, sitting next to him, I take his hands, put the, around my waist & hug him. I whisper in his ear "Then have me, taste me, I'm all yours."

He grabs me, sits me onto a table & starts touching me through my leggings. The fabric between our skin is bothering me. I want to push me leggings down but he looks at me, shakes his head & says: "Stop, I tell you what to do, you don't move unless I command it." I nod, never breaking eye contact. He starts massaging me, drawing circles with his fingers, I'm sure my grey leggings are already stained by now. I can feel him getting more lustful, hungrier for me. He pushes one hand into my pants, slipping it beneath my panties, continuing his hand movements & slowly pushing a single finger inside me. I moan, I can't hold myself back from saying his name, digging my fingers into the table I'm sitting on. He loves teasing me, moving fast, then very slowly again. He looks into my eyes & says: "I have been imagining how you feel, how wet you are for me, how my name sounds when you moan it. I want you to cum for me, can we do that, princess? Can you show me how to make you cum harder than you ever have before?" I nod, I grab his hand & place it slightly different on my most sensitive spot, then I tell him to just keep going. I'm not sure if this room is sound proof, but I hope so. I moan uncontrollably, my legs start shaking, I try to keep looking into his eyes but I can't focus. "I'm going to cum, Vess, keep going" I whimper. He grins, places one hand around my throat & squeezes it tight. Electric shocks run through my body, I close my eyes & enjoy the feelings he gives me.

I catch a breath of air, open my eyes again & see Vessel smiling at me. He slowly pulls his hand out of my pants, then he pushes his fingers into his mouth, tasting me. He looks into my eyes while licking his fingers, every single one of them. "You taste even better than I imagined." he says. I long to kiss his lips, to taste myself on them, but he pulls away. His expression suddenly changes. "Fuck. I'm so sorry Iris. What have I done? I didn't mean to ruin our work relationship. I'm so selfish. I know that this was stupid, but all I can think about is fucking you. Making you cum again. Kissing those pretty lips of yours. Fuck." he growls. He steps away from me. His eyes are no longer on mine, he is looking at the ground. I can see shame & guilt in his face. "Vess, it's okay, I wanted this. I want you. I need you." I say. I take a step towards him, but he backs off. "No, Iris. You don't want me. You don't know me. You have no idea who I am, what I do, what my mind is like. You think you know me, but if you really did, you wouldn't be saying this. You wouldn't be in this room with me. You would avoid me." he replies. Then he opens the door & walks away. I can't help my frustration, I let out a loud "FUCK", ruffle my leggings in place, grab my bag & leave the room. I look like a mess, I know it. Vessel is sitting at the table with the other guys, he doesn't look up when I walk past. "I need to leave, sorry guys, see you soon again." I say quickly. Then I leave,

#sleep token #vessel #vessel sleep token #sleep token fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic

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patchworkghost · 2 years

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its 5 am I dont have work today but im awake because my dog decided not only to wake me up but throw up in my bed right next to my head so now im laying here with no sheets cause theres a wet spot where I lysoled the bed but also im laying here cause i still have back pain cause its taking forever to heal & Ive just been like low key crying at work every day because I cant stand going because I either fear hurting myself AGAIN AGAIN or having to tell people no constantly cause no I cant do that sucks you are backed up but im not injuring myself permanently to get a crappy pay check & no health insurance Im job hunting but LITERALLY everything is part time cause no place thats decent wants to hire and everything wants part time so they dont have to give beneifits also being at work again I come home and im honestly to tired to focus on filling out more applications for shit jobs i dont want and again dont want to give me anything or only part time so why bother and finally after crying again today at work I realized being injured fucked up my schedule so hard ive been forgetting to take my meds which isnt helping since im already unstable given ive been injured & either doing nothing or going to work where I got injured I CANT EVEN HEL P my mom out around the house much which makes me insane and heck even myself my sink is messed up but i havent fixed it cause of injury so even washing my hands has been a hassle my rooms a mess & I want to cry every time i drop stuff on the floor cause it means i have to bend again

Ive been keeping away from my hobbies for the most part too cause this job gave me carple tunnel as well as back pain so ive been MEGA depressed from that on top of everything

I just want to leave but that would basically fuck over everyone at my job and make everyone else look at me like omg what a piece of shit typical mental ill bitch isnt working again even though ive been steadily working since recovering years ago it makes me low key wish id get injured a bit again so I can just say well damn not for me I must leave right tf now sajghdakjhgjasdhg people like oh no if you dont work you will be at home depwessed like NO OPPOSITE IF IM HOME ILL HAVE TIME TO HEAL & JOB HUNT & NOT FEEL LIKE KMS everyday

I literally even job searching is just reminding me how whats THE FUCKING POINT all im gonna do is waste most of my life working my bones to the dust and wasting my mental energy & even when im off I havent been doing hobbies due to pain FROM WORKING & even if i was healthy my friends are busy at work like I get to see my BF a whopping maybe 4 hours maybe 6 if we push staying up late a week cause he has work all the time and gets off late evening and its like yay were together till we just fall asleep cause he has work in the morning

fuc k dude I hate everything Need a job that pays minimum $40 an hour for me to not kill myself

#long as ramble rant because ive been depwessed lately and i woke up cause my dog threw up right tf in my bed #& im sick of being injure Im sick of my job IM sick of job hunting im sick of capitalism !

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bearsgrove · 3 years

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time really flows differently when you have to be awake early to do things and then you have some free time and then do things again and repeat and then i check the time and it's not even 3pm and i feel like i have been awake for 72 hours

#fern.txt #not saying this is Bad tho #i just wish i wasn't so tired #but like. being awake early is quite neat. it really feels like you have more time during the day #i know this is obvious lmao i just. do not realize it living the way i live on a daily basis #i wish i could wake up early without a murderous intent #it's like. i actually love early mornings a lot. i just cannot function like this. i can't go to sleep early to wake up early :/#so when i do have to wake up early it's nice and horrible at the same time.#i just want to kill someone. i am Unaproachable in the morning i might just attack you if you look my general direction.#well it probably really is the lack of sleep #but like i said. i don't know how to solve this .-. i simply physically Cannot fall asleep before midnight #i can go to bed and lay awake for 4 hours but that's a waste of time right #Ugh #i wish i was a morning person basically 😔

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dolljenn · 2 years

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overnight

genre : mature content

synopsis : just a simple overnight at your friend's house i guess?

you and your friends decided to have an overnight at karina's house since exam week just finished and it's time to relax and hang out with them.

majority of your friends suggested that y'all should do the overnight at karina's place since her parents aren't at home. her parents just left to go abroad for business purposes.

“i brought a lot of snack and drinks so that we can watch movies while snacking!” winter stated, excitedly.

winter, ningning, and giselle set down a comforter for them to lay or sit down while watching the movie while you're in the couch.

when karina came back from the kitchen, she was holding a tray of juice and sodas. after she put the tray on the table, she jokingly sat down on your lap.

since you're friends with her, it's just like a normal thing for you. you even wrapped your arms around her waist. she hold your hands on her waist and continue to watch the movie that giselle picked.

it's almost 4 hours of watching movies. you noticed that you and karina are the only once who's still awake and she's still on your lap.

it was fine, but then there's this scene on the movie that made you two feel hot. yup, making out scene.

you have no clue why you suddenly felt the awkwardness. you start caressing karina's thighs as if your hand has its own life.

karina whimpered on that.

“let's go to my room.”

karina locked the door behind her and went to the bed with you. she crawl on top of you while you're looking at her like a starving tiger. eyes full of lust.

“such a naughty girl..” karina whispered.

“wanna kiss you.. so bad..” you stated while drunkly staring at her lips.

“you can kiss me, baby.” she answered.

you didn't waste any time and immediately seize the opportunity. you started kissing, sucking, and bitting her lips. even tongues are fighting.

karina's hand went on your wet panty. rubbing your clothed pussy.

“hmm..” you whimpered. “more, please..”

“don't worry, baby.” karina smirked. “i'll give you more because i know you deserve it, but before that.. call me mommy, okay? you understand?”

you nodded, “y-yes, mommy..”

“that's a good girl.” she patted your head.

karina took of all your clothes including your underwears.

“soaking wet, huh?”

you bit your lips when karina started rubbing your wet clit.

“you better be quiet if you don't want them to wake up, hm?”

you nodded like a good puppy.

“aw, such a needy little thing, clenching against nothing..” karina mocked.

“please, mommy.. want you inside me.. please..” you begged. eating all your pride up.

as soon as you said it, karina entered two fingers inside your hole.

“oh, yes..” you moaned. “lick me, please!”

karina smirked before placing hef face between your legs. licking and sucking your clitoris.

“play with your tits, baby.” she commanded.

and that's what you did. you caress your breast and play with your nipples as she eat you out and finger fuck you.

“i'm not gonna last long!” you whispered. “more.. more.. i'm gonna cum, mommy!”

“cum on my face, baby.” and you did.

MASTERLIST

#aespa smut #karina smut #gxg imagine #gxg smut #kpop smut #gxg

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

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( this chapter’s gif by @august-walker from this beautiful set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy!

( PREVIOUSLY | AO3 | MASTERLIST | NEXT )

MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh.

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

◦ ◦ ◦ ◦

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

#vacant mirrors #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #winter soldier imagine #tfatws imagine #marvel imagine #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes/reader #bucky/reader

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kaunis-sielu · 3 years

Text

Fire Dogs: 4

It turns out that you didn’t break anything just deeply bruised. Steve brings you home and you feel terrible that he’s wasted his whole night on you and your drama.

“Do you wanna stop and pick up something to eat?”

“No, I’ve got dinner planned. As long as you’re okay waiting for dinner.”

“You’re supposed to take it easy.” He reminds you gently.

“Yea, it’s just Spaghetti. Easy.”

“Come on Fawn, you heard Dr. May, you have to take it easy.”

“I’m right handed, I’ll be fine to put some noodles into hot water and heat some sauce.” You argue and he sighs heavily as he slows to a stop at a stoplight.

“Can you just humor me for one night?” He asks giving you some serious puppy dog eyes. You feel that little prickle of an Alpha command but he doesn’t, like he’d promised.

“Fine. But you don’t get to pay.”

“Woah woah. Now that’s not the deal.”

“That’s the deal.” You argue and Steve glances over at you with an affectionate glare.

“Fine. Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy for an Omega?” He sighs heavily before asking, “What do you want?”

You end up picking up burgers at a little takeout place called Stan’s and eating them at home. Dinner with Steve is fun. He’s smart and charming and you enjoy spending time with him. When you’re done with dinner you grab your Stark Pad and head up to your room. You hear Steve in the shower and you manage to struggle out of your shirt and into your pajamas. You’re supposed to take some painkillers but you’ve got to be up for Sam in a few hours so you don’t.

You’re in way more pain when you wake up at 3:30. You wrap your robe around yourself and open your door. Much to your surprise both Steve and Sam are waiting outside your door.

“You owe me twenty bucks.” Steve says uncrossing one of his arms and holding an open hand out to Sam who pulls his wallet out and slams a twenty into Steve’s hand.

“Um, what?” You ask blinking at the two.

“I bet Sam that you’d be up to make him breakfast and something for Bucky before he goes to bed. Which also means that you didn’t take any pain meds.”

“I’m fine Steve.” You tell him trying to skirt past him.

“Uh, uh, uh Honey.” He pauses you with an arm in front of you, “I know you asked me not to but I wanna know why you need to do this? I just want what’s best for you.” You know he’s talking about not Alpha commanding you, part of it is a simple answer, the other part, not so much.

“Steve, I can’t just not do anything. Okay? I can’t.” You attempt to reason with him, “You guys are out there laying down your lives to help protect my home. I need to do something!” He studies you silently for a moment, just long enough where you’re almost uncomfortable.

“Okay Omega, but the second it’s too much take a break okay? And maybe take half of one of the pills Dr. May gave you. Just to help with the swelling.” He called you Omega again, not that you can lie about it now that Grant had called you an Omega bitch right in front of him. When Steve calls you Omega it’s, nice.

“Will you cut them in half for me before you go? I don’t have much range of motion in my left arm yet.” You ask softly, you have this weird feeling he might like to help take care of you as much as you like helping care for him, Sam and Bucky.

“Yea, I’ll cut one now and do the rest before I head out. If you’re too tired to get up with me please don’t okay?” You nod then follow him down the stairs.

Sam’s breakfast, and Bucky’s dinner, is a little more difficult with your aching body but if Steve notices any of your wincing he thankfully doesn’t say anything. You take the half pill that he offers then with Cooper on your heels trudge back upstairs. It takes you longer to get comfortable this time, you’re still awake when Steve and Bucky come to bed. You hear them talking quietly, you can’t really make out what they’re saying but Steve sounds annoyed. You can feel his irritation through the door and you’re worried you’ve done something. Hopefully you didn’t get him into any trouble with the other firefighters for leaving early.

You end up falling into a half sleep as the sun rises in the sky. You still hear everything going on around you but you can’t react, it’s a terrible way to sleep. You’re pretty sure you hear Steve open the door to check on you at some point, his scent invading the room when he cracks the door open. You relax further and finally fall into a restful sleep.

You wake up around one, Cooper is still laying at your feet when you stretch but he hops down and makes his way to the door with a wagging tail. You groan softly as you sit up, then make your way slowly to the door. You let Cooper out then struggle into your robe your arm aching. You make your way down to the kitchen to feed Cooper and find your bottle of pills full of halves. It makes you smile to see that Steve had taken the time to cut them, you take two of the halves, you’re not going anywhere today so you don’t need to be especially awake.

You do some drawing for your new book, it’s almost done and you couldn’t be more excited. Your deadline is in three days and with only two pages left to draw you’re feeling pretty good about everything. You’ve even decided what your next book is gonna be about, the therapy dogs that are coming in for the firefighters. You won’t use Cooper or any of the other dogs real names but you’re going to share the story.

You must fall asleep on the couch, when you wake Sam is in the kitchen humming away as he cooks. A warm ice pack falls off of your shoulder as you sit up, you grab it then move slowly to your feet. When you wander into the kitchen Sam gives you a broad smile,

“Mornin’ sleeping beauty. How do you feel?”

“Sore. Do you want me to take over?”

“Nah, Fawn. Buck said you didn’t even move when he let Cooper out and left. He did make sure you were breathing and put the ice on your shoulder. He said he wants to check it if you’re okay with that tomorrow before he leaves.”

“It’s just a deep bruise.”

“Yes but our Alpha told us to take care of you so we will.”

“Your Alpha? But you’re all Alphas?”

“Steve is a True Alpha.” Sam explains, “I thought he’d told you.”

“No, so he’s like, the leader of your pack?”

“Exactly.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“He’s the boss.” Sam says with a shrug, “you like gumbo?”

“Can he Alpha command anyone?”

“Yea, but he wouldn’t. Not without good reason.” You’re almost positive that Steve must’ve Alpha commanded Grant.

“But he can.”

“Yes, why?”

“I think he did.”

“Who?”

“I mean, other than me. I think he Alpha commanded one of the doctors at the ER.” When Sam glances at you over his shoulder you look down at the warm ice pack you’re still holding. “Grant Ward, he’s my ex. He wanted to mate me but I just couldn’t, and he’s been making my life hard ever since.”

“You’re not a Beta are you.” Sam says softly and you look up at him in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“Steve has been off, like he’s protecting an Omega but Bucky and I couldn’t figure it out because you smell like a Beta.”

“Please don’t say anything. If the town finds out I’m going to have every stupid Alpha at my door.”

“Not with Steve here you won’t.”

“You’re not going to be here forever. When you leave they’ll be all over me.” You tell him hurrying to his side, “Please don’t say anything!”

“I won’t, none of us will.” He promises and you give his arm an appreciative squeeze.

“Thanks Sam. And I do like Gumbo, thank you for cooking.”

“Of course Fawn. If you wanna keep working on your book I can let you know when the food is done.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yup.” So you do as he says and get back to work on your book. You’re on the last page when you hear him call for you.

“Thank you again for cooking. It smells amazing.”

“If I let Carol cook we’d both die.”

“She’s not much of a cook?”

“No, not at all.” He admits with a laugh, “I love the woman but she can’t cook.”

“Is it hard being in an Alpha-Alpha pair?”

“I don’t think so, but it’s definitely a choice we make to make it work.”

“Sorry, that was a very personal question.”

“I don’t mind, I’d imagine things are pretty traditional here.” You nod, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“Why aren’t you mated?”

“I’ve dated but after the shit with Grant I think I’m just scared. All the Alphas around here want an Omega and they think I’m a Beta so they don’t really look my way.”

“Are you just waiting for an Alpha?”

“No, if I met the right Beta that would be fine too.”

“Which of us smells best?”

“Nope,” you tell him with a laugh, “I’m not going there.”

“I had to try.” He tells you with a grin of his own.

“All I’ll say is that none of you smell bad. All comforting.”

“Good.” Sam says with a nod and you finish the meal in comfortable conversation. You shoo him out of the kitchen when you’re both done. Insisting that he go to bed so he’s rested for his morning shift. You take another half of a pain pill then start doing the dishes. You finish your last drawing then send everything to your publisher so they can check it over. By the time that’s done it’s nearly ten and Steve should be home soon.

You get off the couch and follow Cooper to the back door. When you open it Coop doesn’t move, just stares out into the darkness.

“In or out Coop.” You tell him and he ambles out into the yard. You close the door and head back to the kitchen to grab a bowl of Gumbo to start heating for Steve. You go back to the back door and when you open it you find Cooper isn’t alone in the backyard.

“Hi Omega.”

“What.” You gasp as Brock moves closer to your house. “Cooper!”

“I think he got out.”

“What? Cooper!” You call shutting the door in Brock’s face you lock it and hurry into the living room. The front door opens and Steve comes in, Cooper trailing behind him. “Oh, oh thank god. Oh Steve thank you.”

“He was hanging out in the front. How did he get out?”

“I don’t know.” Steve tenses, “Brock is out back. He apparently knows I’m an Omega.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He goes to go past you and upstairs when you catch his wrist with your right hand.

“No! Please make him go away. I don’t know how he found out I was an Omega but he did. I don’t want him here Steve.”

“You want him gone?”

“Please Alpha.” You whisper and Steve nods before going to the back of the house.

Tag list:

@memyselfandmaddox @thefanficfaerie @patzammit @dsakita @dramadreamer14 @killcomet @thesassmisstress @andahugaroundtheneck @loving-life-my-way @thefridgeismybestie @dumblani @im-just-another-monster @mywinterwolf @giggleberts @biskwitmamaw @geeksareunique @paintballkid711 @lumar014 @also-fangirlinsweden @connie326 @inkedaztec @eralen @valsworldofcreativity @strangersstranger @blackwidownat2814

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #imagine steve rogers x reader au #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader au #alpha!steve rogers x reader #alpha!steve rogers x omega reader #alpha!steve x omega!reader #alpha!steve rogers #firefighter!steve rogers x reader #firefighter!steve rogers #firefighter #firefighter!au #fire dogs story

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freddie-weaselbee · 3 years

Text

Stupid//F.W.

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Underaged drinking, drunk characters, Fred has a problem in his pants, undressing someone, one lil dirty joke, one horrible dad joke

Summary: Y/N decides to let loose one night at a Gryffindor party, making a slightly less drunk Fred resort to being her babysitter and hearing some confessions that sober Y/N would never dare say.

Prompts: Getting Drunk Together with dialogue prompts “I think I forgot how to breath,” and “were you dreaming of me again?”

Word Count: 1.8k just a lil shorty

A/N: Day 4 of @theweasleyslut‘s 2k writing challenge -- WAIT GUYS THIS ONE’S ACTUALLY LIKE ONE OF MY FAVS --

“Freddie catch me!” You launched yourself off the back of the velvet couch in the Gryffindor Common Room, arms and legs spread wide like you were a flying squirrel. Fred, who had his back turned to your antics, saw you right before your feet left the couch and he dove frantically toward you, catching you right before you would’ve broken your nose on the floor. “Again!”

Fred chuckled and continued to hold you much to your dismay. “I need to keep a better eye on you, don’t I?”

“Put me down!” you said, squirming in his hold. Fred decided to give you what you wanted, so he placed you down on the couch. And then he sat right on top of you.

“Fred!” Your voice was muffled by his jumper, which you were now trying to spit out of your mouth. “Let me out, let me out you big stupid.”

“Oh I’m the big stupid?” he asked mockingly. “You almost just killed yourself for the third time tonight. I knew letting you get this wasted was a dumb idea.”

“T’was also your dumb idea,” you said, still trying to push him off of you to no avail.

Fred glanced around the common room at who was still left. After the Quidditch match earlier and a great win for Gryffindor, Fred and George had thrown the best party that Hogwarts had ever seen, with music and food and dancing. And, of course, lots and lots of firewhisky.

Most of the festivities had died down about an hour ago and only a handful of people remained downstairs, most either too wasted to move or babysitting those who were too wasted to move. Fred got the honor of being one of those babysitters.

He realized that he had probably pinned you down for long enough and he moved to let you have your space. You sat up gasping for air, wrapping your hands around your neck and leaning from side to side.

“I think I forgot how to breathe.”

Fred rolled his eyes and moved closer to you, grabbing your hands in his and removing them from your neck, placing them on your lap instead.

“C’mon, stupid, it’s not that hard. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

You tried to do what he said but ended up doubling over in a coughing fit, small tufts from his jumper coming out of your mouth.

“Bloody hell, did you inhale my jumper?!”

You giggled bashfully before sticking almost your entire hand in your mouth, pulling out a long thread and gagging in the process.

“You’re disgusting,” he said, grabbing a nearby napkin to clean off your spit-covered hand.

You stuck out your hand as if going in for a handshake. “Hi disgusting, I’m dad.”

“That’s not even how that joke works, dummy.” He wiped you down, grimacing as some of the spit got on his hand. Fred was not sober enough to deal with this. Earlier, when you had told him you’d never really been drunk before, only tipsy, Fred thought that tonight would be the perfect night to have you let loose if you wanted to. He promised he’d watch you and take care of his friend, which is why you finally let yourself go and had a wild time. Unfortunately, Fred had never been the responsible one before and you were good at being sneaky, so you had a lot more alcohol than he would have liked.

His head buzzed with the firewhisky burning inside him, wishing he would’ve decided to stay sober instead of taking a handful of shots. But you just looked like you were having so much fun out there on the dance floor and he figured a few wouldn’t hurt. Now the both of you were drunk and only one of you knew how to handle their alcohol. The other now had their head laying in their best friend’s crotch.

“Y/N!” he hissed, hoping no one was looking at the two of you, but they were all either too drunk or too distracted to notice. “Get up, what is your head doing down there?”

“You’re soft,” you said, snuggling into his lower half.

He quickly lifted your head and put it on a pillow, grabbing another to hide a growing problem where your nose had just been. “Yeah, that’s definitely not true,” he said, laughing quietly at his own joke. He shifted for a few seconds before deeming it ok for him to stand.

It was getting late, and Fred knew that you were already going to have a rough morning, so he’d better get you to bed as quickly as possible.

“Alright, love, let’s--”

He cut himself off when he looked back down at you lying on the couch, completely asleep. He sighed but smiled warmly, wondering where all of the energy you had minutes ago just went. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

He reached down to pick you up, carrying you bridal style to your prefect dorm. He walked ever-so-slowly, stumbling a bit from his intoxication but determined to make sure you got back safe. After effectively ascending the stairs (thank Godric he and George had found a way past the no boys allowed charm years ago) and getting to your private room, he laid you down gently and grabbed a t-shirt and shorts for you to change into.

He was crouched down and digging through your drawers when he heard your small voice whisper. “Freddie, I love you Freddie.”

He grabbed the clothes and sat next to you, seeing that you were still asleep. “Hey,” he said softly, shaking you awake. You swatted him away a few times before allowing yourself to open your eyes.

“Were you dreaming of me again?” he teased. He grabbed you under your armpits and lifted your torso up, gesturing for you to put your hands in the air. You did, using all of your strength to keep you from toppling over.

“Mhmm,” you said. “I was dreaming of you and me, and how much I love you.”

You elongated the word love, saying it in a singsong voice and bringing a smile to Fred’s face as he lifted your old shirt over your head. “I love you too, stupid, your my bestest friend.”

All of a sudden you were shaking your head, looking annoyed and angry. “No, I love you. Like love love.”

“Uh huh,” Fred replied, brain not working fast enough to catch onto what you meant. “I love love you too. Now help me get this shirt on.”

You hphmed crossly and pulled the shirt over your head. “You’re the stupid, Mr. Big Stupid. I love love love you. In my dream, you were there and you kissed me! Like this.”

You leaned forward and planted a big sloppy kiss onto Fred’s lips, immediately slumping forward into his shoulder. It took him a couple of seconds to realize what had just happened, but before he could say anything you started talking again.

“You kissed me, then you told me how you loved me too, and how I was your favorite person in the whole wide world, even more than Georgie!” You suddenly gasped, covering your mouth with your hand. “Don’t tell Georgie I said that, I love him so much, he can’t know that I want you to love me more than him. Don’t tell, ok?” You seemed as though you were going to cry from what you had just confessed to Fred.

“I won’t, I won’t, I pinky swear,” Fred said quickly, thrusting his pinky into your face. You frown washed away and was replaced with a gleeful smile as you shook his pinky, sealing your promise.

“Good, I don’t want George to hate us.”

Fred pulled you into his arms and stood you up slowly, grabbing the shorts he had picked out for you. “Ok, can you take your shorts off for me please? You need to put on new ones.”

Nodding, you reached for the pants but tried to put them on over the skirt you were already wearing.

“No no no, not like that.” Fred sighed in exasperation and decided that had had to help you with this too. “Ok hold still.”

He sunk to his knees in front of you, one hand firm on your waist in order to keep you from falling. Trying to avoid looking as much as possible, Fred fumbled around the waistband of your skirt and pulled it down, leaving you standing in only your shirt and panties. He tried not to look, but his drunk brain was making it really hard for him to control his eyes. He had you step forward into the pant legs and pulled them up nice and snug around your waist, hoping he hadn’t done anything that he shouldn’t have during the encounter.

“Thanks love,” you slurred, falling immediately back onto the bed. “Wanna kiss me again? Like you did in my dream?”

Fred plopped down next to you, letting his fingers play with your hair as you cuddled up on your side. “Yeah, I do. But not tonight, ok? We’re both a little crazy tonight aren’t we?”

“We’re both a little stupid”

“No, we’re big stupids. Mr. and Mrs. Big Stupid.”

You laughed loudly rolling over a few times and almost falling off the bed before Fred caught you. “I wanna be your Mrs. Can I be your Mrs., Freddie? Pretty pretty please?”

He snickered, pulling the blanket up over the both of you. Staying the night would probably be for the best, especially since you didn’t have anyone else in the dorm to take care of you. “Of course, you’ll be Mrs. Freddie Big Stupid, how does that sound.”

You clapped your hands smiling into your pillow. “I’m gonna marry you. And we’re gonna have the biggest bestest wedding ever. And everyone’s gonna be there. Oh no, but we have to go on a date first. We’ve never been on a date.” You pouted.

Fred put a finger to his chin, thinking. “How about tomorrow night we go on a date. I can take you on a beautiful picnic and we’ll watch the sun set and then you can kiss me again like you did tonight. Sound good stupid?”

“Hmm,” you said, voice trailing off as sleep threatened to overtake you again. “That sounds perfect.”

Fred bit his lip, trying to hold back a loud whoop of joy. Instead, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back into him.

“Freddie?” you asked quietly. “Am I gonna remember this tomorrow?”

He laughed and nuzzled his head into your hair, happier than he had been in a long long time. “Probably not. But I will, and I’ll make sure to remind you.”

“Okie dokie, g’night Big Stupid.”

“G’night Big Stupid. See you in the morning.”

Tag List:

@famdomhideout @amourtentiaa

#theweasleyslut's 2k writing challenge #fredweasleyimagine #fred weasley #fredweasley #fred #fred weasley x reader #fred x reader #getting drunk together #freddie

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rhysismydaddy · 3 years

Text

Casual Ruin Pt. 5 (Elriel)

Elain's part of the Damnation series.

Last part! I know I said this would be 6/7 parts, but I realized I have no idea what the fuck I had planned to write in those parts, so it's 5 instead hahah. didn't edit the ending whoops

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

__________________________________________

~Elain~

It's three in the morning when I hear it.

We're laying in bed, and even though I should asleep like the man next to me, I can't stop thinking about how little time we have left.

How has the past month gone by so fast?

It feels like yesterday I was standing on my stoop, watching Azriel open up and tell me things he's since admitted he's never told another person.

It feels like yesterday since I decided that I care for him more than I care about what he does.

But it wasn't yesterday; it was a month ago.

A month that's been filled with dinner dates, soft smiles, laughter, and enough tender moments my heart feels full. He's a

The plane ticket hidden in the bottom of my purse is a constant reminder that this is just a summer fling, that it isn't supposed to mean anything. Two weeks from now, I'm supposed to get on that flight and never look back.

Except it feels impossible.

It broke my heart when I walked away from him a month ago, and that was before he told me the details of his life.

Now I know him.

I know about the way he smiles in the morning and how he shakes his head when he laughs, like he can't believe he's doing so. I've learned how ticklish his ribs are, how he likes his coffee, his favorite type of cigarettes.

I know about his family, how his mother died giving birth to him and his father resented him from the day it happened. I know about the first man he killed, how it made him sick. I know what his tattoos really mean.

And what I never could've expected is that everything I've learned, the good and the bad, have tied me to him in a way that feels permanent.

How am I supposed to just walk away from that?

The thought of never seeing his smile, never feeling his rough hands cup my face with a gentleness he doesn't show the world... it feels like missing a part of me.

And it worries me enough I haven't been able to sleep for the past two nights. Like I'm incapable of wasting a minute, I spend the nights watching him sleep.

Which is why I'm perfectly awake when he pulls me close in his sleep and whispers two words that ruin me.

Ti amo.

Tears well in my eyes as I stay perfectly still, replaying the moment over and over.

He loves me.

It's something I knew--something we both probably knew--ever since that day in the rain, but I think we both never said it because we knew our time is limited.

It's been in every touch, every kiss, every moment where we get caught up just staring at each other.

But I want to tell him, I have to tell him, because however good it makes me feel to hear that from him... I know he needs it more.

He's never been loved--never been anyone's first choice, but he's mine, and I want him to know. And I don't want to be just one more person that leaves him and makes him wondering if he'll ever be enough.

So I start to plan.

~A week later, Azriel~

Well, the worst has happened.

I love the fucking woman.

Now my biggest weakness now walks outside my body, with soft brown eyes and dirty blonde hair and bright smiles that light up the world.

And she's leaving in a week.

It scares the shit out of me.

She scares the shit out of me.

Honestly, I hadn't even realized I was in so deep until she said the words "We're done."

All I remember about that day is feeling I'd been stabbed in the chest and looking down to find the blade but not seeing anything but my own hands.

One moment I was convinced I was dying, the next I was in front of her on her stoop, telling her shit I've never told a living soul.

It wasn't then that I realized I love her, but that was when I realized something maybe even more important. I trust her.

Rule 3's been thrown out the window, and I don't even remember when it happened. Was it when she told me I'm not a monster? Or the first time I noticed the way her lips turn up every time I tell her she's beautiful?

Or maybe it was the first time I laid eyes on her as she stumbled into that opera booth, looking like everything I never knew I wanted.

Either way, I'm about a mile up shit's creek with no fucking paddle.

I trust her, love her, and I've only known her ten weeks. Which reminds me, she's leaving.

Which is irritating, because while the mere thought of watching her leave makes me want to level a building, she's currently acting like nothing's wrong.

She's in the bathroom, putting on red lipstick in a slow, taunting way that makes me want to mess it up. I'm sitting in the chair next to my bed, trying to stay calm.

She's watching me watch her in the mirror, and her eyes meet mine for a split second before she looks away, making me suspicious.

That look... I've seen that look before, more times than I can count.

But never from her.

It's a secret.

She looks like she's hiding something.

"Something you need to tell me?" I ask, putting a hand behind my head to prop it up.

Nodding, she comes to stand at the foot of the bed. "Yep."

I raise a brow. "What is it?"

"I'll tell you tonight if you meet me for dinner."

Suspicion and curiosity make me ask, "Where?"

"La Rosa," she responds casually, making me narrow my eyes. It's outside of the city a bit, a small place on the coast I've never had an interest in owning or visiting.

"I've never been there."

"New experiences are good for the soul," she quips, sliding on her sandals. "Just say you'll meet me."

There's a hint of nerves in her voice, so I say, "Of course, dolce mia."

She smiles, victorious. Then she's bounding over, taking my face between her palms, and pressing her mouth to mine.

Before I can ask what she's up to, she's out the door, calling over her shoulder, "Seven o'clock! I'll meet you there."

I get up and slide my jacket on, slipping my hand in the pocket and toying with the piece of metal I've been carrying around for a month.

Sighing, I take it out and throw it on the counter, knowing that if this life has taught me one thing, it's that it won't make a difference.

When seven o'clock rolls around, I'm seated at a table, frowning at my surroundings.

I've definitely never been here.

No man has, I'm willing to bet. At least not on his own volition.

There are flowers everywhere. Spilling out of vases, growing on the vines surrounding the open windows, lining the doors that are open to the patio out back.

Besides that, I guess the place isn't too bad, actually. The lights are soft, the weather's nice, and by the smells coming from tables around me, the food will be good.

Elain's running a few minutes late, but she called and told me to go ahead and order.

Apparently, she's come here before, because she told me what to order her. Odd.

A few minutes after I relay the information to the waitress, I spot her coming in the front door and wave her over.

She's a little flushed, her eyes are bright, and the smile on her face gives no doubt she's excited.

I stand up when she reaches me, kiss her, then ask, "What's going on?"

"Nothing," she says too quickly. "Did you order?"

"Yeah. Have you been here before or something?"

She nods, diverting her eyes down and to the right in the classic tell of a lie.

I sigh, frustration getting the better of me. "Elain, what are you hiding from me?"

Before she can answer, the food comes. Two plates of pasta are set in front of us, and I know instantly I was right about the food being good.

But no matter how good it looks, there's only one thing on my mind.

"Elain."

She waves a hand. "Just eat, Azriel. I promise I'll tell you in like five minutes."

"Why not just tell me now?"

"It's more dramatic this way," she explains, making me sigh again.

Women.

She's going to give me a fucking heart attack with her drama.

A little aggressively, I stab the fork in the pasta, taking a huge bite.

I feel her eyes on me, watching me eat, but I act like I don't notice, mentally counting down the seconds until five minutes is up.

I'm at 263 when she asks, "Do you like it?"

"What?"

Rolling her eyes, she gestures to the plate in front of me. "Do you like it?"

"It's good," I reply honestly, a little surprised. I've lived here long enough to know the best places to eat, and I've never heard more than a decent review about this place.

"I'm glad," she says, full lips tilting up. "Since I made it."

I don't get it. Did she bring it with her? Is that why she was late?

Also, why did we come to a restaurant if she was going to cook?

"What? Why?"

She tilts her head, smile growing.

Right as my still-counting subconscious gets to five minutes, she explains, "Because I work here."

~Elain~

He stares at me, bite of pasta halfway between his mouth and the plate.

I've been almost bursting at the seems the past four days trying to keep the secret.

I mean, given what the man does for a living, I didn't think I'd make it more than an hour. And while he's definitely been suspicious, I made it.

"What?" he finally asks, dark brows furrowing as he leans in.

"I have a lot to say," I tell him. "So don't interrupt me."

His eyes narrow like they always do when I tell him what to do, but I ignore it and start listing off the different secrets I've been keeping.

I start with the most important.

"First, I love you."

The fork clangs against the plate as he drops it.

I smile, biting my lip and trying not to cry at the look on his face.

"I think I have since that first night when we danced in the bar. Or maybe when you took me to the beach. I don't know." Taking a deep breath, I say, "I tried to stop, when I found out... everything. But it was useless, because I was as in love with you then as I am now."

He shakes his head, almost like he's panicked, but I keep going.

"I love you, Azriel. I want to be with you more than I've ever wanted anything. And I can't bear the thought of leaving you. I don't want to."

Gesturing around us, I say, "I got a job here, and my landlord said she can draw up a lease. And before you say anything, I'm not giving anything up. The past months have felt like paradise, and I love it here. I liked my job in New York, but it wasn't anything I'll miss."

His eyes are so wide, it'd be a little funny if I wasn't so serious.

I take a sip of wine and try to puta brave face on. A lump forms in my throat, but I manage to say, "But we never talked about anything long term, so if this isn't what you want... I'll go. I promise. I just wanted you to know that you're... it for me. You're everything to me. I choose you."

He shudders, closing his eyes, and I take in how tight his jaw is, how close he seems to coming unraveled.

Is he freaking out? I definitely am.

After a few moments, I realize he's still waiting on me, so I laugh and say, "You can talk now."

He doesn't.

He just opens his eyes and stares at me, the shock in his gaze clear to read.

Nerves blossom. I was so sure he'd be happy, but maybe he isn't ready. Voice turning shaky, I ask, "Is this what you want?"

Slowly, he shakes his head, but before I can panic, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key, holding it out between us. "I want you to live with me, not at the townhouse."

All the nerves fly out the door, and I laugh, not quite able to believe it.

How long has he been carrying this around?

The tears finally spilling over as I take the key from him. "Okay."

He brushes my cheeks off with his thumb, looking at me like he's never seen anything more beautiful.

Azriel's quiet for a moment, and I give him time, knowing that whatever he wants to say is hard for him.

"Ti amo. Mi spaventa così tanto."

I love you. So much is scares me.

"You? Scared? I don't believe it."

I'm trying to joke and lighten the mood, but he's completely serious as he shakes his head, cupping my jaw with his hand. "You scare the shit out of me, Elain."

My heart clenches, and I fight a fresh wave of tears as I lean into his touch. "You scare me, too."

"But you're not leaving."

It's said like a hopeful promise, like something he needs to hear again and again to accept it's true.

I shake my head. "I'm not leaving," I whisper.

He finally smiles, that big smile I'm positive he only gives me, and leans over the table to kiss me softly. "Say it again."

"I love you."

He kisses me again, and I slide my hands in his hair and kiss him back, feeling like everything before now has led up to this. He's the grand finale, the one I didn't know I was waiting for.

I pull back a little, just far enough to see his reaction as I whisper, "Meet me in the bathroom."

His eyes flare and his mouth drops open, and I laugh as I get up from my seat and try to walk nonchalantly towards the back.

This hadn't been part of the plan, but I've told him I love him, and now... I want to prove it.

Plus, I don't know what it is about him, but he feeds the adventurous side of me like nothing else.

I can feel him watching me from the table as I make my way across the restaurant.

Thankfully, the place is busy tonight, so I don't think anyone notices when, as soon as I shut the bathroom door, he rises to follow me.

A moment later, he slips in with me, taking in the dim lights, closed stall, low music. He flips the lock, and it's like it snaps the thread between us, descending us into chaos.

He's on me in a second, arms wrapping around me and lifting me. My legs bracket his hips as he pushes me up against the wall and traps my hands above my head.

"Say it again," he demands breathlessly, eyes bright and full of heat.

I nip his lower lip, then kiss it softly. "I love you, Azriel."

His mouth crashes into mine, unrestrained and demanding and deep enough I lose myself in him.

My hands are in his hair, his are pushing up the hem of my dress.

There's a brief moment of adjusting, and then he's easing into me. His eyes are on me, his lips are parted, and as I tighten around him, he makes a deep rumbling sound. It's the hottest thing I've ever seen.

"You're mine," I tell him, tilting my hips to take him deeper. "And I'm yours."

He shudders, eyes going black. "You're mine."

His hips claim mine, then, pulling out and thrusting back in, moving me up the wall. I tighten my fingers in his hair as he hits a spot deep inside me, and he groans.

Moving his hands to my hips, he brings me down as he thrusts up, and I moan, then slap a hand over my mouth.

I work here, for God's sake.

"This is not very professional," I mutter, smiling when his lips twitch.

"No," he agrees, thrusting into me harder. "And it's definitely inappropriate."

I clamp my lips together, pressing my hand to my mouth again to stifle the involuntary whimper I let out.

Azriel grins, tugging on my earlobe with his teeth and whispering, "You might need to go to confessional again."

Rolling my eyes, I move my hands to his shoulders, then lean in to lick up the column of his neck. "Between the two of us, I'd say you're more likely to end up on your knees tonight."

He laughs, tugging my head back to kiss me again. His tongue meets mine in a wet, deep slide that makes me shiver. His hips brush mine. His hands hold me just right, keeping me against him.

Pulling back, he brushes his lips over mine and whispers, "I love you."

The easy, conversational pace is abandoned, and we're moving harder against each other, the only sounds our labored breathing and muffled moans.

He brings a hand to cover my mouth, and I cover his with mine, and we're in tandem, both of us lost in the other.

He comes when I do, driving deeply into me and stilling, his head buried in my neck.

We spend a while like that, and when I eventually slide down the wall, we take our time adjusting our clothes. He keeps stopping me to kiss my shoulder or brow, and I waste too much time just looking at him.

When we're both ready, he extends a hand and grins. "Let's go home."

I smile, unable to help it. "Let's go home."

_____________________________________________

Thank you for reading! This is the last part, although I might do an epilogue one day (don't hold your breath lol).

Send me asks if you have em :)

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A/N: Since this chapter is quite long, mobile viewing is probably not the best option because Tumblr can sometimes be finicky! I would recommend viewing in a browser. Happy reading, loves! x

***

The Climax

January 2013

Marcus and Nora break up during the spring of her second year.

He wanted things to move much faster than they were, and Nora was far too comfortable with their normal—the normal in which Marcus lived a floor above her and they could wrap around each other in his tiny twin bed without worrying about things outside of their protective bubble. Because this normal was easy, it was simple, it was safe—and doing anything different, switching up their normal, would make it the complete opposite.

So when he tells her that he found a small studio apartment in the West Village one April afternoon underneath a budding black tupelo tree in Central Park, and he would love more than anything for Nora to move in, she immediately declines. She wasn’t ready for that step—wasn’t ready to not live with Ebony and switch up her normal and pop their bubble.

Breaking up wasn’t in Nora’s plan, but she knew that it was bound to happen. It was an amicable split, something that didn’t shake her world or leave her feeling lost at sea without an anchor in the unforgiving rough waters. And two months later, when she’s spending her final summer at home with her mother, Nora wonders if there’s something wrong with her heart when it still feels intact and the still-beating flesh isn’t ripping apart at the seams.

But life moves on, and so does Nora.

When she arrives back on campus at the start of her third year, Nora finds that she has room in her schedule for extracurriculars due to her influx of AP credits from Townbridge. On a whim, she decides to fill in the gaps with Film Study classes, and Nora finds that her heart is thumping in a way that it never has before—in a way that makes her feel that she’s finally found purpose, finally found her passion, finally found something close to unadulterated happiness.

Her favorite film professor is an older woman named Suzanne Davies who insists she be called Sue, or more radically, Suzy. She’s built of thin bones and worn skin, mahogany eyes that have seen almost everything that Nora wishes she could, with grey curly hair that twists at the nape of her neck and covers a brain that Nora wishes she could pry apart and indulge in every memory like a film projector reel on a thin hanging sheet.

She teaches Film Theory & Criticism, and when Nora listens to her thick British accent work through Apparatus theory and Structuralist theory, she can’t help but think of London—a city that feels an entire world away, and how badly she wishes she could visit, if only for a short amount of time.

One dreary November afternoon when Nora is the last one to leave the lecture hall, Suzy stops her and asks her what she wants to do with her life. Nora is instantly brought back to a time in December three years ago, in a different state with a boy she thinks about every now and then, who asked her this very same question as the snow was falling outside and they were laying down on concrete steps, eyes facing the cracked ceiling above. She was honest then, not even hesitating when spilling the words freely from her lips, because for some odd reason, she trusted him entirely in that small moment in time.

She feels the same now, and suddenly, she’s telling her professor about the pressure she feels of choosing a stable career, of how she needs her mother to be proud of her, of how she studies Communications but craves Film, of how she’s never been happier than when she’s watching old movies and dreaming up plots of her own. She tells Suzy how she’s never left the country, of how she wishes to see places that aren’t coastal Newport or rural Connecticut or bustling New York City.

When Nora sits in her usual seat in the middle row for her next class a week later, she finds an application for Columbia’s exchange program with University College London on her desk. She skims through the pages, finding that Suzy has filled in most of the basic information, leaving the personal questions for Nora to finish. And when she looks up at her professor just as she’s beginning the lecture, Suzy feels her gaze warm her wrinkled cheek and shoots her wink, going right back to discussing human nature as a fundamental theme in A Clockwork Orange.

Nora sends in her application right after class, and receives her acceptance letter the week before Christmas break. She feels as if she’s floating through thin air, and the only thing keeping her from floating into the stratosphere is the glossy folder from UCL with the words Congratulations! and welcome and 4 January 2013 printed on thick paper. Her mother might possibly be more thrilled than Nora, and when she’s back in Newport folding thick sweaters and knitted scarves and thrifted trench coats into her suitcases on New Year’s Eve, Nora can’t help but think that if moments could be bottled, she would pick this one to cherish forever.

Time seems to pass much faster for Harry. His first year meshes into his second year without hesitation, his afternoon’s at his internship with his father fall into nights spent with his mates almost thoughtlessly—and it’s only once he’s been doing the same thing for almost an entire year when he feels himself growing tired of it all. He’s sick of this routine. Sick of drinking himself into a place where he doesn’t have any feelings, doesn’t think of all of his past mistakes, doesn’t do anything else except simply exist for a few hours. And when he falls into his bed the next morning feeling his brain throb against his skill in agony, he comes to the conclusion that he’s completely and utterly exhausted from this meaningless lifestyle.

When his third and final year comes along, he decides to stop answering his mates when they call. He doesn’t show up to their penthouse parties anymore, he doesn’t frequent the same claustrophobic clubs he knows they’ll be at. Harry keeps to himself, and when he sees a flyer after his Business Ethics lecture about intramural football tryouts, he brings his old kit to the pitch the next afternoon. He’s a bit rusty, but Harry finds that most of the lads are, and that thought alone makes him start to feel something other than emptiness.

He makes the team and meets a boy named Niall. He’s from Ireland and drinks like a fish, but he’s kind and easygoing and doesn’t care that Harry’s surname is Styles—and it’s a refreshing change from the incessant partying and shallow people he wasted away with his first two years. Niall is warm and comfortable, and reminds Harry of slipping on that warm jumper he’s had for years in the back of his closet whenever the weather gets cold, and it’s nice having a real friend for once in his life.

As October changes into November, Harry feels a change within himself, too. It’s subtle, the smallest of shifts that allows his icy heart to thaw ever so slowly, and he finds that he welcomes it with open arms.

He meets Niall’s girlfriend just as the long stretch of autumn begins. Her name is Piper and she’s practically made for Niall, in the way that the top of her head reaches just under Niall’s chin so that he can rest it there whenever they’re talking to other people, in the way that his hand practically swallows her much smaller one whenever they’re walking from pub to pub, in the way that she instinctively makes him a cup of tea whenever she brews her own, knowing exactly how he takes it. It makes Harry a little bit jealous, because for the first time in years, he finds that he yearns to wrap a body part around another warm person just to inform them that he hasn’t forgotten their presence, yearns to swallow palms with his own, yearns to have another person think of him while doing the most mundane of tasks.

Yearns to have somebody want him in a way he hasn’t ever been wanted before.

Piper is in her third year at UCL, and she met Niall at a house party during their first year hosted by a mutual friend. They fell in love quickly and seamlessly, and after three weeks Niall told her that she was the one for him, and it all sort of made sense.

She welcomes Harry into their eclectic group, filled with a few lads from footie and a few girls from Piper’s dorm, and they’re the fastest friends Harry’s ever made. They spend their fall semester at a small pub in Camden on Wednesdays that plays live music and is filled with seemingly normal people like Harry’s new mates, and busy house parties hosted by UCL students on the weekends, with the occasional club sprinkled in between.

As autumn trickles into winter, Harry finds that he’s quite sad to watch Niall leave for Ireland for the holiday break. He’s not sure how time passed so quickly, and as December fades into January, Harry’s counting down the days until his loud brown-haired mate is back in London, showing up on his doorstep to drag him to the pub around the corner for a pint.

When Nora exits Heathrow during one of the coldest days of the year, she finds that not even the weather can dull her perpetual shine. She barely slept the entire flight, her excitement of being on a plane for the first time and receiving her first official passport stamp keeping her wide awake throughout the entire seven hour journey.

During the car ride from Heathrow to her residence hall in Central London, Nora’s face is glued to the window pane, her eyes taking in every sight that flashes by. Her mouth is close enough to the glass that her humid breaths are causing the window to fog over, but she can’t even think about how rude that probably is. All she can think about is the fact that she’s in another country, in a brand new city, experiencing all of this for the very first time.

When the black car finally pulls up to a brick building, Nora clutches her two suitcases in each hand, her leather backpack strapped tightly against the wool material of her trench coat, and makes her way to the sixth floor.

Nora’s room is small but homely, a single twin bed against one wall with a wooden wardrobe on the other. A white desk sits underneath the decently-sized window straight against the back wall, and when she looks around and takes everything in, she feels herself breathe properly for the first time since stepping on English soil.

Her floor is quiet, but before Nora can begin to explore, she decides to be smart and starts unpacking, knowing that the longer she puts it off, the less inclined she’ll be to put her clothes away properly.

After about an hour, she decides to venture down the hallway into the common room where a small kitchen and lounge area reside. Nora notices a few coats thrown over the back of the couch haphazardly, and before she can build up the courage to turn down the other adjacent hallway and meet her new floormates, she decides to brew a cup of coffee to push past the jet lag attempting to invade her insides.

When she turns the kettle on and rummages through the cupboards to try and find some instant coffee, Nora discovers nothing but various tea flavors. Disgruntled, Nora plucks a package of Earl Grey and places it inside a mug she grabbed from the shelf, moving the plaid tea towel a little bit further down the countertop as she waits for the hot water to boil.

Nora leans her right hip on the counter while she waits, drumming her fingertips against the laminate material as she tries to remember if she even likes the taste of tea to begin with. She drank chamomile tea once after studying for finals so that she could sleep, and whenever she was sick with a cold, her mother would make her a cup with a dollop of honey to soothe her scratchy throat. She wonders if she’s allowed to put milk inside so the color isn’t a deep murky brown, or if sugar would help with the bitter taste.

Suddenly, Nora detects something that smells distinctly of burning. She springs upright, wondering what on earth she could have possibly done. Water can’t burn, right?

But before her fuzzy brain can start functioning properly, she looks down to her right and notices that the edges of the plaid tea towel have charred, and when she blinks, Nora realizes that the red light on the hot plate has been turned on.

“Shit!” Nora squeals, flicking the switch off that she must have accidentally turned on when she lazily rested her hip against the edge of the counter moments ago.

Just as she makes a reach for the burning tea towel, she hears a high-pitched accented voice behind her shriek, and suddenly, freckled arms are appearing in her periphery, snatching up the ruined tea towel as she yells, “Oi! No tea towels on the hot plate!”

With a flick of her wrist, the girl throws the tea towel into the sink, turning the cold water on while Nora’s cheeks burn bright. “I’m sorry! I didn’t even realize—Christ,” she splutters, tearing her eyes away from the wet fabric inside the steel basin and focusing them on the smaller girl in front of her.

“Ah, you’re the new American exchange student.” The girl says it in a way that makes Nora wonder if it’s a good or bad thing, as if her identifier explains why she nearly burned their residence hall down a mere three hours after being allowed in the country.

Before Nora can apologize or worse, make an even bigger fool of herself, the pretty girl in front of her chuckles in a way that makes Nora breathe in a deep sigh of relief. And before she can even realize what she’s doing, Nora starts to laugh along with her—loud enough until her cheeks feel bruised from smiling so brightly and her ribs hurt from the lack of air pumping through her lungs. The kettle starts to whistle, forcing them to break their eye contact.

Just as Nora reaches over to turn it off, the girl’s freckled arm beats her to the punch, knocking her hip against Nora’s with a bright smile, “Let’s keep you away from any more potential fire hazards, yeah?”

The lightness in her tone makes Nora believe that she’s being genuine, and when the girl begins to pour the hot water into the mug and shoots a kind smile over her shoulder, Nora takes a step back and feels a bit more at ease.

“I’m Nora, by the way,” Nora announces, watching the pretty girl with auburn hair dunk the tea bag exactly seven times into the water.

“I’m Piper. How do you take your tea?” she asks, looking over her shoulder again. Nora gets a bit distracted by the smattering of freckles covering the bridge of her nose and falling onto the apples of her cheeks. Her eyes are the brightest shade of green Nora’s ever seen, and when the girl tilts her head to the side in question, Nora shakes her head, realizing that she has no idea how to properly drink tea.

“Uh, I’m not sure,” she admits sheepishly. Piper gives her a soft smile, before reaching into the refrigerator and grabbing a small carton of milk.

“You’ll take it like me, then. Reckon I’ll convert you into a proper tea drinker by the time your exchange is over, Rah,” Piper calls out, pouring a dash of milk and plopping one sugar cube inside the cup, stirring it another seven times. Nora wonders if that changes the taste or if it’s just a little quirk her new floormate does.

Nora’s eyebrows furrow at the unfamiliar name that falls from Piper’s pink lips. “Rah?”

Piper hands over the mug with twinkling eyes. “Gotta give you a nickname if we’re meant to be proper mates, right?”

It’s a question that seems to not need an answer, because Piper is the type of girl that says things with an air of unbridled assurance. Piper could tell you that the glowing star in the sky wasn’t the sun, instead, it was a dripping egg yolk that warmed everything underneath, and you would believe it. So when she calls Nora by her nickname, she doesn’t even bat an eye, because if being called Rah means she has a new friend in this unfamiliar place, then Nora will accept it without hesitation.

“Let’s get you all settled in then, yeah? I’ll have my boyfriend bring us some dinner. I think you’ll like him,” Piper says, grabbing Nora’s hand and dragging her into her bedroom at the other end of the hall.

A few hours later, when a brown-haired boy with matching blue eyes and a thick Irish accent shows up with two bags of Thai takeaway in one hand and a twelve-pack of Fosters beer in the other, Nora finds that Piper was right—she likes him quite a bit. They seem to get on like a house on fire, and when he cracks open a beer for her and tells her that he thinks she has a funny accent, Nora laughs and throws his comment right back in his face. The three of them end up eating too much food and drinking too much beer, but Nora doesn’t mind the bellyache when she falls into bed later that night, thinking all of it was worth it, because she made two new friends on her first night.

The next evening, Piper swings open Nora’s door without knocking, and begins rummaging through her wardrobe and pulling out her nicest pair of blue jeans, a cute sweater she got on the clearance rack at some New York City boutique, and one of her thrifted trench coats. She tells Nora to get ready because they’re going out tonight, and before she can decline, she hears Niall yell over from the common room, “Get yer arse dressed, Rah! It’s pub night!”

Barely thirty minutes later, Nora finds herself sandwiched between Niall and Piper in the cold January air, heels stomping against the pavement as they zigzag their way through the crowded streets of Camden Town.

Niall’s phone begins to ring, and before Nora’s head can snap in his direction, the sleek black device is already pressed against his ear as he begins speaking loudly into the night air. “Curly! How’re ya, mate? What? Yes, of course we’re goin’ to the pub. It’s Wednesday! Late? What d’ya mean, late? Oh. Yeah, sure, take yer time, Pipes and I have our hands full breakin’ in Rah over here. What’s that? Rah? Pipes and I adopted her. Yer gonna love her. Right, see ya later!”

He looks over at Nora as he slides his phone into his back pocket. The question is at the tip of her tongue, but when she takes in the mischievous twinkle in his eyes and finds that Piper’s are matching, she just shakes her head softly before muttering, “Do I even want to know?”

Niall flings his arm around her shoulder and Piper’s much smaller one wraps around Nora’s waist. “Best not to know anything,” Piper whispers into her ear, giggling as they make their way around the corner to the brick-faced pub at the end of the street.

When they finally pull Nora inside, it takes her a few moments to get adjusted to the unfamiliar setting. She’s only been twenty-one for two months now, and even though she knows the legal drinking age here is eighteen, she’s still only been inside a handful of bars in her short existence.

Bars in New York City are nothing like the place Nora currently finds herself in. She’s used to proper lighting, sleek bar tops, upholstered seating, and fancy liquor bottles lining the mirrored walls. Instead, she finds herself surrounded by chipped wood, sticky paneled flooring, and string lights fastened to original crown molding. The bar itself has more beer taps than she’s ever seen another place have before, and instead of ornate tequila bottles on thick glass panes, Nora finds numerous bottles of dark liquor haphazardly placed on oak shelving. It’s all wooden stools and high-top tables and stained rims on old surfaces, and when she notices an elevated platform along the farthest wall with musical instruments placed a bit too close together to make up for the lack of room the space provides, Nora finds that she likes this place a little bit more than the ones back home.

Instead of asking Nora what she’d like to drink, Niall just bends down and speaks into her ear, “You trust me, right?” And when she nods and finds that she surprisingly does trust this friendly stranger after only twenty-four hours, he grins and smacks a kiss to the crown of her head, prancing over to the bar with a giddy smile on his face.

Piper just shakes her head with a chuckle, grabbing Nora by the hand and dragging her over to a high-top closer to the empty stage. “Come meet the gang, Rah,” she says, squeezing her palm a little tighter when she notices the nervous look washing over Nora’s features.

With her palm in Piper’s, Nora is happily introduced to a group of five people clutching pint glasses with two plates of chips in the middle of the table. She recognizes two of the girls from her residence hall, and smiles when they compliment her boots and coat. The rest are names Nora tries her hardest to file into her memory, and when she slips into a stool with Piper sliding into the one on her right, she finds herself feeling much more comfortable.

Niall appears with a black tray covered in spilled beer and shorter glasses filled with a deep brown liquid Nora can only assume to be whiskey inside. She gulps, attempting to alleviate her dry throat, mentally preparing herself because she did tell him moments ago that she trusted him. And when she slides the liquor down her throat and feels it burn her insides, she chases the warmth with cold beer and hears Niall’s loud cheer across from her.

“Way to go, Rah! Yer a natural!” Nora feels Piper squeeze her shoulder affectionately, and before Niall can slide another shot glass in her direction, Nora watches his eyes lift over the top of her head to something behind her. His blue eyes suddenly widen and his teeth rip through his skin, grinning widely as he calls out, “Curly! Just in time, mate!”

Nora hears a deep chuckle behind her, and for some strange reason, it sounds all too familiar.

She’s instantly brought back to a time three years ago in the dead of winter, the rolling green Connecticut hills covered in thick white blankets of snow, in which a boy and a girl spent ten days together without any interruptions. She heard that chuckle enough times in those ten days to permanently have it imprinted in her memory, and suddenly, Nora feels her stomach clench uncomfortably, because how, after all of this time, can Nora still remember that sound?

But then she hears it. His voice—much deeper now, but still gravelly and throaty, forming words slowly with his accent tilting at the end of specific phrases. It’s much thicker now, no doubt from his time spent in his home country, and all at once, Nora feels her face pucker with discomfort. She wonders if anybody else can notice the inner-turmoil wreaking havoc underneath her skin, but then he speaks again, and it’s close enough to cause her to momentarily forget how to breathe.

“What do we have here, then?” Nora can’t bring herself to move. She feels as if her bum is glued to the wooden seat, the soles of her boots are transfixed to the legs of the stool, and her upper body has lost all proper motor function. Nora is almost certain that she’s panicking, but then she’s brought back into focus when Niall’s cheerful voice echoes off the walls of the crowded pub surrounding her.

“This is our Rah! Came all the way from America on exchange, so don’t go and scare her off,” Niall calls out, his grin faltering a little when he notices the alarmed look covering Nora’s face.

“Came all this way and the first person she meets is you? Well, let me formally apologize for that disappointment—” Nora gulps one last time and swivels around in the old stool, finally revealing herself, causing his words to fall flat.

When their eyes finally meet, Nora’s relieved she isn’t holding the pint glass in her hand, because if she were, she’s certain that it would fall to the floor below her, breaking with a resounding crack when she finally faces Harry Styles for the first time in three years.

It feels like everything is happening in slow motion. Sea green eyes widen in shock, and Nora watches as his neck pushes his face outward, as if his body was forcing him to take in every inch of her face to re-familiarize himself with it. He’s a bit taller now, still wearing an expensive dark-colored trench coat, still choosing an inappropriately thin t-shirt underneath. He seems to have grown up in every sense of the word—with the way his chest is a bit fuller and his arms are a bit thicker and his stomach is a bit tighter. His jawline seems to be more pronounced, the bone practically slicing through his skin with the way the lines effortlessly sculpt his face that is still annoyingly perfect. She notices that his hair is pushed back into a low bun, the curls escaping the thin hair tie just kissing the nape of his neck. She can’t help but wonder what the tendrils would look like if she pulled the knotted elastic from his hair, allowing them to fall freely down his back.

“Nora Priestley?” Harry barely calls out. He feels as if he’s hallucinating.

Because the last time he saw Nora Priestley in the flesh, she was all blonde hair and skinny limbs and knobby knees. There’s no denying that this is still her, considering her blue eyes are practically tattooed underneath his eyelids whenever he tries to fall asleep at night, and nobody else can steal that shade. She’s practically a fully-blossomed woman sitting in front of him—all slender legs and tiny waist, long torso that has rigidified over time, undulating hips that truly show a level of maturity that didn’t exist three years ago back in Connecticut. Her face is still angular, her nose is still buttoned, her lips are still pouty, her cheekbones are still high on her face and tinted pink. But when he looks at her hair, he notices that the blonde is gone. In its place is a deep shade of brown, nearly black, flowing over her shoulders and down her back languidly. Her fringe is still there, all messy strands framing a face that she’s finally grown into, and Harry finds a calming sense of familiarity in that.

She’s beautiful—she’s always been this effortlessly cool type of beautiful, and Harry can’t actually believe that she’s sitting in front of him. Can’t actually believe that her lips are moving on her face, forming his two-syllable name. Can’t actually believe that he’s been staring at her hearing white noise flood through his ear canals, blocking whatever else is falling from her mouth.

“Your hair. It’s different,” are the words Harry chooses to say once he realizes her mouth is closed, mentally berating himself for being so wrapped up in this New Nora that he seemingly forgot how to hold a normal conversation.

She seems to be on the same page, with the way she slowly tears her eyes from his own, staring blankly at the wall over his shoulder when an odd sense of déjà vu clouds her vision, before nodding absently.

“Yeah,” she finally voices, bringing her forlorn gaze back to his. “I could say the same for you.”

He smiles a bit, wondering how to maneuver through these unfamiliar waters with her. But before he can even properly locate his mooring, Niall interrupts, causing Nora to swivel back in his direction so that her back is once again facing Harry.

“I’m confused—have you two met?” Niall asks, observing the two with wide eyes, a crinkle in his forehead as he tries to dissect the interaction unfolding across the table.

“Uh, yeah. We went to boarding school together,” Nora explains, filling in the gaps. She sees the pint glass in her periphery and grabs it tightly, bringing it to her lips and gulping three heavy swallows of the bitter liquid to slow down her erratic heartbeat.

“Wait—here? I thought you said you’ve never been on a plane before, Nora!” Piper calls out from Nora’s right side, her auburn hair flicking back and forth when she notices the tension radiating off of their bodies.

“No, in America,” Harry answers for Nora when he realizes her mouth is preoccupied with downing her entire pint in one go. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are darting in every direction that isn’t the blue of Niall’s eyes or the bright green of Piper’s, and Harry can conclude that Nora is uncomfortable.

“Well, that’s a plot twist I didn’t see comin’,” Niall says through a chuckle, moving his eyes away from Nora’s as he takes a long swig of his drink, shaking his head at the uncanniness of it all.

The whole group seems to be a bit shocked by this revelation, and before Nora can suffocate under the unnatural silence surrounding the table, Piper asks the rest of the group a question about the new band performing tonight, and just like that, all is forgotten.

Nora can feel the body behind her disappear, and when she sees black wool material flutter past her eyesight, she breathes in a sigh of relief when she notices the only chair available is the one diagonal from her, almost conveniently out of her line of vision.

She looks up when she sees a fresh pint glass being pushed in her direction, and when her eyes lock with Niall’s and she realizes that he’s given her the second beer he originally saved for himself, she smiles appreciatively before bringing the cool glass to her lips, swallowing deeply with her eyes shut tight.

If Nora’s meant to endure this entire evening, she’s going to need all of the liquid courage she can muster. Because the universe must be playing some sort of sick-twisted game with her, giving her the opportunity to travel to a new city while simultaneously thrusting the boy who almost broke her heart right in the epicenter of it all. She wonders if this is her karma for ending things with Marcus, for not agreeing to move in with him and take the next steps in their relationship.

Nora sighs, wanting so badly to laugh at her situation, but knows deep down that she can’t. Because London is supposed to be a big city—filled with nine million people and her chances of potentially running into Harry were meant to be astronomically low. The numbers should have been on her side—considering Oxford University is sixty miles away from UCL, and Oxfordshire is an hour and a half away from Central London, and out of the three hundred pubs in all of Camden, the probability of running into him at this very one in this exact moment in time is far too outstanding to even be considered a possibility.

But it is, and it’s happening all around her, and suddenly—Nora needs to leave.

She can’t be sat so close to him after all this time and act like everything’s okay. Because it’s not okay and she’s not okay and this whole fucking scenario will never be okay, and in order to be okay, Nora needs to locate the closest escape route and disappear.

Her head is swivelling and she’s not listening to any of the conversations happening around her, and as if the gods were pitying her, sensing her panic attack all the way from the heavens above, they send her a sign in the form of Niall grabbing Harry and bringing him over to the bar with the guys for another round.

Once they’ve left, Nora abandons her half-emptied glass and grabs her coat, flinging it on her body without even buttoning it properly. Piper looks over, realizing that Nora’s face is flushed and her eyes are a bit widened, and before she can get too far, she asks, “Rah, you alright?”

Shit, Nora thinks, I forgot about Piper.

“Uh, yeah. Just need a smoke,” Nora lies, teeth forming a barely-there smile to try and prove to her new friend that she’ll be okay and doesn’t need to be followed.

Piper warily falls for it, and when Nora watches her freckled face turn back towards the girls at the table, Nora sighs in relief and hurries over to the front door, flying out into the cold January air as she tries to navigate her shaking feet back towards the Underground.

She doesn’t make it very far, barely rounds the corner of the street before she hears her name being roughly called from raspberry lips she’s too terrified to face. But his legs are longer than hers and his strides are more purposeful, because just as Nora’s identified the Underground entranceway, Harry’s large palm wraps around her tensed bicep and suddenly, she’s spinning on the heels of her boots, officially caught trying to run away in the middle of a busy sidewalk surrounded by throngs of people.

Nora immediately flinches, shaking his hand off her body before she becomes familiar with the warmth that encapsulates the fabric adorning her skin. Harry gets the hint and dejectedly brings his hand back down to his side, shuffling in his brown suede shoes as he tries to form the correct words to say to her.

“You don’t have to leave,” he starts, trying his hardest to identify the wary look in her eyes. Because he’s never seen her look like this—so completely and utterly defeated, and Harry almost wishes she would lash out instead of continue to look at him the way she is doing right now.

“I do,” Nora says, moving her eyes down to the cracked pavement. She can’t bring herself to look at his face anymore.

“Piper said you were having a smoke. I didn’t think you did that.” Harry’s words cause her head to lift abruptly, and she’s not sure if it’s because his voice sounds so broken and dejected, or if it’s because he’s insinuating that he still knows things about her.

“You don’t know me anymore, Harry,” Nora spits out, leveling her blues with his greens in a standoff that she doesn’t feel ready for.

Harry frowns, rubbing his palm against the back of his neck, choosing to back down. “I know.”

It’s sad. The whole situation is terribly sad, because suddenly, Pandora’s box has been ripped open—the lid practically flung across the pavement as feelings that have been buried underneath the surface for so long are unforgivingly being unearthed right in front of their eyes.

Nora turns away, knowing there’s really nothing left to be said between the two of them. Not until she’s properly processed it all. Not until she’s dealt with her emotions the right way instead of screaming in his face and never looking back.

“Nora,” Harry tries, his voice pleading with hers. He waits until she turns around before saying, “My birthday is in a few weeks. The first. Niall’s throwing me a party and all that, and uh—” he takes a massive gulp, his entire body riddled with nerves, “I’d really like for you to come.”

“I’ll think about it,” Nora says after a moment’s pause, offering him a shaky smile in hopes that it’ll be enough for him to allow her to enter the Underground without another interruption.

“And Nora?” her eyes find his one last time before he says, “It’s really great to see you.”

The next Wednesday pub night, Nora decides to stay home. It’s not that she doesn’t want to hang out with everyone, because she does—she just knows that Harry will definitely be in attendance, and she still isn’t really sure how to feel about everything. The last thing Nora wants to do is make things awkward with this new group of friends she just met, so staying in was the easiest option.

On the Wednesday after that, Harry decides to skip out. He doesn’t want Nora to feel like she has to avoid her new friends because their relationship (or lack thereof) is stuck in limbo. Traveling to a new country, especially for the first time, is never fun to do alone—and Harry would hate himself if he made her feel that isolating herself is the best option. So he stays home, and tries not to text Niall and ask him if Nora decided to show up (even though he stalks his mates’ social media and finds that she did, in fact, go).

Niall and Piper try not to ask the invasive questions that are dancing on the tip of their tongues, because it’s so blatantly obvious that Nora and Harry were never “just” mates from school. Nora never explicitly tells her new friends about what happened, but Piper can figure it out, because she’s a girl, and girl’s know what Nora’s eyes mean when they twinkle and break at the mention of Harry’s name. Harry, on the other hand, drunkenly spilled anecdotes to Niall in the past about a girl who deserved so much better than what he could offer her, and with one look at the bruised skin underneath Harry’s vacant eyes in the days that follow their reunion, Niall understands then that the girl in question is none other than his special Rah.

The first of February comes along with a dip in temperature, and before Nora can mull over Harry’s birthday party invitation any longer, she decides to throw caution to the wind and go. She shops for a pretty dress with Piper, and when she finds a discounted Topshop number that pairs excellently with the only pair of heels she stuffed into her suitcase, she purchases it without a second thought.

The girls get ready together and Nora lets Piper curl her hair, and when the rest of their friends make cocktails in their tiny shared kitchenette, Nora feels her worries wash away with each sip of fruity liquor that slides down her throat.

When they arrive at the club Niall organizes all their mates to meet at, Nora barely has time to try and locate the birthday boy. Because suddenly, she’s meeting a handful of new people and being dragged to the dancefloor against her will, and after her second (or third?) Sex on the Beach, she’s in that perfect state of drunkenness in which she feels light and airy and nothing but happiness radiates off her sticky skin.

Harry, oppositely, is in that state of drunkenness in which his words are slurring together and his eyes are glossy. He feels airy, practically lightheaded at this point, and his teeth stretch the skin around his mouth wide as he laughs along to whatever his friends are saying.

He’s barely had time to make the rounds, because people kept approaching him left and right with birthday praises and a shot glass filled with pungent liquor for him to shoot back. Niall finally rejoins him at the U-shaped leather booth in their corner of the club, and when Harry asks him something that sounds like Piper, Niall points in the direction of his girlfriend twirling around the dancefloor with a group of her friends.

When he refocuses his blurry vision on the group, Harry instantly notices brown hair floating through the air. The curls seem to have fallen a bit as the night dragged on, and when the girl turns around to mouth the lyrics of the upbeat song to Piper, Harry grins when he recognizes the pouty lips that are painted a refreshing shade of sherbert. Her cheeks are tinged and Harry wonders if it’s from exertion or alcohol, and when she spins back around to shake her hips to the beat of the overplayed pop song, he can’t tear his eyes away. It’s only once her hands scoop the hair at the back of her neck, pushing it upwards to let the prickling skin underneath breathe for a bit, when Harry notices the new etchings of ink on her body.

Three equally-sized birds are tattooed on the back of her right shoulder, swirling on her ivory skin whenever her arms move above her head as she dances. Harry can’t seem to look away—suddenly wondering if there’s anything else about her that has changed in three years. He finds that he wants to know everything about her within the time period when they weren’t in each other’s lives, and it’s that startling realization that causes him to ignore the advances of the yellow-haired girl sitting across the table from him.

“Y’alright, Curly?” Niall asks after Harry waves the girl away, and he nods distractedly, bringing his whiskey and ginger to his mouth to gulp back heavily. Niall shakes his head and tells him that he’s going to go dance with Piper, and Harry just watches idly as his friend saunters away.

For some reason, Harry doesn’t get up. Instead, he pulls more sips from the liquor at his table, watching in curiosity as Nora mingles with his mates and dances with Niall and Piper. He thinks it’s fascinating, thinks that in a parallel universe he and Nora would be doing this every night, and instead of random girls vying for his attention, Nora would undoubtedly have all of it.

With that thought running through his head, he sloppily gets up from his seat, drunkenly hobbling over to his group of friends on the dancefloor near the bar. When he approaches them, he flings an unsteady arm around Niall’s neck for extra support, grinning widely when everyone calls him the birthday boy and pinches his cheeks in drunken adoration.

“Mm, think ‘ve had enough, mate,” Harry slurs in Niall’s direction, resting a good portion of his weight on his shorter friend who has to tighten his grip around Harry’s waist.

“I’ll call a car, have ‘em bring you home. Need me t’come with?” Niall asks, and when Harry looks at each of his mates in their small circle, he shakes his head cheekily and smiles in Nora’s direction.

“No, I want Nora to.” It’s innocent in the way that he just wants to spend time with her, because he hasn’t even had the chance to speak to her tonight, and all he can think about is how much time has passed between them and that he misses her in a way he didn’t think was possible.

Nora watches Harry whine in Niall’s ear, and even though the music is too loud for her to make out everything he’s saying, she somehow manages to hear the words want and Nora and please. Niall looks over in her direction, and when he asks her if she’ll take him home, she considers accepting for some odd reason. Because he’s drunk and needy, and she’s never seen a needy Harry Styles before, and as if the time frame has blurred right in front of her, Nora finds herself in the backseat of a fancy town car driving off into a quieter part of the city.

They sit on opposite ends of the car with the middle seat unused between them, and after a few minutes of silence, Harry decides to break it by saying, “‘M really happy you came tonight.”

Nora’s not nearly as drunk as he is, and she finds it quite adorable the way his deep voice cracks over the slurred syllables, and his lips are bright red from his teeth gnawing into them, and his cheeks are almost a deeper shade from the alcohol surging through his veins.

“It’s your birthday. It would have been mean of me not to,” Nora says softly, watching as Harry tears his eyes away from the blurred streets and onto her face.

He grins. “I don’t think y’know how t’be mean, Nora. Not sure there’s a mean bone in your body.”

Nora just smiles back gently, unsure of how exactly to respond. Thankfully, the car pulls to a stop on a quiet street just in front of a white stucco townhouse. There’s a small iron-clad gate on the sidewalk that comes about waist-high, and when Harry unlocks it and begins his wobbly trek to the navy blue front door, Nora can’t help but look around his neighborhood in slight awe.

The jostling of keys breaks her out of her reverie, and when she finds Harry struggling to place the correct key into the lock, she calmly pushes him out of the way and flicks her wrist to unlock the door, pushing it open and allowing him to step in first.

She barely gets a chance to take in the interior of his home before he’s grabbing the keys from her hand and dropping them loudly in the bowl on the hallway table, unsteadily stepping out of his shoes and leaving them haphazardly on the floor, reaching for her hand and dragging her up the stairs to the loft bedroom above.

Before Nora can even comprehend what Harry’s doing, he’s suddenly flinging his clothes across different surfaces of his room—starting with his trench coat over his desk chair, his belt on the shoe rack in his closet, his wallet on the bureau nearest to the door. It’s only once he starts fumbling out of his jeans when Nora turns around with a squeak, feeling a bit awkward watching him drunkenly scramble out of his clothes.

“What’re you doin’?” He slurs, the sound of his feet struggling to get out of the tight material ceasing abruptly.

“Giving you privacy,” Nora explains, finding herself counting the knobs on his dresser instead of hyperfocusing on the fact that Harry is undressing behind her.

She can hear him chuckle a bit, and then the sound of a body flopping onto a mattress takes over. Harry grunts in frustration, and it’s only once he’s called Nora’s name when she peeks over her shoulder timidly, finding Harry lying flat on his bed with his shirt still on, his feet firmly planted on the hardwood floor as his jeans seem to be stuck around his knees.

“Can you help me?” He doesn’t seem to be making a pass at her, because his voice is whiny and his neck is strained, and he really seems to be struggling taking off his tight skinny jeans.

Nora laughs a bit before walking over, grabbing his jeans by his knees and forcing him to straighten his legs as she pulls. Harry watches, leaning up on his elbows as he wiggles the material off of his skin, gleaming proudly when they’re off and discarded into his hamper.

With her back to him, Harry reaches for a pair of joggers and shuffles them on, swapping his wrinkled dress shirt for an old band tee that he wore the night before. When she hears him trying to untuck his duvet from underneath the throw pillows on his bed, Nora turns around and places her palm on his back in the place just between his shoulder blades, causing him to freeze.

“Go brush your teeth. I’ll do this before you fall on your face,” Nora says through a giggle, and Harry does as he’s told, watching her through the reflection of his mirror with wide eyes as she delicately places the throw pillows on the bench under his window and pulls back the duvet and sheets pristinely.

After he spits out the mint toothpaste and waddles back into his room, Nora pats the spot on his bed that she’s left untucked for him, smiling softly as she says, “C’mon birthday boy.”

Harry grins sleepily, pushing himself on the mattress and burrowing into his pillows, chuckling when Nora pulls up the sheet and duvet until it’s tucked underneath his chin. She checks his nightstand to make sure that his phone is plugged in, and after confirming that everything seems to be put into place, she tries to wish Harry goodnight before he interrupts and asks, “Will you stay?”

Nora attempts to shake her head, telling him that it isn’t a good idea, causing Harry to try an alternative approach. The whiny, annoying kind, that usually works magnificently on the likes of Niall and Piper.

“Please, Nora! ‘S my birthday. ‘S all I want, and you didn’t get me a gift!”

Nora pauses, reading Harry’s face and finding the ghost of a smile hidden underneath his lips. She admires his tactic and decides to play along, stubbornly adding, “I didn’t know what you’d like! Not quite sure I can compete with all of the nice things your friends already got you.”

Harry scoffs indignantly. “I would’ve loved it anyway. ‘Cos it’s from you.”

“Harry—”

“—Please stay,” Harry interrupts, causing Nora to frown as she’s torn. “We can watch a film! Like we used to! I know y’love films, Nora. I even ‘ave a bunch in a drawer over ‘ere, look—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Nora rushes out, placing her hands gently over the duvet covering Harry’s chest, forcing him to lie back down on his bed. “No need to get up. It just took me ages to get you tucked in!”

“You’re right, ‘m sorry. ‘S over there.” Harry aimlessly points in the direction of his television stand at the far end of the wall. Nora nods, turning on her heel and beginning to walk in that direction, bending at her knees as she opens the drawer in question.

As she scans over the movie titles, she’s surprisingly impressed at his collection. They span across multiple genres, although Nora does note that he owns a decent amount of romantic comedies for a twenty-two year old boy. She almost chooses Ferris Bueller’s Day Off to reminisce, but those memories are jaded now, and she hasn’t seen the film since she sat thigh to thigh with Harry in his twin bed all those years ago, so instead, she plucks 10 Things I Hate About You and places it into the DVD player.

When the title screen loads, she checks on Harry over her shoulder and finds that he’s grinning from his position tucked snugly in his bed.

“Did y’know this was based on Taming of the Shrew?” he asks suddenly.

Nora pauses her act of getting up from the floor, shocked at the fact that Harry is willingly giving her film trivia that she used to provide. And when she stands up after a beat, looking down at him from the end of his bed, she smirks and asks teasingly, “Have you been studying film trivia?”

Harry just shrugs, a shy smile covering his face as his cheeks bloom pink.

She turns around then and hits play, and once the opening credits begin to roll on the screen, she rounds his king-sized bed and lays beside him on the other end, making sure to lay on top of the covers in her dress to keep a safe distance between them. Harry tries his hardest not to pout at the absence.

“Does this mean you’re staying?” Harry whispers just as the opening scene flashes onto the screen.

With her eyes trained on the screen, Nora just nods quietly, trying her hardest not to look over in his direction. And around halfway through the film, just after Patrick belts “Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You” to Kat on the staircase, Harry looks over to find Nora sound asleep on the other side of the mattress. Without waking her up, he grabs the blanket at the end of his bed and throws it over her body, watching as she welcomes the warmth as she snuggles into it.

It’s far too early when Harry wakes up. The sun has barely started to stretch its sunbeams outside of his window, and when he blinks through the dimness of his room, he finds that the first thing he sees is Nora Priestley. They’re both lying on their sides facing each other, a little bit closer than when they first dozed off. Harry can feel their bent knees brushing against the other’s underneath their respective blanket layers, and when Harry focuses on the hand that isn’t buried under his pillow, he realizes that his fingertips are ever so lightly grazing Nora’s much smaller ones. He smiles to himself, and just before falling back asleep, he hooks his pinky finger around Nora’s.

When he wakes up a few hours later, Nora is gone. He looks around his room to see if she’s in the ensuite or banging about downstairs, and finds himself frowning when all he’s met with is silence. Just as his eyes sweep over his nightstand, he finds a note near a glass of water with two paracetamol tablets on top. He scoops up the medication in one hand, and brings the note up to his eyes with the other.

Happy birthday, Harry. Here’s the best I could do on short notice. -Nora

He glances over to his alarm clock and realizes that it’s not even noon yet, and without really thinking, he reaches for his mobile and rings Niall to ask him for directions to Niall and Piper’s residence hall.

“Curly? What’re you doin’ up before noon?” Niall’s loud voice asks through the receiver.

Before Harry can bring himself to respond, he hears a giggle that sounds almost identical to Nora’s in the background, and suddenly he’s asking, “What’re you up to?”

“Hangover brunch, mate. Sunday tradition,” Niall responds easily, the sound of the late morning air ruffling through the speaker.

“Since when?” Harry asks, straining his ear to see if he can try to hear Nora again.

Niall laughs loudly, breaking his focus. “Since always! Yer dead to the world until the afternoon, so Rah always third-wheels with Piper and I—oof! I’m just messin’ around, Rah! You know we love yer company!”

Suddenly, Harry’s springing out of bed, running into the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash cold water onto his face to wake him up. He asks Niall the name of the restaurant, and just as the words leave his mouth, Harry hangs up and throws on the first clean pair of jeans and jumper he can find, shoving a beanie over his mangled hair and flying out the door.

He arrives just as tea gets brought to the table, and when he finds that the only open chair at their table of four is the one across from Nora, he grins and slides right in, watching the way her cheeks blush as her eyes burn holes through the plastic menu.

“Any particular reason why yer up and at ‘em this mornin’, Curly?” Niall asks, a knowing look on his face as his eyes dart between Harry’s and Nora’s accusingly.

“Just felt like waking up, I suppose,” Harry says in Niall’s direction, ordering a cup of tea from the waitress as she passes by. When he realizes that Piper and Niall are indulged in their own conversation, Harry leans forward over the table and asks Nora lowly, “So, what’s good here?”

Nora’s eyebrows dart up in surprise, asking, “You’ve never been here before?”

Harry shakes his head, smiling when he coaxes a pretty giggle out of Nora’s mouth. He finds that she looks cute in the morning, all sleepy eyed and puffed out cheeks. He almost wishes he caught her before she snuck out of his flat. He would have loved to see what she looked like buried in his pillows.

“I usually get a full English and give Niall my tomatoes,” Nora explains, sipping her tea generously.

“Why’s that?” Harry asks.

Nora scrunches her nose. “Not a fan of them.”

Before Harry can say anything else to her, the waitress pops over to take their order, and when their plates arrive and the first thing Nora notices Harry does is eat a bite of his grilled tomato, she pierces her fork through the two on her plate and drops them on his own instead of giving them to Niall.

If anybody at the table notices, they choose not to say anything.

After that Sunday morning, Harry finds that he can’t stay away from Nora. He remembers lurking through her Facebook page a year ago and finding that she has a thing for coffee shops, and after asking Piper for her class schedule, he waits for her outside her lecture hall one dreary Tuesday afternoon and brings her to his favorite café a few miles away from her residence hall.

It’s called the Muddy Cup and Nora’s surprised that it’s a place Harry frequents, considering it’s the complete opposite of his personality. It’s all bright colors and mismatched furniture, uniquely shaped mugs with bluesy, light jazz music playing in the background. It smells of coffee grinds and a hint of vanilla, and after their third trip there, Nora finds that this version of Harry is just like the one she remembers enjoying during their ten days together back in Townbridge—except, it’s heightened here in London. He tells her things without hesitating, he seems to have recognized how wrong his actions were, he seems to have a plan for his life. It’s a lot all at once, but Nora takes it all in stride, constantly reminding herself not to hold grudges and to try to remember that people are continuously changing and evolving, and that if Harry is trying his hardest to let her see this side of her, then she should at least give him the opportunity to allow him to do so.

But she’s not naive. She knows that she can’t just hand him her heart without precautions all because he’s trying to show her how much he’s changed. Because underneath all of her strong walls, all of the barriers she’s constructed to ensure that she doesn’t feel pain again, she knows that if anybody has the power to weave through all of her booby traps and decoys and rattle the infrastructure, it’s him.

Harry knows this, too. Knows that even though this New Nora in front of him changed her hair and grew up a little bit, she is still guarded, and he really can’t blame her for being overly cautious of him. He’s trying though—really trying, because if there’s anybody in this world that can bring out the best version of himself, it’s her.

After a few more coffee dates and a walk around his campus, Harry finally comes up with a plan. He’s not sure why he hadn’t thought of it sooner, because he’s almost positive it’s going to be the best first date Nora Priestley has ever been on. And he wants that for her—so badly, because she deserves it.

Harry schemes with Niall and Piper to make sure that Nora is free on a rare sunny late February afternoon. He shows up outside of her residence hall in his black Range Rover, watching the way she smiles bashfully at him when she notices him leaning against the passenger door of his car, posture nothing but attractive confidence with the way his jean-clad left leg is bent resting on the steel door, the way his emerald green jumper stretches across his chest due to his arms being crossed over the thin material, the way his long hair is free flowing down his shoulders as the wind ruffles the tendrils in the cool air. He weaves his sunglasses atop his head when he sees her exit her building, giving her a one-armed hug as he simultaneously opens the car door with his other hand, allowing Nora to fall into the warm leather interior.

“Where are we going?” Nora asks after they’ve merged onto the motorway. Harry looks over at her then, one hand resting on the steering wheel while the other pushes and pulls at the skin covering his lower lip nervously. He offers her a shy smile, before muttering, “A surprise,” causing Nora to blush immediately.

Once the colorful pastel townhouses flood into view, Nora isn’t sure how she didn’t realize it sooner. The streets are winding and her nose is practically glued to the window as she takes in the flashes of raspberry, lilac, peach, coral, and mint lining Notting Hill. She can’t wipe the aching grin covering her face, and when she whips her head around to look over at Harry and finds that he’s already looking at her, it’s almost instinctual when she slips her hand into his and squeezes it in gratitude.

When Harry has to park the car, he almost whines at the fact that the moment he removes his key from the ignition, Nora’s hand will leave his own.

They spend the afternoon weaving through the crowded streets. Harry leads her through Portobello Road Market and watches as Nora’s eyes flick through racks of clothing and tables filled with various antiques and collectables. She notices Harry eyeing a gold ring from a jewelry stand towards the end of the market, and when he offers to buy them a cup of coffee from a small café across the street, Nora sneakily purchases it for him as a way of saying thank you (and maybe for another reason entirely, too.)

As Nora sips through her warm styrofoam cup of hazelnut coffee, she notices a string of bookshops across the street. She laughs to herself, her memory immediately reverting to three years ago in her tiny twin bed at Townbridge when she and Harry were cuddled up underneath her mom’s handmade blanket watching Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant meet for the very first time. She wonders if Harry is thinking about the same thing, too, but she doesn’t dare ask him. Instead, she links her hand with his and drags him to the first shop she sees, pushing the door open with her hip and letting the smell of old books and worn leather fill her senses.

Harry isn’t sure if Nora is doing it intentionally, but as they scan through the spines of books resting on dusty shelves, her hand never leaves his own. It warms his insides up in a way he’s never experienced, and he feels as if he’s floating through air, and the only thing that’s keeping him grounded is her small hand squeezing his ever so lightly.

Once they’ve rounded the end of the store, Nora looks over and asks him, “Do you have any suggestions?”

Harry’s heart thumps a resounding string of three beats, and he can’t help but wonder if she felt the same whenever he asked her to pick out her favorite films for him three years ago back in her tiny dorm room. From the smile coating the lower half of her face, Harry can assume that she most likely does, and without slipping his hand from her own, he drags her to the classics section and peruses through the titles.

Nora watches as he somehow maneuvers three paperbacks into one hand while keeping her own nestled tightly in his, and when he brings her to the front of the store and easily grabs his wallet from his back pocket, she tries to wriggle her hand from his grasp to stop him from paying for her. Harry doesn’t allow this though, and instead, shushes her by squeezing her hand tighter, looking down at her with his chin resting on his shoulder as he shakes his head with a coy smile covering his face. Nora isn’t sure how to respond—mainly because she’s mesmerized by the turquoise twinkle in his eyes, or the way his large hand wrapped around her own makes her feel overwhelmingly safe, or the way she can’t seem to look anywhere else but at the profile of his structured face. The realization strikes her straight into her heart, an electrical current causing the beating flesh to vibrate almost erratically, making her skin prickle with warmth and her stomach twist and turn with giddiness, and she finds that she never wanted her hand to leave his in the first place.

Before they even realize it, the afternoon is over. Harry intentionally slows his gait so that he can do everything in his power to extend the time he has with Nora’s hand nestled in his own and the left side of her body sidled up to his. But unfortunately, not even Harry has the ability to slow down time, and sadly, they’ve approached the car in despondent silence.

He turns her around just as they’ve reached the passenger side door, Nora’s back resting on the cool steel as she lifts her head up. Harry’s eyes are focused on their tangled hands, toying with her fingertips as he tries to figure out what she’s thinking.

“I got you something,” Nora says after a beat, waiting until Harry’s eyes are on hers before she slips the hand that isn’t knotted with his inside her jacket pocket. He watches as she removes the gold ring from the paper envelope and drops it into his palm gently.

“Nora—” Harry starts, pausing as he stares at the thick gold band with dancing bears engraved in the middle. The sun makes the metal twinkle in the light, and when he shifts his eyes into Nora’s blue pools, he isn’t sure which is brighter.

“Put it on me?” he asks. Harry knows that he’s fully capable of putting it on himself, but that would require removing his other hand from her own. Also, he selfishly wants to feel Nora’s smaller digits tickling his skin, and when she obliges with a gentle smile and grabs the ring from his opened palm, Harry tries to conceal the shudder shaking his body when she obeys his request.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Harry whispers into the small space between them when Nora’s fingers push the gold ring past his knuckle.

She just shrugs, looking up at him timidly. “I wanted to.”

While Harry’s eyes are focused on the newest addition to his growing jewelry collection, Nora decides to be brave and reaches up onto her tiptoes with the intention of planting a kiss on his cheek as a way of saying thank you without having to properly vocalize it. But, Harry notices everything she does, and when he watches her body shift towards him in his periphery, he lifts his head up at the last moment in question, causing Nora’s plump lips to land on the corner of his mouth.

The contact only lasts a measly two seconds, but it’s enough to cause them both to freeze. Nora’s eyes widen, and before she can let her body fall into his own, she springs back and places a generous two foot gap between them.

Harry’s not even sure what to think. He’s almost positive that he’s frozen to the pavement, his thick boots stuck in sludgy cement as he tries to bring them to move forward so that Nora doesn't feel so far away. But he can’t move—the neurons in his brain aren’t connecting to the muscles in his legs, and he has no fucking idea why.

Nora stares at him, trying her hardest to force her mouth to form the words “sorry.” But when she really stops to think about it, she finds that she isn’t sorry at all. The smallest feeling of his mouth on hers was enough to cause her body to zap with excitement, and when she looks up at him underneath the curtain of her eyelashes and find that his pupils are dilated to the fullest degree, she decides to forego her apology and leans in, pressing her lips to his with reckless abandon.

Instinctively, Harry’s arms wrap around her waist to support her body as their lips re-familiarize themselves with one another. The sigh he breathes into her mouth is nothing but relief—because ever since he left her dorm room three years ago back at Townbridge, all Harry’s been thinking about is feeling her lips on his again. And now that it’s finally happening, he feels as if he can’t breathe.

Nora’s hands clutch the lapels of his woolen jacket over his chest to bring him closer to her, because even though his body is flushed with hers, it still isn’t enough. Harry brings his right hand up to cup her jaw ever so delicately, his thumb pulling her chin down so that her jaw falls slack, allowing him to slip his tongue inside to meet her own. The moan that springs from the back of her throat almost causes Harry’s mouth to still, but when her fingertips wrap around the ends of his hair dusting his shoulder, tangling until she pulls at the roots on top of his head, he can’t help but reciprocate the sound.

When Harry’s neck starts to ache from leaning down to meet her lips, he trickles his palms from her temples to the back of her head, threading his fingers through her thick dark hair until they clasp together just above her neck, allowing him to tilt her head backward and kiss her properly. Nora hums inside his mouth, wrapping her arms around the middle of his back so that she can pull him closer to her in order to feel his heartbeat against her chest through all of their warm layers, his heart thrumming against her skin as if the fleshy organ was screaming at her own “I missed you! I missed you! I missed you!”

Eventually, they break apart, sucking in deep inhales of cool February air to try and quell the lightheadedness caused from their second first kiss. Harry rests his forehead on her own, his eyes shut tight as he tries to permanently ink that memory into the pink pillows of his brain. His warm hands are cupping her jaw in order to keep her as close to him as possible, and Nora can’t help but squeeze the fleshy parts of his arms, keeping their fronts pressed together so that the warmth that emanates from his skin continues to stay wrapped around her.

“Go to dinner with me,” Harry whispers against her skin once his eyes blink open, the fuzziness dissipating when he notices the pinkness of her swollen lips and the tinge of red coating the apples of her cheeks. He missed this. He missed her.

“When?” Nora asks, her voice hoarse from the lack of oxygen ripped from her airway.

“Right now, tonight, tomorrow. Don’t want to let you go just yet.” Nora leans in, her nose resting on his warm cheek as she giggles against the smooth skin. Harry brings his hand to rub soothing circles against her back, wondering if they could stay in this position forever.

Harry can feel her smile against his cheek, and when she moves her head to press two subsequent kisses against his ripe lips, he knows that he’s fucked. Because it’s Nora fucking Priestley—it’s probably always been Nora Priestley—and she’s here wrapped up in him nodding against his skin at his outrageous request, and Harry’s never felt this complete in his entire life. It’s like flying and falling, searing warmth and bitter coldness, being too close but still not close enough—a paradoxical rush of adoration shooting to his heart with a loud cacophonous pang that sends his brain into overdrive.

They have dinner together that night, and the night after that, and if not for Harry’s evening lecture, they probably would have gone for a third consecutive date. He takes her to tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants that serve the best food Nora’s ever tasted, and although a small part of her was expecting him to go all out and take her to outlandish posh eateries, Nora finds that Harry knows her much better than she originally thought, and he’s constantly full of surprises.

On the next Wednesday pub night, Harry and Nora show up together. Nobody says anything, but Nora can practically feel the scorching looks Niall and Piper are shooting at her from across the table warming her cheek. And after her third beer, just as the band starts to play their first song, Niall saunters over to her side and wraps a heavy arm around her shoulder, whispering excitedly into her ear, “Knew you were special, Rah.”

Harry's insides are buzzing, whirring to life with each sip of bitter beer that falls down his esophagus. The liquor seems to make Nora a bit looser, and once she’s developed a thin layer of drunkenness that causes her cheeks to flush and her guard to falter, Harry practically explodes when she brings her body to rest against his, her back leaning on his front as she allows his warmth to envelope her as they listen to the band playing on the far side of the room. He wraps his arm around her shoulder so that his right hand is splayed out against her collarbone, holding her close in a protective stance as she lets her head fall back on his shoulder comfortably.

After three songs, Nora finds that she’s had enough. Harry’s hand feels too hot pressed against her chest, his hair feels too silky tickling her exposed neck, his chin feels too heavy sitting atop the crown of her head. She wants more, finds that she suddenly needs more, and when she twirls around abruptly and finds that his green eyes are practically black, eagerly searching for her own, she doesn’t hesitate before whispering in his ear, “Can we get out of here?”

Harry’s pretty sure his pants have never felt tighter around his waist. He doesn’t even care about the unfinished pint in his hand, doesn’t even care to make the rounds and properly say goodbye to his mates, doesn’t even care when he hands Niall too much money to pay for their drinks that are absently left on the sticky high top table, doesn’t even care about the looks he receives when he slips his hand in Nora’s and drags her through the front door and into the Underground so that they can reach his flat before her confident streak runs out.

When they’re both standing in his loft bedroom, hands tangled in each other’s hair and lips pressed to warm skin and clothes strewn against hardwood flooring, Nora finds it easier to forget about all of her past hurt. Because his hands feel that good, and his mouth tastes that good, and his warm body looks that good. But when she backs away to pull off her sweater so that she’s left standing in front of him in just her bra and underwear, she suddenly hesitates to move forward.

The memory hits her like a bullet to the chest. It’s of her, standing in her Townbridge dorm room wearing a sports bra and sleep shorts, her arms wrapped around herself protectively as she tries to stifle the rib-racking cries shaking through her body as she watched Harry disappear right in front of her face, leaving her alone to try and wrap her head around what he had done to her and what it all meant. Because he was her first real sexual experience, something that Nora didn’t necessarily place on a high pedestal, but still ultimately was a big deal for her. It took a lot of trust to allow Harry to take that from her after ten days of unassuming happiness, and just as quickly as he showed her a different side of herself, he simultaneously ripped it away when he left her alone and confused barely eight hours later in the early morning light.

It’s as if the memory is being broadcasted in Harry’s bedroom, Nora’s blue eyes the screen and her bruised heart the projector, because suddenly, her lips are trembling and her hands are shaking and her eyes are staring blankly at the wall over his left shoulder—and he knows right then and there that her walls are now ten times thicker, constructed with stronger material that will no longer allow him to seep through the cracks. Not without an explanation. Not without an apology.

“Nora—” Harry starts, taking a tentative step forward. The small motion of his feet approaching hers is enough to break Nora out of her daze, her head shaking violently as she takes three more steps back, reaching for her sweater and throwing it over her head without a second thought.

“Please, I—” Harry is panicking. He doesn’t want her to disappear, but he also doesn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He wanted to talk to her without the cloudy sexual energy suffocating them, without her dreamy silhouette obstructing his vision, without her sudden desire to escape more prominent than her desire to stay and listen to him.

“I need a minute, we shouldn’t do this, not when—”

“—Just please listen to me. I can’t let you leave, not like this. Not when you’re finally here after all this time. And I’m not saying this because you’re standing half-naked in my bedroom, it’s just—fuck. I should have said this three years ago. I should have said it when I sent you a friend request on Facebook. I should have said it that first Wednesday pub night. I just got distracted and—”

“—Harry—”

“—I’m sorry, okay? I’m truly so fucking sorry.” Harry seems to have taken the breath trapped in Nora’s throat, because suddenly she’s staring at him wide-eyed and frozen in place, whereas Harry’s chest is erratically shifting up, down as he struggles to contain his uneven breathing pattern.

“I fucked up. I was a dumb, stupid kid who hurt you—and you didn’t deserve it. Not one second of it. I thought about what I did all the time in the aftermath, it fucking ate me alive, Nora. And I’m not saying that for you to pity me, because you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t even be here giving me a second chance, because I don’t deserve it. I never deserved your kindness to begin with. You’re too good for me and I just, fuck. I’ll make it up to you for the rest of my life if I have to. I just want to be good enough for you. And I’m so sorry—”

Nora shushes him with a collision of her body into his, her arms wrapping around him tightly as she buries her head into the crook of his neck. Harry’s response is inherent; strong arms encapsulating her smaller body, wide palms spread out evenly along her upper back for support, warm cheek nestled into the velvety waves resting at the top of her head.

“It’s okay, Harry. I forgive you. You’re enough, you deserve kindness too,” Nora mutters into the skin of his neck like a mantra of self-love and acceptance. Because even though Harry nearly broke her heart and made her resent him, she never wanted him to feel hurt, too. Not when it’s self-imposed. Not when it can be dealt with in a different way.

Nora thinks the phrase “an eye for an eye” is ineffectual. Just because you hurt somebody else, does not mean the same fate should be bestowed upon you. Humans are constantly changing and evolving, and pain and acceptance are a part of the long and winding battle in figuring out who you are as a person. If Harry is finally realizing that now, all Nora can do is hug him tighter and forgive him. Because that’s what any decent person would do.

Without unlocking their tangled bodies, Nora slowly steps forward, causing Harry to shuffle backward, until they’re both lying horizontally on his king-sized bed. She turns them over so that his back is flat on the mattress, her leg hooking over his hip as she rests her head against his beating chest, rubbing soothing patterns against the warm skin until he finally calms down.

They spend that night talking for hours. Harry wants to know everything she’s done in their three-year absence, and Nora doesn’t hesitate to give him the details of her new life in New York City. She tells him about Ebony, her roommate-turned-best-friend who supports her without question, who she misses practically every waking moment she’s not with her. She tells him about Marcus, the boy she had more firsts with, who she never found herself loving completely, but still appreciated him for helping her grow up and feel new things. She tells him about the tattoo shop in Brooklyn she went to after her twentieth birthday where a girl with pink hair and purple eyes etched three identical birds on the back of her shoulder.

He doesn’t tell her about the drinking and drugs and blank-faced girls he wasted his time with for the first two years during their time apart, because he’s aware that she already knows—considering his Facebook page holds a track record of every Nadine and Scarlet he toyed around with to fill in the empty hole Nora unknowingly carved into his heart. He doesn’t tell her that hearing about Nora’s ex-boyfriend causes the green monster who has been dormant inside of him for years to suddenly wake up, his blood laced with envy as he thinks of how somebody else got to see her in a vulnerable position he stupidly took for granted.

Harry realizes that this is a bit unfair, considering Nora lived her life without thinking about how it would affect him. And if Nora is jealous of the girls he slept with two years ago, she never shows it. Because she’s much more rational than he is—the calmness to his angst, the mooring to his shipwreck, the comfort to his unease.

They talk until the inky sky turns into an aegean blue, signifying that dawn has begun to break. Nora muffles her yawn into Harry’s neck and he wraps his arm tighter around her body, bringing her against his chest as he closes his eyes, reveling in the feeling of having her close again after so much time apart.

When Harry wakes up well into the afternoon, he can’t stop thinking about Nora’s body, considering she shed her sweater sometime in the middle of the morning when they were sleeping, leaving her in just her black bra and underwear as her warm skin suctioned to his own. He hasn’t felt this close to somebody in so long—probably ever, if he really stops to think about it—and before, when he was mindlessly fucking girls to cure the loneliness aching inside of his chest, he never cared about the act of intimacy surrounding sex. But now, with Nora’s body wrapped around his own and the swells of her breasts moving up and down with each languid sleepy breath she takes, the curve of her ass bending whenever she cuddles deeper into his chest, the stretch of her legs winding whenever she coils them around his sinewy hips—Harry feels like he’s in a fucking trance.

He never pushes it, but it’s practically all he can think about in the weeks that follow. He finds that when they’re together he always chooses a new part of her body to hyper-fixate on—whether it’s the angular cut of her jaw, the long arch of her neck, the thin layer of skin covered in gold necklaces on the top of her chest, the fleshy part of her hips that connect to her thighs—Harry feels completely and utterly famished.

Nora feels it, too. Feels that if she has to stand so close to him on Wednesday pub nights and feel the warmth of his body enveloping her own without him moving any closer, she’ll burst. Feels that if she has to observe the coiled strands of his long hair weave down his neck without her hands tangled at the root, she’ll explode. Feels that if his raspberry lips mouth her two-syllable name followed by his infamous smirk without her own swallowing the last vowel, she’ll shatter.

It finally happens as springtime infiltrates the streets of London, melting any remnants of snow and bringing forth longer stretches of sunlight on the horizon. Nora spent the week studying for a major exam in her Emerging Media Studies course, causing her to miss out on Sunday brunch and Wednesday pub night. Her absence hit Harry the hardest out of everybody, and when she walks out of her lecture hall Thursday night after she handed in her exam, she can’t help but catapult into Harry’s arms when she sees him waiting for her.

They drive to his flat and he cooks her a hearty pasta dish and when he suggests watching a movie tangled in his sheets afterward, Nora finds that she has no interest in absorbing the content on his television screen. She’s made Harry wait long enough, and it feels like the month after his birthday has been a continuous long stretch of unbearable foreplay that Nora can’t wait to act on.

Before Harry has even made it back to bed after setting up the film, Nora’s already pulled his borrowed sleep shirt over her head, leaving her in the matching navy blue lingerie set Piper encouraged her to purchase at Selfridges last week.

Nora’s never seen Harry move faster in his life at the first sight of her. She can barely make out his pupils darting from the exposed skin above the waistline of her underwear to the swells of her breasts uncovered by the lacy underwire bra before he’s jumping on the bed, her entire body shaking with the mattress as he plants searing kiss after searing kiss all over her flushed skin.

He dotes on her body, mumbling praises in between each suction of his lips as he works his way from the top of her forehead to the tips of her toes. “Christ, look at you Nora,” he whispers into the skin underneath her jawline, “All for me? How’d I get so lucky?” he mumbles into the tight skin between the valley of her breasts, pausing to dart his tongue underneath the lacy fabric covering her nipples, pulling a delicious moan from the back of her throat, “You’re fucking perfect,” he purrs into the thicker skin covering her upper thighs as he noses his way teasingly around the edges of her underwear, making her wiggle in want and need.

And when she finally allows him to slowly peel each piece from her body, leaving her bare in front of him as her dark hair fans against his charcoal-colored sheets, Harry’s almost positive he’s forgotten how to breathe. He’s never wanted somebody this badly before—needed somebody this badly before, and when Nora leans up on her elbows and urges him to come closer to her with a slow drag of her fingertip, he almost bursts at the sudden rush of his heart thrashing against the walls of his chest.

All because of her.

“I’m done for,” Harry whispers against her lips before slotting them together with fervor, gripping the skin at the back of her neck tightly to keep her close to him. Nora doesn’t mind, in fact, she absolutely loves his roughness—loves it so much that she can’t help but reciprocate when she wraps her legs around his waist and flips them both over so that their positions are switched and she can be the one to run her lips and teeth down the front of his body in domineering adoration.

Where everything with Marcus was simple and easy, Harry is the complete antithesis. He is everything new and exciting, complex and invigorating, compelling and beautiful. Nora didn’t think it was possible to feel this starved and fulfilled at the same time—but when Harry’s naked body is hovering over her own, his teeth sinking into the fleshy part of her shoulder blade, one hand gripping her ankle and the other holding her hip close to him, she finally feels fireworks burst underneath her eyelids when he enters her for the first time. Her skin feels as if it were bubbling, her heart pumping blood as if it were working in overdrive, and her brain fills with fluttering images of Harry’s chiseled jaw, his matted hair, his supple mouth, his hungry eyes.

It’s everything and more—Harry is everything and more, and when they’re spent and the white noise in Nora’s ears has finally subsided to a gentle hum, she can’t believe that she waited this long to experience this. She wonders if her first time was a dud, a faulty scenario in which her partner didn’t understand how to satisfy her properly. Or maybe, just maybe, it had nothing to do with Marcus at all. That the feeling of her heart exploding and stars bursting through her vision and fireworks cracking in the air above were solely caused by the boy lying beside her, his heart seemingly entangled with hers.

Nora wonders if it's fate or if she’s magnificently cursed for the rest of her life.

As March fades into April, Nora has never felt closer to another person before. It’s incredibly new—this feeling of freefalling off of a cliff into the rocky waters below with nothing but Harry’s strong hand holding hers to remind her that this is all new for him, too, and there’s nobody else he’d rather experience this with than with her.

Harry’s never been the best at giving himself completely over to another person, considering vulnerability is a difficult construct for his mind to wrap around. And when he lies awake at night while Nora sleeps soundly beside him, her arms wrapped around his waist and her head rising and falling with the scattered breaths escaping his lungs, he wonders what’s holding him back. Wonders why it’s so easy for her to talk about family and the future and everything that falls in between—because for the first time ever, Nora is the one that’s completely sure of something in their relationship. Harry, on the other hand, is hesitant. Apprehensive. Scared.

Because it’s so much easier to hide certain aspects of his life from her. Harry has enough skeletons in his closet to fill an entire graveyard, and they all tend to orbit around his shitty relationship with his parents and his innate desire to fall apart whenever he succumbs to the inordinate amount of pressure his father places over his head.

Nora doesn’t deserve to see that. Nobody does. So Harry does what he thinks is right and hides this part of his life from her, lying straight through his teeth whenever she questions where in the world his parents are, and instead of them being in Hong Kong or Indonesia or Dubai, they’re just a forty-five minute drive away. But that’s far too close for Harry to manage, so refocusing her brain on something else is the better option.

Because while Nora was falling hard, giving Harry the directions to make it through the labyrinth to claim her heart, she figured he was doing the same. Letting her in unconditionally and trusting her with this new feeling. But, unbeknownst to Nora, he was shielding her from the life he’s always dreaded being a part of. She was just in too deep to fully realize it.

The first lie starts at the end of April. Harry doesn’t even realize he’s lying in the first place when it falls from his lips that he has to skip out on Wednesday pub night to stay on campus and prepare for a group presentation the following Monday, but once it’s out he can’t force it back into the depths of his being. So while Nora texts him that she misses him and things aren’t the same without him there, Harry’s pushing the lie deeper and deeper inside of him until he’s swallowed the lump whole and it rests heavily at the bottom of his stomach.

Because while his mates are drinking in Camden, Harry’s only eight kilometers away in Knightsbridge wearing a navy blue suit sipping gingerly at a glass of bourbon and initiating small talk with his father’s stuffy work friends. It’s some charity event his father had mentioned in the past, and although Harry’s mind is preoccupied with thoughts of Nora, he suddenly becomes alert when his father introduces him to the only other person that is relatively close to his age.

Harry remembers her from one of the events he was forced to attend during his internship at his father’s office. He doesn’t recall much from meeting her nearly a year ago, considering he was a bit of a dickhead and was more focused on plotting ways to dip out early without being caught to meet up with his mates than trying to mingle with other guests, but now—now that she’s standing in front of him wearing a pretty mauve dress with expensive strappy heels, hair perfectly in place as her almond-shaped eyes gaze into his own, Harry doesn’t hesitate to shake her hand properly.

Her name is Jacqueline Van-Doren, and although she’s the type of beautiful that people can’t help but gawk at, Harry finds that he’s subconsciously comparing her to Nora. Her eyes have more of a greyish tint to them, and while Nora’s sparkle whenever any trace of light reflects off of her irises, Jacqueline’s are more lackluster in comparison. Her cheekbones are higher than Nora’s, but they lack the subtle shade of pink that always appears whenever Nora’s in a close enough radius to Harry. And while she’s much taller, much more confident, much more put together than Nora and all her mumbling and stuttering and clumsiness—Harry finds that he would indubitably pick Nora over a girl like Jacqueline any day.

The second lie happens in the middle of May just as the temperature is rising and the trees are green and blooming. Harry had plans to take Nora on a day trip to Bath so she could tick off another destination on her travel list, but unknowingly, he double-booked himself as his father reminded him he had a familial obligation to attend that same day in the form of an elaborate wedding at The Savoy.

He tells Nora that he has to attend a networking dinner in Oxfordshire, and somehow the lies get easier and easier to tell the more he spews them. Harry’s grateful that Nora doesn’t fact-check his excuse with Niall, but then again, she has no reason to suspect anything, right?

Harry spends the entire reception sitting in the back of the room in his charcoal Louis Vuitton suit with a sick feeling settling inside of him. It grows stronger with each candied sip of whiskey that falls down his throat, and when his father approaches him with a familiar blonde-haired grey-eyed girl practically matching his ensemble, Harry tries his hardest not to laugh. Because his father obviously is not shy in trying to set the two of them up, and although Jacqueline is still undeniably gorgeous after four whiskey neats, it’s not what he wants. She’s not what he wants.

But the pressure of displeasing his father is too much to bear, so he kisses her cheek cordially and allows her to sit with him. They talk the rest of the night but Harry genuinely has no idea what the content was, and when his father tells the pair of them that they’re required to attend an intimate work dinner at the end of the week, Harry just nods and goes along with it.

As May reaches its end, Nora can barely think straight. Her time in London has been nothing but an absolute dream—a whirlwind of newfound friendships, acclimating to her second favorite city in the world, and falling in love with somebody she never thought she would find solid ground with. She’s never felt this way about anybody before—not with Connor, not with Marcus, not with anybody. Nora isn’t even sure if her heart can feel this way about someone ever again. Not after Harry.

She’s hyperaware that her time in London is coming to an end, and reluctantly, she doesn’t want to leave. Not when she’s decided that she’s in love with Harry. Not when he can give her a reason to stay.

Nora has never unexpectedly shown up at Harry’s place before, but after rewriting the conclusion to her final essay for the fourth time and it still not making any sense, she grabs her jacket and oyster card and makes her way to the Underground to head towards Hampstead Heath.

She doesn’t bother calling or texting to alert him that she’s on her way, because in her mad rush to leave her residence hall, Nora forgot to grab her phone that was charging on top of her duvet. Nora’s never been impulsive or brash before—but it’s Harry and she’s in love, and she needs to tell him.

The white townhouse and small iron-clad gate come into view before Nora’s even figured out the words to say to Harry when he opens his navy blue front door. She figures that when she sees his face she’ll finally figure out how to explain what her feelings are, but when his green eyes meet her blues in trepidation, Nora wonders if she made the wrong decision in showing up unannounced.

In the tense silence that follows, Nora pauses for a minute, taking in Harry’s crisp white button down shirt tucked into a sleek pair of slacks. He seems to have been in the process of finishing fastening them, considering Nora can still see the tops of his butterfly tattoo and the swallows underneath his collarbones almost perfectly.

“Nora? What’re you—did we have plans?” Harry’s cheeks are blushed and he’s fidgeting uncomfortably in his fancy brogues and for the first time in months, he looks like he doesn’t want to let her inside.

“No, I uh—” Nora’s confidence is crumbling, and she’s suddenly not sure if this was a good idea at all. Maybe being brash and impulsive is a thing protagonists only do in the movies. “I had to tell you something. But this obviously isn’t a good time, so…”

Before she can turn to leave with her tail tucked between her legs, something inside of Harry clicks into place. He quickly opens his door wider and lets her in, ignoring the warning bells ricocheting inside of his brain as his brain fights with his heart for control over the situation. His heart ultimately wins in the end, and once Nora takes her first few steps inside his home, Harry can feel his insides quiver with nerves.

Nora barely makes it past the foyer, standing just at the cusp of his living room when she notices the expensive blazer thrown over the back of his leather sofa, his crisp black wallet on the fireplace mantle, and the heavy cardstock with cursive script that seems to be an invitation of the utmost importance lying parallel on the surface.

Why didn’t he tell her he was going somewhere? Was he hiding things from her? Was he ashamed to bring her to his gaudy work events? Does she really look that unappealing on his arm? Why has this all of a sudden become too confusing for Nora when just minutes earlier, she was unquestionably sure that she was in love with him?

Harry’s playing with the links on his shiny wrist watch nervously, attaching it with fumbling hands around his inked skin when Nora finally decides to break the silence. “Where are you, uh, going?”

He looks up at her, a bewildered expression on his face, and suddenly, his mouth has gone bone dry. Nora grows more and more skittish with each quiet breath that passes between them, and she’s never felt more unsure about their relationship.

God, when did things get so awkward between them?

“My dad’s back in the country, and it’s just this stupid event he’s making me go to. I tried to get out if it, honest, but it didn’t work. So, uh, I didn’t think it was a big deal to mention it to you,” Harry says quietly, feeling his lungs begin to constrict in the most agonizing way.

This lie feels worse than all the others he’s told her, because for the first time, there’s a crack in his resolve. Harry knows then that he’s done something very wrong, and he immediately regrets it all when he notices the hurt expression clouding Nora’s vision.

Nora knows this, too, because his chest is moving up and down from the thundering beats of his heart inside of his chest, and his hands are shaking against the smooth material of his pants, and his eyes are blown out so wide that Nora can make out all of the different shades of green hidden inside. And when his tremulous pupils finally focus on her own, Nora can see that Harry looks completely panicked in front of her, and she isn’t quite sure what to think.

“Oh,” Nora lets out in a soft exhale. It sounds defeated and she’s not entirely sure why, because nothing has even happened between them yet.

But maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why she feels so low all of a sudden. Because it’s been months of almost something’s—of days spent exploring different parts of the city and nights spent exploring different parts of each other. All without a label. All without a conversation. And now, standing in the front room of Harry’s home with shaking hands and trembling lips, Nora doesn’t understand how nothing can be said.

When her blue eyes fall to the floor, Harry springs into action. He’s in full recovery mode, approaching her slowly until the tips of his brogues bump the white of her trainers. His hands find purchase on her shoulders, gently kneading the skin until she finally looks up at him.

“I’ll only be there for an hour. We can do something afterwards, yeah? Just, uh, stay,” he pauses suddenly, eyes wide when he realizes what he’s saying before swallowing deeply, squeezing her soft skin a bit harder. “Stay here while I’m gone. Please.”

“You want me to stay here?” Nora echoes, blinking once, twice, a winsome dumbfounded expression gracing her features.

Harry nods, moving his right hand from her shoulder upwards until his warm palm is cupping the underside of her jaw tenderly, his thumb offering soothing strokes against the pink skin covering her cheekbone.

“Yeah, I do.”

Nora’s doubts are finally subsided, because how can he not feel anything towards her if he’s allowing her into his space for the first time without supervision? He obviously trusts her, and he obviously needs her—and that’s all the confirmation she needs to quiet her racing head and settle her thumping heart.

Her small hands settle on Harry’s waist and he instinctively brings her closer, cupping her jaw with his other hand so that he can angle her head back gently and press his lips against her own. It’s soft and sweet and soothing, and how can he not feel the same way when he kisses her like this?

Before they can get too carried away, his doorbell buzzes and Nora giggles when she feels him groan against her lips, shaking his head softly and backing away, looking down at her with a childlike pout on his lips.

Nora can’t help but trace the protruding flesh with her thumb, causing Harry to shiver. He’s dreading this event even more now, because all he wants to do is drag Nora upstairs and lock her in his room and turn their clock off for just one night.

But the doorbell buzzes again, and he sighs, knowing he can’t do that.

“That’s the car. I’ve got to go,” Harry whispers, giving Nora one last kiss before shrugging his blazer on and grabbing his wallet, keys, and invitation in one fell swoop.

Nora nods, a bit breathless at the sight of him. Harry opens the door, and before he can fully retreat, he peeks his head over his shoulder, long hair tucked behind his ear as he gives her one last small smile.

“One hour. Don’t miss me too much.”

As if she doesn’t miss him instantly when he leaves her.

True to his word, Harry comes back an hour later with a slice of red velvet cake he nicked from the dessert table before sneaking out undetected. He finds Nora burrowed in the thick sheets of his bed wearing the same Rush band tee he wore earlier in the day, her eyes lifting from the movie on the screen to the green of his eyes.

“Hey you,” she says softly, sitting up taller on his bed so that her back is flushed with his headboard and the tops of her thighs are poking out from underneath his duvet.

“Hi,” Harry responds, toeing off his shoes and walking over to her languidly, “Got you a present.” He drops the takeout container on her lap, grinning when she squeals and dredges her pointer finger through the thick frosting.

“Mmm,” Nora sighs, licking her finger dry as she smirks mischievously at Harry, watching as he undresses mindlessly. He isn’t sure if she’s doing it intentionally or if she’s always been a secret seductress, but when she repeats the action and swirls her tongue along her sticky digit, Harry snatches the box from her lap and slides his arms around her waist, switching their positions effortlessly so that she’s on top of him as he falls easily back onto the mattress.

“Someone’s feeling cheeky,” Harry says against her lips, his nose bumping hers repeatedly as she giggles against his skin.

“Can’t help it. I missed you,” Nora explains, adjusting her knees so that her weight is evenly distributed along his lower half, her backside resting against his front as her hands twist in between the curls along the crown of his head.

“Yeah?” Harry coaxes, his fingertips sneaking underneath his shirt as he plays with the lace material covering the bottom of her underwear.

“Always.” Nora seals her response with a fiery kiss, bringing her lips to his and pressing her entire body against his searing torso. She wonders if it’ll always feel like this—white hot electrical current shooting up her veins, warming her entire body up with just one simple press of his lips to hers.

Once Harry starts nipping at the skin of her lower lip, Nora responds by grinding into his lower half, the thin material of their underwear leaving little to the imagination as they garner enough friction to cause Nora’s knickers to dampen and Harry’s briefs to tighten.

They kiss until they’ve reached their very last breath, and when their lips depart, Harry uses this time to throw his shirt off of Nora’s body, leaving her sitting against his lap in just a nude pair of lacy underwear that makes his eyes roll to the back of his head.

With his head resting back against his neck, Nora decides to attach her lips to the column of Harry’s throat, causing his entire body to shudder as a carnal moan rips through his throat and settles between them. Her fingers draw a tantalizing path down his chest and abdomen until they’ve settled along his waist, red lines marking the path Nora’s fingernails greedily traced.

Her small palm cups his growing length trapped inside the strained cotton material, rubbing and squeezing as her teeth bite into the sharp cut of his jaw. Harry hands grip the skin of her waist in anticipation, and once Nora’s decided that he’s had enough teasing, she rolls the band of his briefs down, freeing his length in the stifling air of his bedroom.

“Christ,” Harry whispers, his eyes shut tight as he breathes through the feeling of Nora’s bare hands on his newly uncovered skin. She shushes him with gentle kisses, lapping her tongue against his own once he’s finally calmed down a bit more and begun reciprocating her tenacity.

Before he can take control, Nora makes the decision for him as she slides her underwear down her legs, flinging the thin material against his floor. Harry’s eyes snap open as he takes in the sight of her naked against his lap, the moonlight flooding into his bedroom outlining the curve of her body, the shape of her breasts, the valley of her stomach, the stretch of her legs.

No matter how many times Harry’s seen her like this, he never fails to stop and appreciate her. Because he’s taken it for granted too many times in the past, and every time he sees her exposing herself to him in the most vulnerable way there is, he can’t help but feel his heart grow in his chest, hammering against his ribs as he marvels in the fact that Nora Priestley chose him.

“What?” Nora asks shakily, shrinking into herself when she realizes Harry’s been staring at her for a beat longer than necessary.

“Nothing,” Harry admits, bringing a hand up to her face and tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “You’re just beautiful.”

Nora responds with a smile, pressing her lips to his tightly. “I want you like this.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, his hands tightening against her waist as he watches her scoot up higher on his lap so that her core is lined up with his aching length.

Nora nods, her teeth sinking into the plushness of her lower lip as she wraps her arms around his neck. Before he can say another word, she begins teasing her entrance with the tip of his cock, watching the way his eyes widen almost cartoonishly and the vein in his neck starts to pulse.

“Nora, fuck, baby, wait. I need—fuck. Need a condom,” Harry stutters, holding her tightly in his grasp as she hovers over his tip.

“It’s only been me, yeah?” Nora asks, the muscles in her thighs straining as she holds herself in the position over his length.

“What? Why would you ask me that? Of course it’s only you,” Harry says quickly, a look of bewilderment gracing his features.

“Then let’s not use one. I want to feel you like this,” Nora whispers, her hands holding his face tightly so that he has no choice but to stare into the blues of her eyes.

Harry feels his stomach bottom out, constantly amazed at the girl in front of him. “Are you sure? Have you ever done this?” he asks, disquietude lacing his every word.

Nora shakes her head. “Have you?”

“No,” he answers, much to Nora’s surprise. “I haven’t.”

“Well, Harry Styles,” she whispers, rubbing her palms over Harry’s hands that are gripping her waist, signalling that she wants him to loosen his hold, “There’s a first time for everything.”

Harry’s teeth widen at her quip, remembering the way she uttered those same exact words to him three years ago when he was experiencing another first with her. Before he can say anything back, Nora gives him one last kiss before sinking down on his length, causing his brain to forget every single thought rushing through his head other than the fact that he’s inside of her with no barrier between them, and it’s probably the closest he’s ever (and will ever) feel with another person.

They both seem to be in the same headspace, with the way Nora freezes on top of him, her throat pinching when she realizes she can feel every ridge and curve of his length from this position, and it’s only once he asks her his standard question of, “Are you okay?” when Nora starts to lift herself on her knees, before sinking back over him once more.

“Oh my god,” Harry exclaims, wrapping one arm around her lower back and the other gripping harshly at the back of her neck, holding her as tightly and as closely as possible so that he can feel every shudder of her body and every thump of her heart against his own.

Nora angles his head back so that she can crash her lips to his, swallowing his moans as she swivels her hips against his own, feeling his tip bump against the spongy spot inside of her walls that causes her toes to curl. When he expertly hits it for a third continuous time, Nora’s neck falls back as she cries out into the stuffy air.

Harry noses at the clammy skin of her neck before pressing his lips to the spot near her jaw, licking and sucking until she’s whimpering above him. “Feel so fuckin’ good,” Harry whispers against her skin, sinking his teeth deeper into her flesh when he feels her clench around him.

“I’m close,” Nora says through an exasperated breath, weaving her fingers through his long hair until she’s wrapped the strands around her wrist in a makeshift ponytail, pulling just enough to cause Harry to groan against her.

“Fuck, baby. Me too. Do that again,” he instructs, feeling himself lose control when Nora obeys his request.

Nora’s never been on top for this long before, and while her thighs are burning and her lungs are losing air the closer and closer she gets to her release, she’s never had sex feel this good before. The knot inside of her stomach is tightening with every thrust Harry meets her with, and when his right hand sneaks down between them and rubs at her swollen mound, it only takes three rotations until the knot is uncoiled and Nora’s careening towards her end.

She stills on top of him, trembling with the aftershocks as she comes down from the most intense orgasm she’s had yet. Her body doesn’t even feel like her own, with the way she’s vibrating all over and her skin is dampened and her hair is knotted. It’s only once Harry’s pushed her backward, hovering over her as she’s horizontal on his sheets, when the fuzziness finally dissipates from her vision. She’s thankful that she can finally see clearly, because when her blue eyes meet his, she watches as he slips out of her, pumping his length until white ribbons coat the skin underneath her belly button.

They’re both staring at each other with heaving chests and dotted irises, coming down slowly as they realize what had just transpired between them. When Harry finally catches his breath, he whispers, “Shit, I’m sorry I probably should have asked—”

“Shh,” Nora coos, always the one to calm his racing heart and wild thoughts. “It’s okay. That was amazing. You’re amazing. C’mere, please.”

He smiles before crashing his lips to hers, kissing her soft and slow, a thousand words spilling through their lips without their voices ever speaking them. They break away softly so that Harry can grab his discarded shirt from the floor to clean Nora’s stomach, his arm reaching for the article of clothing without getting up so that he can keep her underneath him for as long as humanly possible.

As he dotes on her ever so delicately, Nora’s convinced that he feels the same way. She argues over how to tell him in her head as he wipes at her stomach and in between her thighs, before throwing the shirt into his hamper across the room. She debates the wordage as he wraps his arms around her gently, heaving them up the bed until they’re tangled together underneath his sheets. And just when she’s about to say it, he mumbles against the skin of her neck in his throaty voice, “I wish time could stop and we could stay like this forever. Just you and me.”

Nora freezes. Because suddenly, her heart pangs with the startling realization that she’s leaving London in four days. Moments like these with Harry are dwindling away one by one, and she really needs him to give her a reason to stay.

She needs to hear him say it.

And just as she’s built up the courage to whisper her declaration out into the air, Harry’s soft snores whistle against her neck. So she pushes it down, and waits for another day.

Nora wakes up in the middle of the morning with a nervous knot lodged inside her throat. She’s not even sure what spurred this on—considering she fell asleep tucked underneath Harry’s arm feeling safe and warm, her head lulling against his chest as his sleepy breaths ruffled the brown strands of hair falling against her cheek. But now, at six forty-three in the morning, Nora feels completely unsettled.

Her skin feels hot but she’s shivering for some strange reason, and when she’s reminded of the weight of Harry’s arm wrapped around her waist, she suddenly feels weak under the heaviness of it. She doesn’t feel comfortable, and all at once she feels the urge to get out from under the stifling duvet and get some fresh air.

She sneaks away from Harry’s body, tip-toeing towards his bedroom door with nothing but her cardigan on from the night before. Just as she’s closing the door, Nora makes sure to peek at him one last time, smiling to herself when she watches him flop onto his stomach and clutch the pillow she was just using tighter into his grasp. Nora wonders if he sleeps like this when she’s not with him.

She wonders if he’ll sleep like this when she leaves in three days.

Sighing, Nora makes her way to the sliding door connected to his kitchen, plopping herself down on the brick steps of the tiny porch overlooking his back garden. With her thighs pressed to her chest and her chin resting on the oversized knitted material of her buttoned cardigan over her knees, she despondently watches the blues and oranges and yellows of the early morning sun paint a picture of this piece of London she’s grown to love almost as much as the sleeping boy upstairs.

Nora’s not sure how long she sits out in the cool June air contemplating what the uneasy feeling was that forced her out of bed, but it’s long enough for her to notice the sun rising with the rest of Harry’s neighborhood. Her stomach begins to grumble then, and the thought of making coffee and toast urges her legs to carry her back inside the flat and into the small kitchen.

Just as she’s distractedly buttering her toast, Nora feels two strong arms lock around her waist from behind. She jumps at the feeling of it, even though there’s no other person it could possibly be besides Harry. Nora’s not sure if it’s just a residual effect from this morning, but still, she leans into him when her pulse decides to go back to normal, and she can feel Harry’s nose bumping against the side of her neck.

“You’re up early,” Harry mutters in that raspy morning voice of his that never fails to make Nora’s thighs clench together. There’s just something about him in the mornings.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Nora explains, her teeth ripping a small piece from the corner of her toast before bringing it over her left shoulder for Harry to try.

He hums in appreciation. “Don’t like when you’re not with me when I wake up,” he admits, tightening his arms around her as he swallows so that her backside is fully flushed with his.

“I know,” Nora whispers, the knot suddenly reappearing in her throat without warning. The half-eaten toast in her hand is no longer appetizing to her, and when she places it on a paper towel with trembling fingers, Nora comes to the conclusion that it’s now or never. She needs to tell him—because holding it hostage deep down inside of her is causing her to feel physically ill, and she’d rather face the consequences than always wonder what could be.

Harry notices her switch in demeanor almost instantly, and before Nora can even gather her bearings, he’s spinning her around, one opened palm cupping her jaw with his thumb rubbing her cheekbone delicately while the other tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear as he observes her closely.

“Everything alright?” he asks, nervously watching the way her eyes seem to focus on everything but his own, her hands seem to shake erratically against her sides, her lips seem even darker due to the incessant nibbling she’s done to them throughout the morning, and Harry suddenly wonders if she’s finally caught up to all of his lies.

Nora takes one last breath before bringing her eyes to his own, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Now Harry’s the one that’s panicking.

As if his brain is no longer controlling his body, his hands suddenly disappear from Nora’s face. He takes a tentative step back, leaving a cold space where his warm body was just flushed against her own. Nora watches as his skin turns an uncomfortable shade of pale, and as if they had completely swapped roles, Harry’s now the one who can’t seem to hold her gaze.

“Wait—what?” Harry unnecessarily asks. He mainly utters it as a placeholder, considering he’s let an awkward wave of silence wash over them both with his inability to say anything of importance.

Nora breathes through her nose, concerned. “I said, I think I’m in lo—”

“Why?”

Nora wonders if he’s joking.

“What do you mean, why?” Harry can feel her slowly losing her patience, her arms wrapping around herself slowly, creating a layer of armor that she’s used in the past to protect herself from his callous words.

“I mean—are you sure?”

“Are you serious?”

Sure, Harry knows that he cares for Nora with everything in his being. And sure, a part of him understands that when his heart speeds up and his chest tightens and his cheeks bloom pink whenever he’s around her, it’s all due to his feelings for her.

But even though that all stands true—Harry can’t help but be wary. Because how are you supposed to know how to love somebody when you’ve never properly been loved yourself?

His best times with Nora are always a dream-like trance Harry finds himself reliving over and over again. They’re always short glimpses of time, weeks or months with an expiration date looming over their heads because Harry can only allot himself momentary feelings of bliss and vulnerability before he realizes that his heart has the capacity to break in half if he continues on any further.

While Harry’s heart and mind battle with one another, Nora decides that she’s had enough. There’s only so many minutes she can stand in front of him watching as he silently stares at the linoleum flooring of his kitchen instead of explaining his reasoning to her. It’s only once she feels the pressure of tears welling at her waterline when she ends up slinking around him, gathering the rest of her clothes and belongings in record speed so that she can leave his home before the first tear falls.

Harry’s frozen in place. He’s still staring at the spot Nora once filled, hearing the sounds of her slipping her shoes on by the door and twisting his door knob, but none of it is actually registering in his clogged mind. He’s not sure why—he’s completely and utterly recalibrating the entire inner-workings of his head, body, and heart.

It’s only once he’s heard the navy blue door slam shut when he snaps out of his catatonic state, realizing then and there that even though he hasn’t figured out how to explain his warped outlook on love to her, he still owes it to her to acknowledge her declaration.

But he’s too late—he’s always too late when it comes to Nora Priestley. Because while he’s approached the iron-clad gate wearing just his black briefs, Nora’s already rounded the corner of his street, leaving a flurry of dark brown hair and tears staining the pavement in her path.

Harry knows that his immediate reaction should have been to chase after her, but instead, he decides to grab the first bottle of liquor he could grasp from his bar cart, slinking down onto his couch and bringing it to his lips without an ounce of food in his stomach.

This is where Niall finds him hours later, a nearly-emptied bottle of whiskey at his feet while Harry stares at the black screen of his television with blank eyes, still wearing his briefs from this morning. He’s replayed the conversation so many times in his brain that he can recite Nora’s staggered breathing patterns by heart, and Harry knows that Niall is privy to this because instead of yelling at him, he sneaks off into his bedroom and throws a clean set of clothes at his bare body.

“Up you get, Curly. Time to dilute all that whiskey with some greasy food.”

In hindsight, Niall probably shouldn’t have brought Harry to the pub down the road from his flat. But he couldn’t carry his deadweight any further, and he figured the only place that would be okay with serving somebody who was already drunk was the ancient barman that knows the two by name at this point.

“Where’s that pretty girlfriend you’re attached to?” Said barman asks the moment Harry and Niall fall into the creaky barstools. Before Niall can try and alleviate the situation, Harry’s already ordered a pint of Carlsberg and a shot of Jameson, ignoring Niall’s pleas of trying to urge a burger and chips down his liquor-ladened throat.

He’s rang Nora at least six times now, currently going for a seventh after Niall returned his stolen mobile when Harry refused to put something in his whiskey-sloshed stomach. He obliged, only because he really wanted to get a hold of her and apologize for being an absolute twat. But she’s ignoring him, and he knows deep down that she has every right to, because she trusted him with her feelings and all he did was shut her down in the worst way possible.

Harry’s not sure how Niall agreed to it, but after they’ve closed out and Harry’s capable of standing on his own two feet, they’ve somehow ended up outside of Nora and Piper’s residence hall. Harry knows that Piper has to let Niall in, so in his drunken convoluted mind, he comes up with the plan to sneak past them both and head up the stairs to beg for Nora’s forgiveness.

What he didn’t account for was Piper’s protectiveness over her crying friend upstairs.

“Harry, I can’t let you do that,” Piper says, closing the door a bit so that only her face is poking out from the glass paneling.

“Piper, please. I’ve got—’ve gotta talk to her. ‘S important.” He tries entering the building again but somehow Piper’s much smaller body blocks the entrance, her arms holding the door frame in order to keep Harry out. Niall sighs from behind her, conflicted. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

“Harry, you’re pissed. I can’t—”

“No! Piper, please. I need t’go upstairs. I’ve rang ‘er and texted ‘er and I know—I know her, Piper. Fuck, it’s—” he pauses, breathing in deeply and trying his hardest to straighten out the jumbled thoughts causing his entire body to shake. “It’s Nora. Please.”

Before Piper can close the door on her friend one last time, she feels Niall’s hand on the middle of her back, and she calms almost instantly.

“Let ‘im try, Pipes.”

With a final sigh, she opens the door and Harry sprints up the stairs, nearly tripping over himself as he tries to get to Nora’s door in one piece. He knows he’s drunk, knows he’s probably a mess, knows that she has every right to send him away—but he needs to talk to her or he’ll fucking explode.

He knocks about eight times on the wooden door before Nora appears behind it, eyes puffy and skin pale. Her hair is a knotted mess and her fringe is frizzy and Harry feels his chest crack in half when he realizes that he’s made her cry again.

“Harry—”

“You lov—” he hiccups loudly, causing his words to cut off the moment his body shakes abruptly. He pauses, tries to remember what he was going to say, before starting again, only to fail to pronounce the godforsaken word appropriately. “You lo’ me?”

He knows his mouth can barely utter the word, and his voice comes out a bit more squeaky than he would like, but he can’t help it. That word has always felt foreign coming out of his mouth, and he’s never understood the magnitude of its meaning. Not dead sober, and especially not after drinking the entire pub’s collection of whiskey.

Nora doesn’t say anything, but she does look into his glassy eyes and realizes that it’s from alcohol and not sadness. His hair is somehow knottier than hers and his part is amok, and she knows it’s because he ran his fingers through the tendrils one too many times. His cheeks are flushed, and before she can respond, his mouth is already opening.

“‘Cos I panicked. And ‘m sorry, but it’s just—nobody’s said that t’me before and properly meant it. Like my parents. They don’t lo—. Yeah. They don't. And me, I don’t even think I feel that way about m’self, either. ‘S just—it scares me, and I don’t know how to lo—”

“—No,” Nora says softly, interrupting Harry’s drunken monologue with a sad shake of her head.

Harry blinks once, twice, his blurry eyes trying to focus on her frame as the tears begin to bubble along her waterline. “No?” He’s confused, feels as if his life is completely off-kilter with the short utterance of a simple, two-lettered word.

“I don’t love you like this.”

Harry wonders if Nora can hear his heart begin to rip inside of his chest. “Nora—”

“You can barely even say it! Even when you’re piss drunk, you can hardly say the word love, let alone stick around long enough to hear somebody say it to you!” Her voice echoes through the small hallway of the sixth floor, and Harry stares back at her, flinching with each raise of her voice. “I can’t do this, Harry. I’d rather have you not say it sober than try and spit it out when you’re drunk. I just—I deserve better.”

“Nora please, I—you don’t understand—”

“—No I think I do. Quite clearly, actually.” Before Harry can try to force himself through the door one last time, Nora’s already begun to close it on him. “I think it’s best you go.”

“Nora! Please!” Harry calls out against the heavy wood, but it’s no use. She’s already flicked the lock, already sunk down to the floor with her back resting on the other side of the door, already begun muffling her sobs with trembling hands. And every time Harry bangs on the door with clenched fists and Nora can feel the wood shake, she just clenches her teeth on her bottom lip harder, praying with everything in her that Harry can’t hear her cry.

Harry’s not sure how long he’s stood there pounding on Nora’s door, repeating the word please enough times that it’s somehow lost its meaning. It’s only once he feels Niall’s hand on his back, ushering him out of the hallway and down the stairs, sticking him into the back of a cab when Harry feels the weight of his mistake rest heavy on his shoulders.

The only reason Harry gets any semblance of sleep that night is because he forces himself to swallow back five generous sips of whiskey before collapsing onto his mattress.

When Harry wakes up the next morning, his head isn’t the thing that hurts the most. Somehow, it’s his heart—and even though he’s suffering from the worst hangover he’s had in a very long time, it pales in comparison to the ache resonating through the inside of his chest.

But he can’t feel sorry for himself anymore. Because the longer he sits wallowing in his own self-induced misery, the more Nora drifts away from him. Feeling sorry for himself isn’t going to fix this. He needs to own up to his mistakes, find Nora, and beg for her forgiveness—because even though he doesn’t deserve her, he can’t make her feel horrible anymore.

Just as he’s rummaging through his wardrobe trying to find the cleanest shirt he owns, he hears his mobile ring for the third time that morning. When he looks over at the screen he realizes that it’s his father again, and although they aren’t very close, seeing him try to reach him a handful of times is enough to be worrisome. And just as he’s about to slip his shoes on, his father rings again. Harry begrudgingly answers, wondering what the hell is going on.

“Good to see you know how to answer your mobile,” his father says instead of a normal greeting, his voice filled with sarcasm. Harry almost hangs up the phone on him, his head filled with much more important things than dealing with another ribbing before noon.

“What’s going on? Did someone die?” Harry asks, flying down the staircase in order to locate his trainers that he remembered throwing across the floor in his drunken stupor last night.

“Very funny,” his father retorts, the sound of an unamused chuckle floating through the receiver. “Surprised you haven’t seen it yet.”

“Seen what?” Harry asks, tying the final lace as he begins the search to locate his wallet and keys.

“Page Six. Lovely spread of you and Jacqueline leaving the work event from two evenings ago. That’ll definitely make for some good press surrounding our merger with the Van-Doren’s. Well done, son.”

Harry didn’t think it was possible to feel worse, but somehow, after hearing his father congratulate him for being photographed with the girl he’s been trying painfully hard to set him up with, Harry feels as if everything around him is falling apart.

He doesn’t even respond to his father. Instead, he hangs up the call, typing his name in the Google image search bar. Sure enough, a picture of him and Jacqueline standing close enough to each other for it to be a story is covering his screen. Harry’s never felt more enraged, because he suddenly realizes that if his father has seen it, then Nora definitely has as well.

This can’t be happening to him.

She leaves tomorrow. He can’t let her go like this, not when he wants her to stay. Not when the words are practically at the tip of his tongue, ready to be shouted out into the sky. He’s ready to tell her.

He needs to tell her.

But before he can walk down his front steps and through the iron-clad gate, Niall is standing there blocking his path, a sullen look covering his face.

“Mate, she’s gone.”

*** A/N: I’m sorry times infinity. I know it must seem like I’m torturing you, but I promise I’m not! Everything will make sense in time, even though it’s a bit painful to read. My inbox is open for all complaints/theories/ill-wishes.

Sadly, the time has come that I no longer have completed chapters already written. I've tried to keep up, but real life got in the way. I have like barely half of the next part written, so I’m not entirely positive if it will be posted next Friday. I want to give you guys the best I can offer, and if it feels rushed I know it’ll be quite disappointing! I’m aiming to have it up by Friday, but if it isn't, I will surely keep you posted. Thanks again for sticking with me and this story, please be kind to each other and I’ll see you (hopefully) in one week!

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